Directors:

Boris Barnet, Marco Bellocchio, Lucas Belvaux, James Benning, Ingmar Bergman, Busby Berkeley, Bernardo Bertolucci, Susanne Bier, Kathryn Bigelow, Les Blank, Bong Joon-ho, Catherine Breillat, Robert Bresson, Andrew Bujalski,

Luis Buñuel, Charles Burnett, Ken Burns, Tim Burton

Babenco, Hector

All-Movie Guide Sandra Brennan

Brazilian filmmaker Hector Babenco is an internationally acclaimed director noted for his socially conscientious films that center on the people who live on the fringe of established society. During the 1970s, Babenco was influential in the development of his country's post-cinema nôvo movement. Babenco was born to Russian and Polish Jewish immigrants in Buenos Aires, Argentina. At age 18, he became interested in Beat authors and existential philosophy and decided to go on a "divine mission" to see the world. He spent seven years wandering over Africa, Europe, and North America, working at a variety of jobs. At one point he was an extra in Spanish and Italian spaghetti westerns. Babenco finally landed in Brazil in 1971 where he became intrigued with its new cinema and decided to become a filmmaker. Unfortunately, that year, the country's reigning military regime began heavily censoring the films and exiling most of the cinema nôvo directors. Babenco remained laying low, learning the art of filmmaking by doing documentaries, short films and commercials. At the same time, he began working on his first feature film, King of the Night (1975). In 1978, Babenco became the object of death threats and antagonism for his inflammatory drama Lucio Flavio (1978). Despite the controversy surrounding the film, it became the fourth highest grossing film in Brazil and helped reestablish the country's languishing film industry. Babenco first gained international acclaim for his 1981 film Pixote, a film which chronicled the daily misery faced by Brazil's burgeoning population of street children. The film is almost a documentary and centers on the improvisations of real homeless children. His first U.S. feature Kiss of the Spider Woman (1985) won an Oscar for star William Hurt. Though he has made subsequent films in the U.S., Babenco's experience with the frequently overbearing Hollywood studios has lead him to believe that he has more artistic freedom in the still politically repressed Brazil.

Official Site home website

TCMDB Turner Classic Movies profile

Babenco, Hector They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

Guardian Article (2003) Hard cells and transvestite weddings, Alex Bellos from the Guardian, November 2, 2003

PIXOTE

aka: Survival of the Weakest

Brazil (128 mi) 1981

Channel 4 Film

Director Babenco introduces this film on screen. It is a docu-drama in the tradition of Bunuel's Los Olvidados, so relentless in its depiction of life in the institutions and on the streets of So Paulo that it defies pity. Babenco takes representiatives of Brazil's deprived children (of whom three million are homeless) and presents their bleak lives using actual kids from the city's shanty towns. The hero is Pixote, a young-old boy, dragged into a police station after a round-up and sent to a reform school run by an outwardly kindly but totally corrupt regime. Pixote witnesses rape, beatings and death, which are unflinchingly portrayed as an everyday occurrence largely ignored - possibly condoned - by the authorities. In one case his friend is beaten to death by the police themselves. He escapes, turns to theft and becomes part of a gang living off a prostitute and, eventually, a killer. He's 10, with no future.

All Movie Guide [Jonathan Crow]

Not since Luis Buñuel's Los Olvidados has there been as savage and harrowing account of the plight of street kids or as damning a critique of Third World poverty and societal indifference. 10-year-old Pixote ("Pee Wee" in Portuguese) endures the brutalities of Brazil's repressive, corrupt reform schools, where military death squads and juvenile prison rape are the norm, only to flee to the dubious freedom of Sao Paolo's streets. Soon Pixote becomes a pimp, thief, and multiple murderer. Yet, through it all, the audience never loses sympathy for Pixote; director Hector Babenco makes clear that all Pixote wants and needs is a stable loving person in his life. Babenco's work is in the same spirit as the 1940s Italian Neorealists who coupled a realist style with a keen sense of social injustice. His visual style is documentary-like and almost artless--a straightforward depiction of events. His true artistic feat lies in his handling of his actors, most of whom were street kids in real life. The performance he gets out of amateur Fernando Ramos da Silva is astonishing. Not since Jean-Pierre Léaud's performance in The 400 Blows (1959) had a child actor delivered a performance so filled with sadness and pathos. Da Silva's large eyes, set off by his round baby face, speak of someone who has seen too much too soon. Pixote is a raw, heart-wrenching experience that will burn into the viewer's mind for a long time to come.

eFilmCritic Reviews Charles Tatum

Once in a while, you can go to the video store, grab a bunch of titles you have not seen and have never heard of, come home, pop a movie in the VCR, and have your life changed. This happened with "Pixote," a horrifying look at a Brazilian street child.

Director Babenco introduces the film, and we meet Pixote (pronounced Peh-Shot), played by Fernando Ramos Da Silva. He is an eleven year old homeless boy who is rounded up with other boys from the streets of Sao Paulo and taken to a reform school run by the tyrannical Sapato (Jardel Filho). There has been a judge murdered in the streets, and the homeless thieves are always convenient suspects. There is a law in Brazil that no one under eighteen can be tried as an adult, so children up to that age are committing crimes from petty larceny to murder, and get thrown into reform schools as punishment.

During Pixote's first night, another boy is raped and Pixote must become tougher to fit in. His little boy hair is cropped off, and he smokes pot with friend Fumaca (Zenildo Oliveira Santos). They observe the homosexual transvestite Lilica (Jorge Juliao) being accused of the murder by crooked cop Almir (Joao Jose Pompen), but Lilica refuses to confess to a crime he did not commit. Life in the reform school is hell on earth. The boys watch violent television shows, and role play elaborate bank robberies they plan to carry out when they are released. Family visitation day comes, and Pixote is visited by his uncaring grandfather. Soon after, a bunch of the boys are taken to a staged lineup at the local police station, and they decide to pin the murder on Fumaca. He is not returned to the reform school until after the others, and Pixote sees him there, he himself in the infirmary recovering from huffing glue. Fumaca has been beaten so severely he dies of his injuries, and his body is dumped in a landfill.

The police then decide to pin Fumaca's murder on another kid, who fights back and is also beaten to death. He was Lilica's lover, and Lilica leads a revolt that results in fires being set in the dormitory. As Lilica gets set up for the latest murder, he slashes his wrists and goes to the infirmary. The boys escape through Lilica's window, and they form a mini-crime spree through Sao Paolo. The group consists of Lilica, Pixote, Dito (Gilberto Moura), and Chico (Edilson Lino).

The second half of the film gets even darker, as the boys decide to sell dope for Christal (Tony Tornado). Dito and Lilica fall in love, and the four travel together to Rio to see Debora (Elke Maravilha), who promptly stiffs them for the money owed for the cocaine. Pixote and Chico later have a chance encounter with Debora. Chico is killed in the brawl, and Pixote stabs Debora, leaving her for dead. The three remaining boys buy a hooker named Sueli (Marilia Pera), and begin robbing her johns. Dito and Sueli grow closer, and Pixote also latches on to her as a mother figure. Lilica gets jealous and leaves, and Pixote commits two more murders, eventually trying to win the family he never had.

I had a difficult time getting through this film because of what was happening to the children. I have not been this bothered by a film about homeless children since the documentary "Streetwise." Babenco cannot be accused of softening the story or turning the camera away during the rough scenes, sparing his audience. If your idea of homeless children and prostitutes are special episodes of "Baywatch" or the laughably awful "Pretty Woman," then this may not be the film for you. Pixote sees so much death and mayhem in his life, he is surviving by instinct. He is not a brilliant boy trying to better himself, he is just trying to stay vertical and keep breathing. The drug and sex scenes are rough, and Babenco does not turn these young addicts into heroes like "Trainspotting" or "Drugstore Cowboy." Drug abuse is nothing glamorous or funny, it is dark and scary. Marilia Pera's Sueli is not a hooker with a heart of gold, she is a robber and a con artist. Her scene with Pixote in the bathroom, where she threatens to do to him what she recently did to her aborted fetus in a nearby garbage can is chilling and revolting.

Babenco had enough confidence in his script and actors to let the camera seek out the characters without getting into their faces, or showing off for the viewer. I never noticed any fancy editing or cool soundtrack, and Babenco turns us into a fly on the wall watching everything going on with fascination and repulsion. He also directed the leisurely "Ironweed," the underrated "At Play in the Fields of the Lord," and the good but not great "Kiss of the Spider Woman." This was his breakout film, and it is apparent he had more passion for the screenplay that he cowrote than he did to just make a big splash and move on to Hollywood.

The cast is excellent. Actual impoverished children were recruited for the film, a check of IMDB shows this was the only work many of them ever did onscreen. The two stand outs are Lilica and Pixote. Jorge Juliao does not portray Lilica as a prancing queen, although he seems that way on the surface. He is out for romantic love, and will sleep with anyone to get it. His jealousy with Dito and Sueli's relationship is natural, especially when the two make love on the same bed Lilica and Pixote are sitting on. Lilica is so desperate for love, he projects these feelings on other men immediately, barely finding time to get to know them before having sex and trying to keep them physically.

Fernando Ramos Da Silva. It is a cliche, but he does not play Pixote, he is Pixote. I have never seen such sad eyes on a child before. For such a young boy, Babenco puts him through some scenes that grown men could not possibly pull off. There is a ton of nudity, drug abuse, a wet nurse scene with Pera, shootings, stabbings, and Fernando goes through them like a professional. I remember the brouhaha over Tatum O'Neal smoking cigarettes in "Paper Moon," those critics obviously never saw this film. The saddest aspect of "Pixote" does not happen on film. Fernando was illiterate, and unable to memorize dialogue in order to audition and get more screen work. He was gunned down before his twentieth birthday by police who say he was involved in a robbery, although the charges do not seem to have been concrete. Looking at this boy, and his toothy grin, and his sad dog eyes, and knowing his life probably served as a nonexistent sequel to "Pixote" is something that will stay with me for years to come. Another film, "Who Killed Pixote?," takes a look at Fernando's short life and untimely death.

In the end, the film is brilliant. The story flows. The realism had me imagining I could smell the stinking surroundings these children must endure. The acting is great across the board. I cannot say much more without turning this into a clicheed review one would probably read when wanting to know about a Jack Nicholson film.

"Pixote" will stay with me for a long time, and it will be difficult to shake it so I can watch other films without any bias. It is that good.

Epinions [metalluk]

Senses of Cinema [Marc Lauria]

Reel.com DVD review [Vanessa Vance]

DVD Town [Yunda Eddie Feng]

Pedro Sena

FilmFanatic.org (Sylvia Stralberg)

Time Magazine [Richard Corliss] (capsule review)

Time Out

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

KISS OF THE SPIDER WOMAN

Brazil USA (120 mi) 1985

Time Out

Flamboyant queen Molina (Hurt) and aggressive straight revolutionary Valentin (Julia) share a prison cell in an unnamed Latin American dictatorship. Molina, to Valentin's decreasing disgust, escapes the cell walls by recounting the camp French Resistance film of the title. The performances of Hurt and Julia win votes by the minute, Babenco directs their growing relationship with subtlety and depth, and the structure - mixing flashback, arch movie fantasy and powerful cell sequences - knocks the shit out of the gimmicks in Schrader's dubious Mishima. A film of fine balance and tone, not least in the dramatic turnaround ending.

PopcornQ Review Dennis Harvey

Manuel Puig's novel (which was also adapted for the stage, and later the Broadway musical stage) becomes an epic art-pic weepie. William Hurt is the queen who narrates Maria Montez-like camp film sagas (given fantasy embodiment by Sonia Braga) to pass the time in his South American jail; Raul Julia is the macho political prisoner who makes his nelly cellmate's heart flutter. Rumor had it that the actors were initially cast in each other's roles. In any case, Hurt won an Oscar for what is essentially a case of technically impressive miscasting. A big hit at the time, with enduring critical support. But does the world really need another self-sacrificing, puppy-eyed gay man on screen whose (straight) object of desire finally takes pity and gives 'im a mercy bonk? It's just the same old Tragic Outcast syndrome in a new prestige package.

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Reissued for no particular reason — unless its 16th anniversary is an occasion of note — Hector Babenco’s uninspired film is a literal-minded tribute to the power of escapism. William Hurt, even more smug and show-offy than usual, plays a dizzy queen imprisoned in a South American jail, along with a cynical political prisoner (Raul Julia). Spinning tales embroidered from the tattiest of origins — mainly a half-forgotten Nazi propaganda film whose real meaning totally escapes him — Hurt’s Molina creates a world inspired by cinema and fueled by caged imagination. Not a bad idea, certainly not in Manuel Puig’s source novel. But Babenco has no gift for staging Molina’s fantasies, despite the on-target casting of Sonia Braga as Molina’s movie-self; they’re flat, wavering between evocations of old movies and parodies thereof. And Hurt’s performance — which might be the best example of why one should never mistake Oscar bait for art — is appallingly self-congratulatory, every pause choked over, every heavenward eye-flutter a study in deceit. True, he’s playing a character whose life is a performance, but Hurt’s so caught up in Molina’s faded-belle theatrics he can’t be bothered to show us the man beneath the mask. For all its tributes to the salving powers of film, Kiss of the Spider Woman is a movie you want to escape from, not into.

outrate.net (Mark Adnum)

The history of gay cinema can be split into two sections: before Kiss of the Spider Woman, and after. This great film was undeliberately timely, and in the twenty years since its release, its pop-cultural importance has only increased.

Kiss Of The Spider Woman opened in a Manhattan cinema on July 26, 1985, the same week that a dying Rock Hudson flew to Paris on Concorde to try the experimental AIDS treatment, HPA-23. Days later, the first reviews of the film began appearing in newspapers, obscured behind disaster-movie style front pages featuring blown up pictures of the wasted Hudson, and announcements from UCLA immunologist Michael Gottlieb, such as “Mr Hudson is being evaluated and treated for complications of Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome.”

During the first screaming years of the AIDS epidemic, gay characters in movies all but disappeared. Then they re-emerged, politicised and martyred, in films like Philadelphia and Longtime Companion. Post AIDS epidemic, they were reborn - infantile and gurgling at the breasts of mother figures like Jennifer Aniston and Madonna in films like The Object of My Affection and The Next Best Thing.

Culturally, the AIDS epidemic rumbled in like a fire curtain, sealing off the danger zone - obvious, fruity homosexuality - and Kiss Of The Spider Woman lunged across the nationwide release line just in time. The film's main character Molina (William Hurt) was the last in a grand line of theatrical, flawed gay adults who didn’t shy away from their dark sides, their carnality and their sadnesses, and who had more bravery and spirit in each perfectly polished toenail than a thousand modern gay guys put together. The vital gay characters from films like Victim, The Boys in The Band, and Making Love were a breed apart from their washed-out post-AIDS epidemic cousins, and Molina/Hurt is the King of them all.

Appropriately, the film is nostalgic and operatic, featuring the doomed theatrical homosexual Molina recounting the grandeur and beauty of a time gone by. Imprisoned and frustrated, Molina yearns for a time when romance ruled over politics, and dreams of a place where he can find love and happiness without self-compromise. Kiss Of The Spider Woman is so prescient of the bland atmosphere left behind after the AIDS-induced death of colorful gay culture it’s simply not funny, and it’s easy to forget that as well as carrying this uncanny cultural value, it is also a beautiful, wise and original motion picture.

Manuel Puig, the author of the original novel, hated it, predicting correctly that in the role of Molina “La Hurt is so bad she will probably win an Oscar”. However, while Puig's novel was innovative, anyone who’s seen the film first will find the far less lyrical book comparatively drab.

Gorgeous
John Neschling’s gorgeous theme music and Robert Dawson and David Weisman’s perfect title sequence open the film. We hear Molina’s voice next, huskily describing a strange woman while we watch a gentle pan across someone’s (his) lovingly decorated prison cell wall. Molina throws back his head, adjusts his turban, and inspects his nails. It’s the last time - and, incidentally, the first - that an imprisoned child molesting theatrical homosexual who deceives freedom fighting journalists into spilling their inside secrets for his own advantage would ever play the hero in a film.

The freedom fighter in question is Molina’s cellmate Valentin (Raul Julia), imprisoned as a subversive and regularly interrogated with whips and electric prods. As Molina probes for valuable details (an early release is waiting for him if he can uncover something good) the prickly energy between him and Valentin evolves into curiosity, respect, and ultimately becomes an intimate friendship. Pushing this evolution along is Molina’s intricate retelling of his favorite fairy tales, which include sepia-toned propaganda films from the Nazi era which Valentin initially despises, and the tale of the mysterious spider woman, a seductive creature who lives on a tropical island and who Valentin pictures as a comic-book version of his ex-girlfriend, Marta (Sonia Braga).

The memories of Molina merge with Valentin’s interpretations of them in the two mini-movies that weave through the main film - the sepia Nazi romance, and the dazzling outdoor idylls of the Spider Woman’s lair. As those minature stories unfold, so does the relationship between the mismatched cellmates, and eventually, their story becomes as bewitiching and metaphysical as the fairy tales they use to pass their time.

They exchange ideas of masculinity, of sexuality and politics. They learn what they can from each other, and take what they need, even if that taking constitutes a kind of robbery. In the end, they appear have passed each other by, leaving an imprint, not fusing together.

Can you imagine Molina popping up as a guest star on the suburban “Will And Grace”, or even floating around in the background of the lovely The Prince Of Tides instead of watered-down, neighbourly George Carlin? As Barbra Streisand said in her 95-96 concerts, “can’t do that, no no.” AIDS squeezed Molina out of the market - it’s just no longer acceptable to be gay that way.

Nick's Flick Picks Nivk Davis

Reel Movie Critic [Brenda Sexton]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Janet Maslin)

CARANDIRU

Brazil Argentina Italy (148 mi) 2003

Carandiru Bruce Diones from the New Yorker

Hector Babenco's new film (his first after a long illness) examines the life of Brazilian inmates inside São Paulo's notorious prison, Carandiru, and the events leading up to a bloody riot (exceptionally filmed) in 1992. Babenco shifts his focus from inmate to inmate, telling the stories of what led to their incarceration with the same powerful street sense he employed so brilliantly in his earlier film "Pixote." The tales of hardship veer close to being maudlin at times—the director's empathy is ferocious and gets in the way of some of the questions that a viewer may ask. But thanks to stunning visuals (the squalor is bathed in heavenly light, and Babenco's camerawork has a Scorsese-like sweep), the movie represents passionate filmmaking at its best. In Portuguese.

Bacha, Julia

BUDRUS B 87

Israel Palestinian Territory USA (78 mi) 2009 Official site

It's unfortunate for the people of Budrus, but less unfortunate than the death of an Israeli citizen. —Capt. Doron Spielman, Israeli Defense Forces

After a series of suicide bombers in the early 1990’s rocked major Israeli metropolitan areas, causing a neverending spread of panic and hysteria, it was determined that the bombers came from the Occupied Palestinian Territories, leaving the Israeli government to conclude they needed to build a wall between all border regions of the two territories permanently closing any holes in the border checkpoints between the two nations. While this concept to protect its borders sounds reasonable enough, but when designing the placement of the walls, the nation of Israel only fueled the flames of resentment by deciding to construct the walls almost exclusively on Palestinian land, bulldozing existing olive orchards or cemeteries. By 2002, the Israeli military was sent into the Occupied Territories to protect the construction of the wall, even as it cut through land owned by Palestinians, uprooting olive trees, basically razing productive and income producing crops, which included some 3000 olive trees in the city of Budrus alone. The arrogance of the Israeli military to even conceive such a plan shows how they underestimate Palestinian life, showing no regard whatsoever for the destruction and economic loss they are causing, thinking this is simply an inconvenience that must be endured to protect the lives of Israeli citizens. The question of why not build the wall on Israeli grounds is never addressed, as had they done so, the Palestinians would not have reacted the way they did when their crops were being destroyed by bulldozers.

Apparently there was little opposition to the Israeli demolition crews until they hit the small town of Budrus, with a population of less than 1500 people, a quiet but productive village that has survived since ancient times by harvesting olive trees. This film follows the journey of one man, the town’s mayor and social activist Ayed Morrar, who led the non-violent protests against the bulldozers, attempting to disrupt and ultimately stop their actions. Initially the demonstrations were exclusively all male, but when Morrar’s 15-year old daughter Iltezam asked why women did not protest, she led a movement that included women who were initially extremely effective against the perplexed Israeli troops, which also included women, such as Yasmine Levy, an Israeli member of the border patrol assigned to keep the Palestinians away. But Morrar, who served several stints in Israeli prison for various activist causes, including nationalistic political activities, mobilized the entire town, which includes several member of Hamas (one who is interestingly enough a math teacher), capturing the attention of the local news broadcasts in the region which became broadcast around the world. Sympathizers from South Africa’s Anti- Apartheid movement arrived along with leftist Israeli demonstrators as well who joined in solidarity, where for nearly a year for adults and children these demonstrations became a routine way of life.

Somewhat reminiscent of the police fire hoses used on non-violent blacks protesting the Jim Crow segregation laws in the South during the 1960’s, this film documents the egregious behavior of the Israeli military establishment that was eventually ordered to take more drastic measures, which includes an assault on the town, imposing a curfew, taking over several Palestinian homes, shooting tear gas and rubber bullets into the crowd, also live ammunition, to try to disperse any crowd movement, actions which only outrage and incite the wrath of the Palestinians, who could only throw stones in retaliation. While all of this was captured on the evening news, Israeli Defense Ministers would justify the Army’s behavior while also suggesting any collaborating Israeli citizens should be arrested. Like Barbara Kopple’s identification with the striking coal miners in HARLAN COUNTY USA (1976), the Brazilian director and co-writer of CONTROL ROOM (2004) grows close to several of the protesters, where the audience easily identifies with them as the offended party, as who could imagine a military occupation and a wall being built on someone’s own property? It’s Kafkaesque and inconceivable to think one nation has the audacity to think they have the legal right to implement this kind of military imposed “final solution.”

After a prolonged ordeal of over fifty demonstrations, each subject to life-threatening implications, it’s clear the protesters feel diminished returns about their use of non-violence, as it’s nearly impossible to remain peaceful and non-violent when live bullets are whizzing by your head. The film legitimately raises the ire of the audience, who are rightly outraged by what’s shown onscreen, but the filmmakers never attempt to explain the Israeli side of the story or offer justification for why they insist on building the wall on Palestinian land. The film also doesn’t do a good job in providing a historical backdrop leading up to this event, or provide a decent timeline for the events shown, as by the time this film was released, the events occurred six to eight years earlier. The filmmaker only met Ayed Morrer and his daughter in 2007, mixing interviews made several years afterwards with original video footage obtained of the events. While the film accentuates the non-violent nature of the protests, it’s evident this may be altering and idealizing the reality, imposing a point of view of someone who was not there, as the protests only initially began non-violently but eventually turned into an all-out war zone, where Bassem Tamimi, a Palestinian activist, adds, “Our enemy is so violent that he doesn’t give us a chance to be non-violent. So it is no wonder that Palestinians do not believe in non-violence.” So by the end, when Israel decides to re-draw the boundary lines of the wall, the audience is mistakenly led to believe the non-violent protests are effective, as Budrus saved 95% of its land, while in fact this exact same military imposed solution has persisted to this day with other villages within the Occupied Palestinian Territories, all of whom are being surrounded by Israeli built walls, images reminiscent of the Warsaw ghetto in Poland before the outbreak of World War II. How ironic that in a reversal of roles Israeli Jews, who were the oppressed party then, are the military belligerent offending party now, playing the part of Germany some 60 years later.

User reviews from imdb Author: nyshrink from United States

This documentary will be an eye-opener for many Americans. It tells the story of an on-going non-violent protest movement on the West Bank of the Palestinian Territories. The movement has been created and led by Palestinians--a people often portrayed as terrorists or fanatics by the Western media. Some intrepid international activists as well as some Israelis have joined the movement, but the focus of this film is on the Palestinians.

The film portrays the actual protests and the response by the Israeli military. Just as interesting are numerous brief interviews with many people including the leaders of the protests, an Israeli activist and an Israeli military leader on the ground (who I began to suspect was probably later fired, as his comments were damning as well as humorous). Many people might be shocked to see a Hamas member talk about the value of non-violent protest and how he has met progressive Jews whom he now views as comrades. Not a bearded mullah, he is a math teacher.

The protests I believe were filmed in 2003, but this movement against the Israeli theft of Palestinian land continues on the West Bank. Since it is rarely covered by the Western media, this film may be your only chance to get a good look at it.

Richard Cohen - It takes a village to humanize the Israeli ... Richard Cohen from The Washington Post, April 13, 2010

Budrus is a Palestinian village just inside the West Bank. "Budrus" is also a documentary about what happened in that village when Israeli authorities tried to use some of its land -- cherished olive groves -- to build a security fence separating Arab from Jew or, as has too often been the case, terrorist from target. The villagers resisted, the Israelis insisted, and in the end an agreement was reached. On paper, it looks like a compromise. On film, it's an Israeli rout.

I can commend "Budrus" for several reasons. It is not one of those films that embraces the present while ignoring the past. Israel's security fence, cinematically charmless, is often likened to a harsh product of an apartheid policy or mentality. "Budrus" explains, though, that the barrier, which in some places is a wall, is seen as a necessity, not much different from the fence going up on the U.S.-Mexico border or the lovely stucco walls of America's gated communities. The wall keeps out terrorists. In "Budrus," even the Palestinians concede that point.

"Something there is that doesn't love a wall," Robert Frost wrote in his poem "Mending Wall" -- and Israel's security fence is no exception. Maybe the fact that it would be hated no matter what prompted the authorities to proceed in an ugly way. In the case of Budrus, the fence's construction supposedly required the uprooting of some of the village's olive trees. Maybe an engineer thought it was cheaper to do that than work around the trees, or maybe someone in authority just felt vindictive. Soon, Israel had to bring in additional troops.

Here again, the movie eschews the cliche. One of the Israeli soldiers is an attractive woman. She has a job to do and it is clear she does it without much relish. At least on one occasion, she uses force -- whacking a Palestinian woman with her baton -- but she takes no glee in it and expresses appreciation -- although not sympathy -- for the plight of the Palestinians. Everyone in the region knows the importance of olive trees.

As for the Palestinians, they, too, are humanized. They have suffered mightily and now -- for reasons they cannot fathom -- their land is being taken from them. One of the villagers, activist Ayed Morrar, organized passive resistance -- not the usual rock-throwing but nonviolence instead. Even the women participate, a departure for Palestinian society and a tactic that throws the Israelis off balance.

Soon, the villagers attract allies -- young Israeli peace activists. Now, the Israeli soldiers have to contend with their fellow Israelis. For critics of Israel, this is a bracing and unsettling moment. The Palestinians are the good guys -- but so are the young Israeli peace activists. If this could happen in any Arab country, I'd like to know its name.

Those of us who have watched Israel trying to control the West Bank have always wondered why the Palestinians have not tried passive resistance. This is what Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King did -- and Israel is weak in the way Britain and America are. It has a conscience.

In the end, Israel moved the fence. It compromised. Most of the olive trees were spared, and the barrier was kept back from an elementary school. Hamas and Fatah cooperated with the Israeli peace activists and to a degree with the army. It was a genuine kumbaya moment.

Stephen M. Walt, a professor at Harvard and co-author along with John Mearsheimer of the extremely controversial book "The Israel Lobby and U.S. Foreign Policy," has for some time been carrying on a running dialogue with almost anyone to make the point that supporting Israel is not in America's best interest. In the sense that America's best interest has to do with oil and Muslim nations and fighting Islamic radicalism, he is right. But if America's interest is enlarged to encompass shared values, he is wrong. It is in America's interest to support Israel.

But "Budrus" the film and Budrus the village are emblematic of why America's support for Israel is being questioned. The pretty Israeli soldier aside, those appealing peace activists aside, the eventual compromise aside -- the awful sight of cranes yanking olive trees into the air sinks the heart. The current leaders of Israel, intent on expanding settlements and thus retaining the West Bank, ought to see "Budrus" in a theater. They won't like the film, but they won't like the audience's reaction even more.

POICA-The Isolation of Budrus Village - Ramallah POICA, January 15, 2004

After launching the Israeli segregation plan to construct the so-called Segregation Wall, Israel has been issuing military orders to annex more Palestinian fertile land in the West Bank. Since the occupation of the Palestinian Territories in 1967, the Israeli authorities had confiscated large areas of Palestinian land in east Jerusalem and declared it as green areas aiming at changing it later to yellow areas in order to use it exclusively for its own purposes. The Israeli settlements of Neve Ya'cub, Pisgat Ze'ev, Ma'ale Adumim, Gilo, the French Hill, Giva'at Shabira and Har Homa are all built on land previously classified by the Israeli authorities as 'Green areas'. Israel placed severe restrictions on the lands where Palestinians are able to build and left the Palestinians with little room to accommodate their natural population growth. 

'Budrus village' is a small Palestinian village located to the northwest of Ramallah district. It has a population of 1300 inhabitants and a built-up area of 157 dunums. Life in the village is simple and people are welcoming. The olive trees groves dated back as far as the Roman ages.  To earn a living, about 70% of the inhabitants depend on their work inside Israel, 20% depend on working inside the Palestinian city of Ramallah, while 10% depend totally and completely on the village's agricultural production. 

After the 1948 war, The Israeli forces had confiscated 81% of the village land near the ''Armistice Line''. Today, the total area of agricultural land in the village is 2200 dunums in which the IOF are threatening to confiscate about 1000 dunums (45% of the villages land) for the construction of the Segregation Wall.

On December 31, the Israeli forces broke into the village and the villagers put up strong resistance to the forces who came to confiscate the 1000 dunums of their land and uproot their olive trees to construct the Segregation Wall. As a result of the clashes between the two parties, 40 Palestinians were injured and 7 others were arrested. The Israeli forces have announced Al-Sofouf an area in the village as a closed military area and imposed curfew on it in order to prevent the people from defending their land.

Much more, in a demonstration against the building of the wall, the Israeli forces opened fire on the demonstrators from Budrus as well as other nearby villages of Ne'lin, Qebia and Al-Media while headed to their land at the time when the Israeli forces began to uproot the olive trees and clear way for the construction of the wall. Demonstrations in the village continued for more than 7 days in which the protestors opposed the building of the Segregation Wall that threatens their village and their livelihood.  See Map of Budrus and the nearby villages

The Israeli forces are in the process of bulldozing and confiscating the 1000 dunums of agricultural land, uprooting hundreds of olive trees and  leaving most of the villagers without any source of income. The villagers added that this policy of land confiscation is only a strategy to force the residents leave their village and annex its land to Israel.

The Israeli authorities are building the Wall on the western part of Budrus village and on other villages land such as Qibya, Rantis and Al-Luban.  

Building the Segregation Wall will cut off the village, leave many villagers without any source of income  and will prevent many of them from reaching their work or their schools. The villagers will also be living in ghettos separated from the other Palestinian villages and communities.

The villagers assured that they will continue to demonstrate against  the Israeli policy which is against humanity and civilization. If Israelis are to build a separation wall, they can build it on the Green Line and not inside the Palestinian Territory. It is clear that the purpose behind building the Segregation Wall is to confiscate the most fertile Palestinian land and prevent the inhabitants from earning their living and force them to leave at the end. 

The building of such a wall, the separation of people from their families and their land and the denial of their freedom of movement are basic human rights as well as international laws violations. Tree uprooting, land confiscation and the construction of settlements and 'bypass' road by Israel contravene international laws, the IV Geneva Convention, the Hague Regulations, the Oslo Accords and the Wye Agreement and are against the letter and spirit of the peace process.

“We Can Do It” Kate and Anna from If America Knew, January 20, 2004

Budrus is a small village of 1200 people in West Ramallah, three kilometres from the green line. The Apartheid Wall’s bulldozers reached Budrus village three months ago, having already cut a swathe through the land of Qibbya, the neighbouring village. In 1953, Ariel Sharon led a massacre of 60 people in Qibbya and the site of the massacre is still visible today.

The intention of the Apartheid Wall in this area is threefold: to separate Budrus and Qibbya and their neighbouring villages, Nihilin and Medea, from all of their land; enclose them in their own separate wall which looks like a circular prison; and to install only one gate through which villagers can leave and enter to Ramallah, the only place where the villagers can access hospitals, universities and places of work. The villagers feel that this gate, like many other gates in the wall, could remain almost permanently closed.

Budrus village formed a Popular Committee to fight the Apartheid Wall. The Committee says there was no way to fight the Wall in court because they were given military orders that their land was to be confiscated and they should appeal to the courts within 14 days, but the next day the bulldozers began working!

Until now, the wall has not become a reality in Budrus. For the past three months, every able-bodied person in Budrus has been taking to the olive grove of 30 trees which is first in line for bulldozing, and using non-violent direct action to stop the bulldozers every time they start working. The Popular Committee has convened big demonstrations in the olive grove even when the bulldozers were not working. While in many villages the army’s bulldozers have met scattered protests, the people of Budrus believe they can stop the Apartheid Wall! The village says their secret is that everyone is united against the Wall and works together, no matter what their party affiliation. Because of their united strength, the village has defied every curfew declared by the Israeli Occupation Forces in order to continue the non-violent resistance.

Recently, however, the Apartheid Wall contractors’ bulldozers have been backed up by much more military might and the police have started making midnight raids into the village to arrest Popular Committee activists and even young boys. There has been a concerted attack on Budrus village’s non-violent resistance.

This began on the morning of December 30th, 2003 when a bulldozer headed for the grove most under threat. As soon as the villagers saw what was happening, a call went out from the mosque that the olive trees were being cut! Five international and Israeli activists camping in a school under threat of demolition in nearby Deir Ballut village had luckily slept in Budrus the night before. Together with Palestinian activists from the Budrus Popular Committee against the Apartheid Wall, we rushed down the hill to the olive groves only to be met by soldiers coming up with a paper declaring the area a closed military zone and blocking our way. We were perplexed when a Palestinian activist said we should all return to the village centre. On the way we heard another call go out from the mosque and everything became clear when we suddenly saw hundreds of women, girls, men and boys marching directly at the olive grove. Children who had rushed out of their classrooms were still clutching their schoolbooks.

At this moment, one of the most well loved activists in the village, Abu Ahmad, shouted “We can do it! We can do it!” The villagers broke up into three groups and started running down the hill towards the bulldozers.

The soldiers immediately started firing tens of teargas canisters at the different groups, before opening fire just minutes later with numerous volleys of rubber bullets. When groups of small girls were gassed, they took only seconds to recover their breath before marching forward again down the hill. Many people were hit in the legs, head, and arms and carried up the hill to the waiting ambulance. All the time, more soldiers were arriving and making their way up the hill. The Palestinians and soldiers met three quarters of the way down the hill. Although the bulldozer was relatively close now, it seemed that it would be impossible for us to break through the line of heavily armed soldiers and get to the olive grove.

The sudden arrival of three television crews startled the soldiers. In that moment, an old woman broke through the line and ran at the bulldozer. Different groups started getting around the soldiers. The soldiers recovered their composure speedily and began firing teargas canisters directly at people, but by this time the woman had thrown herself into the hole being dug by the bulldozer. A tiny girl jumped into the bulldozer’s scooper as it came down to meet the earth and nonchalantly started reading her schoolbook. Other girls started climbing all over the bulldozer and the driver turned off the engine.

That day was victorious for the people of Budrus. Although some trees had been destroyed, others were saved. And in the face of massive amounts of teargas and rubber bullets, they had advanced down the hill armed with nothing but songs of freedom, forcing the soldiers and the bulldozer to retreat. When the people reached the olive groves and the soldiers were pushed back to where their jeeps were parked, it was the small girls who faced off against the soldiers for the next three hours singing “Free, Free Palestine!” When the soldiers finally got into their jeeps and drove off, the entire village celebrated.

This scene has replayed itself over the past three weeks but with different results. During the past three weeks, the Wall Company has tried seven times to cut more olive trees. All seven attempts have been defeated by the people of Budrus. Four times the people succeeded in forcing the army out of the groves as they did on December 30th, but on three occasions the army attacked with over 200 soldiers, and forced the people back into the village. On these days, dozens of people were taken to hospital with injuries and soldiers opened fire on groups of children with live bullets, before occupying houses closest to the main road and beating the women and children inside. But even these times, the bulldozers did not uproot more trees.

At one point, the army declared the entire village a closed military zone. This did not stop the demonstrations from continuing. The village hit the world headlines when a Swedish Member of Parliament, Gustav Fridolin, and three other internationals were arrested for participating in the demonstrations. All of the internationals arrested, including two from IWPS, were imprisoned and eventually expelled from the country.

Ten men from the village have been taken prisoner by the occupation forces, including Abu Ahmad and his brothers Na’eem and Abdelnasir, Abu Ahmad and Na’eem were snatched from their beds at 2:00 am in the morning. Since their arrests, the Israeli regime has stonewalled their lawyers and supporters who have phoned the Ofer prison where they are being held. Israeli Knesset member Ran Cohen phoned the prison to protest their arrest and was told they had been released. People knowledgeable about the Israeli military court system fear they will be held indefinitely in administrative detention. Abdelnasir has been charged with “allowing internationals to stay in his home”. The charge of housing internationals was non-existent until now and only serves to expose Israel’s intention to smash any non-violent resistance to any of its policies.

Internationals from ISM, IWPS and other groups have established a long-term presence in the Budrus area to support their resistance. Last week internationals, Israeli Anarchists against the Wall and the Popular Committee went to meet the farmers of Nihilin. This village will lose 90% of its land to the Apartheid Wall and they were told on January 7th that bulldozing would start 14 days from then. In the run up to the International Court of Justice hearing on the Apartheid Wall in the Hague which begins in late February, bulldozers all over Palestine are working fast and furious to speed up the building of the wall, and giant 25 foot concrete slabs are being erected daily. So far, the village of Budrus, although shot, gassed, beaten, arrested and terrorised by the Israeli Occupation Forces, has managed to stop the Apartheid Wall’s trail of destruction through the Ramallah district.

In These Times Michael Atkinson

Eye for Film (Ali Hazzah) review [3/5]

Global Comment [Lauren Wissot]

Slant Magazine (Chuck Bowen) review

Film-Forward.com Nora Lee Mandel

Cinephile [Matthew Thrift]

Spirituality & Practice (Frederic and Mary Ann Brussat) review

Sound On Sight Dave Robson

NewCity Chicago Ray Pride

Chicago Reader Ben Sachs

BUDRUS Facets Multi Media

Village Voice Ella Taylor

User reviews from imdb Author: bducker-883-194559 from United States

Budrus Director Julia Bacha’s Appeals to Widest Audience Interview with the director from indieWIRE, April 22, 2010

Budrus: The story of a people's will to defy a fence using ... Gregory Boyce interviews Palestinian community organizer Ayed Morrar from The New Orleans Progressive Examiner, October 8, 2010

NPR: director interview Mary Louise Kelly interviews the director from NPR, October 14, 2010

Variety (Alissa Simon) review

Time Out London (Tom Huddleston) review [4/5]

TimeOut Chicago Hank Sartin

The Guardian (Peter Bradshaw) review [4/5]

The Daily Telegraph review [4/5] Marc Lee

St. Paul Pioneer Press review Chris Hewitt

Los Angeles Times (Kenneth Turan) review

Chicago Tribune Michael Phillips

New York Times Mike Hale, October 7, 2010

To Take Up Arms or Not? A Film Joins the Debate Ethan Bronner from The New York Times, October 1, 2010

Hitting the Wall Nancy Updike from The LA Weekly, March 11, 2004

Judge revokes administrative detention order for Budrus man Amira Hass from Haaretz, March 11, 2004

The village against the fence Amira Hass from Haaretz, November 2, 2004

Five Injured, Eight Detained At Anti Wall Protest In Budrus ... Ghassan Bannoura from Imemc, March 19, 2010

It Takes a Village: Budrus Re-Routes the Wall | Peace X Peace Rula Salameh from Peace X Peace, May 13, 2010

Ayed Morrar, the moral giant of Budrus James North from Mondoweiss, October 20, 2010

Budrus - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Back, Silvio

HALLELUJAH GRETCHEN (Aleluia Gretchen)

Brazil (118 mi) 1976

User reviews from imdb Author: Claudio Carvalho from Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

In 1937, the German family Kranz immigrates to the South of Brazil, settling in a hotel in the country. The members of the family are sympathizers of the Nazis and worship Adolf Hitler. One of the young woman of the Kranz was seduced and abused by a SS officer, arriving pregnant, close to the delivery and very disturbed. With the beginning of the war, two young men of the group move back to Germany to join the Nazi forces. After the war, the place becomes a meeting point for Nazi sympathizers, giving support to former Nazis and assisting them to move to Argentina. Eurico (Carlos Vereza), a Brazilian traveling salesman, arrives to the hotel and stays with the Kranz, expecting to be rewarded with hold for helping the Nazi sympathizers. Although awarded in many minor Brazilian Festivals, "Aleluia Gretchen" is a boring movie. Due to the long period covered by the story for the running time of 118 minutes, and the great number of characters, most of them badly developed, the screenplay is very confused. I am a great fan of Brazilian cinema, but I was completely disappointed with this film. My vote is four.

Brazil Film Update Randal Johnson from Jump Cut

Silvio Back is perhaps the only Brazilian director to develop a continuity of regional films outside the Rio de Janeiro-Sao Paulo axis. His first and second features, LANCE MAIOR (THE BIG ATTEMPT, 1968) and GUERRA DOS PELADOS (THE "PELADOS" WAR, 1970), both examine historical events in the Southern-most region of the country.

ALELUIA, GRETCHEN, the most controversial film of the 1976 Brasilia Festival, follows the life of a family of German immigrants from their arrival in Southern Brazil in 1937 until the present. Having fled their native land due to the rise of Hitler, the family becomes involved with fascist movements in Brazil. The film, in diary form, is divided into four parts, each corresponding to a particular phase of Brazilian political, cultural and economic development. The first part, from 1937 to 1938, deals with the family's arrival, their problems of adaptation and their concern with keeping in touch with events in Europe. Their discussions during this phase reveal the political conflicts that divided the world at that time, and even though they may on the surface oppose Hitler, they espouse much of his ideology. The second part, from 1942 to 1945, examines their relationship with Hitler youth organizations and other fascist groups in Brazil. During the war, the family's son returns to Europe to fight for Germany. In 1955 the group's ideology is challenged by members of the community, as a fugitive SS officer arrives to continue his courting of the family's daughter which he had begun before the war. The section dealing with today's Brazil continues a discussion of the cultural struggle they are involved in as, on a family outing, the Wagnerian soundtrack (a rock version of "The Ride of the Vaikyries") is drowned out by a samba played by local youth. The film is given an atemporal air since the characters do not age throughout the forty years dealt with in the film but rather only change clothes and hair fashion. According to the director, the film was invited to participate in the 1976 Berlin Festival, but the invitation was withdrawn without explanation.

Bacon, Lloyd

All-Movie Guide bio from Hal Erickson

Born into an American theatrical family, Lloyd Bacon was the son of Frank Bacon, the actor who made the stage play Lightnin' virtually his life's work. Lloyd pursued the family business early in life, appearing in stock companies and touring shows, before entering films as a small-part player at Essanay Studios, where he worked with pioneer western star Broncho Billy Anderson. Another Essanay player, Charlie Chaplin, continued employing Lloyd as an actor and production assistant long after both had moved to other studios. Never comfortable as a performer, Bacon followed Chaplin's lead by becoming a director himself. His first directorial assignment was Private Izzy Murphy (1926), which starred Broadway entertainer George Jessel. The film inaugurated Bacon's long association with Warner Bros., where over the next two decades he would direct such notables as James Cagney, Bette Davis, Edward G. Robinson John Barrymore, Joe E. Brown, Humphrey Bogart and Ronald Reagan. Most of Bacon's assignments came his way not because he was uniquely talented but because he was quick and efficient; while many stars welcomed this businesslike approach, others were unhappy that the Bacon technique left no time to properly "develop" a performance or to experiment with new ideas. But since producers and not actors make the final decisions, and since producers like to have craftsmen around who save time and money, Bacon worked steadily throughout the 1940s and 1950s. After leaving Warners, the director spent some time at 20th Century-Fox, where he made one of his best films, It Happens Every Spring (1949). Slapstick comedy fans especially enjoy Bacon's collaborations with screenwriter Frank Tashlin at both Columbia and MGM, notably the Red Skelton vehicle The Good Humor Man (1950) and the baseball farce Kill the Umpire (1950). Just before his death, Lloyd Bacon directed a pair of Howard Hughes-produced comedies for RKO, The French Line (1954) and She Couldn't Say No (1954). The Bacon family tradition was carried on by Lloyd's younger brother, ubiquitous character actor Irving Bacon.

Film Reference Douglas Gomery

Lloyd Bacon is probably best known for his director's credit on such classic Warner Bros. films as 42nd Street, Footlight Parade, Knute Rockne—All American, and Action in the North Atlantic. Still, other film personalities are better remembered for these films: choreographer Busby Berkeley for the musicals, and actors Pat O'Brien, Ronald Reagan, and Humphrey Bogart for the 1940s films. Today Bacon is lost in the literature about Warner Bros.

In his day, however, Lloyd Bacon was recognized as a consummate Hollywood professional. One cannot help standing in some awe of Bacon's directorial output in the era from the coming of sound to the Second World War. During those fourteen years he directed an average of five films per annum for Warner Bros. (seven were released in 1932 alone.) Bacon's 42nd Street and Wonder Bar were among the industry's top-grossing films of the decade. For a time Bacon was considered to be the top musicals specialist at Warner Bros. The corporation paid him accordingly, some $200,000 per year, making him one of its highest paid contract directors of the 1930s.

Bacon's status declined during the 1940s. His craftsmanship remained solid, for he knew the classical Hollywood system of production as well as anyone on the Warner lot. But Bacon never seemed to find his special niche. Instead, he skipped from one genre to another. He seemed to evolve into the Warner Bros. handyman director. His greatest success during this period came with war films. For example, Wings of the Navy had a million dollar budget and helped kick off the studio's string of successful World War II films. Bacon's best-remembered film of the 1940s is probably Action in the North Atlantic, a tribute to the U.S. Merchant Marine. This movie was Bacon's last film at Warner Bros.

In 1944 Bacon moved to Twentieth Century-Fox to work for his former boss, Darryl F. Zanuck. There he re-established himself in musicals as well as films of comedy and family romance, but still seemed unable to locate a long-term specialty. He finished at Fox with an early 1950s series of Lucille Ball comedies, and ended his directorial career in somewhat ignominious fashion, helping Howard Hughes create a 3-D Jane Russell spectacle, The French Line.

Bacon's most significant contribution to film history probably came during his early days at Warner Bros. as that studio pioneered new sound technology in the late 1920s. Bacon presided over several significant transitional films, none more important than The Singing Fool. Although The Jazz Singer usually gets credit as the first (and most important) transitional talkie, The Singing Fool should receive far more credit because for more than a decade, this film stood as the highest grossing feature in Hollywood annals. As its director, Bacon was honored by the trade publication Film Daily as one of the top ten directors of the 1928–29 season. As a consequence of his involvement on this and other films, Bacon established his reputation as a director who helped thrust Hollywood into an era of movies with sound.

Lloyd Bacon Michael Grost from Classic Movies and Television

Bacon, Lloyd They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

Jean-Pierre Melville's 64 Favourite Pre-War American Filmmakers (Cahiers du Cinema, October 1961)

FOOTLIGHT PARADE

USA (104 mi) 1933

Time Out Tom Milne

The third of Warners' major backstage musicals to appear in 1933, unlike 42nd Street and Gold Diggers of 1933 in that it deals not so much with putting on a Broadway show as with combating the threat of talking pictures; unlike them, too, in that it pins its atmospheric faith less on the Depression than on Roosevelt optimism as personified by Cagney's irrepressibly bouncy choreographer. It ends with a string of three grandiose numbers by Busby Berkeley, that kitschy darling of current fashion, two of which (Honeymoon Hotel and By a Waterfall) are well suited to the wimpish personalities of Powell and Keeler; but the third, Shanghai Lil, is given a terrific boost by Cagney and by a camera raptly tracking through smoky Chinese bars, nightclubs and opium dens. But by far the best part of the film is its first hour, fast, furious and funny as Cagney sets out to convince his nervous backers that his idea for live prologues to accompany talkies can be made to work.

filmcritic.com (Chris Cabin)

With modern musicals being about as embarrassingly bad as they come (the nadir being Christopher Columbus’ deplorable Rent), it’s good to stop and take stock of the golden days of the movie musical. One of the splashy musical's most prominent heroes was Busby Berkeley, a choreographer who knew a lot about dance and even more about subtext. Through both his Gold Diggers pictures, Dames, 42nd Street, and Wonder Bar, you can see his dance style saying as much about the story as it is acting as a subversive agent. However, it never got so sly and perverse as it did in Lloyd Bacon’s exceptional Footlight Parade.

In his finest non-dramatic role, James Cagney plays Chester Kent, a stage musical director who turns into a prologue director when silent pictures go all talkie. Prologues are lavish musical numbers they put on before and in between films, and Kent is the best in the business at them. When the possibility to sign a 40-theater deal comes up, Kent goes nutty and must rush out three ace prologues in three days. Keep in mind; this is all while dealing with his contemptible fiancée, Vivian (Carole Dodd), his loyal, loving assistant, Nan (Joan Blondell), two business partners who are ripping him off, and a spy in his dance company that is stealing his ideas. And then there are the two main leads that are falling for each other (sweetly played by Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler).

The three main performances in Footlight Parade are at the end, the three prologues that must win over the owner of the 40 theaters. All three are choreographed with precision and feisty glee by Berkeley. In “Honeymoon Hotel,” he shamelessly dances around and hints at the amorous happenings on one's wedding night, and in “Shanghai Lil,” you can see his deviant smile behind Cagney choosing the Navy (male dominance) over the woman he’s been looking high and low for. Most shocking is “By the Waterfall,” which casts a man’s dream of love and marriage as a group of lovely women, flirting and swimming near a waterfall. On many of the overhead shots during the swimming scenes, there is more than a passing resemblance to the act of fertilization. It’s a seditious stab at the ratings board (timely now on its DVD appearance, what with the MPAA running rampant) and never makes the mistake of being too obvious.

The film generates laughs at a criminal rate, and it almost makes it hard to follow. Much like Howard Hawks’ His Girl Friday, however, we can still grab what is going on and see the generous story layering and deep character that Bacon and writers Manuel Seff and James Seymour worked in with deep love. Cinematographer George Barnes and editor George Amy are consistently inventive in the way they shoot the musical numbers. In “By the Waterfall,” their dazzling ability with space seems a little too good at distracting us from the fact that none of these could ever be put on any sort of stage.

Bacon and Berkeley collaborated on three other films, Wonder Bar, Gold Diggers of 1937 and 42nd Street. I’ll always have a place in my heart for the warmth of the dance numbers in 42nd Street, but one can’t argue that both men were at the top of their game with Footlight Parade. For all intents and purposes, it seems that what modern musicals are missing in abundance is the sense of mischief that movies like this and Cabaret (arguably the last truly great movie musical) had. With stinkers like Rent and From Justin to Kelly roaming the Cineplex, the most musical thing you can hear these days is Berkeley and Bacon rotating in their graves.

Turner Classic Movies Frank Miller

James Cagney made the transition from gats to taps when he convinced Warner Bros. head Jack Warner to give him a change of pace with the lead in Footlight Parade, Busby Berkeley's 1933 musical extravaganza. Coming on the heels of the studio's first two groundbreaking musicals -- 42nd Street (1933) and Gold Diggers of 1933 - the film had a way to go to top its predecessors. But, with Cagney dancing for the first time on screen, Joan Blondell cracking wise as only she could and 100 chorus girls swimming through a gigantic studio tank in the spectacular "By a Waterfall" number, most fans agree that it's the ultimate Warners musical.

As soon as he heard about the studio's plans to follow Berkeley's two smash musicals, Cagney campaigned for the role. After all, he reminded Warner, he had started out as a song-and-dance man and only blundered into gangster roles when he'd switched roles with the original star of The Public Enemy (1931). After Cagney reached film stardom, he continued to tap around the house after each day's shooting. In fact, visitors with dancing experience, like George Burns and Gracie Allen, were usually handed tap shoes and asked to join in.

Footlight Parade marked the third teaming for Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler, who had shot to stardom in the first two Berkeley musicals at Warners. It also marked a reunion for Cagney and Blondell, who had started at Warners together in 1930's Sinner's Holiday, which they had also done on Broadway. Footlight Parade was actually their sixth film together. Blondell had just married the film's cameraman, George Barnes, though that didn't guarantee her better camera angles; her natural beauty rarely came through on screen and always astonished fans lucky enough to meet her in the flesh.

A backstage story like 42nd Street, Footlight Parade saved most of its musical numbers for the film's finale. Before the finale, however, the movie is a fast-paced comedy about a Broadway producer who fights the inroads made by talking pictures during the Great Depression by staging extravagant "prologues" for movie theaters. Though she didn't get to sing or dance in the film, Blondell almost stole the picture as Cagney's secretary and love interest. When she kicks out a gold digger after his fortune, Blondell quips, "As long as they've got sidewalks, you've got a job." The line would be edited out in later years, when film censorship became more stringent, not to return until the picture's 1970 reissue.

After the simple plot was established, Footlight Parade focused on dancing, with three of Berkeley's best numbers back-to-back. First up was "Honeymoon Hotel," in which Powell and Keeler's efforts to enjoy their honeymoon in private are thwarted by relatives, well-wishers and a lecherous baby (Billy Barty) who almost shares their wedding night. The number was heavily cut by local censors.

Next came the 15-minute number, "By a Waterfall." Berkeley came up with the idea when someone asked him how he was going to top the numbers in Gold Diggers of 1933. When he suggested the first on-screen aquacade, Warner screamed "Stop right there! It will take the Bank of America to keep you going." But a few weeks later, he suggested that Berkeley try the number in Footlight Parade. The set, complete with an 80-by-40-foot swimming pool, took up an entire soundstage. Berkeley had the pool lined with glass walls and a glass floor so he could shoot the swimmers from every possible angle. Then he designed the swimming suits and bathing caps to create the illusion that the women were almost naked. He rehearsed the number for two weeks, then shot it in six days as technicians pumped 20,000 gallons of water a minute over the set's artificial falls. The results were so spectacular that the audience at the premiere gave the number a standing ovation and threw their programs in the air. Broadway impresario Billy Rose even tried to steal Berkeley from Warners to stage his aquacade.

For the finale, "Shanghai Lil," Cagney donned a sailor's suit and tap shoes to sing and dance the story of a sailor searching for his lost love in what most astute viewers realized was a brothel and opium den. When he finds her -- Ruby Keeler masquerading as a Chinese girl -- they joyously tap dance on the bar before getting caught in a full-scale brawl with 150 sailors and chorus girls. During the fight scene one chorus girl accidentally walked into a fist and ended up unconscious under one of the tables (the same dancer, years later, would marry MGM studio head Louis B. Mayer). Featured briefly in the sequence are a young John Garfield (five years before signing a Warners contract; he did extra work as a sailor briefly seen peeking over a barrel during the fight) and then-unknown chorus girls Ann Sothern and Dorothy Lamour. But the scene was Cagney's all the way. When the film opened, a reporter from the trade paper Variety located Max Tishman, an agent who had fired Cagney for demanding a raise during his song-and-dance days. When the reporter asked him what he thought of his former client, Tishman said he'd be happy to give Cagney the raise if he ever wanted to come back.

DVD Times Eamonn McCusker

Bright Lights [Matthew Kennedy] May 2006

moviediva

Slant Magazine - DVD Review Dan Callahan from The Busby Berkeley Collection

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson) dvd review

Turner Classic Movies dvd review Paul Sherman

Ferdy on Films [Marilyn Ferdinand]

Footlight Parade (1933) Brian Darr from Hell on Frisco Bay

CineScene.com (Chris Dashiell) review

Classic Film Guide recommendation

TV Guide Entertainment Network, Movie Guide review [5/5]

Los Angeles Times [Kenneth Turan]

The New York Times review A.D.S.

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

FOOTSTEPS IN THE DARK

USA (96 mi) 1941

The New York Times (Bosley Crowther) review

Although the screen has become alarmingly overcrowded with amateur detectives operating in series—fellows like Ellery Queens, the Lone Wolf, the Saint, et al.—we hardly expected to see the day when the situation would be so acute that the boys would have to turn to catching one another. Yet that is substantially what happens in the Warners' "Footsteps in the Dark," the first of a series, we are told, which introduces Errol Flynn as a sly sleuth, Yessir, Mr. Flynn actually puts the finger on Ellery Queen—or, that is to say, on Ralph Bellamy, who was Queen the last time we saw him. And if they think that's honor among sleuths (or honor among casting directors), then—But, wait a minute! Haven't we gone to work and given the whole thing away? Naughty, naughty—yes, we have!

Oh, well—don't let that disturb you. You would have spotted the villain anyhow halfway through the picture, if you could keep your mind on it that long. For this so-called comedy-melodrama, which opened yesterday at the Strand, does as poor a job of mystifying as it does of everything else. In a loose way, it's all about a surreptitious society sleuth who gets mixed up in a murder-and-jewel-robbery case, to the dangerous confusion of his domestic life. A few spots are faintly amusing, thanks to Allen Jenkins as a chauffeur-valet and William Frawley as a thick-headed cop. But most of it is painfully dull and obvious, the pace is incredibly slow and Mr. Flynn, playing the detective, acts like a puzzled schoolboy.

If he—and we—are to see more of this misbegotten character, we sincerely hope that his writers will give him something smarter to do, else the first thing he knows Boston Blackie or Nick Carter will be puttins the finger on HIM.

Badger, Clarence

IT A- 94

USA (72 mi) 1927 co-director: Josef von Sternberg (uncredited)

Sweet Santa, give me him. —Betty Lou Spence (Clara Bow)

This is exactly the kind of Cinderella story that makes movie romance a myth, where a working class girl can grab a millionaire if she’s lucky enough, a prince in shining armor, just like in all the fairy tales. This could easily be the Hollywood prototype for this kind of picture, and it’s one of the best of the genre featuring what is arguably the best female performance of the Silent era, none other than Clara Bow, where the film turned her into the biggest female movie star of the late 20’s. And deservedly so, as she carries the entire picture on her shoulders, where her feminine guile and wit and sparkling personality with a multitude of sexual charm makes her one of the most appealing figures on film, where she is so continually mischievous and delightful that she renews the passion and inspiration for going to the movies. Clara Bow grew up in a childhood of poverty, violence, and mental illness, living in a Brooklyn tenement with a schizophrenic mother and an alcoholic and sexually abusive father. She became an actress at age 16, after winning Motion Picture Magazine’s “Fame and Fortune” contest in 1921. Though delivered on a cheap, Coney Island tin-type, her image was enough to convince the magazine’s judges that she was special, so as the grand prize winner they awarded her a bit part in a small film BEYOND THE RAINBOW (1922), where her part was eventually cut. Clara Bow loved the movies and loved acting, though she interestingly never had a chance to practice the craft except in front of her mirror. Her mother compared actresses to whores and threatened to kill Clara in her sleep once she found out about the contest. This meant the 16-year-old, singled out immediately for her innate talent, artistic maturity and range, never had a career on stage. And without substantial stage training, she brought none of the trappings of stage acting to the silver screen. The results were stunning, Clara Bow - She's Got It YouTube (2:45)

Bow eventually signed with B.P. Schulberg’s Preferred Pictures in 1923 churning out low-budget films, where the following year she was one of 13 women chosen as a Western Association of Motion Picture Advertisers (WAMPAS) Baby Star, chosen for their talent and promise as a potential motion picture star, which gained the attention of Schulberg's former partner Adolph Zukor, head of Paramount Pictures. Largely due to Clara Bow pictures, Schulberg and Zukor merged to form one of the largest studios in Hollywood, but it was the smash hit movie IT (1927) that made her Paramount's number one star and the most famous name in Hollywood. Described by critic David Thomson as “the first mass-market sex symbol,” it’s also important to point out that this is one of the most deliciously entertaining films of the Silent era, yet there’s no Charlie Chaplin or Buster Keaton or any of the other great Silent comics, instead it’s a romantic comedy that still flourishes nearly ninety years later on the magnificence of its star performer, whose charismatic personality exudes a kind of contemporary allure that is nothing less than refreshing, as she’s completely in step with modern times. What’s perhaps more ironic is the cheesy premise upon which this story rests, as the title comes from one of the characters thumbing through a 1927 Cosmopolitan magazine and coming across an article written by Elinor Glyn (who makes a cameo appearance) describing “It” as a kind of alluring sex appeal, described as “that quality possessed by some which draws all others with its magnetic force,” or described earlier by Rudyard Kipling in his 1904 story Mrs. Bathurst, who may have introduced “It” by describing the sensation, “Some women will stay in a man’s memory if they once walk down the street.” Unbelievably, this picture was considered lost for many years, but a nitrate copy was found in Prague in the 1960’s, and by 2001 it was selected into the Library of Congress National Film Registry.

The director Clarence Badger was famous for making over a dozen films with Will Rogers from 1919 to 1922, but nothing that reached the success of this picture, becoming ill during filming where Josef von Sternberg directed some scenes during his absence. Though expressed through title cards, much of the witty dialogue in the picture predates what would eventually lead to the screwball comedy of the 30’s, where it’s the irrepressible spirit of the women that tends to catch the more reserved upper class gents off guard, where Bow as Betty Lou is not so much a sex kitten as an adorably sweet working class girl with spunk, the kind of woman audiences can identify with as she’s just one of the girls, but her cutie-pie beauty and down to earth manner are a remarkable combination, where her aggressively flirtatious style “is” part of what’s so funny, seen early on as she’s working behind the counter at Waltham’s department store and sees the dashing young store owner’s son, Cyrus Waltham Jr. (Antonio Moreno) and exclaims humorously “Sweet Santa, give me him.” From that moment on she devises a plan to make that man her husband, just to prove a point to the other working girls that it can be done. While the odds are against her, she gets a lucky break when Monty (William Austin), a kind of frat brother best friend of Cyrus (where they often meet “at the club”), is the one thumbing through Cosmopolitan magazine and starts searching the store for “It” girls, believing he’s finally found her with Betty Lou, offering her a ride home in his car. She graciously accepts, but not in his car, preferring her own, and hops onto a heavily packed commuter bus, eventually agreeing to a dinner date, but only if it’s at the elegant Ritz, as she overhears that’s where Cyrus and his pampered socialite girlfiend Adela (Jacqueline Gadsden) are dining. While the film is a choreography of misdirection and funny sight gags, it’s all led by Betty Lou’s tenacious drive to capture her boss’s interest, failing miserably at first, but not to be deterred, by continually placing herself in his path, she eventually catches his eye.

Starting with the right dress to wear, with the help of her cash-strapped girlfriend Molly (Priscilla Bonner) who’s out of work and raising a baby alone, they literally cut into her work dress a plunging neckline while she’s still wearing it, Clara Bow Dresses for Dinner YouTube (6:07), converting it into an elegant look by evening, though by the time they reach the Ritz, the head waiter notices her work shoes, showing the various class layers she has to overcome just to be presentable. And while she’s obviously using Monty to get to Cyrus, the portrayal of Monty is interesting, as while he’s charmingly polite, he’s more than likely gay, calling himself “Old fruit” in the mirror at one point, where his sexual neutrality allows the audience to accept this little opportunist game Betty is playing. Monty is a good sport, often used to comic effect, and eventually aids Betty in her romantic ambitions. By the time she finally gets her boss’s attention, Cyrus doesn’t seem to mind when he finds out she works for him, as what she offers is pure, unadulterated fun, an obvious class contrast and a poke at the idyll pleasures of the rich as being boring and pretentious. When they finally go out on a date, she wants to go to Coney Island, filling up on hot dogs, laughing at the rides and funny mirrors, and literally having a ball at the good times to be had in an amusement park. Happiness takes Cyrus by storm, clearly an unexpected pleasure, but when he tries to kiss her good night, she gives him a slap to protect her moral virtue and hurries out of the car, but is seen looking at him longingly out the window of her room afterwards. While there’s an interesting diversion when the morally self-righteous welfare women, taking a zealously high-minded approach, come to take Molly’s baby away, creating quite a scene on the street below, where they send in a reporter to get the story, who is none other than Gary Cooper in one of his earliest (and last uncredited) roles. Betty is able to make them go away only by claiming the baby as her own, which creates headlines, but also causes the morally principled Cyrus to have second thoughts, as he can’t be seen with a “fallen woman.” This all sets up the free-wheeling finale on Cyrus’s yacht, where Monty helps stow Betty aboard as his supposed date, where after becoming the life of the party by playing her ukulele and clearing up a string of misunderstandings, the two literally take the plunge, lovers at last. While Bow was only 21 when this movie was filmed, the advent of talking pictures all but ended her career, and while she made a few unsuccessful talking pictures, her stardom came to an abrupt end at the tender age of 25.

Bright Lights Film Journal [Gary Morris]

Aficionados usually associate the cinema "shopgirl" of early cinema with Joan Crawford, but Clara Bow did Crawford one better in It. Bow plays Betty Lou Spence, the quintessential working-class flapper out to make the boss. Written by Elinor Glyn, this breezy 1927 comedy is loaded with period charm, including such dialogue as "Sweet Santa Claus, give me him!" and the witty dinner invite "Shall we gnaw a chop at the Club tonight?" There's plenty of pathos too in Betty Lou's loving friendship with single mother Molly, whom she defends against a pair of battleaxes trying to take the kid. There's even a coded gay character, queeny alleged straight Monty (William Austin), who, assessing his dubious sex appeal in a mirror, declares "Old fruit, you've got IT!" The film's mix of sophistication and sentiment proves an ideal vehicle for Bow, whose earthy sincerity always shines through. Contemporary audiences must have seen her that way too, because It made Bow an international sensation. Six years later, she was finished with film and fame, undone by apparently insurmountable emotional problems that are nowhere evident in this sweet divertissement.

FilmFanatic.org

“Sweet Santa, give me him.”

A wealthy fop (William Austin) becomes smitten with a perky shopgirl (Clara Bow) who he believes epitomizes a certain brand of sexual magnetism known as “It”; meanwhile, Bow falls for Austin’s handsome friend (Antonio Moreno), whose parents own the department store where she works.

Clara Bow (arguably cinema’s first sex symbol) is best known for her leading role in this iconic silent film, playing a shopgirl whose possession of “It” lands her an indirect opportunity to pursue the man of her dreams. While the narrative itself is not all that inventive (there’s little here we haven’t seen before in other romantic comedies), what makes the film worth a look is the presence of Bow, who starred in dozens of enormously popular flicks throughout the 1920s, but whose must-see filmography likely can be boiled down to this film and Wings (1927). (Readers, let me know if I’m wrong! Are there other must-see Bow titles?) I find Bow charming and cute, and understand her iconic status as the ultimate Flapper, but I’ll admit to not particularly understanding why she alone — among all the many beautiful shopgirls the camera pans during an early scene — epitomizes “It” (or at the very least, how one can know this from simply looking at her). With that said, she does a fine job playing the film’s spunky, loyal heroine — a woman who willingly lies about being her roommate’s son’s mother, to prevent him from being taken away by authorities — and thus she eventually convinces us she’s very much an “It” girl worth desiring.

Note: Film fanatics interested in learning more about Bow’s tragic life story should check out the informative and compassionate 1999 documentary Clara Bow: Discovering the It Girl (narrated by Courtney Love).

Silent Volume Review Chris Edwards

I love Clara Bow. Love her looks, love her charm; love her little bit of everything a man might want. I love her confidence, I love her jokes. I love her fiery centre, burning down the ingénue roles around her, exposing them as paper. In every film of hers I’ve seen, Clara Bow’s in three dimensions; a laughing, crying, fully fleshed, dynamic being, pulling your eyes from the silent archetypes surrounding her.

Love her, love her, love her.

“It” is Bow’s most famous film today, though she made many. She was an enormous star in the late-1920s; a flapper writ large. She was scandalized, sometimes fairly, often not; she was propelled to stardom by a studio that also exploited her. She came from nothing, rose to the top, broke down, came back, and broke down again. She died alone, in front of her television set.

What do these facts have to do with “It”? Shouldn’t Bow’s performance be evaluated on its own terms? Not this time. “It”, in both theme and execution, is not a film for the ages—it’s a deliberate expression of its moment, and a meditation (however light) on that moment’s biggest icon.

‘It,’ by the way, is something you have. Or wish you had. British socialite Elinor Glyn coined the term in her 1923 novel, The Man and the Moment. Possessing ‘it’ meant projecting “self-confidence and indifference as to whether you are pleasing or not, [though] something in you... gives the impression that you are not all cold.”

Those lines appear in the film, in which Glyn has a cameo, as herself, hobnobbing with the wealthy in a nightclub. She’s answering a question posed by Cyrus Waltham, Jr. (Antonio Moreno), heir to the Waltham’s department store empire; a young man of commerce and frank impulse. He’s got a lot on his mind, and tends to miss the obvious. Luckily, his idly rich running buddy, Monty (William Austin), misses nothing.

It’s at this nightclub that Monty finally draws Cyrus’ attention to Betty Lou Spence (Bow), one of hundreds of Waltham’s employees. Why is this shop-girl here, in this snooty club? Well, because Monty brought her. Only the day before, he’d read an article about ‘It’ in Cosmopolitan; with time on his hands, he wandered the sales floor in search of a girl that possessed ‘It,’ and there was only one. Monty would sleep with Betty Lou if he could, but she’d never agree, and he’s too flighty to really care.

No, it’s Cyrus that occupies Betty Lou’s thoughts. While he’s a fantasy object for the rest of the shop-girls, for Betty Lou, he’s a goal. She intends to have him, and sets about planning ways they can meet. This implies that meeting him is all it will take—Betty Lou is indeed self-confident.

Monty’s flirting is Betty Lou’s way in. She arrives at the nightclub in a dress she and her waifish friend, Molly (Priscilla Bonner), designed the hour before with a pair of shears. The snobbish maître d’ wants her placed at a discreet table, but when she sees Cyrus dining dead centre, she makes sure she’s just as visible.

“It” is not a subtle film, and these scenes stray little from Bow’s own life story. She grew up in a Brooklyn tenement, a victim of horrible physical and emotional abuse from an alcoholic father and a mentally ill mother. She became an actress at age 16, after winning Motion Picture Magazine’s ‘Fame and Fortune’ contest. Her image, though delivered on a cheap, Coney Island tin-type, was enough to convince the magazine’s judges she was special. They awarded her the grand prize of a bit part in a small film, Beyond the Rainbow (1922).

Clara Bow loved the movies and loved acting, but she’d never had a chance to practice the craft, except in front of her mirror. Her mother famously compared actresses to whores, and infamously threatened to kill Clara once she found out about the contest. This meant the 16-year-old, singled out immediately for her innate talent, artistic maturity and range, never had a career on stage. And without substantial stage training, she brought none of the trappings of stage acting to the silver screen. The results were stunning.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dxo_99eaEEA
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kh1nY3YRK0g

Watch her in a close-up. Her eyes dart up and down as she speaks, her shoulders shift, her fingers flutter. She’s active, the way a character with nervous energy ought to be, but so many silent actresses were not. Even Lillian Gish, Bow’s equal (at least) in talent, was more fond of the Grand Pose than Clara was. Gish’s style always considered the balcony seats; Bow’s considered only the lens.

Cyrus is suitably smitten. Betty Lou smoulders in his direction for the duration of the meal, even though he’s sharing his table with a woman of means, the lovely Adela (Jacqueline Gadsden). Alone with him in the foyer, she wagers he won’t even recognize her the next time they meet. Cyrus indeed loses that bet, but pays up with a date.

“It” rolls on in rudimentary fashion. Betty Lou has taken in Molly and her baby when Molly falls ill and cannot work; the baby’s crying disturbs the neighbours, who call the welfare authorities, portrayed here as judgemental busy-bodies. They try to take the baby from Molly, but tragedy is averted when Betty Lou claims the baby as her own. Her ferocious defence makes the papers, she is scandalized and libelled (much as Clara Bow tended to be), and Cyrus gets the wrong idea. Betty Lou feels betrayed by her dream man; she vows to win his heart, then smash it.

Like too many rom-coms, this one’s plot turns on a series of miscommunications, most of which could’ve been avoided if everyone just said a few more words before leaving a room. But Bow’s dynamism saves the film. Her reality is undeniable; her energy fills every scene, and in this movie, that is best. “It” is strongest when in motion, and Clara Bow, always, keeps moving.
The script, smartly, stays out of her way. Bow is herself: the true and original ‘It-Girl,’ and Betty Lou, as scripted, is sharp and self-aware. We never believe that her quest for Cyrus is a quest for status; she laughs at the idea of a shop-girl on a yacht, never tries to blend with the rich folks she meets and (we suspect) would never want to. Her heart can be broken, but she will always be a clear-eyed person; complex, complete and so very, lovably, alive.

The Sheila Variations [Sheila O'Malley]

Read TCM's article on It Jay Carr

It Read TCM's Home Video Review on this film Paul Tatara

notcoming.com | It - Not Coming to a Theater Near You Josh Bell

Studies in Cinema [Jeremy Carr]

It (1927) - AMC Blogs Jake Euker

Old School Reviews [John Nesbit] also seen here: CultureCartel.com [John Nesbit]

Goatdog's Movies [Michael W. Phillips Jr.]

Cinema Sights [James Ewing]

Digitally Obsessed! - Kino Video [Mark Zimmer]

DVD Talk [John Sinnott]

DVD Verdict Amanda DeWees

Fulvue Drive-in [Nicholas Sheffo]

Silent Era

The Spinning Image [Graeme Clark]

epinions DVD [Stephen O.Murray]

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

Bill's Movie Emporium [Bill Thompson]

Brilliant Observations on 1173 Films [Clayton Trapp]

Clara Bow: Discovering the "It" Girl - Turner Classic Movies Stephanie Thames on the 1999 documentary film, Clara Bow: Discovering the It Girl

TV Guide

Variety

New York Times [Mordaunt Hall]

Badham, John

SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER

USA (118 mi) 1977

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray]

The image of John Travolta in a white disco suit has so saturated popular culture that uninitiated filmgoers tend to think of Saturday Night Fever as a goofy, dated disco cash-in. But those who've seen the film know it as a rich slice of Italian-American life in Brooklyn, topped with post-Scorsese '70s grit and filled with a surprising amount of ugliness. Travolta's working-class disco enthusiast spouts racist slurs, treats women badly, and is as dim and clumsy off the dance floor as he is rapturous on it. He and his friends knock around the streets and nightclubs of their Bay Bridge neighborhood, working crummy jobs all week so they can afford to buy pills and booze and pay cover charges on the weekend. Saturday Night Fever's plot revolves around a dance contest—and Travolta's attempt to get pretty, seemingly classy Karen Lynn Gorney to be his partner—but its story is about the tyranny of family and friends, in a cramped urban grid just across the river from a sprawling center of wealth and glamour. "There are ways of killing yourself without killing yourself," Travolta mutters at one point, bucking against a way of life that'll probably leave him as a lifer at a paint store, married to some shrill woman he'll impregnate in the back of a car. What saves Saturday Night Fever from being unrelentingly bleak (even for the cinema of the '70s, when homely faces and desperate lives weren't necessarily box-office poison) is Travolta's appealing balance of softness and sharpness, and the sheer physicality of the disco dancing. Director John Badham employs a variety of extreme angles in the dance sequences, suggesting the lightly masked sexuality and violence beneath the dancers' poses. Out of the nightclubs, Badham makes masterful use of steadicam (then a fairly new device) to track through the cluttered anxiety of homes and workspaces on the way to the wide-open harmoniousness of the dance floor. Badham's DVD commentary is livelier and better organized than such tracks usually are, full of trivia and affably delivered inside information. His storytelling exuberance explains why people still think of Saturday Night Fever as escapist fun. It is, in a way, but it's also harrowingly clear about what's being escaped.

Turner Classic Movies Pablo Kjolseth

What REBEL WITHOUT A CAUSE was to the 1950's, SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER was to the 1970's. The film, inspired by a New York magazine article "Tribal Rites of the New Saturday Night," follows Tony Manero (John Travolta), an 18-year-old kid selling paint at a hardware store whose real talents are on the dance floor. It also had a surprisingly real and gritty Brooklyn street credibility that highlighted sex, drugs, racism, misogyny, and some of the most famous line-dancing captured on the silver screen. On December 7th, 1977, it launched John Travolta, then 23-years-old, from television fame as a "Sweathog" on WELCOME BACK, KOTTER to a larger career in Hollywood - the soundtrack alone sold over 35 million copies.

The dvd release of SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER boasts a solid transfer with vibrant colors, a 1.85:1 ratio, and Dolby Digital 5.1 sound. The dvd also has three special features; a running commentary by director John Badham, deleted scenes, and highlights from VH1's BEHIND THE MUSIC. The latter offers a wealth of inside information, home movie footage, various interviews with key players, and the kind of background drama that makes the film a joy to revisit. Surprisingly, the only thing really missing is that one thing that otherwise seems to have a ubiquitous presence on most other dvds: the trailer.

Beyond the financial success (it pulled in $285 million), the trend-setting success (the film elevated disco from its underground roots to a leviathan-like trend that blossomed for a good two years later), does the film live up to a legacy that goes beyond camp? You bet. The reason is encapsulated in the opening scene with John Travolta's famous strut down the Brooklyn Street, his legs and arms hitting the musical marks of "Stayin' Alive" like a metronome while the camera glides at the Brooklyn street level to capture it all - No sound stages, shot on location (and this despite mobs of fans that threatened to close down the shoots), the film had charisma, style, and the kind of grit that elevated 1970's cinema into its own class. These qualities help explain why Roger Ebert's late partner, Gene Siskel, loved the film so much that he bought SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER'S famous white suit at a charity auction; Ebert even boasts that Siskel claimed it his favorite film of all time and that he must have seen it at least 20 times.

Qwipster's Movie Reviews (Vince Leo)

It's the movie that made John Travolta (Grease, Two of a Kind) a superstar, and a quintessential film of the 1970s.  Unfairly maligned by some, possibly because of its association with one of the most reviled forms of popular music ever created, Disco, this is actually a solid character study, full of gutsy characters, interesting developments, and some of the most electric scenes of dancing around.  It also sports one of the most successful soundtracks ever made, with some very memorable tunes by the Bee Gees in particular.  It exploded onto the scene and became an international sensation, only to burn out just as quickly as the music within it, and somewhere along the line, people forgot that there is actually a very good movie here.

Travolta plays Tony Manero, a 19-year-old Brooklyn resident living with his parents and barely eking out enough money to support his one true passion -- dancing at the local club until the wee hours of the morning.  Although he isn't anything special by day, his parents thinking him a failure, working as a lowly assistant in a paint store, but by evening, he's the king of the dance floor.  He's the envy of all of the men, and the dream conquest of the ladies, but all he wants to do is be respected for his dancing, and maybe, get out of the lower class existence that is holding him back.  He finally spots a slice of the good life when an older, more sophisticated woman catches his eye in the form of another great dancer, Stephanie (Gorney).  She sees Tony as a step back for her socially, but he is persistent, and soon, the two become partners -- but only on the dance floor.  Feelings often get in the way, and the two have to come to grips with what is most important in life, where they want to go, and who they want to be.

At the time of its release, disco was actually seen to be on the decline.  Primarily an underground scene, it catapulted into a major mainstream phenomenon due to this film, and soon, nearly every guy was out there on the dance floor in a white polyester suit just like Travolta, putting on the same moves and hoping that they are good enough to clear the floor so that everyone can watch them strut their stuff. 

The reasons why the film's quality is dwarfed by its success are many.  One happens to be the monumental success of the soundtrack, perhaps even more popular than the movie.  Hits like "Night Fever", "More Than a Woman", "You Should Be Dancing", "Stayin' Alive", "Disco Inferno", "If I Can't Have You", "How Deep is Your Love", and others became breakout hits, ruling the pop charts and making the soundtrack one of the best-selling records of all-time, even to this day. 

The film's biggest asset is Travolta himself.  Tony Manero could have very easily been an unlikable character, unworthy of adulation or attention, but Travolta makes him very appealing.  Travolta literally spent months nailing down the moves and attitude of the young Italian dance floor god, and he is so good, you really do believe he could be the cream of the crop in the city of New York.  Travolta would get nominated for Best Actor for his dynamite performance.

Unfortunately, as is the case with most phenomena that become massive pop culture fads, the burn out factor was extreme here.  Disco died as quickly as it came, the Bee Gees hold on the pop charts was no more, and people became tired of seeing Travolta's face anymore, leading him to struggle as an actor for over a decade in obscurity. 

Sadly, when many people think about Saturday Night Fever, they only think about some of the patented moves, the songs, and the glitz of the discotheque.  It's so hard to remember that this is a story of a boy becoming a man, wanting desperately to make something of himself and not knowing how, and how the art of dancing, even in a setting as banal as the local club, can provide the escapism and self-expression one needs to cope with all of the problems of the day.  As fun as the 1970s nostalgia may be, there are universal themes here that resonate wonderfully, if only one is able to see and hear them under the strobes, mirrors and thumping rhythms of the disco anthems.

PopMatters [Marco Lanzagorta]

Saturday Night Fever Just Dancing, by Peter Steven from Jump Cut

DVD Town (Dean Winkelspecht)

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Jon Danziger)

Reel.com DVD review [Jim Hemphill]

eFilmCritic.com (Collin Souter)

Ted Prigge

Dragan Antulov

DVD Verdict Rob Lineberger

Movie Vault [Vadim Rizov]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times in 1977

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times in 1999

Bahrani, Ramin

"The facts don't really matter:" An Interview with Ramin Bahrani, Part 1 Interview by Ignatiy Vishnevetsky from The Auteurs, February 17, 2010

"The facts don't really matter:" An Interview with Ramin Bahrani, Part 2 Interview by Ignatiy Vishnevetsky from The Auteurs, February 18, 2010

MAN PUSH CART

USA (87 mi) 2005

Man Push Cart Jonathan Rosenbaum from The Reader

Haunting and touching, this feature by Iranian-American filmmaker Ramin Bahrani focuses on a former Pakistani rock singer (Ahmad Razvi) who hawks coffee and bagels from a pushcart in Manhattan. Bahrin follows him as he sells porn on the side, reflects on his estranged son, takes a house-painting job, and befriends a young Spanish woman (Leticia Dolera) who works at a nearby newsstand. This is somewhat fuzzy as narrative, but it's a potent mood piece, and its portait of urban loneliness has some of the intensity of Taxi Driver without the violence. 87 min.

Time Out London (Wally Hammond) review

The cart is a mobile New York coffee-and-bagel kiosk; the man pushing is Ahmad (Ahmad Razvi), a new Pakistani immigrant to the Big Apple. In his beautifully measured second feature, Iranian-American Bahrani follows this polite American-accented young man’s day – manhandling the cart through the streets at dawn, taking the A-train after dusk. His conversation is restricted to ‘You got it!’, ‘Cream cheese with that?’, or asking for cigarettes from the nearby hut operated by pretty Barcelona-born Noemi (for which, incidentally, he exchanges pirate DVDs). In this character study, Bahrani applies a minimalist approach, reflecting the subjective experience – he lets the facts speak for themselves – but his long, often music-less takes differ in effect from, say, Kiarostami’s. His movie is just that little bit less demanding; ‘directed’, attentive rather than serious, licensing the camera’s roving eye to linger over a twinkling East River skyline or stay on Ahmad’s play with a tiny kitten he finds.

Bahrani, even in silence, is eloquent as the Apu-like protagonist. Skillful, too, is the discreet way Bahrani slowly releases information about him (we hear, for instance, Ahmad had been a ‘rock star’ back in Lahore, and a couple of other revelations), inducing our sympathy and understanding and increasing the emotional depth without stooping to miserablism or sentimentality. Thus, what begins as a delineation of a man in a landscape becomes a study in sadness and stoicism, disorientation and even desperation, then finally, by extension, a delicate, rewarding and cliché-free enquiry into the complex heart of the lone immigrant experience.

filmcritic.com (Chris Cabin) review [3.5/5]

To date, the services of the food carts that litter the corners of New York City have never been of use to yours truly. The world of the people who runs these small huts, often Indian, Israeli or Mexican, is often a dystopia of non-existence. They aren't recognized as people but simply as peddlers of the morning coffee and bagel and the middle-of-walking snack attack and then as a faded memory. But then someone recognizes them, and then it's a whole other world.

Ahmad (Ahmad Razvi) pours cups of piping hot coffee, spreads cheap cream cheese on bagels and hangs dangling teabags in hot water for dozens of people each morning and he's fine with it. He comes home to the closet he calls an apartment, writes, and takes care of a small kitten. It's his life; it's not big but he likes it. That is until Mohammad (Charles Daniel Sandoval) recognizes him. Back in Pakistan, Ahmad's homeland, Ahmad was a famed rock star, like Bono with longer hair. Mohammad remembers this and feels it's his duty to bring him back into the limelight. At the same time, Ahmad begins to fall for Noemi (Leticia Dolera), a Spanish girl who operates a magazine and candy shack a few blocks away. The romance is tentative, but Ahmad's hesitant climb to get back to where he was hits snags, major ones.

First-time director Ramin Bahrani has set up an introspective, refreshingly unpretentious look at the struggle of immigrants, both spiritually and economically. Back in Pakistan, Ahmad could have done anything he wanted but he wanted to come to America and became a nobody. His food cart is a sort of temple, where he feels safe in the daily routine of serving the businesspeople that walk up and down Midtown. This job acts as a sort of ritual for him (prayer, perhaps?) that gives him comfort when he returns to his small apartment. Mohammad is a reformed Middle Eastern man: He does what he wants and is rich enough to where he doesn't really have to worry about consequences. His offer to help out Ahmad is construed more as an offer to make him American and to quit his ritual. Ostensibly, he's asking him to give up his Middle Eastern roots.

There are chinks in the armor. The act of simply being in his food cart and reveling in the slow routine isn't explored quite to its fullest extent. One could blame this on the romance subplot, but the relationship between Ahmad and Noemi is done with such artful vacillation that one couldn't have many qualms with it. The kiss that Ahmad and Noemi share is as passionate a kiss as one will likely see in a film not rated NC-17 this year. Perhaps it's the simple fact that even a moment is diverted from Ahmad and his search for spiritual solemnity. There's something missing from the film's transcendental reach, but that doesn't delude the fact that Bahrani is a major talent and his film should garner due attention. Maybe a bagel and coffee wouldn't hurt tomorrow morning.

culturevulture.net, Choices for the Cognoscenti review Les Wright

Newcomer indie director Ramin Bahrani spins a sparse tale told in cinema verité of contemporary immigrant life in Manhattan. In Man Push Cart, one-time Pakistani rock star Ahmad (Ahmad Razvi) is now a contemporary displaced person, a working-poor immigrant seeking his version of the American Dream on the mean streets of post-9/11 New York. More often than not, it seems as if it’s cart push man, rather than the other way around.

Ahmad finds himself starting over in a strange and hostile new world. His wife has died, his son is being raised by relatives, they blame him for the wife’s death and keep his son away from his very fallible fathering. Ahmad lives in a hovel somewhere in Brooklyn, but is rarely there. He sells bootleg porno DVDs to earn enough money to pay off the push cart he is buying. Ahmad is up and on the road at 3 AM, but manages to take on carpentry work for a financially successful fellow expatriate.

Most of the film is shot in natural night light or set in dark interiors, underlining the metaphorical dark passage of Ahmad's aching immigrant soul. He pushes his push cart up and down Broadway like a modern Sisyphus. This seems less to atone for any monotheistic guilt (the Manhattan setting somehow enhances the common bond of its Christian, Jewish, and now Muslim newcomers), but because in the American jungle little has changed since the days of Upton Sinclair. This is still, or again, a dog-eat-dog race for survival.

In fact, the most trenchant aspect of Bahrani’s tale is how it darkly mirrors It’s a Wonderful Life. Except, despite all the sacrifices that Ahmad undertakes, despite the seeming interventions of serendipity, Ahmad is only ever brought back to where he started. He cannot afford to insure his push cart. The compatriot who did him favors wearies of Ahmad and his poor immigrant plight. The Spanish girl he meets and kind of hopes fervently to flirt with keeps turning up as the "guest" of the compatriot. Ahmad, who was once a famous rock singer in his home country, can’t motivate himself to rekindle his singing career. In the film's low point, a masterfully deadpan nadir, the two-week-old stray kitten Ahmad had brought home becomes yet another mark of his failure in the soul-crushing new world of America.

A sad, powerful, austere experience of a movie, this is the story of a man who has known profound, compound loss. Man Push Cart is told in unadorned, unpretentious linear narrative fashion, reminiscent of Italian neorealism. It’s almost The Bicycle Thief, stripped down to an ascetically bare-boned anti-sentimentalism. This New York City could be taken as a symbolic rendering of contemporary Baghdad or Beirut just as easily. Or perhaps it's the heart of darkness in which not only the unwelcome urban underclass lives today.

Turner Classic Movies dvd review David Sterritt

When he created Ahmad, the main character of Man Push Cart, filmmaker Ramin Bahrani was thinking of Sisyphus, the mythological king who was condemned by the gods to push a gigantic boulder up a hill, see it roll down to the bottom, then push it up again, et cetera, for all eternity. Ahmad doesn’t have it quite this bad, but few people would volunteer for the daily routine of this young Pakistani immigrant. He rises long before dawn in his run-down Brooklyn apartment, takes an interminable subway ride to Manhattan, picks up a food cart at a central depot, loads it with supplies, pushes it to a distant street corner, makes sure the doughnuts are displayed and cups are stocked with teabags, and sells his wares to busy people, most of them going to jobs far less tedious, repetitive, and poorly paid than his. Then it’s back to Brooklyn, early to bed, and more of the same the next day. And the next. And the next.

The remarkable achievement of Bahrani’s film, which premiered at Sundance in 2006, is to make this everyday grind look absolutely real and absolutely grueling, yet make us understand why Ahmad keeps plugging away at it without succumbing to hopelessness or despondency. Even more remarkable, Bahrani does this in a thoroughly cinematic manner, transforming mostly drab details into a tone poem of evocative images and sounds. By commercial-film standards, Man Push Cart is a study in bare-bones minimalism, sketching its events and characters without an unnecessary shot or wasted word. But this accounts for much of its power. Rarely are the style and content of a film interwoven as seamlessly and appropriately as they are here; by the final scene you don’t feel you’ve merely observed Ahmad’s everyday grind, you feel you’ve stood at his side through all of it – emerging, like Ahmad himself, with ongoing hope that pushing the gigantic rock must ultimately have some kind of payoff.

Not every scene in Man Push Cart finds Ahmad peddling his bagels on Sixth Avenue, and in some parts of the story he manages to have a social life. Buying cigarettes from a newsstand cart one day, he meets a young Spanish woman named Noemi who’s in the same line of work, and as they get better acquainted it looks like romance might develop. Ahmad also takes a second job, refurbishing the apartment of Mohammad, a yuppie who’s from Pakistan like him, and this provides another companion to hang out with. From their conversations we discover that Ahmad was once a pop-music star in Pakistan, although we never learn why his former, more successful life didn’t last. It probably had something to do with the death of his wife, leaving him with a little boy who now lives with Ahmad’s angry, resentful in-laws. Being able to support his son someday is the dream that keeps Ahmad going. But his income is so shaky – even with his extra job, and his sideline of selling porn DVDs – that the slightest hitch could ruin all his plans. He’s saved enough to make the first payment on a pushcart of his own; what if for some reason he can’t make the second?

Bahrani is an Iranian-American who went to college in New York and then lived for three years in Iran, where he made a student film. After a stay in Paris, he returned to the U.S. and started preparing Man Push Cart, his first feature. His second movie, the 2007 drama Chop Shop, is another New York story, this time about a poor Latino man. So far in his career, Bahrani has shown a consistent and commendable interest in exploring facets of American life too dreary and unromantic for Hollywood, or even most independents, to take much notice of.

Another unusual aspect of Man Push Cart is its plot structure, which begins where a conventional movie would end – leaving out the backstory of Ahmad’s music career and letting us piece this history together from bits and pieces of dialogue. The film is indirect in other ways as well: Ahmad’s friendship with Noemi is so uncertain and indecisive that there’s no telling where it might lead, and although his relationship with Mohammad starts extremely well – Mohammad’s connections might even get him into the New York music scene – it’s unclear how reliable the yuppie is. These elements give the story additional layers of psychological interest.

Bahrani researched the production by spending countless hours with real-life pushcart vendors, and to play Ahmad he recruited Ahmad Razvi, a Pakistani-American businessman and community activist who was once a pushcart man himself. Razvi is extraordinarily good, as are the professional actors who play the other main characters. Some parts of Bahrani’s technique – shooting on a tight three-week schedule, using “live” locations with unstaged background action, casting a first-time actor in the leading role – link him with Italian neorealists, French New Wave filmmakers, and more recent realists like Ken Loach and Abbas Kiarostami, the greatest Iranian filmmaker of them all. Bahrani also has much in common with American independents like Jim Jarmusch and Gus Van Sant, who share his empathy with people on the margins of society. On the DVD’s commentary track, Bahrani says that in Hollywood movies a pushcart vendor is always a pair of disembodied hands; what he wanted to do was let the customers be disembodied hands, while showing the pushcart guy as a fully rounded person. Extras on the DVD include two Bahrani shorts – also minimalist, and very brief – and the commentary track with Bahrani and three collaborators, who discuss everything from the title (borrowed from a thirteenth-century Persian poem) to their taste in films (Robert Bresson, John Cassavetes, and of course Kiarostami) and the challenges of shooting a movie with long, carefully choreographed takes that often had to be done dozens of times before they came out right. Man Push Cart is a modest picture, as unpretentious and unglamorous as its characters and their workaday jobs. To make a powerful impression on these terms is a notable cinematic feat, marking Bahrani as a young filmmaker with a very promising future.

Asia Pacific Arts [Brian Hu]

Film Freak Central dvd review Travis Mackenzie Hoover

DVD Talk (Svet Atanasov) dvd review [4/5]

Epinions.com [Steven Flores]

stylusmagazine.com (Dave Micevic) review

Slant Magazine review Nick Schager

VideoVista review Joshua Rainbird

Village Voice (Michael Atkinson) review

The Onion A.V. Club review Nathan Rabin

Cinema Without Borders (Diane Sippl) review

PopMatters [Chris McCann]

The Village Voice [Dennis Lim]

Reel.com review [3/4] Pam Grady, also seen here: FilmStew.com [Pam Grady]

Cinematical [Kim Voynar]

Film Threat, Hollywood's Indie Voice review [3/5] KJ Doughton

Slate (Dana Stevens) review

CompuServe (Harvey S. Karten) review

CHUD.com (Devin Faraci) review

DVD Verdict (Clark Douglas) dvd review

Bina007 Movie Reviews

Eye for Film (Amber Wilkinson) review [3/5]

The Flick Filosopher (MaryAnn Johanson) review

About.com [Jurgen Fauth]

cinemattraction (Lydia Storie) review

interview with New York Magazine Director interview by Logan Hill, New York magazine, January 8, 2006

Cinema Without Borders Who Is Doing the Pushing – the Man or the Cart? Interview with the director by Bijan Tehrani, October 7, 2007

Entertainment Weekly review [B] Owen Gleiberman

Variety (Jay Weissberg) review

Telegraph [Sukhdev Sandhu]

The Independent (Anthony Quinn) review [2/5]

The Guardian (Peter Bradshaw) review

The Observer (Philip French) review

Time Out New York [David Fear]

Austin Chronicle (Marc Savlov) review [3.5/5]

San Francisco Chronicle (Peter Hartlaub) review [2/4]

Los Angeles Times (Kevin Thomas) review

Movie review: 'Man Push Cart' Michael Wilmington from The Chicago Tribune

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [4/4]

The New York Times (Stephen Holden) review

CHOP SHOP

USA (84 mi) 2007

Time Out London (Geoff Andrew) review

Arguably a little more conventional than Bahrani’s Man Push Cart, this centres on 12-year-old Alejandro, helping out and making his bed at an auto body-shop in a run-down New York neighbourhood, and his older sister, joining him from a foster home and also trying to make enough money to buy a truck the kid’s set his street-smart heart on. The neorealist tendencies extend even to faint echoes of ‘Bicycle Thieves’, but Bahrani’s  warier of melodrama than De Sica; though the film does divide into three half-hour acts, the focus on character, mood and texture rather than plot make for great credibility in the treatment of kids at the exploitative mercy of adults. Touching, funny, sad and beautifully observed.

Screen International review Jonathan Romney at Cannes

A flawlessly observed piece of street realism, and an unforgiving parable of American economic reality, Chop Shop is a compelling follow-up to Man Push Cart, Ramin Bahrani's 2005 debut.

Using a non-professional cast to convincingly natural effect, the film follows in the tradition of Los Olvidados and Pixote as it recounts the turmoils of a 12-year-old boy fending for himself in the car repair jungle of Queens, New York. Less character-driven than Man Push Cart, more an evocation of a harsh enclosed world and the survival skills it requires, Chop Shop again proves Bahrani's skill at treading a thin line between fiction and quasi-documentary.

Sketchy narrative and a dramatically unglamorous setting will limit sales to discerning niche distributors, but the film will burn bright on the festival circuit and enhance Bahrani's rising profile.

"Chop shop" is the slang term for illicit repair shops that recycle stolen cars for spare parts. The film is set in Willet's Point, Queens, around the Shea baseball stadium, an area known as the "Iron Triangle" for its proliferation of scrapyards and body shops.

Twelve-year-old Alejandro, or "Ale" (Polanco), is an orphan who earns his own keep by vending sweets and DVDs, but mainly by working in the auto shop run by Rob (Sowulski) in return for payment and lodging over the premises.

When Ale's 16-year-old sister Isamar (Gonzalez) moves out of care, she joins Ale in his digs. Together, the siblings cherish Ale's dream of buying and refurbishing a wrecked food van - a goal for which the boy is saving up a serious amount of money. Isamar, meanwhile, is moonlighting as a prostitute servicing local men - one of whom, Ahmad (Razvi) is able to put some car work his way.

Chop Shop is compelling both as fiction and as filmic journalism, as Bahrani and his team have immersed themselves thoroughly in Willet's Point culture and the minutiae of the repair trade. Michael Simmonds' hand-held HD camerawork brings an immediate, hugely kinetic feel.

Largely cast from real-life denizens of the Iron Triangle, the film has the convincing smack of reality: Sowulski, for example, actually owns the garage seen in the film. The acting is uniformly impressive, although much of the time it seems as though the cast are simply being themselves: an exception is Razvi, the lead of Man Push Cart, who makes his mark with an economically sketched minor character. Young lead Polanco is a terrific find, giving Ale a delicate combination of wide-eyed naivety and street-rat amorality.

A mercifully if subtly upbeat ending adds a gentler note to what could have been a brutal drama: nevertheless Chop Shop is a striking film, in which you can practically taste the rust and the desperation.

filmcritic.com (Chris Cabin) review [3/5] also seen here: Reel.com dvd review [2.5/4]

A young boy (Alejandro Polanco) starts off his day by waking up and opening the auto shop where he works before his friend (Carlos Zapata) and he hop onto the G line in Queens to sell candy to commuters. When he's not doing hocking M&Ms and Sweet Tarts, he's working hard at the chop shop, selling bootleg DVDs to tired mechanics and doing late-night work for another chop shop run by Ahmad (Ahmad Razvi); anything that might help him obtain a luncheon van, where he might have a chance at finding a place to sleep that isn't located inside this particular strip of auto shops known as "The Iron Triangle." The young boy is named Alejandro (Ale for short), he's 12-years-old and he works more than any college graduate I know.

The 32-year-old director Ramin Bahrani caught my eye two years ago when his debut film Man Push Cart opened in the New Directors/New Films Festival here in New York City. Cart was based in New York, specifically Manhattan; Shop is also immersed in New York, specifically Willet's Point in Queens. The Country Club sodas, the subway-car sales-pitches, the grapefruit glow of the street lights, the flavored-ice vendors: They should print the movie tickets on MetroCards and be done with it.

A beleaguered slab of neorealism, Bahrani's film focuses tightly on the day-to-days of Alejandro. This young hustler from Puerto Rico seems older than every other youngster in the film, but yet he still has moments of unblemished childishness. He nags like a kid and he talks like a kid: all pride, little knowledge. When a friend begrudgingly admits to never getting a blow job, Ale makes fun of him but then quickly offers to pay for him to get one. That Ale's sister Isamar (Isamar Gonzales) is servicing the man they are watching during this exchange seems only befitting.

Isamar and Alejandro are dead-set on the luncheon van but they are more obsessed with an eventual out from the conga-line of chop shops and auto yards their existence has become. No matter how effectively submerged in the Queens scrap pile Bahrani is, there is a lightness here that hinders the film's fluidity. A noticeable problem arises when Bahrani seems more concerned with what he wants to show than what exists, never more apparent than in conflicts between Ale and his sister's friends. His cast of young (mostly unprofessional) actors loses much of its organic vitality when they are made to push the story rather than have the story form around them.

Two films into his career, Bahrani has an undeniable penchant for neorealistic narrative in the vein of the Dardenne brothers and Ken Loach, circa Looks and Smiles, but he lacks the intrigue of the latter and the utter brilliance of the former. What he doesn't lack is a genuine interest in unearthed communities and a deep wanting to understand and document their existence. As it was with his first feature, Bahrani just can't seem to shake the schematic shadow behind his stories. Does that weaken the topographical wonder of his film? Not really, but it makes Chop Shop an oddity to be stared at thoroughly. What it should be, and what I'm sure Bahrani wanted it to be, was something to be deeply contemplated.

The House Next Door [Kenji Fujishima]

The Village Voice [Nathan Lee]

Cineaste A Sense of Place: an Interview with Ramin Bahrani, from Cineaste, Summer 2008

Cinematical (Kim Voynar) review

Salon (Andrew O'Hehir) review

REVIEW | Street Poetry: Ramin Bahrani's 'Chop Shop' - indieWIRE Michael Joshua Rowin from Reverse Shot at indieWIRE, also including An Interview with Ramin Bahrani from Reverse Shot

Queens Dreams Andrew Sarris from The New York Observer

Ruthless Reviews review Alex Kendziorski

Slant Magazine review Nick Schager

Fataculture [Nick Plowman]

Reel.com review [2.5/4] Ken Dubois

The New York Sun (Nicolas Rapold) review

New York Magazine (David Edelstein) review

The Onion A.V. Club review Noel Murray

DVD Town (Christopher Long) dvd review

CineScene.com (Howard Schumann) review also seen here: OhmyNews (Howard Schumann)

Monsters and Critics Ron Wilkinson

DVD Talk (Phil Bacharach) dvd review [3/5]

DVD Talk (Chris Neilson) dvd review [4/5]

DVD Verdict (Clark Douglas) dvd review

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias] at Toronto

cinemattraction (Robert Levin) review

Film Journal International (David Noh) review

Cinema Without Borders Interview by Bijan Tehrani, November 3, 2007

Variety (Todd McCarthy) review

Time Out New York (David Fear) review [4/6]

Time Out Chicago (Ben Kenigsberg) review [4/6]

Washington Post [John Anderson]

Boston Globe [Wesley Morris]

Philadelphia City Paper capsule review Sam Adams

San Francisco Chronicle (Walter Addiego) review

San Francisco Chronicle [Steven Winn]

Chicago Tribune (Michael Phillips) review

Chicago Sun Times [Jim Emerson] at Toronto

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [4/4]

The New York Times (A.O. Scott) review

GOODBYE SOLO C+ 78

USA (91 mi) 2008 Official Web Site

Interesting that in one day, I saw back to back films that feature lead roles with the name Souleyman, in Laurent Cantet’s THE CLASS (2008) where the character Souleyman is a troubled teen from Mali, while in this film, the actor Souleymane Sy Savane plays the lead named Solo, an overly gregarious cab driver from Senegal now displaced to Winston-Salem in North Carolina. Unfortunately, while this film does have some genuine moments, the story is mostly adrift in aimlessness, never really knowing what it wants to do, desperately needing a script. It features an odd couple for the two leads, Solo, the young effervescent cabdriver who wants to be everyone’s friend, and Red West (formerly in plenty of Elvis movies from the 60’s) as William, an elderly Richard Farnsworth look-alike (see David Lynch’s THE STRAIGHT STORY from 1999), a cranky old bastard who pretty much keeps to himself, living out of motels, occasionally calling a cab to go to the movies, seemingly his only activity. Suspicious of his motives, Solo immediately befriends him, but hijacks him in his cab would be more like it, as he keeps him in the back seat while he runs illicit errands for friends which nearly gets them all killed, bringing him to his own home for the night, as it’s apparently too late to find a motel. By morning, Solo’s pregnant girl friend is in a huff about the uninvited guest, as if he’s supposed to provide cover from all the complaints she has about Solo himself, who has a loving relationship with his stepdaughter Alex (Diana Franco Galindo), but a contentious free-for-all with her Mexican mother, Quiera (Carmen Leyva). When Solo runs William over to a motel, little did he know that his own relationship would deteriorate so quickly that he’d soon be joining his new friend there almost immediately.

By this time we’ve already had enough of Solo, whose over-enthusiastic brand of friendship can be obnoxiously irritating because he never shuts up. He’s obviously well meaning and has a heart of gold, but he’s a bundle of loose nerve endings. An older guy like William is used to his privacy and plenty of peace and quiet, where Solo never gives him any space, but is instead always pestering him about his uniquely peculiar request, that Solo take him on a one-way ride to The Blowing Rock in the nearby Blue Ridge Mountains for a large sum of money, no questions asked. When Solo persists with the questions, ingratiatingly worming his way into his life, they eventually come to blows, as he’s crossing the line into William’s private territory which includes digging through his pockets and making wild personal speculations, which gets him kicked out, where he has noplace left to go except to live in his cab. This on again off again relationship kills the pace of the film, as William has made it clear he has no interest in sharing this part of his life with Solo, so for him to keep digging is counterproductive and borders on stalking. Of course the elephant in the room is why William wants to take this strange ride, though the director makes it abundantly clear what he thinks, leaving little to the imagination of the viewer, but the tightly closed William is obviously placing concerned citizen Solo in an awkward situation, as Solo doesn’t want to see any brash acts. While some will think this is a charming story about emotions seething just under the surface, impressed by Solo’s near savior mission, I don’t think so, as Solo’s incorrigibly sunny disposition got on my nerves and the director is just not clever enough to create any drama out of the situation other than the obvious. There are a few secondary stories of interest involving Alex, while the rest go absolutely nowhere, and unfortunately, that line in the sand drawn by William makes it very difficult to care or be drawn into a place where no one is welcome. So nothing really works here except Alex stealing every single scene she’s in along with some scrumptious fall shots of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Goodbye Solo JR Jones from The Reader

Born in North Carolina to Iranian parents, Ramin Bahrani has carved out a peculiar space for himself with stories of immigrants living on the margins of American society: in Man Push Cart (2005) a former Pakistani pop singer peddles coffee and bagels on the streets of New York City, and in Chop Shop (2007) two Puerto Rican children hustle to get by in the scrap yards and auto shops near Shea Stadium. With this moving third feature Bahrani returns to his home state but also reaches back to the old country for his story, which riffs on Abbas Kiarostami's Taste of Cherry. In Winston-Salem, a bighearted Senegalese cabbie (Souleymane Sy Savane) agrees to drive a sullen old man (Red West) to the top of a mountain on an agreed-upon date; fearing the man intends suicide, the driver gradually coaxes him into his home life with his Mexican wife (Carmen Leyva) and sweet, perspicacious stepdaughter (Diana Franco Galindo). The emotion here is genuine, but the outlook is tough: in Bahrani's movies we're all aliens to each other.

Review: Goodbye Solo | Newcity Film Ray Pride

Raman Bahrani’s “Goodbye Solo” sounds like the setup for a student film or a revisit of “Collateral”: in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, a Senegalese cabdriver named Solo (Souléymane Sy Savané), working hard to make money for his family to subsist, picks up a fare, William (Red West), a rough 70-year-old white Southern loner. William proposes a ride to the nearby mountaintop of Blowing Rock in two weeks, where he intends to leap to his death. But Bahrani, as he’s proven in “Man Push Cart” and “Chop Shop,” works beyond cliché and archetype and shows a genuine drive to understand behavior in its intimate and momentary particulars. Solo befriends William, taking him on taxi rides, hanging out in bars, checking out women. Bahrani’s written that “ultimately Solo must find the courage and strength to love his new friend selflessly in order to help him do something seemingly horrible, or leave him to face it alone.” There is so much about friendship and loneliness and hope and despair in “Goodbye Solo,” from the very opening when the deal is proposed. The drama that develops between William and Solo-between West and Savané-is nothing short of astonishing. Bahrani observes these two men’s faces and suggests worlds-two small ones, two modest lives, filled with blood and heart and simply alive. It’s a thrill to see performances this accomplished and a film, shot by Michael Simmonds in fine, rough form that lives up to their work and the characters. Bahrani’s sense of both city and mountaintop is also uncommonly expert.

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson) review

Goodbye Solo is a film light in plot but generous in spirit. It tells one of those old, familiar Hollywood yarns about the eccentric oddball who takes an uptight outcast under his or her wing and tries to open him or her up. Then they both learn happy lessons about life in balance. Hollywood generally bungles this formula by making the characters too extreme, with no resemblance to life, but here director Ramin Bahrani (Man Push Cart, Chop Shop) makes no such mistake. Solo (Souleymane Sy Savane, in a terrific film debut) comes from Senegal and lives in North Carolina, drives a cab, is married to a Mexican woman (Carmen Leyva), and is expecting his first child. He dreams of becoming a flight attendant and constantly studies his manual. He also has a whip-smart stepdaughter Alex (Diana Franco Galindo) who likes to spend time with him. Solo is like somebody you might know and wish to be more like; he has lots of friends and seems to trade in favors more often than money. (His wife, however, sees him as dreamy and impractical.)

Bahrani and co-writer Bahareh Azimi don't waste any time with these details; they're simply strewn about the course of the film so that we can pick them up as we go along. Rather, the movie starts cold as Solo picks up an aging good-ol'-boy, William (character actor Red West, also known as a close friend of Elvis Presley's) in his cab. William requests another pickup in several days' time, and a ride to the top of a mountain in exchange for a substantial fee. Though the movie never confirms it, Solo assumes -- as do we -- that William intends to end his life up there. Solo quickly realizes that if he refuses, William will simply hire another cab, so he tries to befriend the old man, introducing him to things like life, family and hope. The movie is a good deal more organic and grounded than it sounds; it's not sentimental, nor is it forced. It simply lives moment by moment. Perhaps the most telling detail is the one in which we learn that a stick, when thrown off the side of the mountain, will return due to the strong and peculiar wind patterns. Whether or not William actually ends his life off the edge of the mountain isn't really the point. He will now live a little bit longer, thanks to Solo and thanks to this movie.

Reel.com review [4/4] Chris Barsanti, also seen here: filmcritic.com (Chris Barsanti) review [4/5]

You think you've seen this movie. Irascible old codger (white, of course), who doesn't need or care about any other human being on the planet, gets his ice-cold heart thawed by a fireball of empathy (maybe a child or a colorful minority) who comes bounding into his life. There are indeed elements of that movie floating to the surface from time to time in Ramin Bahrani's Goodbye Solo, but fortunately they tend to get slapped to the side by the vision (yes, we can call it that) of a filmmaker with better things on his mind.

A film that almost dares you to call it "heartwarming," makes you regret even thinking the term, and then finally creeps up on you in a way that is, indeed, heartwarming, before it then becomes heartbreaking, Goodbye Solo makes striking cinema out of that hoariest of clichés: the unlikely friendship. Bahrani and his co-writer Bahareh Azimi start the film in mid-sentence, with the irascible old codger in the back seat of a cab driving through the Winston-Salem night, barking at the grinning Senegalese driver, "Why are you laughing?" As we'll soon come to discover, the first part of an answer to the old man's question is that laughter is the default modus operandi for the driver, a blithe spirit by the name of Solo (the ridiculously charming Souleymane Sy Savane, with a grin like a glass of iced tea on a hot day).

But really, Solo is laughing because he doesn't understand why the old man—William, a crusty ex-biker of few words and few emotions besides irritated silence and played to perfection by character actor and ex-Elvis Presley bodyguard Red West—wants to be driven all the way out to Blowing Rock. Then, when William refuses to answer Solo's questions about why he wants to go out there, a look into the old man's eyes tells Solo all that he needs to know. From that point on, it becomes Solo's full-throttle but hardly thought-out mission to make William an integral part of his life (one already crowded with a daughter, a quite questionable friend, an angry and pregnant wife, and a dream to become a flight attendant), and to bring him around to believing that there are things worth living for.

Stylistically and linguistically, Bahrani is a minimalist, which makes for a nice balance with the warm and complex humanism of his story. In his streetlight-lit nighttime scenes, the cabs prowl lonely streets and the impulsively gregarious Solo knows and talks to everybody, yet seems just as lonely a spirit as the one he is trying to save. The stereotyped story we're expecting would have set up Solo as the warm fount of worldly wisdom (think Jeffrey Wright in Jim Jarmusch's Broken Flowers) counterposed to William's cold dry whiteness. (And indeed Bahrani has Solo giving William the full press, taking him out for drinks at the pool hall and practically inviting him to move into his house, sparing no generosity.) But in that story, the immigrant is always the outsider. Goodbye Solo is told from the immigrant's point of view, from which whites seem few and far between, even in a small Southern city. In this world, the flint-hard William is the alien presence, and the one quite possibly responsible for saving Solo, not the other way around.

The clean and simple, leisurely-paced style is in many ways pure American indie, redolent at times of Jarmusch's Night on Earth. But what Bahrani has over his contemporaries is no need for quirk and affectation. He also shows an ability to wrest potent performances out of actors who seem to be doing very little. This is particularly evidenced by a scene late in the film wherein a single, pleading look between William and Solo packs an emotional gut-punch that few directors could manage without a soaring soundtrack or manipulative dialogue.

Yes, Goodbye Solo is the tale of an unlikely friendship, one that reaches across generational and cultural barriers. But for once, that actually means it's a reason to see the film, not avoid it.

Slate (Dana Stevens) review

There's hope yet for world cinema if an Iranian-American director can take the premise of an Iranian film, set it in North Carolina, cast the lead roles with an African fashion model and Elvis Presley's former bodyguard, and produce something utterly new and beautiful. Goodbye Solo (Roadside Attractions), the third film written and directed by Ramin Bahrani (Man Push Cart, Chop Shop) owes its basic story line to the 1997 Abbas Kiarostami film Taste of Cherry, but it's neither a straight-up remake, a parody, nor an homage. A film of great intelligence and quiet assurance, Goodbye Solo exhilarates without ever trafficking in easy uplift.

The wildly charismatic Souléymane Sy Savané plays Solo, a Senegalese cab driver in Winston-Salem, N.C., who's studying to become a flight attendant. One night he picks up William (Red West), a gruff, 70-year-old loner who's immune to Solo's good-natured banter. William wants only to be dropped off at a local cinema and picked up two hours later. On the way there, he offers Solo a curious deal: In a week's time, he wants to be driven to Blowing Rock, a peak overlooking a sheer drop-off, and left there. After all but admitting that he plans to leap to his death from the rock, William offers Solo $1,000 to set the date, no questions asked. Instead, Solo sets about insinuating himself into the old man's life and creating a friendship by fiat. He introduces William to his wife, Quiera (Carmen Leyva), and her 9-year-old daughter, Alex (Diane Franco Galindo); takes him out to shoot pool; and, when the pregnant Quiera throws him out after an argument, moves into William's motel room.

All the while, Solo is conducting a benevolent espionage mission: In an attempt to fathom the source of William's depression, he searches the old man's bags for family pictures and has his pills checked at a pharmacy to see if he's suffering from a terminal illness. Solo simply can't accept the notion of giving up on life; he's convinced that, once William realizes that at least one person truly cares about him, he'll reverse his plans. William, for his part, remains a mystery. He seems to be warming to Solo's generous overtures, but when he senses that his privacy is being invaded, he lashes out with unexpected savagery.

The relationship between these two men—one who's given up on life, another who's endlessly and miraculously resilient—could easily recall one of those "magical Negro" films, in which an isolated and grieving Caucasian is rescued from himself or herself by a spiritually grounded emissary from the Third World. (The Visitor and In America come to mind.) But Bahrani is too smart, and too compassionate, for that; his script, co-written with Bahareh Azmi, allows both characters their complexity, their contradictions, and ultimately, their privacy. We never learn just what in William's past has brought him to this point, nor why Solo's usually smiling face occasionally slackens into an expression of the purest sadness.

Goodbye Solo is as far as you can get from a tale of humanist redemption, but it's kept buoyant by Savané's embodiment of that rarest of things, a good (but not simple) man. Solo leads his immigrant working-class life with style and grace. This is a man who, as he, William, and young Alex are about to tuck into bologna sandwiches in their dump of a motel room, makes sure to wish them all, "Bon appétit." That graciousness extends to Bahrani's sense of place: The one-story brick houses and tobacco warehouses of Winston-Salem, where the director grew up, are filmed (by cinematographer Michael Simmonds) with dignity, never condescendingly milked for "local color."

The film's narrative suspense—will Solo drive William to that fateful appointment at Blowing Rock?—relies on a clunky visual device in which Solo repeatedly consults his calendar as the preset date approaches. ("Who runs their finger along a blank calendar page like that?" complained my viewing companion, who likes to obsess about these details.) Yet, if the will-he-or-won't-he setup has a whiff of contrivance to it, the climactic scene, set against a backdrop of natural grandeur worthy of King Lear, upends your every expectation.

Village Voice (Scott Foundas) review

Goodbye Solo (Ramin Bahrani, 2008) Ignatiy Vishnevetsky at Mubi, April 3, 2009

Last Night With Riviera [Matt Riviera]

PopMatters (Cynthia Fuchs) review

Confessions of a Pop Fan [Jamie S. Rich]

Twitch review X

New York Magazine (David Edelstein) review

Cinematical (Kim Voynar) review

Slant Magazine review [3/4] Nick Schager

Eye for Film (Anton Bitel) review [4/5]

CompuServe (Harvey S. Karten) review

Twitch (Todd Brown) review

Critic's Notebook [Sarah Manvel]

Daily Plastic - Festival Report [J. Robert Parks]

Variety (Ronnie Scheib) review

Time Out New York (Joshua Rothkopf) review [4/6]

Time Out Chicago (Ben Kenigsberg) review [4/6]

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [4/4]

The New York Times (A.O. Scott) review

The Blowing Rock all purpose website which includes a photo gallery

About Blowing Rock - A Quaint American Village in the Blue Ridge ...

Blowing Rock, North Carolina - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Baichwal, Jennifer

LET IT COME DOWN: THE LIFE OF PAUL BOWLES

Canada (75 mi) 1998

The Village Voice [Elliott Stein]

From the outset of Jennifer Baichwal's Let It Come Down: The Life of Paul Bowles, it's clear that the director has succeeded in cultivating enough of a personal relationship with the Morocco-based recluse to worm out unexpected revelations from the famously reticent writer. A talking-head movie, yes—but what heads. Ned Rorem, the highly photogenic doyen of American composers, provides a keen assessment of Bowles's other creative body of work—his music. Before he began the career for which he's best known, Bowles had turned out a number of elegant chamber works and music for stage productions by Orson Welles and Tennessee Williams. There are precious scenes in which Baichwal captures Bowles's final meeting with William Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg.

If hardly a "life"—it's too fragmentary—this is a deeply engaging film portrait, full of memorable nuggets. Bowles is blistering on the subject of Gertrude Stein and her "house of humiliation"; his verdict on Bertolucci's adaptation of The Sheltering Sky is a curt "idiotic." And the 88-year-old writer speaks with less restraint than in earlier interviews about his life with Jane Bowles, who died in 1973. Although the couple cared for each other deeply, both were primarily homosexual and pursued a number of same-sex relationships during the course of their stormy marriage. One of the director's major coups is her footage of the notorious Amina Bakalia ("Cherifa"), the Moroccan peasant woman who was Jane's lover for 20 years, considered by nearly everyone in their entourage to have practiced black magic on Jane and Paul and to have poisoned her. Jane Bowles, for Truman Capote "that genius imp, that laughing, hilarious, tortured elf," unfortunately gets short shrift in the film. A marvelous writer and a profoundly original talent, she deserves a movie all her own.

eye WEEKLY [Kevin Connolly]

Any film about Paul Bowles will, by definition, be incomplete. But Canadian director Jennifer Baichwal's much-praised glimpse of the notoriously evasive expatriate American writer, Let It Come Down: The Life of Paul Bowles, is so fragmentary it presents more questions than answers.

Still, Baichwal -- best described as "the smart one" on Newsworld's On the Arts -- has got a number of things right, starting with the timing. At 87, Bowles isn't getting any younger, and Baichwal and co-producer/D.O.P. Nick de Pencier secured eleventh-hour interviews with the likes of David Herbert, Allen Ginsberg and, most importantly, William Burroughs.

While she never appears in the film, Baichwal has clearly succeeded where dozens of similar pilgrims to Tangiers have failed. She's cultivated enough of a personal relationship with the dour icon to get two excellent sessions out of one of the world's worst conversationalists. Highlights include Bowles' account of Gertrude Stein's house of "humiliation," his dismissal of Bernardo Bertolucci's film version of The Sheltering Sky as "idiotic" and his discussion of his work as "detective stories in which the reader is the detective."

Bowles' relationship with his wife Jane -- a loyal, sexless union between a vivacious lesbian wit and a gay depressive -- was surely one of the oddest literary love affairs ever. But Baichwal's film sheds little light on it beyond including old photographs and stray comments from mutual friends.

Baichwal's problem is that as good as this footage is, there's nowhere near enough of it to construct "The Life" suggested in the title. As a result she falls into the old highbrow trap of assuming people will know who all these people are.

A little straightforward narration -- in place of some of the floating passages from Bowles' writings -- would have been helpful, as would some consistent camera work. The opening sequence -- in which a passage from Bowles' story "The Delicate Prey" is superimposed on a desert vista while a typewriter clatters in the background -- is unforgivable, as is the stagy, off-centre, shot-from-the-floor treatment of Baichwal's wonderfully relaxed, unguarded interview with Burroughs.

There's enough fresh stuff here to make the film a real treat for Bowles fans, but for the rest of the planet, Let It Come Down offers little more than an interesting muddle.

Film Journal International [David Noh]

Is there a living artist today more fascinating than Paul Bowles? Born in Jamaica, Queens, he left a successful career as a music composer in the '40s and moved to Tangier where he's remained ever since, immersed in its culture and people. He began writing fiction, most famously the legendary The Sheltering Sky, several striking short stories, and his autobiography Without Stopping (1972). Although primarily gay, he married, and his wife, Jane, a lesbian, became as well-known as he for her brilliant writing (Two Serious Ladies, the play In the Summer House) and personal eccentricity. Since 1962, Bowles has returned to the United States only once, in 1995, for two concerts of his music at New York's Lincoln Center.

Jennifer Baichwal's documentary Let It Come Down: The Life of Paul Bowles is an absolute labor of love that is largely successful in recounting Bowles' life, as well as the more daunting task of attempting to solve the enigma of this notoriously reclusive, mystifying man. At age 19, Baichwal, obsessed by his writing, biked to Morocco from France, knocked on his door and was graciously received. She ended up staying there for a year. Years later, she reintroduced herself to Bowles with the idea for her film and was met with cooperation by him and various friends to be interviewed. The 85-year-old subject, recumbent and puffing on a kif pipe, is frail but still very alert and, although ever-filled with subterfuge, more forthcoming here than he's ever been. ('I always started to write before smoking, otherwise I'd never write. It clears my mind out'). A real coup for Baichwal was a summit meeting in New York of Bowles and Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs, two longtime friends who rendezvous with him for one last time. In fact, Burroughs acts as a sort of Greek chorus, commenting on and clarifying Bowles' relentless obfuscation. He says that Bowles' Without Stopping should have been entitled Without Telling and marvels at how, as a young man, he was accepted as a music student by no less than Prokofiev but instead fled to Germany. He calls Bowles' style more in tune with the classical rather than Beat. Ginsberg is, perforce, more gossipy, describing the ever-alluring availability of Moroccan boys, 'like Provincetown in the good old days.' No less an achievement for the filmmaker was an interview she got with the infamous Cherifa, an Arab woman who was Jane's longtime lover and rumored to have poisoned the authoress, who lost her mind, suffered a stroke and died in 1973. Now a grizzled old lady, she scoffs at such notions of black magic on her part, but several of Bowles' friends remain unconvinced.

Bowles himself emerges as the ultimate existentialist, believing in neither the notion of love nor the self. 'People are planets floating around and if they touch, they touch at one tiny point. We're all self-sufficient,' he says. 'Being in love is extremely abnormal, like schizophrenia. A man in love is an obsessed person.... If one lives or dies, it makes no difference. The only meaning of life is inevitable death.' Several friends attest to the fact that he is a man without friends, despite his considerable aid to other writers, from his wife to various Moroccans in need of translation. 'A writer,' he says, 'should keep himself out of what he's writing. If he allows the self in, it weakens his fiction.' Many readers, disturbed by such chilling Bowlesian images of a self-castration in Let It Come Down or the incestuous seduction of a father by a son in Pages from Cold Point, might be relieved to hear this. Baichwall laces her film with eloquent readings from these and other works which, like the accompanying music (all of it composed by Bowles), add resonant ambiance.

A real key to the man lies in his early years, spent as the only child of rigidly repressive, very 'New England' parents who forbade him every pleasure and didn't consider writing a normal activity. ('I wrote a book when I was four because I didn't have anything else to do.') There seem to have been few major figures in 20th-century art, from Copland to Kerouac, whose paths didn't at some point intersect with his, and he is often very lucid at shattering idols ('Gertrude Stein humiliated everyone'). 'Success is vicious,' he states. 'Once you reject something, it doesn't bother you anymore. In life, very little goes right. One has no right to want or expect anything.' A friend agrees, saying, 'Paul was only happy when things were going wrong and miserable when things were going right.'

One gets a vivid picture, too, of the fabled expatriate community in Tangier, whose number included, at various times, Barbara Hutton, Truman Capote, Tennessee Williams, Cecil Beaton and the Hon. David Herbert who, as interviewed here, is the perfect image of etiolated, Brit-eccentric aristocrat. Jane Bowles, that maddening genius who many consider a superior writer to Paul, also emerges in a full portrait via photographs and reminiscences. (Burroughs: 'Even if you read one sentence of hers, it couldn't be anyone but Jane.') Their marriage is finally verbally elucidated by Bowles, who betrays a definite tinge of emotion when he observes, 'She was such fun I felt it would be wonderful to be with her all the time,' but 'Jane drank far too much. For 16 years, she went downhill. She became blind, then paralyzed. There was some war going inside her that made her mad.' Although one might read a sense of desolation into his words--'If I described myself, that would mean that I exist. I don't believe that....All my work is behind me'--what you really come away with from this film is an overpowering respect for a man who rejected the commercialized artistic rat race, created a highly satisfactory, unique life for himself and, without ever intending to, gained the world's admiration

Let It Come Down: The Life of Paul Bowles Gerald Peary

DVD Talk [Matt Langdon]

The Japan Times [Giovanni Fazio]

Time Out

New York Times (registration req'd) Stephen Holden

THE TRUE MEANING OF PICTURES: SHELBY LEE ADAM’S APPALACHIA

Canada (75 mi) 2002

eye WEEKLY [Ingrid Randoja]

Jennifer Baichwal (Let it Come Down: The Life of Paul Bowles) has established herself as one of Canada's premier documentary filmmakers, a significant achievement when you consider how many great documentarians this country produces. The True Meaning of Pictures focuses on contemporary photographer Shelby Lee Adams, who has been both praised and derided for his portraits of impoverished Appalachian families. Baichwal allows Adams, his critics and the subjects of his work to speak their minds, but the greatest strength of the film lies in the inclusion of Adams' personal video footage, which gives us the back stories of the various families he's photographed and puts his work into a context we can appreciate.

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Jon Danziger)

One of my best friends is from Knoxville, and on more than one occasion, he has (rightly) pointed out that there's only one acceptable prejudice in America anymore, and that's against those disparagingly referred to as "rednecks." He prides himself on his heritage, as he should, as we all should; but he's keenly sensitive that the sort of casually offensive references that were made generations ago—about African Americans, or Native Americans, or Jews, or those of Asian descent—have been rightly done away with, in the better part of the public discourse, anyway. But not the image of the hillbilly, who remains an object of derision.

Shelby Lee Adams is a photographer from Kentucky, and his principal subjects are the poor people of rural Appalachia; this documentary considers the artist, his models, and the reception of his work. There's unquestionably something haunting and powerful in many of Adams' photographs, in which the subjects look disarmingly directly into the camera—the question is, though, if these are works of journalism, or of art. Is Adams giving us something of the essence of life in Appalachia, or just making photographs that appeal to him? Is he working in the tradition of Walker Evans, or Diane Arbus? And is he telling us one thing but doing another, trying to have it both ways?

There's no simple answer, of course—Adams defends his own work, and those who appear in his pictures are universally supportive. But there's an obvious and uncomfortable cultural divide: Adams photographs some of the poorest Americans, and seeing their pictures hanging in hoity toity galleries as black-clad urbanites sip Chardonnay is a little nauseous. But things don't just break down along the lines of "civilized" and "primitive"—a good number of people in Kentucky aren't too happy with Adams either, for they feel that his work plays directly into the worst sorts of stereotypes about the South: granny smoking a pipe, no-accounts sipping on jelly jars filled with moonshine, intimations of incest and inbreeding, the sorts of callous generalizations that have been made, and that Southerners have come to resent, at least since Lyndon Johnson and the Great Society program. (The film even includes a few clips from Deliverance, the sine qua non of Hollywood's version of Appalachia.) A sister of one of Adams' subjects even goes so far as to say, "He has disgraced our family."

Adams seems to have a genuine affection for his subjects, but he's clearly not a documentarian. Here's one example: he bought a hog for a poor family, so that he could document them killing it, and snap a photograph of them posed around the carcass. Looking at it, if you didn't know better, you might guess that this was typical behavior after the kill—but it takes a critic from the New York Times to alert us to the fact that this is seriously posed, a long way from the truth.

Do Adams' subjects know what they're getting into? One gallery owner suggests that they lack the visual sophistication to get Adams' work, but another photographer, Mary Ellen Mark, sticks up for the subjects: "Just because they're poor doesn't mean they're stupid." Whatever the case, there's a whole lot of Southern Gothic on display, both in Adams' photographs and in this documentary; it doesn't really forge much new ground, and most of the intellectual arguments about Adams' work are presented in the first couple of minutes, so the rest feels like variations on the theme. Still, this is fairly provocative and interesting stuff, on both aesthetic and socioeconomic levels, and especially given the film's relatively brief running time, is surely worth a look.

Film Freak Central review [Walter Chaw]

Needcoffee.com - DVD Review

MANUFACTURED LANDSCAPES A- 93

Canada (90 mi) 2006

From the outset, this is a film that made me more inquisitive about both artists featured in the making of this film. Canadian filmmaker Jennifer Baichwal has set a high standard for the manner in which she chooses to document artists, developing a personal relationship with Moroccan recluse Paul Bowles ahead of time so that a writer with a reputation for stubborn reticence becomes a fascinating interview in LET IT COME DOWN: THE LIFE OF PAUL BOWLES (1998), or painstakingly allowing both critics and admirers to chime in on her exploration of poverty through the works of Appalachian photographer Shelby Lee Adams in THE TRUE MEANING OF PICTURES: SHELBY LEE ADAM’S APPALACHIA (2002), so that in both films Baichwal’s goal has been defined by a near scientific objectivity, a straightforward presentation of the material, allowing the audience a chance to make their own judgments. Similarly, Canadian photographer Edward Burtynsky has taken a fascination with the world’s industrial dumping grounds, capturing startling images by framing the subject in such a way that it fills the entire picture, maximizing its impact as it seemingly extends into the infinite [web site]. Earlier in his life, Burtynsky worked in gold mines and auto assembly plants and reportedly took a wrong turn on a rural Pennsylvania road, discovering a huge coal pit that left such a mesmerizing yet horrible impression on him that he was inspired to make his life’s work photographing similar panoramic vistas, making ugliness look stunningly beautiful, raising questions about the aesthetics of debris, known as “the industrial sublime.”

Something of a follow up to Michael Glawogger’s WORKING MAN’S DEATH (2005), even sharing a similar location, a Bangladesh shipyard that more accurately resembles a shipping graveyard, a place that survives on scrap metal with workers stripping old oil tankers piece by piece, which is contrasted against another immense Chinese shipyard that is constructing as many as 100 ships, or Nikolaus Geyrhalter’s OUR DAILY BREAD (2005), a wordless yet stark examination of depersonalization through degrading and monotonous work that someone necessarily endures for the sake of the food we eat. In this film, Baichwal and cinematographer Peter Mettler follow photographer Edward Burtynsky to China and Bangladesh, adding real life context to what he so eloquently captures in still shots, recording a heightened imbalance of nature, showing how modern technology is so rapidly reconfiguring the shape of our landscape, both internally and externally. It’s an interesting project, as a photographer’s eye is initially struck by specific subjects, such as rock quarries, strip mines, waste dumping grounds, recycled tires, computers, or ship parts, the mass employment of factory workers, the displacement of humans by gigantic technological projects that are considered vital to modern advancement, then the filmmaker follows up on that idea, extending the boundaries of the photographs, showing how people are dwarfed when placed alongside these massive projects which reduce humans to just a speck on the landscape.

Resembling the enormity of the final image from RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK (1981), we get an eyeful from the opening seven or eight minute shot, seen in a clip here Stars Of The Lid - Taphead (12:55) in the first seven and a half minutes, though the clip adds music that is not in the film, and it quickly cuts away before the shot actually comes to a stop. It features a slow tracking shot down a side aisle of a huge Chinese iron assembly plant that reveals endless rows of bright yellow-shirted factory workers sitting at their work stations performing a synchronized monotony of repetitious motions, many of whom seem relieved to stop and stare at the camera’s obvious intrusion, where the accumulation of ever-expanding space defies all known concepts of rationality, finally settling on a single worker who is fast asleep. This indoor shot is immediately followed by another similarly choreographed outdoor shot, where the entire work force of yellow-clad workers is lined up in perfectly organized columns directly outside the yellow colored factory buildings, where the road is lined with yellow flags, creating a surrealist glimpse of human progress. We see other factories with workers uniformly wearing pink, with all the women in identical blue headscarves. Burtynsky himself, in extracts from his Chinese lectures, tells us that China recycles 50% of the world’s computer parts, a task that is illegal in the West due to the toxic effects of what’s called E-waste, that a recognizable odor permeates for miles before entering a town that performs this task, where the workers wear no protective gear as they hammer apart computers and heat circuit boards in order to separate the chemical compounds, a process that may have the effect of poisoning the workers as well as the neighboring water supplies, routinely throwing the waste into nearby streams. Though it’s been illegal to import electronic waste into China since 2000, Baichwal’s camera captures tons of debris being unloaded at local shipping ports in giant containers mostly from Europe, Japan, and the United States, which are then trucked to the nearby recycling centers.

Sometimes a single photo or a slow wordless pan will introduce a segment, perhaps the voice of a worker describing their task, but the film is notable for its hauntingly beautiful original music from Dan Driscoll and an extraordinary industrial sound design from David Rose and Roland Schlimme (who doubles as the film editor), providing an ethereal calm to the already provocative subject matter. Some of the more devastating footage is showing the impact of the Three Gorges Dam, the world’s largest hydroelectric engineering project on the Yangtze River, more than 50 % bigger than any other dam in the world, where some of the most fertile farmlands in the country had to be destroyed and where over a million people have been displaced to make room for this mammoth construction project, seen here being paid by the government to remove their homes brick by brick so that they could rebuild their new homes elsewhere using the same materials.

Much of the film was shot in China, home to over a billion people, as it’s a country undergoing a colossal shift in priorities. Under Mao, the country was 90% agricultural and 10% urban, while today it is 30% agricultural and 70% urban, changing the landscape with unprecedented speed. Nothing reflects that change any more than the modernization of Shanghai which has nearly completely demolished its old city, making way for a skyline of new high rises in the name of progress. Baichwal finds one old woman who refused to be moved, despite the threats of broken bones, whose lone one room shanty remains standing, as the modern building complexes were forced to build around her. In a scene reminiscent of Kurosawa’s HIGH AND LOW (1963), there is an opulent estate next to this woman’s home with giant glass windows revealing sweeping panoramic vistas of modern Shanghai, a scene that couldn’t possibly provide more contrast between an old woman’s humble origins and an extreme flaunting of wealth. The woman residing in the modernized apartment is the epitome of China’s new woman, who bears a striking movie star resemblance to Gong Li (who was credited with thanks at the end of the film), welcoming the camera into her home, graciously offering her Jackie Kennedy-like tour, proudly showing us her library of classical Chinese books, where any one room is bigger than the old woman’s entire house. By the end of the film, after seeing the damaging environmental impact of industrial waste on such a large scale, one couldn’t be sure if this one person’s arrogant display of opulence in Shanghai wasn’t even more egregiously horrifying, as her wealth, and others like her, is likely acquired by selfishly turning a blind eye to the community of others. Isn’t that the same arrogance that demolishes old cities, destroys natural farmlands, displaces ordinary people, and leaves behind a trail of toxic debris for others to clean up after them?

Salon.com [Andrew O'Hehir]

If you really want terror, you won't see anything all year as profoundly scary as Jennifer Baichwal's "Manufactured Landscapes," a magisterial tour of the world's most devastating and devastated industrial zones with Canadian photographer Edward Burtynsky. Purely as a pictorial experience, it's an amazing film, but your mind will barely be able to process the Joseph Conrad-scale horror of what Baichwal and Burtynsky show us.

Slant Magazine [Keith Uhlich]

The lengthy tracking shot that opens Jennifer Baichwal's documentary Manufactured Landscapes is a thing of beauty. Mesmeric and mysterious, it takes in the seeming totality of a cavernous Chinese factory, and attains, by its close, a subtle and lasting sense of horror. It infects the senses and the mind in ways that recall the work of David Cronenberg, specifically his interrogative short film Camera. Like Cronenberg's mini-masterpiece, Manufactured Landscapes is a film very much aware of its own existence, of the mechanisms that brought it about, yet it never again reaches the transcendental heights of this pre-credits prelude. The work of still-photographer Edward Burtynsky is the film's ostensible subject, but Baichwal is more concerned with macro-meditating on the quickly deteriorating state of planet Earth. (The press notes, no surprise, lead off with enthused praise from Al Gore.) Baichwal's technique is scattershot, at worst recalling the trance-doc pretensions of John & Jane Toll-Free, with which it shares a similarly problematic nightclub sequence (a cliché that should be retired post-haste: the discotheque as numbing seventh circle of hell). But there is plenty here to recommend, particularly Baichwal's understated yet damning examination of Burtynsky, who is several times seen manipulating his subjects, via cash payoffs or god-like directives, for maximum effect. It reveals the great divide that quite often separates a globally conscious work of art from the anything-goes processes of its creator, a necessary observation and insight that Baichwal ultimately fails to direct at herself.

What have we done to our planet? Andrew O’Hehir from Salon

From the opening shot of Jennifer Baichwal's "Manufactured Landscapes," which may last 10 minutes, you're either with her film or you're not. Her camera pans and dollies down the immense expanse of a Chinese toy and electronics factory, many football fields in length, while the rows of workers in fluorescent yellow go about their machinelike tasks. Baichwal's film is about an artist, Canadian photographer Edward Burtynsky, but it's really about what Burtynsky has chosen to look at, aspects of modern life most of us choose never to see.

Baichwal's camera accompanies Burtynsky to unimaginably huge piles of coal; to the mile-and-a-half-long Three Gorges Dam, with its 120-mile-long reservoir; to the factories where circuit breakers and household irons and oil tankers are built and to the ass-end places in the world where they end up when we've thrown them away. Without a single moment of polemic, Burtynsky's pictures -- and Baichwal's document of how they are made -- asks urgent and painful questions about what we have done to the world, whether it's been worth it and what, if anything, we can do to change it.

Burtynsky avoids questions of human suffering, but it's here all the same as we watch teenage boys in Bangladesh clear crude-oil scum by hand from the holds of tankers left for dead on the "shipbreaking beach" at Chittagong. Or when we see old Chinese women who may never have seen a working computer, but spend their working lives smashing old motherboards and monitors (and releasing heavy metals into the environment) to scavenge scraps of reusable metals. "Manufactured Landscapes" may tell you more about how the 21st century world actually works than you really want to know, but it's a heartbreaking, beautiful, awful and awesome film.

The Village Voice [Jim Ridley]

Nothing illustrates the monstrosity of globalized commerce more vividly than the lateral tracking shot that opens Jennifer Baichwal's mesmerizing documentary Manufactured Landscapes. Maintaining a glacial, Kubrick-like creep for eight minutes of screen time, the camera glides almost a third of a mile through the bubble world of one titanic Chinese factory. Afterward, massed on the street outside in color- coordinated formation as far as the eye can see, the many thousands of employees are robbed of all individuality. Pictorially, though, the image is breathtaking, even playful— Metropolis as designed by Busby Berkeley.

The sight should scare the hell out of environmentalists as well as economic protectionists. But Baichwal's meditative, mood-altering film—strongly recommended to fans of Koyaanisqatsi and An Inconvenient Truth, and no less important than either—is more suggestive and unnerving than a mere jeremiad. Its focus is photographer Edward Burtynsky, who specializes in macroscopic panoramas that show how industry has smashed, scarred, and altered the environment. With cinematographer Peter Mettler working to approximate Burtynsky's eye-in-the-sky perspectives, Baichwal follows the artist's travels through China, where he leaves government officials puzzled over why he'd rather photograph, say, the Martian desolation of Shanghai's endless Bao Steel yards than pandas and temples.

But the yards are temples—Ozymandian monuments to man imposing the will of commerce on entropic disorder. Strip-miners, outsourcers, and earth movers do Burtynsky's processing for him, raking the wilderness into strikingly patterned Japanese gardens of ruin. It's the terrifying vastness of his subjects—a mountainous computer graveyard, the mammoth Yangtze River Three Gorges Dam project shown in Jia Zhangke's Still Life—that gives both his photographs and Baichwal's film the hypnotic otherworldliness of science fiction. Yet the scale and symmetry of Burtynsky's work tends to eclipse outrage with awe, which adds to its snake-charming potency.

By finding beauty in appalling heaps of corporate waste and industrial devastation, is Burtynsky aestheticizing the plunder of the planet, and are we lulled into cowed complacency by his Olympian vantages? As in her excellent Shelby Lee Adams doc The True Meaning of Pictures—which refuses to resolve the tension between genuine concern and freak-show gawking in Adams's Appalachian photographs—Baichwal undercuts easy answers. Her subject is the discrepancy between how an artist sees the world and how the world sees the art. Where Burtynsky sees the coppery glow of a river of toxic waste, we're inclined to see unnatural disaster—until we stand rapt before his elegiac photograph. Manufactured Landscapes challenges us flyspecks to relocate our compass, if we can, within the cosmic enormity of Burtynsky's pitiless vision.

» Manufactured Landscapes - REDEFINE MAGAZINE Independent Film Reviews

Manufactured Landscapes is an unusual treat for anyone who is interested in the world at large, and in man’s involvement with the world. Although clearly a film that makes you contemplate your connection with the environment, the film is not outwardly politically-motivated or explicit about its stances on environmental issues. Featuring the large format photography of Edward Burtynsky and sweeping overhead camera work, Manufactured Landscapes takes the viewer through a visual journey through the world of strip mines, recycled computer mountains, dilapidated housing, and much more.

In a Q&A session with director Jennifer Baichwal, she mentioned that the ambiguity of Burtynsky’s work made it something that both the management of environmentally-destructive offices and the environmentalists fighting those offices would have hanging on their walls. I’d agree with that sentiment. What makes his photography so compelling is the fact that you’re not sure what you think when you first see the images. They’re beautiful, but clearly disturbing. The controversy within oneself that this film stirs up is the internal struggle between loving one’s excess goods and loving one’s environment. There are no easy answers, and this movie is not political in the sense that it provides no solutions.

From the film’s 8 minute introduction in which a camera is mounted on a golf cart and driven the entire length a giant iron assembly factory in China, the viewer immediately notices the individuals who stand out amongst the mass of similarly dressed workers. Noticing the individual amongst the mass is largely what this film is about, and one leaves the film with a degree of self-consciousness.

The majority of the film was shot in China, and the crew was followed from place to place by foreign affairs officials. The purpose was to monitor what the crew was filming, to make sure that they did not film material that was especially sensitive to the Chinese government. The Chinese government has been known to review some footage prior to allowing filmmakers to leave the country, but because Manufactured Landscapes was shot on film reels as opposed to video tapes, the officials did not have a chance to view theirs.

Amongst the sensitive material was a portion where the filmmakers about residential displacement of over a million individuals due to the creation of the Three Gorge Dam. This is a story that has been covered by other news crews before, but Manufactured Landscapes takes a first-hand glimpse on not only the lives of the displaced individuals after displacement, but of the aftermath of the locations where those individuals had once lived. Viewers see and learn that the individuals who lived in small communities displaced by the Three Gorge Dam were paid to remove their old homes, brick by brick. And they did it.

Another sensitive subject was the portion of the movie on “e-waste,” the recycling of computer parts. E-waste is an especially sensitive case in China, which recycles 50% of the world’s computer parts. Recycling of these parts is technically illegal due to high toxicity levels and dangerous fumes, but in practice, the Chinese government turns a blind eye.

Jennifer Baichwal is careful to say that Manufactured Landscapes is not a film solely on China, but about human’s impact on the world in general. The reason China is focused on so often is simply because that China is now undergoing an industrial revolution of a proportion yet to be seen in history. Watching China’s path of growth mirrors back to the growth of our own societies, and although shot primarily out of the United States, Manufactured Landscapes hits closer to home than the film makes you initially think.

MANUFACTURED LANDSCAPES Katey Rich from Film Journal

Manufactured Landscapes opens with a single, bold, mesmerizing 10-minute shot; a camera dollies past row upon row of a Chinese manufacturing plant, as thousands of young people assemble various mechanical parts in what looks like an endless, twisted funhouse mirror. When we finally see a full photograph of the factory, the walls actually recede to the vanishing point; the plant really is endless. As we will soon learn, this factory is no anomaly; China's manufacturing industry, and its industrialization boom in general, may very well be endless as well.

Landscapes is a riveting look at this rapid cultural transition through the eyes of Edward Burtynsky, a Canadian photographer who specializes in what he calls "manufactured landscapes," or parts of the earth utterly transformed by mankind. China has become the big bogeyman in recent discussions on global warming, as its industries explode with little or no concern for their environmental impact. Burtynsky's photographs, collected in an exhibit of the same name, explore that impact to devastating effect.

The film's minimal narrative is shaped by a lecture given by Burtynsky and documentary footage following the photographer on his trip to China in 2004. Aside from a few scuffles with reluctant Chinese authorities, Burtynsky himself is involved in very little of the drama. Few interviews are done with the people seen on camera, and the images, as Burtysnky insists his own photographs must do as well, largely speak for themselves.

Director Jennifer Baichwal, who traveled with Burtynsky along with her cinematographer Peter Mettler, intercuts her footage with Burtynsky's actual photographs. Aside from a few moments of zooming into specific details of the photographs, Baichwal largely lets them stand unadorned. What's remarkable is that her footage manages to add meaning to the photographs, already so powerful on their own. Seeing the scores of factory workers before they line up the way they appear in Burtynsky's photograph, or watching the workers tear down the walls of an entire city, the human role in China's industrial revolution becomes much more evident than in Burtynsky's large-scale images. One subject, shown a Polaroid of a photograph, remarks that it's too wide, you can't see the faces; for Burtysnky that's the point, but for Baichwal there is a human element worth exploring as well.

The film serves as a kind of travelogue through industrialized China, starting at a factory in which workers--scolded for low productivity--display astonishing dexterity at, say, testing 500 spray nozzles over the course of an hour. The camera then moves on to the immense amount of waste produced by such factories, memorably cutting from rows of brand-new irons merrily rolling along an assembly line to a destroyed iron plate on a massive heap of garbage. Burtynsky notes in his lecture that 50% of the world's computers end up in China to be recycled, a statistic accompanied by images of elderly Chinese women cracking microchips with their hands, and a mountain of mangled, twisted computer monitors.

After a trip to the shipyards in eastern China, the film moves on to Bangladesh, where old shipping freighters are destroyed for parts; the sight of young men who slop around in the lakes of crude oil found in the hulls is as compelling as the skeletons of freighters stranded in the muck. The film ends back in China, depicting the wholesale destruction of cities in order to make room for a hydroelectric dam--environmental progress, but at what cost?--and, finally, the rampant urban growth of Shanghai.

Manufactured Landscapes moves slowly and deliberately through its scenes, much like that first factory tracking shot, which makes it an art documentary even in the most literal sense. But there is an inconvenient truth to be found here, one much more frustrating than Al Gore's. Watching China as it threatens to tilt the crucial ecological balance, what exactly can we do? It's American and Canadian computers that are filling their landfills and poisoning their streams, not to mention how many of those irons will be shipped here. The film is no polemic, and Burtynsky insists that he has no message to spread with his photographs. While that may be true for his work, it is less true for Baichwal; there is a clear sense at the end of the film that something must be done to stop this. What the answer is, though, no one is willing or able to suggest.

PingMag - The Tokyo-based magazine about “Design and Making Things ... Verena interviews the director and beautifully exhibits many of the amazing photos from the film for PingMag

Offscreen :: Manufactured Landscapes Felix Rebolledo from Offscreen

Manufactured Landscapes « Louis Proyect: The Unrepentant Marxist

Made in China: Jennifer Baichwal and Edward Burtynsky on Their Travels Across Manufactured Landscapes Damon Smith from Bright Lights Film Journal

The Lumière Reader Catherine Bisley

Manufactured Landscapes (2006) Bryant Frazer from Deep Focus

Film Freak Central Walter Chaw

indieWIRE Michael Joshua Rowin

Manufactured Landscapes: the photographs of Edward Burtynsky Kristin Miller from Afterimage

collections Edward Burtynsky website

Manufactured Landscapes Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Exclaim! [Travis Mackenzie Hoover]

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray]

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young] Rotterdam Film Festival notes

Reel.com [Ken Dubois]

MANUFACTURED LANDSCAPES Steve Erickson from Chronicle of a Passion

reports Glen Helfand from SF360 interviews Jennifer Baichwal and Edward Burtynsky

Contemporary Art London New York, Edward Burtynsky Manufactured ... thirteen Burtynsky photos used in the film

Manufactured Landscapes - Review - Photography - New York Times Ken Johnson

New York Times (registration req'd) Manohla Dargis

Baigazin, Emir

HARMONY LESSONS (Uroki garmonii) B+ 92

Kazakhstan France Germany (115 mi) 2013 Website

Much in the same vein as other darkly disturbing films that expose the deadly effects of systematic violence and corruption, like the Mexican film Heli (2013) or the Russian film The Major (Mayor) (2013), all are brutal films that unleash a horrific price on what are otherwise innocent bystanders who happen to be pulled into this viciously dirty business. While there don’t seem to be as many mafia movies these days, in their place are a multitude of films about swarming gangs of thugs that control a highly specialized marketplace, as they’re each one a loose commentary on black market capitalism that lives by its own rules, like the Wild West, answering to no law but their own. Each one survives by inflicting enormous violence, which generates an accompanying fear associated with it, allowing them to continue to operate with impunity. Until another gang moves in that’s bigger or stronger, they each feed, like vultures on a carcass, within their own established turf. What could be more localized than the rural regions of Kazakhstan? Beautifully set in a landscape of mountains and snow, where a vast emptiness seems to dwarf the inhabitants living in the small town, the harshness of survival in these lonely outskirts is expressed early on when young 13-year old Aslan (Timur Aidarbekov, who was discovered in an orphanage) first has to catch a slippery sheep and then slaughter and skin it under the supervision of his grandmother. Written, directed, and edited by this first time director, he already exhibits a mature style, making a strikingly realist film with nonprofessional actors, yet he uses an interesting technique of skipping past major incidents, where we only learn what happens by the repercussions afterwards, leaving much of what happens in a permanent state of ambiguity.

Aslan is a quiet and studious farm kid that keeps pretty much to himself, having few social skills and no friends, the kind of kid that doesn’t speak unless spoken to, where he takes his schoolwork seriously and seems to have a talent for science, where he collects cockroaches, tying them on strings and feeding them to his lizards living in a fishbowl, while at the same time he’s learning about survival of the fittest from Darwinism. When they teach him electricity, he concocts his own tiny electric chair and fries a poor unfortunate roach. But his reserved, anti-social behavior makes him a popular target for schoolyard bullies, who are little more than extortion artists led by the lead thug Bolat (Aslan Anarbayev), threatening to beat up anyone who is seen talking or befriending Aslan, who quickly becomes isolated and even more of a social outcast. We soon learn Bolat collects money from lower classmen, which is then handed over to upper classmen, who are in turn extorted by local gangsters, where the money is used to support their members in prison. This social hierarchy is thoroughly in place, where anyone who doesn’t play by the rules gets attacked and beat up by several of Bolat’s sidekicks. Another kid that recently moved from the city, Mirsayan (Mukhtar Andassov), isn’t really afraid to stand up to bullies, as he’s not impressed, but he takes his lumps. There’s also a side story about an attractive young Muslim girl, Akzhan (Anelya Adilbekova), who insists upon wearing a headscarf, even in gym class, as otherwise boys spend too much time leering at her, actions that she feels violates the Koran. She wants nothing to do with stirring up that kind of desecrating behavior, even though the school officials urge her to remove it. One of the more curious moments finds Aslan spying on her when she’s performing a modern dance routine, which may all be happening inside his head.

There’s constant head-butting against authority in this film, as teachers are quick to lecture kids who challenge their authority, which means they’re not listening to the concerns raised by the kids, who often provide them with information they need to hear, but instead they get punished for it. Similarly, if they go against the grain with Bolat, they’ll be brutalized for anything outside the norm. Meanwhile both Mirsayan and Aslan have aspirations to defy Bolat, choosing different methods, where Mirsayan is willing to fight him one on one, while Aslan resorts to more devious means. When Bolat is found dead, an act we never see, they are the prime suspects, where the police instantly fill the void of the schoolyard brutalizers, literally torturing the two kids to force them to talk, but both insist they had nothing to do with it, even after extensive beatings. At one point one of the cops turns to the other asking what if they’re telling the truth? But they quickly put those thoughts aside, as they’re paid to get the results the commander is looking for. Every level of society is bullying whoever is directly below them on the food chain, creating a horrific picture of rampant corruption and brutality in the education, police, and criminal justice systems, where Mirsayan and Aslan are their current victims. Because the film is told in such a realist style, it comes as a complete surprise when the director uses dream states for Aslan, which only becomes evident by the out-of-character events unfolding, expressed through an exaggerated state of mind. This method is even more effective by leaving out so much of the significant material, where the audience and the police are only privy to theories and unproven allegations, relying instead upon motive and established character traits, yet it remains something of an elusive puzzle for everyone to comprehend. Bolat and his gang could only operate with teachers continually turning a blind eye, while the police and their henchmen brutalize suspects with no community oversight. In this manner, the police have no established credibility with the audience, as we’re not likely to believe their questionable results, leaving the finale in a mysterious state of psychological disbelief, where truth is often difficult to obtain, clouded by the murky methods of operation. The cinematography by Aziz Zhambakiyev is often stunning, giving the film a grimly poetic yet continually gripping feeling of austerity and despair.

Georgia Straight [Janet Smith]

This austere look at a culture of bullying is the film you won’t be able to shake at this year’s VIFF. Director Emir Baigazin maintains a cold, artistic remove from the brutal story of an odd teen who is relentlessly picked on by the elaborate gang network at his uniformed boys school. As his few misfit friends fall victim to the beatings and stealing, the enigmatic lead character starts to move from victim to a more sinister force. But where the film becomes truly Kafka-esque is when the state becomes involved, and the real bullies go into devastating action. Deeply disturbing and hypercontrolled; every frame, from the symbolic butchering of a sheep in a snowswept yard to the backs of uniformed schoolboys huddled in a secret basement meeting, is a bleak piece of art.

Screen International [Lee Marshall]

At first director Emir Baigazin’s debut feature, set in rural Kazakhstan, seems to be shaping up to be yet another of those worthy world cinema titles in which families eke out a meagre living in a harsh landscape. But before long, Harmony Lessons turns into something far more rich and strange: an existential coming-of-age revenge movie.

Intriguing, laconic, mysterious (occasionally a little too much so for its own good), Harmony Lessons derives much of its impact from a script that keeps us guessing throughout and from the committed performances of its non-professional adolescent cast – especially Timur Aidarbekov (who was discovered in an orphanage) as the film’s sensitive, intense schoolboy hero and Aslan Anarbayev as the bully who victimises him.

Though the pace is measured and the final act overlong and overscripted, the film’s well-received Berlinale competition press screening proved that Harmony Lessons has the ability to hold an audience. The challenge will be to pitch it to the right one. The aridly beautiful landscape of the steppes and the daily life of a remote Kazakh high school provide plenty of local colour, but this Himalaya-meets-Hitchcock hybrid is not an uncomplicated feelgood ethnic number like previous Kazakhi arthouse charmer Tulpan.

Perhaps the most compelling and original aspect of the film is its dual nature as revenge thriller and magical-realist-tinged rite of passage. That the two strands manage to coexist, most of the time, without undermining each other, is tribute to Baigazin’s finely-tuned script. We first see Aidarbekov’s character Aslan chasing a sheep around the yard of the remote farmhouse where he lives with his elderly grandmother. It’s funny; but then it isn’t, as Aslan shackles the sheep, cuts it throat and begins patiently to skin and disembowel it with his grandmother’s help. It’s as if the director is sending out an early message to his audience to say: if you think life is cute here on the steppes, think again.

Aslan, who at a guess is sixteen, is an introverted lad of few words. He’s picked on by school bully Bolat (Anarbayev) and his gang and ostracised after a prank in which he is persuaded to drink a glass of water with an unsavoury past; as a result, Aslan begins washing himself obsessively. An ace physics student, he also collects cockroaches and electrocutes them in inventive ways before feeding them to lizards he has caught (the film feels briefly Lynchian in these scenes, but it’s a passing impression).

Bolat is running an extortion racket in his year on behalf of two hardcase twins in the senior year; he tells Aslan’s classmates that they are not to sit next to him or talk to him. A tentative attraction to a female classmate, Mirsayani (Andassov), comes to nothing, but help finally arrives in the form of Azkhan (Adilbekova), a student newly arrived from the city, who befriends Aslan and defies the bullies, at least for a while.

Shot in a series of carefully composed, fixed-camera shots, with cinematographer and production designer bringing out the pastels and half-tones of landscape and school buildings, Harmony Lessons is as dense with symbols and narrative sideshows as a Kazakh pilaf. Not everything adds up; the rise of fundamentalist Islam in liberal-Muslim Kazakhstan, for example, is alluded to several times without really being developed. More intriguing – though equally allusive – is the film’s play with geometrical forms. Aslan wears a triangular amulet around his neck; he draws squares within circles and makes an origami lotus; and a geometrical diagram he and Azkhan draw in their exercise books will turn out to have an unexpected bearing on the plot.

Is Aslan’s school with its distant teachers who turn a blind eye to tyranny and violence a metaphor for Kazakh society at large? The question is left hanging; but the film works on so many other levels – including that of a parable of an age when childish toys must be put aside – that it hardly matters.

Tribeca 2013 Review: HARMONY LESSONS, A Brilliantly ... - Twitch Christopher Bourne

A village school and the surrounding area in rural Kazakhstan is the backdrop for the brutal Darwinism, of both the social variety and that found in nature, depicted in Emir Baigazin's astonishing debut feature Harmony Lessons, whose extraordinary accomplishments in visual, thematic, and psychological terms belie the fact that this is his first feature. Baigazin has created a viscerally potent portrait of the concentric cycles of cruelty, violence, and ultimately murder that characterize the lives of everyone in the harsh, economically depressed village of his film's setting.

Harmony Lessons focuses on Aslan (Timur Aidarbekov), a 13-year old boy who lives with his grandmother in a farmhouse on the steppes. We are introduced to Aslan in a deceptively humorous way: he is chasing a sheep in the front yard of his house. But when he catches it, the tone changes very quickly, as he slaughters, guts, and removes the skin from the sheep under the watchful eye of his grandmother, and under the merciless gaze of Baigazin's unflinching camera eye. This is a clear signal to the viewer that this will not be some innocuous, exoticizing look at a culture distant to Westerners, but will delve into much darker areas.

Aslan makes what is presumably a lengthy trek daily to his school, where he is subjected to bullying, mostly at the hands of Bolat (Aslan Anarbayev), the school's resident thug/gangster, who shakes down the other students for money on a regular basis, and rules with a Stalinesque iron fist. However, it is soon revealed that Bolat is but one rung on the totem pole of a yakuza-like structure of gangsterism that extends to the local jail, where the shakedown operation presumably originates. 

Oddly, Aslan seems to be the only student in the school not forced to pay Bolat. However, he is subjected to an even worse fate at Bolat's hands. After Bolat engineers a very cruel and humiliating practical joke against Aslan during a school physical, he ostracizes Aslan from the rest of the students, forbidding them from speaking to him. This pushes Aslan further into isolation and psychological trauma, which Aslan reacts to by being obsessed with personal cleanliness - washing multiple times daily and discarding his clothes after wearing them once - and turning his scientifically-inclined mind to experimenting on and torturing small animals, including cockroaches and lizards.

The film tantalizingly raises the possibility of Aslan's situation being leavened through a sense of solidarity with others who find themselves being treated as outcasts at the school. Madi (Omar Adilov), another bullied student, attempts to befriend Aslan; Aslan himself seems interested in Akzhan (Anelya Adilbekova), a strikingly beautiful girl who is a devout Muslim who refuses to wear the school uniform, insisting on wearing her headscarf to school despite her teacher's objections. Aslan's closest ally is Mirsayin (Mukhtar Andassov), a boy new to the school sent there from the city. He regales Aslan with stories of life in the city, which is much more exciting and colorful than the drab village surroundings; Aslan is especially intrigued by Mirsayan's rapturous descriptions of "Happylon," an amusement arcade mall in Almaty that represents ultimate freedom from the world's cruelty. Mirsayin stands up to Bolat, defending Aslan, and directly challenges Bolat by fighting him. However, none of this is enough to prevent Aslan from planning revenge against Bolat, the consequences of which propel the film's final sections, which fully reveal the cruel power structure of state and police authority that curtail any possibility of real escape from its far-reaching clutches. 

Harmony Lessons is a beautifully designed and directed film, whose rigorously composed fixed-take compositions and symbolically allusive geometric patterns are as compelling as the narrative itself. Baigazin elicits wonderfully naturalistic performances from his cast of nonprofessionals, especially Timur Aidarbekov, who was found in an Almaty orphanage, and who is the mysterious, unsettling, yet undeniably charismatic heart of this remarkable film. Baigazin sometimes bears down a bit too hard on the symbols and thematic elements, especially with the direct lessons on Darwin given by one of the school teachers. Nevertheless, Harmony Lessons is filled with stylistic riches and sharp psychological acuity, and despite its somber subject matter, is not without a sense of humor. Director Emir Baigazin has undeniably announced himself as a filmmaker well worth following.

Harmony Lessons Tatiana Filimonova from KinoKultura

Film.com [Jordan Hoffman]

Interview: Emir Baigazin | Film Comment Nicolas Rapold interview, May 2, 2013

Hollywood Reporter [David Rooney]

Variety [Leslie Felperin]

Bailey, Lucy and Andrew Thompson

MUGABE AND THE WHITE AFRICAN B 85

Great Britain (94 mi) 2009

This devastating film exposes the horrendous injustices taking place in Zimbabwe under the corrupt leadership of President Robert Mugabe, yet the one-sided only approach to documentary filmmaking leaves much of the story still untold, a major flaw, which lessens the historical impact of the film. The film focuses on a single white farmer, which personalizes one family’s experience instead of placing their plight in context with the many Africans who were exploited during the British colonial rule in what was formerly known as Rhodesia. Robert Mugabe, an African nationalist with financial and military assistance from China and the Soviet Union, led a series of guerilla attacks on white-owned farms in the mid 70’s known as the “Bush War,” which eventually led to the country’s independence and to his popularity as President. None of this is mentioned in the film. Instead they describe Mugabe’s policies some thirty years later as if they existed in a vacuum. Under Mugabe’s rule, the black government has taken over the property of existing white farmers one by one, though not via any court ordered legal maneuvers, but through force, using rag tag militias roaming the countrysides who are little more than armed thugs with knives and tire irons who break into the homes and beat the inhabitants to a bloody pulp, breaking their arms and legs until they decide to leave, abandoning their property and their source of income, leaving the country decimated with once thriving farms that are now in ruins, inoperable, trashed by the new inhabitants, who happen to be friends and cronies of Mugabe’s government, who know nothing about farming. The nation loses the income produced by the farms, including the loss of thousands of workers who had been working on those farms for generations, now left unemployed with no place to go. The result is a collapsed economy with widespread poverty and unemployment, yet opposition candidates, newspapers and their supporters are brutally beaten, with cars and buildings fire-bombed, or people dying under mysterious circumstances or supposed car crashes so that there is no opposition in Zimbabwe. Mugabe, who spent 11 years in prison under British rule when the nation was known as Rhodesia, has run a campaign targeting the remnants of the British empire, promising to eradicate them from the country. Like an ethnic cleansing, this exact same method has slowly been implemented across the nation until nearly all the whites have moved out of the country.

The filmmakers unfortunately received no cooperation from the Zimbabwe government and made their film undetected, as had the government known they were filming, they would likely have been beaten or killed. The entire focus of the film pits Mugabe’s crude land grabbing tactics against Mike Campbell, a 75-year old white farmer who purchased his property after Zimbabwe obtained their independence in 1980 and refuses to surrender the title to the government, who only became interested in it once it was paid off in full some twenty years later. Campbell employs hundreds of African workers and has an excellent work record of humane treatment, many of whom are seen in the film, though most don’t speak English. Campbell’s son-in-law Ben Freeth helps run the farm and is a featured spokesperson throughout the film. They have relatives in England who are also seen, but they don’t have the stomach to put up with the perpetual threats of violence against whites. Campbell, Freeth and his wife frequently quote the scripture, as they are continually under duress in a Job-like undertaking where they are constantly challenged, yet they believe in their righteous cause, which is to refuse to be intimidated and driven off their land. They believe if more whites would stand up to these hostile practices that the country wouldn’t be in such a state of financial ruin, as good farms produce food, jobs, and income, which benefits everyone. Consequently, everyone suffers by their absence. They also refuse to be drawn into Mugabe’s hate campaign, believing the President wants blacks to hate whites, and whites to hate blacks, while they have more Christian leanings which teach them to love their neighbors. What this film never explains is Mugabe’s politics, whether he’s a communist or socialist or just a plain old thug, as this might explain his land redistribution policy. Certainly during the Russian Revolution people were thrown out of their homes, or they were forced to share what was considered “large” accommodation space with others, which was detailed in Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago, a novel that was banned in Communist Russia for its self indulgent themes, as it dwelled on the personal instead of thinking about the good of the nation, which is exactly what this film does. Mugabe is singled out from the outset, where bands of armed militias are seen swarming around a neighboring farm from Ben Freeth’s car, as he drives right up to them before making a hasty retreat, as like zombies, they turn in his direction.

“For the benefit of landless black peasants…” This may be the nation’s idealized dream, yet those actually inhabiting the white farms appear to be judges, army officers, civil servants, girl friends of politicians, and those with well paying jobs who strangely drive late model cars or SUV’s. Since there are no police, judges, or governmental body in Zimbabwe that will address or protect the needs of whites, Campell is forced to take his case to an international tribunal in Namibia, where an entourage of Mugabe’s defense team continually postpone the hearings, extending the process beyond the breaking point, as despite an order of protection from the court, Campbell and Freeth are eventually attacked and brutally beaten, where blown up photos are brought to the court showing exactly how the tribunal’s court order is blatantly disregarded in Zimbabwe, where there is literally nothing to prevent armed mobs of blacks from storming the homes of whites. These are sickening revelations, where we hear a first hand account of how their neighbors were attacked and forced to escape, but only after the infliction of abhorrent beatings. The writing on the wall suggests it’s only a matter of time for the Campbells, yet they persist. Perhaps the ultimate irony, the Campbells are represented by a British barrister wearing a white wig in court, perhaps the ultimate effrontery to Mugabe’s hatred for the last vestiges of British influence. But they’re also represented by an African female lawyer who recognizes that this policy of atrocities and racial divisiveness does not bode well for the nation, that all people should have the same rights under the law, and she’s sickened to discover that her clients were nearly beaten to death.

The horrors are everywhere in this depiction, but the filmmakers’ failure to place these actions in any historical context is inexcusable. Atrocities are a large part of African history, and Mugabe is one of the more ruthless leaders, in the Idi Amin mold, where he’ll do anything to eliminate his opposition. But Africa has also witnessed the colonial humiliation of Belgium, the Dutch, the British, and the French routinely raping their lands, exploiting its citizens, and stealing their resources, all of which made people very wealthy in their own imperialist countries, leaving Africa with nothing in return, oftentimes jailing or murdering outspoken voices of opposition, like Nelson Mandela in South Africa or Patrice Lumumba in the Congo. Mugabe may be a war criminal by waging war against his own white citizens, and what happened to the Campbells is an atrocity, but they are certainly not alone. The filmmakers chose to ignore the significant impact to all the others, such as those in Rwanda, Darfur, Sierre Leone,or the Congo, or the many who were routinely displaced in any Communist takeover or in China from the Three Gorges Dam project which relocated millions, where the larger story is the effect the policy has on so many lives, including the flooding of entire cities that will be extinguished from the earth, as opposed to the effect it has on a single person who may have stood up to object, but was singularly ignored. While the documentary is no doubt compelling, there are certainly larger historical implications that this film simply ignores.

TimeOut NY Eric Hynes

“Is it possible to be a white man and an African?” muses a fair-skinned farmer in Zimbabwe; the question hangs over both this tragic documentary and dictator Robert Mugabe’s thug-enforced policy of property distribution. Yet what Mugabe sells as racial justice is state-sanctioned piracy, violently forcing white agriculturalists from their land and replacing them with his cronies. The film clandestinely captures marauders in action while embedding itself in the imperiled home of aging farmer Michael Campbell. He’s not the movie’s ad hoc martyr, but something more compelling: a simple man whose fight for personal justice has matured into patriotism.

Chicago Reader Cliff Doerksen

The notion that only whites can be racist barely survives this riveting 2009 documentary about Michael Campbell, a humble and honorable Caucasian farmer who acquired his large land holdings in 1980, after the black takeover of Zimbabwe, and ever since then has been fighting the efforts of President Robert Mugabe to violently displace him. Directors Lucy Bailey and Andrew Thompson document the 75-year-old farmer's fight to get justice before an international civil rights tribunal; due to Mugabe's repressive policies, they had to gather most of their footage on the sly, which heightens the suspense. The result is part legal thriller, part five-hankie melodrama.

NewCity Chicago Ray Pride

The Oscar-shortlisted “Mugabe and the White African” charts the determination of one of the few white farm families left in Zimbabwe since President Robert Mugabe’s violent land-seizure program took effect in 2000. As the country descended further and further into confusion, an indignant Mike Campbell pressed charges of human-rights violations and racial discrimination against Mugabe in an international court in 2008. Lucy Bailey and Andrew Thompson’s brooding documentary is tense and brimming with suspense, effectively playing out as a thriller. Across the course of a year, and coinciding with a presidential election, “Mugabe and the White African” is a terrifying look at the consequences of the breakdown of the rule of law, wherever and under whatever circumstances it might occur. The effective, jangling score is by Jonny Pilcher. 94m. Video.

Village Voice Ella Taylor

The idea of a film pleading the cause of white landowners in the new Africa might make you roll your eyes. But if there's one dictator whose thuggery and contempt for his own people can't be written off as a legacy of colonialism, it's Robert Mugabe, whose despotic, chaotic 30-year rule of Zimbabwe has brought the country to its knees. Shot undercover by British filmmakers Lucy Bailey and Andrew Thompson, this incendiary documentary showcases Mugabe's corrupt use of land reform to further polarize a fragile nation already divided along racial lines, by following an elderly white farmer's struggle to avoid being forced off the land he bought in 1978. Trying to bring their case before an international tribunal in Namibia, Mike Campbell and his son-in-law, Ben Freeth, find themselves stonewalled, intimidated, and finally horrifically beaten and tortured by Mugabe's hoodlums. As their extraordinarily brave black female attorney points out, at stake are not merely the rights of this family or indeed of all white farmers, but the future of race relations and human rights in Africa.

MUGABE AND THE WHITE AFRICAN Facets Multi Media

Family patriarch Mike Campbell is one of the few white farmers left in Zimbabwe since President Robert Mugabe began his violent land seizure program in 2000. Since then the country has descended into chaos, and the economy has been devastated by the reallocation of formerly white-owned farms to Mugabe cronies, who have no knowledge, experience or interest in farming. In 2008, after years of intimidation and threats to his family and farm, Campbell decides to take action. Unable to call upon the protection of any Zimbabwean authorities, he challenges Mugabe before an international court, charging him and his government with racial discrimination and human rights violations. Lurking beneath every frame of this riveting documentary is a palpable sense of fear, something many in Robert Mugabe's Zimbabwe feel on a daily basis. Mugabe and the White African is the only documentary feature that has come out of Zimbabwe in recent years -- with much of the footage shot covertly -- and is perhaps our only real glimpse of what it's like to live inside Mugabe's Zimbabwe.

The Independent Critic [Richard Propes]

Winner of the 2009 BAFTA Award for Best Documentary, this debut from Lucy Bailey and Andrew Thompson is the story of Mike Campbell, a white Zimbabwean farming on land for 30 years with his wife, 500 workers and their families, his son and his son's wife. Under the land reformation policies of dictator Robert Mugabe, however, Campbell knows it is simply a matter of time before the land that he purchased in 1978 is stripped away from him. In an attempt to circumvent this repossession, Campbell makes the bold and life-threatening decision to take Mugabe's regime to court. This decision will lead to threats, beatings and torture at the hands of Mugabe's hoodlums.

Filming is banned in Zimbabwe, so Bailey and Thompson are themselves risking their lives to film this documentary. While this risk doesn't necessarily come across often on screen, it does lead to a further appreciation of the film that the two first-time filmmakers have created.

In theory, the idea of land reformation is a popular one in African nations where whites have long held the power while blacks were seen as subservient and, for the most part, forbidden to own land. However, this is Zimbabwe and Mugabe's version of land reformation doesn't so much involve redistribution of the land to the poor, in itself controversial, but redistribution of prized land to those within his own inner circle. As a result, this one rich and prosperous nation has been practically decimated.

The main problem with Mugabe and the White African is that far too often Bailey and Thompson seem to take Campbell at his word, trusting that Mugabe's violent misdeeds, or at least his awareness of violent misdeeds on his behalf, will be enough to sway audiences that Campbell and his family are innocent victims in this entire affair. Anyone with even an ounce of awareness of African history will be aware that, while Mugabe's actions may be completely and utterly reprehensible, there are always two sides to every story.

Not in this film.

It's hard not to watch Mugabe and the White African without becoming frustrated at the overwhelming seeds of conflict, hate and racism that permeate both sides of this story. Yes, Mugabe and his regime are wrong in the way this situation is handled, however, the wrongness of the actions of Campbell and his family feel just as intense for those, at least, who think from a social justice perspective.

Far more a contemplation of colonialism past and present than an inspirational tale of one man's battle against a dictatorial regime, Mugabe and the White African ultimately raises more questions than it answers.

The House Next Door [Elise Nakhnikian]

The makers of Mugabe and the White African, like their subjects, seem to have an almost touching faith in the European legal system, yet they ask us to find their antagonists guilty as charged without so much as hearing their case. And so, though I was horrified by the violence encountered by Mike Campbell, the white African of the title, as codirectors Lucy Bailey and Andrew Thompson wanted me to be, I wasn't swayed by their insistence on the righteousness of his cause.

Mike and his son-in-law, Ben Freeth, are among the white farmers who refused to leave their farms in Zimbabwe after President Robert Mugabe voided their deeds, claiming the land for black Africans under his "Zimbabwe for Zimbabweans" program. (Mike's and Ben's wives and Ben's kids are there too, but they're shown only rarely and almost always from a distance, mute symbols of what the men are fighting for.) The Campbells and Freeths have been essentially squatting on what used to be their land for nearly a decade when we first see them in December 2007, enduring constant threats and occasional beatings (though those seem to be borne mainly by their guards) by groups of vigilantes who are unofficially supported by Mugabe. This is a camera-ready setup if there ever was one: You could cut the tension with a machete when white-haired Mike and his suntanned son-in-law get chased down a road near their house by armed men who've tried to trap their car at a makeshift roadblock, or when Mike and Ben pile a bunch of guards onto a pickup truck and head into the night to flush out armed interlopers hiding in their own backyard. But the filmmakers aren't so good at illuminating the issues that have led to these charged standoffs.

Always taking Mike and Ben at their word, never questioning their assumption that what's good for them is good for Zimbabwe, and rarely offering any evidence to support their assertions about what's ruining the country's economy, this film put me in the awkward position of playing devil's advocate for a man I believe to be one of the worst of Africa's many brutal and self-serving despots. I'm no apologist for the beatings and worse Mugabe reportedly doles out to people who oppose him and there's no disputing that Zimbabwe's economy is a mess (the unemployment rate is over 90%), but I needed more than just the Mike and Ben's opinions to be convinced that Mugabe's land redistribution plan is just a cynical ploy to consolidate his power. The film does show just how Mugabe awards the confiscated land to his cronies and allies, but then, isn't that pretty much what Cecil Rhodes did about 100 years ago, when he annexed what he then named Rhodesia for Britain? I'm not saying that excuses it—two wrongs don't make a right, as my mother used to say—but there's a certain rough karmic justice in what's happening to Zimbabwe's white landowners now, especially when the farmers are as blind as Mike and Ben are to their own power and privilege.

The black Africans in the film are almost always seen and not heard, and what we see of the white landowners' relationship with them is shockingly reminiscent of our own plantation past. Mike professes his love for the men who work for him ("we're trying to help them," he says), but their body language reveals a distance and lack of ease that belies his words: This is clearly a relationship of unequals. We learn that the farm supports about 500 people in addition to the white family that owns it, but we know almost nothing about these farmhands and guards and their families, since they speak, if at all, in the smile-heavy, yes-laden, monosyllabic language of the subservient. This could have been a much more interesting movie if the filmmakers had moved out from the big house to find out where and how the workers live and whether they think white farmers like Ben and Mike are good for their country.

By the time we finally hear from a black African who does more than mumble or grin, he's so furious he can barely speak at first, though he winds up landing some sharp verbal jabs. A minister's son, he shows up at the Campbells' farm to claim "my land," which was granted to him by the government four years earlier. When Mike replies that it's his farm, duly paid for, he asks: "Who did you pay? Did you pay the government of Zimbabwe or did you pay another white fella?" The government has reclaimed the land, he says, because "We are so tired of you. You come here and you grab up all the best stuff…. We don't want to have anything to do with you people any more. We have shifted from you people to the Asians."

Serenely immune to his arguments, Ben and Mike seem clueless about the poisonous legacy of Zimbabwe's colonial past and the potential offensiveness of their conviction that their leadership is good for the people of Zimbabwe. Despite their insistence that they are Africans, these two and their friends and relatives share an old-school English sense of propriety and certitude. I was moved by the quintessential stiff upper lip exhibited by Ben's mother, who spoke in measured tones about her support for his stance, insisting that "it's right to stand for what's right" as tears coursed down her cheeks, but I found Mike and Ben's smug head lawyer, a man so English he wears a white wig in court, a little hard to take as he pontificated about the patent absurdity of the opposition's case and the "distinctly racially discriminative" nature of the system.

As Ben started talking about how God put them there for a purpose, I started thinking dark thoughts about the forbearance shown by the vigilantes toward these arrogant white fellas. After all, I thought, they've let them stay there for years, and when they do kick them out, they let them go in peace and take their stuff. Which is probably more than you can say for the way the white people's ancestors took the land in the first place. Yeah, yeah; two wrongs don't make a right. I'm just saying, it could have been a lot worse.

I even started to question the way Mike and Ben invoke the rule of law as a cover for defying their own country's law. People who own private property are never happy when it's seized by the government, but isn't obeying laws we don't like part of following the rule of law? Well, yes, so is trying to overturn the ones you don't like, which is what they're doing. But do they really expect the government of Zimbabwe to change its laws just because some court in Namibia says it should? I mean, please. If an international court convicted the U.S. of war crimes for our invasion of Iraq or our treatment of prisoners at Guantanamo, do you think we'd pull out our troops or shut down the prison?

Mugabe and the White African is a fascinating document, but it's not the inspirational story its directors intended. Instead, this half-digested chunk of modern history is an inchoate case study of the contemporary face of colonialism.

Film-Forward.com Nora Lee Mandel

User reviews from imdb Author: miles-tendi from Oxford

Pasadena Art Beat [Jana Monji]

theartsdesk [Sheila Johnston]

Nick's Flick Picks [Nick Davis] lengthy

Slant Magazine (Joseph Jon Lanthier) review

NPR   Mark Jenkins from NPR, July 22, 2010

Eye for Film (Angus Wolfe Murray) review [5/5]

Mugabe And The White African | Review | Screen Fionnuala Halligan from Screendaily

Dave's Movie Ramblings [David Wilcock]

Phil on Film (Philip Concannon) review including an interview with the directors, November 11, 2009: here

User reviews from imdb Author: timrunacre from Epsom

User reviews from imdb Author: davideo-2 from United Kingdom

The Spinning Image (Graeme Clark) review

Rich On Film [Richard Haridy]

Little White Lies [Anton Bitel]

ViewLondon (Matthew Turner) review [3/5]

Rude Reviews [ Simon Cameron]

Interview: filmmaker Lucy Bailey JW Arble interview from The Third Estate, March 8, 2010

The Hollywood Reporter review Frank Scheck

Variety (Ronnie Scheib) review

Time Out London (Dave Calhoun) review [4/5]

The Guardian (Peter Bradshaw) review

The Independent (Anthony Quinn) review [3/5]

The Daily Telegraph review [4/5] Tim Robey

Los Angeles Times (Gary Goldstein) review also seen here: Chicago Tribune

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [3/4]

New York Times (registration req'd) Mike Hale

Zimbabwe - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Nightmare of Mugabe's Matabele atrocities | Sokwanele

Rwandan Genocide - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

War in Darfur - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Sierra Leone - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Democratic Republic of the Congo - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Baillie, Bruce

Bruce Baillie Fred Camper from Film Reference

The career of Bruce Baillie has two central aspects, which are also features of the whole American avant-garde film movement. First, his films are generally intensely poetic, lyrical evocations of persons and places in which the subject matter is transformed by the subjective methods used to photograph it. Second, many of his films display a strong social awareness, describing attitudes critical towards, and alienated from, mainstream American society. In many cases, Baillie fuses these concerns within single films.

Stylistically, Baillie's films are characterized by images of haunting, evanescent beauty. An object will appear with spectacular clarity, only to dissolve away an instant later. Light itself often becomes a subject, shining across the frame or reflected from objects, suggesting a level of poetry in the subject matter that lies beyond easy interpretation. Baillie combines images with other images, and images with sound, in dense, collage-like structures. Thus, many of his films cut frequently between scenes, or superimpose objects on each other. One is constantly aware of a restlessness, an instability, which seems to result from his images' appearance and flow. It is significant, too, that many of Baillie's films contain, or are structured as, journeys.

The effect of Baillie's films is to make the viewer feel that any moment of the viewing, any single image he is looking at is a mere illusion that will soon vanish. The sensuousness of the light and colors only heighten one's awareness of their unreality. It is as if there is a void, a nothingness, that lies behind all things. It is not irrelevant in this regard that Baillie has evidenced strong interest, over the years, in Eastern religious thought.

Some degree of social comment is present in most of Baillie's films, but in widely varying degrees. Mr. Hayashi places the poetic and the social in a very precise balance. The imagery consists of evocative, sun-drenched images forming a short, haiku-like portrait of a man. On the soundtrack, we hear the man speak of his life, and his difficulty in finding work. Mass and Quixote indict American society as overly aggressive, toward its citizens, toward Native Americans, and toward nature; as impersonal and dehumanizing; as lacking physical or moral roots. For Quixote, Baillie uses an extremely dense, collage-like form, in which images and fragments of images are intercut with and superimposed on others, with a similarly complex soundtrack. At times, the film's multiple themes seem to blur into each other, as if the filmmaker is acknowledging that he is as "lost" as the society he is depicting.

Castro Street, Tung, and Valentin de las Sierras are, by contrast, apparently simpler portraits of people and places. By keeping his camera very close to things, Baillie renders their details ever more stunning, while his collage editing and soundtrack again create an instability leading to "nothingness." Castro Street, which depicts an industrialized area, is extraordinary for its combination of diverse photographic representations—black and white, color, positive and negative—in editing and superimposition. Quick Billy contains thematic and stylistic elements of most of Baillie's previous films; its motifs include autobiography, "portrait"-like representation of people and events, and an underlying theme, made explicit in the film's final section, of Western man's aggressiveness toward his surroundings.

CASTRO STREET

USA (10 mi) 1966

pieces Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

This is Baillie’s most famous film, which regrettably isn’t saying as much as it should, since his immeasurable influence has yet to yield the wider recognition accorded to other avant-garde masters.  When I’ve seen this film projected publicly, the person introducing the program unfailingly stipulates that Baillie is not depicting San Francisco’s Castro Street, but rather an industrial byway in Richmond, out near the Chevron refinery.  This confusion is one of those tricks of history; the very words of the title connote the unofficial headquarters of gay and lesbian culture in the U.S., while the film is ostensibly more neutral in its geography.  But what can we see in Baillie’s film nearly forty years on?  While these Castro Streets are inevitably distinct, how does the film bridge their gaps in our mind?  Baillie has said that he conceived of the meshing structure of the film (a right-to-left pan in color, blended with a left-to-right movements in black-and-white) as an analogue to “masculine” and “feminine” principles coming together. [See Scott MacDonald’s interview with Baillie in A Critical Cinema 2 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992, pp. 109-138.)] This union is equally evident in the soundtrack, a collage of rumbling train sounds, gentle whistles, and pop radio.  And even within the “masculine” passages of railroad space, Baillie lavishes a beautifying gaze on those conductors and brakemen. Outlying suburban spaces transcend their commercial utility.  Grimy trackside labor becomes luminous.  I am not trying to enfold Baillie’s film into a different history via an against-the-grain “queer reading,” but I am proposing that Baillie’s lasting achievement (in this and all his films) is his attention to the living surfaces of the physical world, the way he allows them to disclose themselves.  The images of male beauty Baillie generates do not necessarily reveal desire, but a perceiver not as capable as Baillie of embracing the whole of the world might actively disavow that beauty, or merely pass it over in silence. As he did with his marvelous single-shot film All My Life from the same year, Baillie asks his audience to attend to the scenes unfolding before the camera as occasions for meditative contemplation of the rhythmic interplay of human and natural forces, the radiant beauty found in the humblest of places.  Sometimes, good fences make great landscapes.

Bruce Baillie Michael E. Grost from Classic Film and Television

Baiz, Andrés

SATANÁS B 86

Columbia Mexico (95 mi) 2007

This was quite a welcome change of pace, nothing great but certainly enjoyable from start to finish, as films using a horror genre are not usually shown at film festivals, and this film reveals its colors (blood red) from the outset, leading into the title credits. Shot in Bogotá, the characters in this surprisingly bold creepfest become more dark and disturbed, each more fucked up than the next, creating a subterranean hell that exists just under the surface of an ordinary unsuspecting world. A common thread here seems to be tortured souls, humans in conflict with themselves, all happening underneath a more placid surface. Mixing together seemingly unrelated characters, a woman’s confession to a priest that changes his life forever, an ex- soldier’s quiet life at home with his grotesque, elderly mother while also tutoring a young teenage girl, asking her to read Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, or a beautiful woman who works a scam with a couple of thugs until the tables are turned on her in one of the more vividly grotesque scenes in the film. After awhile very little appears normal here, everything is so over the top, the already exaggerated behavior becomes lurid in its capacity to explode out of control at any minute, usually with excessively violent results with characters that haven’t a clue how they arrived there. "We are not one person, but many. We are just afraid to accept it," the young student reveals.

Despite the audience’s growing expectations to expect a sense of other worldliness or derangement, this first time director does an excellent job satisfying those expectations, where a kind-hearted priest has a strange fascination with the flesh, a naked woman in prison wipes her pee with pages from The Bible, then eats the paper, or a man reads a library book but ants start coming out of the pages, distorted events usually accompanied by flashes of lightning, the sounds of laughing, or other musical extremes that compound a sense of unreality with morbid humor. Building on this sustained theme, the film continues to weave in and out of different character's lives, a revolving door of very real lives where their tenuous hold on reality establishes tension, finally bringing all these characters together in a logic that remains faithful to the horror mindset, culminating in a feverish display of the world veering out of control. "Everything you have lived has been a dream, and you know what? You've just woken up," a character declares in a Travis Bickle-like moment of clarity. Supposedly based on real events, it is clear however that this director had a blast taking liberties with the style.

Baker, Damani and Alex Vlack

STILL BILL B 84

USA (78 mi) 2009 Official film site

One’s appreciation for this documentary may depend on whether or not you’re familiar with Bill Withers’ music, which was all over the radio in the 1970’s, highly personal, autobiographical music with a comforting, clear-voiced, soulful southern twang, sung with such baritone clarity that every word could be heard perfectly, a rarity since the rock “n” roll craze of the 60’s. But no sooner was he a star, a latecomer whose career began at the age of 32, the man simply disappeared from view, where his songs are still heard on oldies stations or light jazz programs. This film finds him at home celebrating his 70th birthday party with family and friends, attending an old high school reunion in the small coal mining town of Slab Fork, West Virginia, and still living comfortably up in the hills of Los Angeles. But the man hasn’t released an album since 1985 and has really had little motivation to re-enter the music industry, a business that he found phony and disastrously incompetent when it came to black performers, as the experts on blacks in the music industry were always whites, which he derogatorily calls blaxperts, as they supposedly had the insight into the black psyche, or so the business was led to believe. So he simply walked away and refused to play that game, raising two children with his lovely wife, who runs his music publishing company. While the film is a gentle portrait of the man today, it’s not his private life, but his former singing career that continues to fascinate audiences today, so the movie includes plenty of vintage footage thirty years ago of Withers performing on American Bandstand or other filmed musical performances during his heyday. The movie stays away from his controversial past where he allegedly abused his first wife, actress Denise Nicholas (from the TV show Room 222). While it shows him performing new songs in his music studio, which is built right into his home, the film never makes clear whether Withers has any intention of releasing any of these new works, which can be a bit confusing.

His is a different story, as he eschews celebrity status, a humble man not driven by greed, and only achieved his career success after spending 9 years in the Navy, and several more working at Douglas Aircraft where he was involved in building the airplane toilets, a story he reveals on the Johnny Carson Tonight Show. His songs were massive hits, largely because people could connect to the authenticity of his first person storytelling revealing themes of friendship, close family ties, and the intricacies of love. For the most part, Withers has simply ignored the music industry for the past twenty years, including any work in his home studio, claiming he didn’t know how any of the equipment worked, but felt he would return to it one day. In one of the film’s best moments, he returns to a theater school in New York for students with stuttering problems, where he addresses them from his own unique personal insight, as he stuttered himself until well into his late 20’s. He is obviously moved by this event, being brought to tears, as it clearly reminds him of agonizing moments in his own life where his speech impairment prevented him from expressing what he wanted to say. It’s all the more ironic that he built a career renowned for the clarity of thought behind his heartfelt songs.

In a sudden unexpected turn, he calls Raul Midón, an eclectic blind musician with black and Argentinean roots who has insights into multi-ethnic musical origins. Together they work on a mutually developed song called “Mi Amigo Cubano” where his daughter Kori works the sound equipment and where some of Midón’s musical licks are simply incredible. In perhaps the highlight of the film, Kori performs a solo song on the piano that he records, where one thinks perhaps the main reason he is reacquainting himself with the music studio is to get closer to his own daughter, who has her own musical interests. Her performance of a song called “Blue Blues” is stunningly personal and simply gorgeous. Their moments together are genuinely affecting, as we see developing onscreen the same intimate qualities that define his music, filled with little insights of personal affection and wisdom. The film also shows Withers on stage at a recent performance with aging guitarist Cornell Dupree wearing an oxygen tube in his nose, a man who worked with Aretha Franklin, Donny Hathaway, and was also featured on Brook Benton’s brilliant soulful hit “Rainy Night in Georgia.” But all this is conflicting information, perhaps shown for the benefit of the cameras, as there is no indication Withers has released anything, either solo or collaboratively. It does however show a portrait of a man doing what he loves to do with the people he loves the most, and from what I can tell, that’s what it’s all about.

TimeOut NY Hank Shteamer

“The fame game was kicking my ass,” says Bill Withers in this fascinating doc, concisely explaining a quarter-century absence from the limelight. Still Bill gives the onetime R&B superstar ample space to air his tough yet warmhearted worldview, and to demonstrate its daily application: We see Withers, a childhood stutterer, tear up as he addresses children struggling with the same issue. Elsewhere, the singer patiently assists his vocalist daughter with a recording session, further illustrating an achievement that rivals his stunning catalog—walking away from fame with his humanity intact.

Chicago Reader Cliff Doerksen

Seventy-year-old soul man Bill Withers—who wrote and sang "Lean on Me," "Just the Two of Us," "Ain't No Sunshine," and a ton of other terrific songs—is profiled in this handsome and agreeable 2009 documentary by Damani Baker and Alex Vlack. After years of creating songs in his head while working on aircraft assembly lines, Withers took a gamble on showbiz at the ripe age of 32, became a major hit-maker in the 70s, then decided he wasn't cut out for "the fame game" and retired to family life. He comes across as an all-around excellent guy and a philosopher vastly superior to the fatuous Cornel West, who condescendingly explains to Withers why he's wrong to defend "selling out" as a good thing. 78 min.

NewCity Chicago Ray Pride

Damani Baker and Alex Vlack’s sweet and inevitably bittersweet “Still Bill” is an understated portrait of Bill Withers, the musician behind memorable pop like 1971’s “Ain’t No Sunshine,” “Lean on Me” and “Just the Two of Us.” The avalanche of music documentaries are a long way from simple records of performances in front of an audience, and the best dig into the quirks of personality that provide inspiration for the mystery that is tune and song. Intimacy is key. Bill Withers walked away from a career that didn’t begin until he was grown, not owning a guitar until he was 32. Why the silence since his last music release in 1985? The filmmakers shot over 300 hours of footage across two years as Withers approaches his seventieth year. A trip back to his childhood home in the worn coal town of Slab Fork, West Virginia inspires Withers’ rich reminiscence. (There’s a present-day detour as Withers records a song with his daughter in his home studio.) Withers is also prone to aphorism: “I think I’m kind of like pennies. You have ‘em in your pocket but you don’t remember they’re there”; and “It’s okay to head out for wonderful, but on your way to wonderful? You’re gonna have to pass through ‘all right.’ And when you get to ‘all right’, take a good look around and get used to it, ‘cos that may be as far as you’re gonna go.” “Still Bill” passes through all right. Talking heads include Cornel West, Tavis Smiley, Jim James from My Morning Jacket, Angelique Kidjo and, erm, Sting. 78m.

PopMatters (Cynthia Fuchs) review

It wasn’t stopping anything. It was just doing something else.
—Bill Withers

“I lived a good portion of my life before I started to play music,” says Bill Withers. That would be nine years in the Navy, a few more working as an aircraft mechanic for Douglas and Weber Aircraft. When his first single, “Ain’t No Sunshine,” was released in 1971, he was already 33 years old.

As Withers tells it, this late start has never troubled him. At the time, he says in Alex Vlack and Damani Baker’s documentary, Still Bill, screening Tuesday at the IFC Denter’s Stranger Than Fiction series, he wasn’t especially moved to leave his mechanics’ gig. “I decided it would be awfully nice to get into the music business,” a young Withers tells a TV interviewer, despite cautions by industry experts that he was too old. These experts, 33-year-old Withers says, “had a rhythm and blues syndrome in their minds, with the horns and the three chicks and the gold lamé suit, you know, and I wasn’t really into that. I had a job.” 

Such confidence and self-respect weren’t exactly appreciated when he signed with Columbia. Instead, Withers recalls, filmed in a low, wide angle in a big white living room, he was confronted by “a whole bunch of guys trying to tell you what to do, with all their goofy suggestions and stuff. They have the R&B black guys and then they have what I like to call ‘blaxperts.’ That’s the white guys who are supposed to be experts, you know, who have some kind of tap into your black psyche.” Recalling that he was urged to cover Elvis Presley’s “In the Ghetto,” Withers sighs, “I was livid,” he says, as well as vulnerable and disappointed and, eventually, fed up enough to leave the business: he hasn’t made an album in 23 years.

Over an old TV clip where young Withers appears on a stage surrounded by a slick purplish lighting design, the 70-year-old remembers that he never was very good at the “fame game.” But the film underscores another point too, that this game was rigged. Withers and others were advised on how to sell their “blackness,” a concept premised on adhering to white conventions and mainstream expectations. During a sit-down with Cornell West and Tavis Smiley, Withers only half-accepts the usual line, that he’s a model artist, able to “break through” while not becoming a “sell-out.” He asks that they rethink their own language. “We’re all entrepreneurs,” he points out, “The best thing you can do is put up a sign that says ‘sold out.’”

Even as these three most authentic, admired, and well-paid black men share a laugh here (and West quotes Shakespeare on “thine own self”), the film goes on to break down what’s at stake in Withers’ crucial insight. On its face, Still Bill seems a portrait of Withers retired yet restless, watching football on TV, with lawn tools neatly arranged on his garage wall and a state of the art recording and editing studio upstairs. If he’s not wholly sure how to run all the equipment, he confesses that he’s got it for a reason. “I’m trying to give myself a chance to get driven,” he says, the frame crowded with monitors and software packages, “where just the sheer activity of doing something gets you jacked up.”

His search keeps simultaneously him grounded at home (his wife and children feature prominently in Still Bill, in particular his daughter Kori, also a musician (“You ain’t no joke, sugar,” he beams) and takes him back to Slab Fork, West Virginia, where he was born. A mining camp where “the company owned everything,” from homes to shops to transportation, now dominated by railroad tracks and pit mining equipment. Here he remembers his grandmother: “She would sing spirituals right on that porch and clap her hands,” says his childhood friend C.V. Thompson. Withers nods, “They called it getting happy.” Withers, who stuttered well into his 20s, was raised by this “elegant” woman who inspired him not to heed the taunts of his classmates and teachers (“You can’t do nothing”). He and Thompson remember sorting through the basic hypocrisies racism, their segregated existences while knowing, “Like it or not, most of us had white folks in our families.”

With that in mind, Withers and Thompson head over to the cemetery where Bill’s brother and father are buried, the headstones covered over with weeds and branches. Though they locate brother Earl’s grave, they can’ find his father’s. “Well papa,” he sighs as they trudge among the overgrown greenery, “Wherever you at, I’ll catch you something later.” Sitting on Thompson’s porch that night, the camera perched at some distance, Withers reflects on his own background and choices: “My father, he put the work thing in my head. My mother put the moral thing in my head.” Today, he doesn’t regret leaving the business so much as he considers a return “on his own terms.” “You know how unhappy you would be if you thought that the way you are is not okay?” he asks. “I started out my life like that. I don’t want to end up my life like that.”

As difficult as his own journey may have been, Still Bill makes the case—subtly and deeply—that Withers has found his way. “We’re all accidents of birth, you know,” he says. “At some point or another, we have a choice, if we’re sane enough by that point, as to how much we’re gonna apply ourselves and a lot of that is influenced by the people who nurture us.” He gazes on an old black and white photo of his grandmother. “I already did what I did. I’m not that little boy or that young guy that hasn’t had any validation.” And that makes him all the more compelling.

eFilmCritic.com (Jay Seaver) review [4/5]

jdbrecords [Jeffery Berg]

The NYC Movie Guru [Avi Offer]

Eye Weekly [Dave Morris]

STILL BILL Facets Multi Media

Village Voice Nicolas Rapold

Withers In No Hurry To Make New Album Billboard magazine (Undated)

Still A Lovely Day Catherine Elsworth from The Daily Telegraph, August 10, 2006

Washington Post: Withers interview Ann Hornaday interview, June 14, 2009

Huffington Post. Robert Rosenthal interview, February 2, 2010

Singer Bill Withers on Tavis Smiley’s PBS Show This Black Sista’s Page, February 8, 2010

Directors' interview Video interview with the directors from Director’s Notes

Variety (Eddie Cockrell) review

TimeOut Chicago Hank Sartin

Chicago Tribune Michael Phillips

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [3.5/4]

New York Times Mike Hale

Bill Withers - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Bill Withers official site

Bill Withers Biography from his website

Bill Withers biography from Ed Hogan from All Music

Biography Soul Tracks

Baker, Josephine – actress, singer, dancer extraordinaire

Josephine Baker - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

The Official Josephine Baker Website

The Official Josephine Baker Website Biography from the website

glbtq >> arts >> Baker, Josephine Biography from the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender, and Queer culture encyclopedia

Josephine Baker Biography from Red Hot Jazz

About.com: Josephine Baker biography

Josephine Baker John Bush biography from All Music

"Josephine Baker Biography" Women in History

"V & A - About Art Deco - Josephine Baker" bio from About Art Deco

"Josephine Baker" bio from The African American Registry

A History of Josephine Baker in the 1920s 1920’s Fashion and Music

"Stork Club Refused to Serve Her, Josephine Baker Claims" The Milwaukee Journal, October 19, 1951

"Josephine Baker Is Dead in Paris at 68" Obituary from The New York Times, April 13, 1975

The electric body: Nancy Cunard sees Josephine Baker (2003) – Philip M. Ward essay of dance style and contemporary critics, 2003

"Firestorm Incident At The Stork Club, 1951" David Hinckley reviews the media wars between Baker and gossip columnist Walter Winchell from New York Daily News, November 9, 2004

Susan Robinson: Josephine Baker (Gibbs Magazine) August 1, 2005

"Profiles in Courage for Black History Month" National Black Justice Coalition, February 28, 2006

Lester Strong - Josephine Baker's Hungry Heart - Gay & Lesbian Review Magazine September/October 2006

"Review of Josephine Baker: A Centenary Tribute" Ann Shaffer reviews Hommage à Josephine Baker: disque du centenaire=a centenary tribute; [songs from 1930-1953], from Black Grooves, October 4, 2006

"Josephine Baker (Freda McDonald) Native of St. Louis, Missouri" Black Missouri, February 10, 2008

"Discography at Sony BMG Masterworks"

A Josephine Baker photo gallery Silent Ladies

Photographs of Josephine Baker Virtual History

St. Louis Walk of Fame: Josephine Baker

Josephine Baker Find a Grave

Les Milandes- Josephine Baker's castle in France

Baker, Roy Ward

THE VAMPIRE LOVERS

Great Britain (91 mi) 1970

Time Out review

The film which made Ingrid Pitt a major horror movie cult figure (she plays a voracious lesbian vampire). Based on Sheridan Le Fanu's Carmilla, it is well mounted and enjoyable, with solid performances: the pre-credits sequence, in particular, has a dreamy beauty. But some of the action is a bit flat; and overall it marks the point at which vampirism in British movies became so overtly erotic that the films virtually ceased to be about anything except sex. Later examples of the strain were to become terribly monotonous.

Britmovie

The Vampire Lovers was Hammer’s first and only co-production with Hollywood’s leading horror specialists American International, who have been responsible for most of the Edgar Allan Poe pictures. This film tapped a new source of classic horror literature, the work of J. Sheridan Le Fanu, and injected an audacious dose of sex into the proceedings.

Ingrid Pitt plays a beautiful female vampire, Mircalla Karnstein alias Carmilla. Carmilla rises from the grave to avenge the deaths of her relatives, claiming not only the odd male as victim, but also several attractive young girls, a lesbian aspect emphasised by her fanged attention to their breasts. Moving on to the family of Roger Morton (George Cole), Carmilla continues her revenge afresh on his impressionable daughter Emma (Madeleine Smith). Douglas Wilmer’s Baron Hartog is Carmilla’s chief adversary, arranging for a stake to penetrate her heart, while Peter Cushing’s General Spielsdorf, father of one of her victims, makes doubly sure by removing her head!

KQEK (Mark R. Hasan) dvd review

Fans of Ingrid Pitt's Hammer horror film debut have been waiting a long time for the uncut version, after a history of theatrical edits and fumbled video releases.

MGM's transfer is very nice, showing some slight artifacting when mist swirls in low-light shots, but overall maintaining a nice color spectrum for the brightly-lit interior sets, and creepy nighttime scenes. Harry Robinson's evocative score comes through without distortion in the original mono mix, and the dialogue, screams and sound effects are quite sharp.

Though no one in the commentary track really addresses the edits made by the Brits and American International Pictures (the latter actually producing the film when Hammer scaled back in-house production and sub-contracted work), the track reflects the same structure as Countess Dracula , with Hammer scholar Jonathan Southcott moderating a discussion with director Roy Ward Baker, actress Ingrid Pitt, and writer Tudor Gates.

Bosoms are another group of distinguished characters in this once-daring film, mixing full-frontal nudity with erotic fang-biting – a natural way for vampires to behave themselves in the tightwaddish Victorian era. Pitt addresses her onscreen nudity, and while a major draw for the film's loyal fans, it's the characters and intense relationship Mircalla Karnstein develops with her last victim (spindle-thin Madeline Smith) that stands out; the seduction scenes are photographed with taste, and are quite integral to the story. Director Baker, one of England's esteemed genre directors who managed a steady career during Europe's production crash a few years later, really plays up the vampire atmosphere, beautifully building mystique for the film's prologue, and constructing the nighttime seductions with nods to the classics of the silent era.

The best bits in the largely consistent commentary track concern actor Peter Cushing's life after his wife's passing (following the film's completion); touching portraits of the man, his firm marriage, and the bouts of sadness that dominated the actor's final years. Writer Gates also describes the short story “Carmilla,” by Irishman Sheridan le Fanu, and the lesbian subtext exploited by the filmmakers under the freedom that existed during the more permissible Seventies; and a few details regarding the two sequels (“Lust for a Vampire” and “Twins of Evil”). Director Baker and Gates also describe a lost mime scene that was deleted before the film's release by a studio executive.

Among additional extras, Ingrid Pitt reads excerpts from Le Fanu's story, while 77 stills flow by, showing production and really funny publicity stills of actresses posing, mugging, and standing as a team of vampires in translucent nighties. An anamorphic trailer offers an alluring montage of shocks, and no doubt helped draw in audiences for what became Hammer's most successful film of the decade, raking in over $1 million.

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Mark Zimmer) dvd review also reviewing COUNTESS DRACULA

The horror films of Hammer Studios were a watershed from the old black-and-white pictures from Universal and other studios. With their color and emphasis on gore and cleavage, they provided a provocative alternative that other filmmakers strove in vain to emulate. In about 1970, the Hammer horrors made a shift of their own from implied sexuality to more blatant onscreen sex with copious nudity. This double feature from MGM provides two films from that sudden change, one of which is surprisingly rated PG. Both star Ingrid Pitt, who briefly was the Scream Queen of the early 1970s in no small part due to these films.

Countess Dracula features Pitt in heavy and unconvincing age makeup as the newly-widowed middle-aged Hungarian countess Elisabeth Nadasdy. Although her longtime lover Captain Dobi (Nigel Green) desires to make their union a legitimate one, the Countess has ideas about other, younger lovers. Her desires take on reality when she cuts a chambermaid in a fury and gets blood on her face; magically the ravages of age vanish. The chambermaid soon vanishes and the countess is transformed into the beautiful young Pitt. Masquerading as her own daughter Ilona (Lesley-Anne Down), the Countess must continue to butcher the local virgins in order to keep her youth and hold the interest of young lieutenant Imre Toth (Sandoer Elès).

Although the plot here seems rather silly, it was actually based on the true story of Elisabeth Bathory, a Hungarian countess who did indeed bathe in the blood of virgins in hopes of keeping her youth (though she did not experience the magical effects that Pitt obtains here). Although estimates are unreliable and vary widely, it appears certain that Bathory was responsible for the deaths of dozens of young women in this manner.

Pitt is simply terrific in the lead; despite the unconvincing makeup, she moves and acts in a very convincing manner as the aged Countess. Had a better makeup artist been available, her abilities might have been better recognized. In support, Green provides a wild-eyed Rasputinish tone to Captain Dobi that helps make it believable that he would assist the Countess in her bloody plots. As usual for the Gothic Hammer output, the film has excellent production values with lavish sets and costumes (but note how these were obtained in the commentaries!)

Also in 1970 Hammer embarked on a loosely-related trilogy of films based on the vampiric Karnstein family. This was apparently an attempt to develop a franchise of vampires despite the well-known displeasure of Christopher Lee for having to return to the role of Dracula again and again. The attempt wasn't successful, but it did produce some memorable movies. The first two films of the trilogy, The Vampire Lovers and Lust for a Vampire (1970) are both based on J. Sheridan LeFanu's oft-filmed story, Carmilla. The last, Twins of Evil (1971, supposedly forthcoming from MGM) is less closely related to these two and goes off into completely different directions.

Pitt also appears in this film, this time as Mircalla Karnstein. Mircalla, with the connivance of her mother (Dawn Addams), arranges to stay in a series of homes of young women with single fathers: first General Spielsdorf (Peter Cushing), and then Mr. Morton (George Cole). The daughters, Laura Spielsdorf (Pippa Steele) and Emma Morton (Madeline Smith) each slowly become deathly pale and subject to bizarre nightmares as the vampiric Mircalla (who also goes under the names Marcilla and Carmilla) seduces them. The old adage about the most beautiful women being the most dangerous certainly rings true here.

This picture tries to create a new vampire mythos of sorts; while these vampires can go into the sun (although they dislike it) and need not sleep in coffins, they must keep with them the shroud in which they were buried originally. This is an interesting little variation that helps propel the finale along. As in the source story, there is a certain amount of duplication here, essentially repeating the same situation, though with varying outcomes. Hammer really takes the sexuality into new grounds, however, making the lesbian subtext of LeFanu's tale into quite explicit lesbianism, especially in the uncut version provided here. For 1970 mainstream fare this was quite shocking indeed; the fact that the girls seduced are clearly represented as being significantly underage makes it still carry a significant impact. The contrast of the intense female sexuality of the teen daughters against the respective utterly clueless fathers surely resonated in a strong way among the members of the burgeoning sexual revolution, making this one of the most profitable films Hammer ever released.

Pitt is again in fine form here, and not just physically. Her Mircalla is a shade distant, and again she conveys in a surprisingly effective manner a very old woman mimicking a very young one. This theme of deception helps tie the two films together thematically and makes this a very pleasing double feature. Cushing doesn't get much to do (he was very much preoccupied with the illness and death of his beloved wife, so that's understandable). Kate O'Mara as the governess (also seduced by Mircalla) makes a huge impression with her violent outbursts as she realizes where this love triangle is heading. Ferdy Mayne (the head bloodsucker in Polanski's The Fearless Vampire Killers of 1968) has a small but memorable role as the doctor who pieces together the links between Emma and Laura's illnesses.

Between the two films, one gets a good grounding in what would become the violent and sexy horrors that make up the 1970s canon of Eurocult. Both are well done and worth checking out for the horror fan.

British Horror Films (Chris Wood) review

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson) dvd review also reviewing COUNTESS DRACULA, which also includes an earlier article on the restoration: Restoring Prime Hammer Horror - Nudes and Gore Galore!

Kinocite K.H. Brown

DVD Verdict (Bill Gibron) dvd review also reviewing COUNTESS DRACULA

The Digital Bits capsule dvd review Barrie Maxwell, also reviewing COUNTESS DRACULA

SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review review [2/5] Richard Scheib

Destructible Man great photos

Eccentric Cinema Brian Lindsey

Furie's Review

Classic Horror review Jason Jones

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

Critical-Film.com (Josh Darling) review [4/5]

FilmFanatic.org

Happy 70th Birthday to Ingrid Pitt! Kimberly Lindbergs from Cinebeats, November 1, 2007

Bearded Freak's Reviews

The Vampire Lovers (1970) House of Mirth

The Spinning Image (Graeme Clark) review

ScreenwritersLeague.com

Wooden Spoon's includes movie posters

TV Guide review

Variety review

The New York Times (A.H. Weiler) review

Pitt of Horror Ingeid Pitt official website

The Ingrid Pitt Column

Hammer Glammer Films

Hammer and Beyond

HAMMER GLAMOUR: THE WOMEN OF HAMMER

Women of Horror #72: Madeline Smith Dead Lantern

Hammer Glamour: horror's finest ladies including Madeline Smith ...

Baker, Sean

STARLET B 86

USA (103 mi) 2012 ‘Scope

This is an unusual and somewhat mysterious examination of the banality and utter vacuousness of both the elderly and young twentysomethings while living in the San Fernando Valley, which never looked more rampantly oppressive. Opening with an exquisite musical theme by Manual that recurs throughout, as we quickly see blank yellow walls, where a blond head slowly rises on the edge of the screen, the film is seen through the breezy eyes of a 21-year old blond, Jane (Dree Hemingway, the daughter of actress Mariel Hemingway), a scantily clad girl apparently with too much time on her hands, as she spends a good deal of it getting high or playing video games with her roommates, where together they comprise an updated Three’s Company (1976 – 1984) glimpse of what it means to be total airheads in the 21^st century, as anything resembling thoughts rarely come out of anyone’s heads, where one suspects they will quickly grow tiresome, as almost immediately they hold little interest whatsoever. It’s Jane’s pet Chihuahua dog that is named Scarlet, a well mannered dog that she takes everywhere, sleeping away most of *his* life, much like his master. When Jane picks up a few odds and ends at yard sales to decorate her otherwise empty room, one of the items purchased is a thermos, which she plans to use as a flower vase, but inside she discovers wads of cash money totaling $10,000, which she figures is actually something worth thinking about. Returning to the scene of the crime where she bought it, the cantankerous old lady that sold it to her, 85-year old Sadie, Besedka Johnson, a remarkable first-time unprofessional actress, and easily the most natural presence onscreen, slams the door in her face before she can utter a word.

After going on an instant shopping spree for herself and her dog, helping out the aggressively obnoxious roommates downstairs, Stella Maeve as Melissa and James Ransone as Mikey, both regular pill poppers whose adrenaline is always a little over-amped, calmed down by pot smoking, but both are a nervous wreck most of the time who always find themselves in desperate financial straits. Jane finds a way to accidentally run into Sadie, by paying off her waiting cab at the grocery store and pulling up in her own car, acting neighborly. The trouble is, Sadie’s been around the block once or twice and she smells a scam when she sees one. But Jane is kind of a naïve, happy go lucky Ana Faris style girl whose good looks get her through every situation in life, where people will literally step over one another to try to get into position to help her. Understanding this since about the age of 6, she fully utilizes this kind of attention to her full advantage, wearing barely there Daisy Mae outfits that have all eyes devouring her. Despite this social phenomena, she simply ignores it most of the time and goes on about her business as if nothing of any significance was happening, constantly smiling, without a care in the world. Nothing at this point is remotely compelling to the viewer until Jane persists in running into Sadie, who actually calls the cops on her as a stalker and potential scam artist, only to discover she has no rap sheet and the police are calling her a Good Samaritan who is actually trying to help her, offering rides for free instead of having to pay cabfare. Sadie is the kind of woman who rarely gets exposure in the movies, as at that age, the elderly are invisible, out of sight, out of mind, yet she literally takes over the film. Slowly and reluctantly, a kind of friendship develops, where it seems Jane wants to mention the money, but Sadie says she has more money than she’ll ever need, as her dead husband was a gambler, and a good one who apparently left her plenty.

The side stories are completely undeveloped, but notable, where both Melissa and Jane do porn shoots on the side to earn cash, as does Mikey, who seems to think he’s Melissa’s agent as well, but Melissa has been tossed out of the business for 30 days to cool out after a violent, drug induced, temper tantrum nearly costs her a job, where Jane also works a convention circuit selling photos, hyping her merchandise, and mingling with her fans. Sadie, on the other hand, has ultra conservative neighbors who attempt to gain leverage over her by suing her, claiming injuries from falls on cracks in her sidewalk, or unflattering tree branches that reach into their yards, basically an excuse to bully an elderly lady with self-righteous talk about how she’s a danger to the neighborhood. Sadie, by some strange quirk of fate, likes the foliage as it keeps her neighbors out of view. Among the best scenes in the film are quiet and somewhat awkward moments of Sadie opening up about her life, chatting with Jane in her backyard flower garden, where we get a glimpse of an era when she wasn’t a frail elderly lady, but a woman happy to be with the guy she loved, often dreaming of Paris. Instead she spends her time at weekend bingo games, rarely winning a pot, but loves being part of the action. The two couldn’t be more different, yet the film simultaneously explores the existential emptiness in both their lives, as neither one has anyone close, where both are forced to suppress their real emotions in order to get through the forced artificiality of their working life or the dreariness of growing old alone, dealing with the onset of old age, where you have to pretend it doesn’t bother you. Nearly all color has been bleached out of these images, where despite the vacuousness of the toxic atmosphere in the Valley, there’s a quiet mystery to be found under the surface of this odd relationship, where the recurring musical refrain adds to the texture of this gentle portrait.

User reviews from imdb Author: Culver Bronsan from Seattle, WA

STARLET is a bold and original independent film. It's not afraid to go places most indies would shy away from, mostly due to not landing a distribution deal etc. That is just one of the many reasons why STARLET has true independent spirit.

I saw STARLET at SXSW earlier this year and it was the most exciting narrative to come out of the fest. Sean Baker is a fearless filmmaker that has already established himself with a diverse body of work. He's one I'll be watching for a longtime to come.

And of course this short review/praise would be incomplete without mentioning the breakthrough performance by Dree Hemingway. You could tell she had complete faith in Baker and it showed in her performance. It's a risky role that she seemed to handle gracefully.

STARLET is a film that challenges it's viewers. It challenges our prejudices and preconceived notions, but it does so with a heart.

Honorable mention: The brilliant, and almost effortless, performance by the dog, "Starlet".

SXSW 2012 Review: Unlikable Supporting ... - Film School Rejects Kate Erbland

There’s nothing quite like found money to bring out people’s true colors – and, in the case of Sean Baker‘s Starlet, the character that emerges from lead character Jane is surprising to everyone around her, especially herself. Baker’s film centers on Jane (Dree Hemingway), a Florida transplant who now wiles away her days in Los Angeles’ San Fernando Valley doing, well, what is it that Jane does? The gorgeous Hemingway spends most of her time driving around with her dog (Starlet, even though he happens to be a boy), getting high with her terrible roommates (an appropriately screeching unhinged Stella Maeve and her dirtbag boyfriend James Ransone), and wearing clothing so short that it nearly becomes its own plot point.

While it’s eventually revealed just what Jane does with her time and for her money, Starlet focuses on an undefined Jane in the film’s first half, a time period in which nothing much happen beyond the introduction of the Starlet’s major plot point, though that only takes less than five minutes. And though we get to know Jane more as the film plods on, it does not prove to be an ultimately rewarding experience. 

Jane, sick of the blank-walled room she rents from Mikey and Melissa, spends a weekend day hitting various garage sales to procure her own furniture and decorations. At Sadie’s (Besedka Johnson) house, she purchases a large flowered Thermos that she’s bent on using as a vase. The crotchety older woman has no bones about telling Jane it is indeed a Thermos and that there are no refunds. But the last thing Sadie needs to hem about is giving Jane back her money, because once Jane has taken the vase home and filled it with water, rolls of hundred dollar bills pop out.

Hemingway (of course, the daughter of Mariel and great-granddaughter of Ernest) is still a somewhat green actress, but the parts of the film that work best are the moments when she is excepted to react in a real world way. From her facial expressions down to her body language, Hemingway’s reactions to some of the unexpected people she meets and situations she finds herself in feel rooted in truth and honesty – particularly as it applies to her discovery of the money and her decision to attempt to give it back to Sadie. These scenes are, however, exceedingly better than the portions of the film where is she clearly under less direction and has been asked to improvise her words and responses (which, unfortunately, make up the majority of the production).

Starlet has been billed as a story of a cross-generational friendship between Jane and Sadie – and while their chemistry eventually comes together, the film takes far too long to get to the meat of their story. And although their relationship hits some emotional beats, it’s still quite predictable, and it feels far too much like other independent features of the same mold. The film itself is also perhaps about twenty minutes or so too long, and though Baker’s choice to focus on Jane’s trashy roommates and skeezy boss makes sense (it’s far nicer to see Jane with Sadie than the rest of them), they are unshaded characters and generally revolting to watch for any extended period of time. Starlet itself is a fine watch, and despite some inspired moments, it too feels unshaded and forgettable.

The Upside: An often lovely performance from Dree Hemingway; brief bits of inspired cohesion between writing, directing, acting, theme, and aim.

The Downside: Unsympathetic and uninteresting supporting characters; a bloated runtime; an ultimately directionless plot that feels like a million other films of its same ilk.

Golden Girls: Sean Baker's Starlet - Cinema Scope Adam Nayman, also includes an interview with the director

The opening shot of Sean Baker’s fourth feature Starlet is beautiful, and not just because it (eventually) rests on Dree Hemingway. Underneath dreamy, faintly menacing music by Manual, we fade up on a mottled wall cast in sunlight, with some sort of tousled mass peeking out slightly from below. That little blonde outcropping is our deceptively unceremonious introduction to Jane, who is given to sleeping in late because there’s no need in her life for an early start. As the music cuts out, she sits up, slumping against the edge of the frame and yawning the hair away from her face. She’s hardly ready for her close-up, but there it is anyway.

It’s quite literally apparent from the first shot that Starlet is a movie made by a director who is thinking on the job, as he did in his nimble New York City neorealist films Take Out (2004, about an illegal Chinese immigrant hustling to pay off his former traffickers) and Prince of Broadway (2008, a Dardennes-inflected paternity tale populated by contraband hucksters). But the cogitation is subtle enough that the sleepy-eyed might mistake it for just another L.A. story. In more ways than one, Jane is a type: within the world of the film she’s just another snake-hipped chick walking her little Chihuahua (the movie’s true namesake, played by Baker’s own dog, Boonee) around the San Fernando Valley, but she’s also familiar enough as a protagonist—the pretty young thing who goes west to either be disabused of her notions of stardom or else painfully abused in its pursuit. “I swear to God, it’s like somebody took America by the East Coast, and shook it, and all the normal girls managed to hang on,” snarked Robert Downey Jr. in Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (2005), neatly encapsulating the attitude of most moviemakers towards female characters in this particular milieu—that all that’s waiting for them in Hollywood is the bed they’ve made for themselves and the entreaty to lie in it.

For Jane, it’s a futon: she’s crashing with Melissa (Stella Maeve) and her boyfriend Mikey (James Ransone), and it’s obvious that she doesn’t much like her living situation since the first words out of her mouth—after rousing Melissa from THC-induced unconsciousness on the living room floor—are “Can I change my room?” Scouring neighbourhood rummage sales for affordable feng shui props, she finds some cheap picture frames and a thermos that she thinks would make for a nice vase; Mikey and Melissa are more interested in their ongoing game of Call of Duty. So far, so Lifestyles of the Poor, Young, and Feckless, but Starlet surprises its audience and its main character in one fell swoop. The thermos contains wadded up rolls of hundred-dollar bills, and suddenly Jane—whom we already have seen donating blood, seemingly for money—is flush with cash.

“Question: Say you found like a shitload of money…what would you do?” asks Jane in a mutually glazed moment with Melissa, zoning out half-lidded in front of a rerun of Greg the Bunny (the Fox sitcom that begins Baker’s resume). “Fuck it, it’s yours,” is the other girl’s response, but nothing in Starlet is that simple, not even this very exchange, which, along with many other scenes (including the bit where Jane donates blood), will be suggestively re-contextualized later on. The thermos’ former owner turns out to be Sadie (Besedka Johnson), who, like Jane, is a type: a muttering old woman in a cluttered old house whose hostility borders on Lynchian eccentricity. The apparent unlikelihood that Jane would want to give the money back, much less suffer even a moment’s rudeness during a pseudo-reconnaissance mission to Sadie’s place, is matched by the unlikelihood that an indie drama about characters separated by six decades striking up an intense friendship could be anything but maudlin, precious, or ridiculous. But Starlet, which is extremely well-written (by Baker and Chris Bergoch) and acted, transcends both its L.A. Movie and Lifetime Movie set-ups.

Starlet also transcends—though that’s maybe not the right word—its other major narrative revelation, which has to do with how Jane makes the money she does have. It’s a twist that Baker places relatively late in the game—about 40 minutes in—but one that’s impossible to not disclose in order to discuss the film at all. Jane acts in pornographic movies: she’s a rising star(let) at a company called Rampage, where Melissa works also. (Mikey, hilariously played by Ransone, is a hybrid boyfriend/pimp/manager figure who obviously gets off on having a girlfriend in the business of getting people off, but the sleaze factor is otherwise surprisingly low.) Whether or not viewers are actually blindsided by this twist, which is hinted at many times in everything from incidental dialogue to Jane’s endearingly skimpy wardrobe (and that pitiful blood donation might really have been a job-mandated test), the real surprise is how Baker treats it. Which is to say: explicitly, matter-of-factly, as one significant component of Jane’s life but not as something that she (or we) should be stigmatized by—not even the likely to be much-discussed hardcore sequence. It’s also not really a factor in the evolution of her relationship with Sadie.

What really shouldn’t be spoiled about Starlet are the scenes between Jane and Sadie, which are lightly comic and occasionally even cute (that most verboten of modes in serious cinema), but which are also suffused with different and occasionally overlapping shades of sadness and melancholy. Jane’s burgeoning affection for her bingo-hall pal is laced with guilt and a fear of being found out, while Sadie’s defensive posture is both hard-earned and hard-edged (one early encounter ends with the younger woman getting maced in the face). The idea of two very different women who are lonely in superficially distinct but underlyingly compatible ways is powerful, and Baker keeps coming up with scenes that develop—as opposed to simply reiterate—this theme. Calling a film “generous” is an empty-calorie compliment (especially since it implies that films that don’t “love” their characters are somehow ethically suspect), but the way that Baker gives everyone, even the moronic Mikey, a fair shake in the end is rare. In another film, Maeve’s Melissa, who eventually figures out that Jane wasn’t speaking hypothetically, would have been a walking plot device; here she gets a pair of scenes that afford her just as many complex emotions as the leads, even as she tries to tear down everything that they (and the film) have built.

It’s easy enough to see that Starlet is a gorgeous-looking movie: cinematographer Radium Cheung, whose credits as a grip run the gamut from Swimfan (2002) to Blue Valentine (2010), is obviously a major talent who understands the sun-blind look of Southern California. What’s harder and more rewarding to discern is just how lovely Starlet is at its core—how it understands the difference between sentiment and sentimentality and does justice to the former while adroitly sidestepping the latter. As a showcase for two actresses making their debuts, it feels, if not unprecedented, then at least momentous. Hemingway’s famous last name (remember that her mom did the ingenue thing back in 1983 in Star 80) and supermodel status shouldn’t confuse the issue of her performance, which is unaffected, natural, and superb; the fact that Johnson is an unknown makes for good press release copy, but there’s a finesse to her acting that goes beyond canny casting. They absolutely deserve each other. And Baker’s film deserves a good, hard look rather than the half-hearted glance that a plot synopsis in a program note might seem to warrant. Yes, it’s another movie about the seedy side of showbiz, and yes, it’s a movie where an adorable dog is both used as a plot point and gifted with a few reaction shots. It’s also very, very good.

SXSW REVIEW: Sean Baker's 'Starlet' a Provocative Showcase for ... Eric Kohn from indieWIRE

Smells Like Screen Spirit [Don Simpson]

Starlet: SXSW Review - The Hollywood Reporter John DeFore

Variety [Peter DeBruge]

Bakshi, Ralph

HEAVY TRAFFIC

USA (76 mi) 1973

Slant Magazine review Ed Gonzalez

Ralph Bakshi's cartoon Heavy Traffic ferociously mixes in live-action elements, tracing the schizophrenic journey of a struggling cartoonist through a crippling '70s New York City. As preposterous as it is urgent, Bakshi's disconcerting manifesto is ripe with racial tensions, sexual ambiguities and seemingly prefigures both AIDS and Giuliani. Michael is a virgin, caught up in the riptide of his parents' chaotic relationship: his father is a low-life cheating Italian, his mother a foul-mouthed Jewish harpy. He is unloved and ridiculed into committing rape. He takes to the streets, coming in contact with an assortment of underground lowlifes that disgust, scare and inspire him to draw. Heavy Traffic followed Bakshi's now-classic Fritz the Cat and is alive with the same kind of gritty aplomb familiar to early Abel Ferrara works. Heavy Traffic is all over the place but this deliriously perverted, ghostly film about artists struggling against poverty is a frightening blast from the past.

Bakuradze, Bakur

THE HUNTER

Russia (124 mi) 2011

Cannes 2011. Snapshots: Bakur Bakuradze's "The Hunter" Marie-Pierre Duhamel at Cannes from Mubi, May 22, 2011

Bakur Bakuradze is a director of great tenacity, of strong stylistic choices, of clear standpoints in the way he looks at Russia to design his stories.

All the qualities he showed in his previous works, including the beautiful documented-fiction short Moscow, are reflected in his film in Un Certain Regard, The Hunter.

The main character of this new film takes something from Bakuradze's previous anti-hero Shultes: a man of not many words and of a strong physical presence (Bakuradze's talent in casting and actors' direction is exceptional). The mise-en-scène (precise even when elliptical, always at the right distance) takes the best from its semi-documentary position to tell of a man, of his handicapped son (how to help him conquer his autonomy), of his lover (a woman prisoner he hired from the town prison manager to work in his farm), of his family and environment.

The film, soft-paced yet filled with tension, in which faces, gestures, actions and words are the tangible result of an obviously patient and keen observation of reality and people, can be seen as a melancholic song, a ballad sung in an undertone. The woman prisoner is liberated and has to go back to...what? The boy with a bad arm will be able to hunt together with his dad, the farm-factory will go on and maybe expand...yet everybody, somehow and at times, is "Humiliated and Insulted." Even the father-hunter-boss.

Not a "typically Russian" film, stylistically picturesque, not a film that summons the masters nor provides ready-to-use references: just contemporary cinema.

The Hunter Fionnuala Halligan at Cannes from Screendaily, May 21, 2011

Hyper-naturalistic (fielding an entire cast of non-professionals), agricultural, and glacial in pace, Bakur Bakuradze’s second film The Hunter (Okhotnik) is unafraid to make demands of its audience over a two-hour-plus running time. Set on a pig-farm in Pskov in Russia’s Northwest, it is dramatically uneventful yet occasionally watchable - if the viewer buys into its policy of strict information-rationing.

Following up Shultes, which also received an Un Certain Regard berth at Cannes, Bakuradze has become even more elusive in his plotting. This deliberate setting aside of narrative combined with a sparseness in production (there is no score, for example, and hardly any dialogue) and lengthy running time will see The Hunter confined to the more rarified end of the festival circuit, where it may draw a following. Theatrical exposure at home would appear to be a challenge.

The Hunter tracks day-to-day life on a remote pig farm where Ivan (Barskovich) lives with his wife, young son Kolya (Avdochenok) and teenage daughter. He runs the business watchfully with the help of manager Viktor (Degilev), who is the closest he has to a friend.

His son has only one arm and occasionally visits the doctor, or a health spa, for treatment, and is keen to become a boar hunter like his father. Kolya frets that he will not be able to hold the rifle and Ivan becomes increasingly concerned with this potential problem.

To the ambient sounds of grinding farm machinery and squealing pigs, an exhausted sow gives birth and is rapidly sent for impregnation again. The local mill is forced to close due to a temporary shortage of flax, and Ivan hires two women from the plant to muck out his pig pens.

It slowly becomes apparent that they are part of a local prison labour camp. One cannot stomach life on a livestock farm; the second, Lyuba, appears more engaged in the routine, and we note that Ivan is watching her.

Bakuradze’s camera studies the daily grind of life on this farm, largely carried out in silence. Ivan, Kolya and Viktor visit a sausage factory and invest in similar machinery for their own farm. They take their pig carcasses in the back of a van to local abattoirs (vegetarians may not warm to this film).

They go out on the lake in a boat, trying to see a WWII fighter plane that was shot down by Nazis and now lies below the waters. They notice the tracks of some poachers. Kolya develops a fondness for the raccoons Viktor is breeding for a winter hat. Life follows a set routine.

Bakuradze’s use of non-actors works in this setting, and Ivan in particular is a natural, his performance complemented by Lyuba’s angular, silent face.

The director clearly believes that the audience will be drawn into their silent world, to become part of the gaps between them; but The Hunter’s running time is leisurely for a film this dramatically sparse. Technically, The Hunteris clearly limited by budget concerns, but some strong sound work and smart editing make it feel like a smooth enough ride. 

Balabanov, Alexei

BROTHER (Brat) A 95

Russia (96 mi) 1997

from the Pacific Cinematheque (link lost):

"The best Russian movie I have seen in years." —J. Hoberman, Village Voice

"Russian noir comes of age with Alexei Balabanov's Brother, a tough, taut, expertly made gangster movie about a baby-faced former soldier boy from the countryside (Sergei Bodrov Jr.) who takes today's St. Petersburg by storm, creating a trail of dead Chechen thugs and blown-away local mafia before hitchhiking by truck to his future destination. Where next? 'Moscow!' he says with a crooked smile. Director Balabanov is brilliant at getting at the cruel, chaotic, anything-goes Yeltsin-era Russia. Still, the movie belongs to Bodrov, who previously played the nice young soldier in Prisoner of the Mountains (which was made by his father, Sergei Bodrov Sr.)... On screen here, he's a primal throwback to Cagney in The Public Enemy and Edward G. Robinson in Little Caesar, a charismatic killer with a wan smile, a goofy, junior-high-bully's voice, a dim intelligence, and a disquieting sweetness, which can appear on display just moments after he's saturated a seedy enemy with hot bullets. He murders and then he listens lovingly to his Sony Walkman: there's a great score throughout of throbbing Russian devil rock!" (Gerald Peary, Boston Phoenix). "Terrifically stylish... Brother has a thread of cynical humor that connects it to the American gangster movies of the 1930s as well as to more recent films like Goodfellas that examine the flashier trappings of macho gangster culture with a satirical eye" (Stephen Holden, New York Times).

Brother Julian Graffy from Sight and Sound

A small Russian town, the present. Demobbed from the army, Danila Bagrov wanders on to the set of a rock video being made by the band Nautilus Pompilius and gets beaten up. On his mother's advice he leaves for St Petersburg where his brother Vitia lives. Vitia is a petty criminal, hired by gang boss Kruglyi to take out a Chechen who has muscled in on the boss' protection racket. Wandering round the town, Danila saves a man named Gofman from an extortionist and meets Ket, a young girl. Vitia passes on the job of dealing with the Chechen to Danila. He does the killing, but is shot by Kruglyi's men and escapes on a tram driven by a young woman, Sveta. Later, he and Sveta attend a Nautilus concert together.

After an evening with Ket, Danila is asked by Vitia to do another job. He joins two crooks on a stakeout of a flat, but while they are waiting for their quarry, he wanders upstairs where his hero Viacheslav Butusov, the leader of Nautilus Pompilius, is at a party. He kills the crooks and saves the man they have taken hostage. Searching for Danila, Kruglyi's men badly beat up Sveta and terrorise Vitia into summoning Danila into a trap. Danila kills Kruglyi and his men, and persuades Vitia to go home to look after their aged mother. After parting with Sveta, Gofman and Ket, he leaves for Moscow.

Review

In Danila Bagrov, Aleksei Balabanov gives us a new type of hero, experienced yet unformed, a killer with the innocent face of a Young Pioneer. Every enthusiasm he acquires - from the music of Nautilus Pompilius (quite wrong for him, being the cult band of the previous generation) to his new clothes and haircut, from killing for a living to his moves to St Petersburg and Moscow - is suggested to him by someone else. Constantly in motion, he's searching for a father figure, be he the brother who helped bring him up, or the Petersburg-German Gofman of whom he asks the perennial Russian question "Why do we live?", or the musician Viacheslav Butusov. He's descended from both the strong, silent heroes of Russian folklore and the inscrutable outsider heroes of Clint Eastwood's Sergio Leone movies and Taxi Driver, who arrive in town and proceed to "clean it up". Yet he is also (and this is Balabanov's major achievement) a representative of a post-Soviet generation unexpectedly released from the cage of moral and social certainties. The resulting confusions are effectively conveyed by the slightly bland good looks and the understated acting of Sergei Bodrov in his second major role after springing to fame in his father's Prisoner of the Mountains.

When, at the end of the film, having wasted half a dozen 'bad guys', Danila goes out once more on to the great Russian road, he seems scarcely more certain about his intentions. The film gains hugely from this openness, from its refusal to editorialise. Yet there is ample evidence for us to draw our own conclusions from the reactions of the other characters. For his brother Vitia everything in the new Russia can be reduced to biznez. Druggy, affectless Ket hangs out with him when he has money and ignores him when he hasn't. But Sveta, to his bemusement, would rather stay with her violent but humanly comprehensible husband than leave with a tough guy who thinks shooting can solve every problem, and Gofman, eking out a living with the down and outs, tells him the city has destroyed him. What both these characters have, and what Danila conspicuously lacks, is some sense of community.

Brother is the only one of Balabanov's films to be set in a socially articulated contemporary Russia, and it effectively delineates the contradictions between the provinces and the big city, between the penurious old Russia and the new Russia of petty mafiosi and feckless youth. It shows the casual contemporary Russian racism towards Jews, Chechens and other "black-arsed" trans-Caucasians. In Danila, it illustrates the beginning of the backlash against total cultural Americanisation.

Above all the film gives a wonderfully resonant picture of modern St Petersburg, the most ambiguous and multifarious of Russian cities. When Danila arrives we are given brief glimpses of its classical centre, including the statue of the Bronze Horseman by the Neva, but we also get the tenement blocks of 19th-century Petersburg, inhabited by the heroes of Gogol and Dostoevsky. (Indeed the whole film can be seen as an ironic subversion of Crime and Punishment, with the killing but without the repentance.) And, cheek by jowl, we also see the Soviet Leningrad of communal flats and the new, bourgeois Petersburg of the glamorous rock elite.

Balabanov's other films - his first film Happy Days, his wonderful short Trofim and his most recent meditation on the underside of early photography Of Freaks and Men (reviewed on page 53) - are also set in St Petersburg and have outsiders wandering its streets and exposing its paradoxes. Brother lacks those films' visual elegance and bravado, but it is in itself a superbly assured piece of work. Tight editing and a repeated use of fading-to-black give it an episodic, fractured quality, appropriate to Danila's inchoate personality. It is a work of great cinematic confidence with a subtle script, telling performances and a clever, contrapuntal use of music. A triumph in Russia, particularly among the young, it's one of the most perceptive, unpartisan diagnoses of the ambiguities of the new Russia and deserves a wider audience. Meanwhile, this spring will see the Russian premiere of Brother-2, which traces the further adventures of Danila in Moscow and Chicago.

OF FREAKS AND MEN (Pro urodov i lyudey) A- 93

Russia (89 mi) 1998

A delightful film, with terrific use of very Russian music, Prokofiev and Mussorgsky, which is exaggerated to such a degree that it becomes comical and extremely clever. It’s superbly filmed in monochrome by Sergei Astakhov using sepia-toned photographic imagery representing the transitional era in the late 19^th century from using still photographs to the birth of cinema. Voyeurism is used as a common theme, reflected in the business of pushing dirty post cards, beautiful women (Dinara Drukarova) bearing their behinds for a flogging, then filling the movie houses with similar imagery, adding an odd element of “freaks,” the fascination to look at and watch strange and devious things. Siamese twins are exploited for this purpose, selling naked photos of the boys, filming images of getting one of them drunk, putting them onstage where they sing beautiful songs while accompanied by an accordion, but they are seen and understood as freaks.

Using silent era inner titles for humor, also ornate period costumes which add to the ravishing beauty, somewhat reminiscent of Janos Szabo’s THE WITMAN BOYS, accentuating sex instead of violence, the film captures a world filled with dark, brooding self-absorbed men, cold, underworld characters in suits and bowler hats creeping through the darkened streets, stairways, and hallways, even traveling down city canals, under bridges, carrying white lilies for their ladies in a steam-powered boat while accompanied by this comically accentuated, ultra-dramatic music, before being seen filming their naked girls, whose white skin is the only light in this otherwise darkened universe, where these men would murder anyone who stood in their way. Balabanov indicated he preferred using the empty streets of St. Petersburg in order to accentuate the architecture, filming inside various museums which donated their elaborate decor as well as their authentic costumes.

from the Pacific Cinematheque (link lost):

"Insinuating itself into the viewer's mind the way its nefarious lead characters corrupt and undermine two families in turn-of-the-century Russia, Of Freaks and Men is a dark gem. References for this picture, shot almost entirely in tinted-sepia re-creations of period daguerreotypes, are tough to find, but one could look to David Lynch and Canadian cult auteur Guy Maddin. But Freaks contrasts sharply with both in its fidelity to its sympathetic characters and the central premise that sex is the sinister undoing of both the innocent and the evil. Two St. Petersburg families, one high-society and one middle-class, come into contact with the strange, dour Johann, a professional producer of still pornography, which appears to be a booming trade in old St. Pete. Railroad engineer Radlov is being treated for a heart condition by upper-crust Dr. Stasov, but what binds them more than medicine is Johann's hold on Radlov's seemingly innocent daughter, Lisa, and the good doctor's maid, Darya. Like a merry, malevolent middle man, Johann's henchman Victor creeps between households peddling the photos and developing a taste for the illicit. Thought provoking, funny, disturbing and utterly involving, Freaks marks a terrific follow-up to Balabanov's award-winning 1997 Russian box-office hit, Brother. Cinematographer Sergei Astakhov's carefully modulated and composed sepia-tone images are both disconcerting and hypnotically mood-enhancing" (Steven Gaydos, Variety).

Of Freaks and Men Jonathan Romney from Sight and Sound (excerpt)

Balabanov is, in a sense, doing a service to the history of Russian cinema, rescuing it from its onerous reputation for ideological high-mindedness. He fairly exhaustively drags the high canon of Russian cultural values down to cinema's level, enlisting the music of Prokofiev and Musorgsky, and revealing Petersburg's most grandiose buildings as hiding murky subterranean secrets. Victor Ivanovich walks down a sweeping marble stairway that narrows from shot to shot, leading to the cellar where the gang produces its wares. The film is an outstanding essay on city architecture, especially in its exploration of Petersburg's waterways, with Johan's final journey more akin to a funeral trip.

Russian literature has a long tradition of the arcane and abject, and Balabanov's real precursors here are writers such as Gogol, Bulgakov (in the diabolical mode of The Master and Margarita) and Andrei Bely, in his modernist panorama Petersburg. Most of all, Of Freaks and Men is Dostoevskian, with Johan an archetypal wanderer from the west and an epileptic, albeit no holy fool.

Despite the sepia photography, the period dressing and the wry intertitles, the film only takes its early-cinema pastiche so far. Balabanov is more concerned to develop his own style of melancholy grotesque, which has its closest affinities with David Lynch (this film is to the Tsarist drawing room what Blue Velvet was to small-town suburbia) and Peter Greenaway, with its symmetries, doublings and highlighted artifice. Balabanov has a particular genius for faces, and the casting is flawless, from the maidenly blankness of Dinara Drukarova as Liza, to Sergei Makovetskii's glacially dour Johan. Balabanov's regular star Viktor Sukhorukov is especially memorable as Victor Ivanovich, his simian grin the true stuff of nightmares.

Even Lynch and Greenaway have rarely left an audience with such a bitterly ironic punchline. Liza, left drifting in the west, purges her melancholy with a spanking session at the hands of an androgynous, rather anachronistic leather boy: you can't escape either your conditioning or your libido. Nor can you get away from the fate of film: Johan, the would-be mogul, may have met his downfall, but celluloid sleaze is very much the coming thing. As Johan drifts down the Neva on his ice floe, half Frankenstein, half defeated Aguirre, we pretty much know what's in store: the rest is 20th-century cinema history.

DVD Talk (David Walker)

CARGO 200 (Gruz 200)

Russia (89 mi) 2007 Official site [Russia]

Time Out New York Wally Hammond

Balabanov having put his idiosyncratic stamp on the perverse art-movie ('Of Freaks and Men') and and the populist gangster film ('Brother 1 & II') turns to to the horror genre in this, his latest, possibly allegorical,  provocation set  in a grimey industrial town in Kazakhstan (Leninsk, whose history  includes the gulag made famous by Solzenitsyn and the secret  headquarters of Russia's early space and nuclear missile facilities) during the period of 'shortages', war  (in Afghanistan) and so-called perestroika in 1984.  A compromised Professor of Atheism (Leonid Gromov), whose car breaks down, and a partying young couple,  a self-seeking would-be entrepreneur (Leonid Bicevin) and the vulnerable party chief's daughter (Agniya Kuznetsova) he's picked up, find their paths cross at an isolated illegal drinking hole patrolled by a chillingly  creepy  look-out (Alexei Poluyan), a moonlighting local police captain and psychopath. Balabanov, adopting a tone which blends the explicitness and moral inscrutiblility  of John McNaughton's 'Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer' with a cynical black humour  that exceeds even Kubrick's at his darkest, contextualises the ensuing terror against a carefully, brilliantly observed background of wholesale degradation, personal,  environmental, political, moral and, most significantly, religious. Whether this superbly-acted, finely-directed, vision of hell is intended as a despairing state-of-the-nation address or a shocking spirital wake-up call is unclear; what is certain, it's certainly  provides this year's grizzliest cinematic ghost-ride. As the opening credits calmly inform us, it's based on a true story.

The Village Voice [Vadim Rizov]

Aleksei Balabanov's Cargo 200 is an unflinching portrait of the grim vileness of Soviet Russia in 1984; from an American perspective, though, it looks awfully like The Leninsk Chainsaw Massacre. Balabanov—one of Russia's most popular (and nationalistic) directors—insists his movie is in no way genre-oriented. So, when watching this cavalcade of atrocities, keep in mind that the opening title announcing "Based on true events" isn't just the usual slasher trope, but a mission statement. When not supervising the beating of prisoners, sadistic police captain Zhurov (Aleksei Poluyan) hangs out at the rural shack of Aleksey (Aleksei Serebryakov), where illicit sales of hardcore grain vodka are supposed to finance the creation of a utopian "City of the Sun." What happens instead is straight out of the Tobe Hooper playbook: girl gets brought out by a drunk guy to pick up more drink; girl gets kidnapped by Zhurov and repeatedly raped and brutalized. What Balabanov is getting at is the scandal of the U.S.S.R.'s war in Afghanistan: "Cargo 200" is code for the return shipment of dead soldiers. The film's key shot is of a runway where bodies are unloaded from one side of a plane while soldiers run onto the plane simultaneously. It's hard not to watch the whole thing as exceedingly black comedy: The outrages (many and constant) stop being appalling and become grimly amusing. By the time Zhurov dumps the corpse of his captive's fiancé (straight back from Afghanistan) onto the bed where she's chained and reads the soldier's unsent love letters without any inflection, it feels as if you're watching some kind of deranged performance-art piece. Regardless of intent, Cargo 200 is beautifully filmed and completely disturbing for its entire running time.

Film-Forward.com Yana Litovsky

Cargo 200’s nightmarish depiction of the Soviet Union obliterates whatever feelings of Soviet nostalgia that may be surfacing in Putin’s Russia. Director and provocateur Alexey Balabanov sinks his teeth into a profoundly disturbing real-life kidnapping, using its grisly details as a prism for the rotting state of the mid-’80s Soviet machine, just years shy of its collapse.

The events unfold in and around a hellish industrial wasteland, near where the car of Artem (Leonid Gromov), a professor of atheism and proud member of the Communist Party, breaks down on the side of the road. Seeking help, he wanders into a tucked-away moonshine distillery run by a boorish alcoholic with dreams of Russia’s religious reawakening.

After a drunken debate about Soviet godlessness—the film’s most direct verbalization of the looming ideological shift—the academic leaves and is soon followed by the arrival of a young couple fresh from the local disco. After one too many glassfuls of homemade vodka leaves the boy incapacitated on the floor, his companion—the virginal daughter of a communist official—is kidnapped by Zhurov (Alexei Poluyan), the deeply disturbed watchman, who believes that he is taking for himself a bride.

When he’s not tormenting his new ”wife”—sodomizing her, stripping her naked, and handcuffing her to his bed—the psychopathic Zhurov commands the local police force. The terror and corruption perpetrated by him and his cronies is so systematic that the callous murder of a prisoner by the police, among other examples, is carefully staged and all but officially documented.

While its on-going perversion may be exaggerated, Cargo 200 accurately taps into the foulness of the decaying Soviet regime. The title refers to the military code word for the coffins of fallen soldiers shipped back for burial from the war in Afghanistan. Though that conflict isn’t central to the film, its futility is used to color in the mood of the ’80s, along with the zeitgeisty mix of restless underground rock and kitschy pop tunes. A darkly ironic scene showing new recruits running onto a cargo plane at the same time as caskets are loaded off works as heavy-handed but biting symbolism of not only the pointless war but of the self-destructive elements about to rip the country apart.

Balabanov condemns the Soviet Union’s twilight years more brutally than any filmmaker to date. But unlike the psychological torture of watching Michael Haneke’s Funny Games (2007), for example, this agonizing look at the dark recesses of humanity is at least intended as a means to an end. And, with the benefit of hindsight, the director suggests that the collapse of communism may have only exchanged one putrid and corrupt lifestyle for another.

Kinokultura [Tony Anemone]

East European Film Bulletin [Konstanty Kuzma]

Dead Souls: "Alexey Balabanov's 'Cargo 200'" | Indiewire Eric Hynes, also seen here: Cargo 200 | Reverse Shot

IFC.com [Michael Atkinson]

Eye For Film [Michael Pattison]

Slant Magazine [Nick Schager]

PopcornReel.com [Omar P.L. Moore]

Twitch [Ard Vijn]

Cargo 200 : DVD Talk Review of the DVD Video Bill Gibron

National Public Radio [Mark Jordan Legan]

The L Magazine [Henry Stewart]

DVD Verdict [Joel Pearce]

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

Best Movies by Farr [John Farr]

Cargo 200 - The Hollywood Reporter Neil Young

Cargo 200 | Variety Alissa Simon

Bad Soviet Memories Keep on Curdling - The New York Times also seen here: New York Times

Cargo 200 (film) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Balagueró, Jaume

DARKNESS C 72

Spain Italy (102 mi) 2002

Despite the presence of Anna Paquin, this is little more than a haunted house, creepy coven of witches ghost story. Relying on repressed images, which only late in the film come to fruition, the story only grows more and more preposterous until eventually, despite a fairly interesting finale, we have lost nearly all our interest. A few bold images early in the film would have held the audience’s attention much more than this long, drawn out series of empty gestures that only in the last three minutes comes together. Poorly directed, without attention to that thing called suspense, this looks good but falls pretty flat.

SLEEP TIGHT (Mientras duermes)

Spain (102 mi) 2011 ‘Scope Official site [es]

Film Blather [E. Novikov]

Jaume Balaguero’s Sleep Tight is a feature-length illustration of the principle that misery loves company — that unhappy people treat happiness as a zero-sum game, raising their own spirits by making others miserable. It’s an enduring truth made bluntly literal by this thriller about a Barcelona building super whose only source of joy is wiping the smiles off the faces of the posh, cheery tenants he has to serve. His campaign is multi-pronged and sometimes subtle, but his primary target is Clara, the beautiful and seemingly irrepressible young woman on the 5th floor.

Balaguero came to prominence with [REC], the Spanish found-footage sensation that was remade in the States as Quarantine; he attempted an American crossover with the underrated supernatural thriller Darkness. The versatile filmmaker approaches Sleep Tight as a grim, methodical procedural told from the point of view of the villain, who sneaks around unseen executing his increasingly elaborate plots as we wait with bated breath for something to go wrong. It’s suspenseful stuff, filmed with a lush, old-fashioned professionalism, occasionally leavened with some gallows humor. (A precocious young girl in the building has Cesar figured out and blackmails him; he sabotages the special diet of a kind old lady’s dog.) But the emotional stakes are a little low. We can only get so engaged in the exploits of a guy who’s basically just being a douchebag.

The most intriguing part of Sleep Tight is Cesar’s visits with his hospitalized mother, whom he regales with the stories of his various schemes. At first I thought she was a co-conspirator, but no: at one point, she loses consciousness and Cesar physically turns her face toward him and keeps talking. This, we realize, is how he tortures her; how deep his bitterness and ill-will runs. That part of the story might have made a more interesting film.

BeyondHollywood.com [James Mudge]

“Sleep Tight” was one of the films screening at the festival that had been the subject of most critical praise, a dark Spanish suspense thriller from Jaume Balaguero, one half of the “[REC]” directing team. The acclaimed film sees top Spanish actor Luis Tosar (who delivered a towering performance in the recent “Cell 211”) as Cesar, a quiet, kind seeming man who works as a janitor at a posh old apartment building in Barcelona and is well liked by all the inhabitants. However, Cesar has a sinister secret, spending his nights stalking and hiding under the bed of beautiful tenant Clara (Marta Etura, also in “Cell 211”), carrying out a strange and twisted campaign against the unfortunate young woman. Although Cesar seems to have everything under control, a nosy child across the hallway and a police investigation threaten his plans, and it all soon starts to fall apart.

‘Hitchcockian’ is an overused cinematic adjective, though here it’s truly fitting, as “Sleep Tight” is a marvellous, cunningly constructed piece of near-immaculate tension and twists, Balaguero notching up the suspense throughout. The film also resembles Hitchcock through its pitch black sense of coffin humour, things becoming ever more complicated and it looking increasingly less likely that Cesar will succeed in whatever it is his scheme entails, and it plays out almost like a creepy comedy of errors. It’s no easy ask to feature such an unpleasant protagonist and still hold the interest and generate sympathy, but thanks to a marvellous showing from the hugely talented Luis Tosar, the film is never anything less than gripping, and there’s more than a touch of Almodóvar to the way in which things eventually pan out.

“Sleep Tight” is well deserving of the praise heaped upon it, standing as one of the best thrillers of the year, and being very likely to be a break out foreign language hit.

The A.V. Club [Noel Murray]

In one of the most famous scenes in Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho, Anthony Perkins tries to dispose of a murder victim by putting her in the trunk of her car and then pushing it into a swamp. As the vehicle sinks—way too slowly—the film momentarily encourages the audience to sympathize with a madman’s frustrations. Jaume Balagueró’s Sleep Tight is like a feature-length version of that Psycho scene. Luis Tosar stars as a misanthropic, suicidal apartment-complex doorman/handyman who’s dedicated himself to making the residents’ lives miserable, in ways both subtle and horrific. He waters the plants at the wrong time of day, so they’ll die; he feeds one old woman’s dog the wrong food, to give it diarrhea; he hides rotten fruit in the back of a refrigerator; and so on. He’s especially determined to depress the chipper, pretty young Marta Etura. He sends her threatening letters and texts, and sneaks into her apartment to inject skin-irritants into her beauty products and to plant insect eggs. As Tosar perpetually skirts around the edge of being caught—or being exposed by Etura’s nosy pre-teen neighbor Iris Almeida Molina—the viewer has to decide whether to root for this creep to succeed.

Granted, it isn’t that big of a dilemma. As much of a sad-sack as Tosar is, he’s never likeable, per se—which means Sleep Tight is mainly just a clever exercise in inverting a common suspense plot, by holding to the prowler’s point of view. The shift in perspective also means Sleep Tight isn’t terribly scary, because the audience is stuck with the person who has almost all the power: the stalker, not the stalkee. But Balagueró—best known for directing the first two parts of the [Rec] series—has a fine control of pacing and tone, and is able to keep Sleep Tight gripping throughout, right up its shocking final act. The whole movie could be seen as a high-difficulty challenge for the director and for screenwriter Alberto Marini, who try to keep viewers involved with the machinations of a terrible human being. This is a crime story with little to no interest in the who or the why, but only the what and the how. It’s a reverse-procedural, tracking not the solution of a crime, but all of its awful particulars.

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez]

Last year, while friend and frequent collaborator Paco Plaza was driving a nail into their [Rec] franchise, Jaume Balagueró was slicking up this taut psychological thriller, which leans a little too heavily on the dime-store psychoanalysis of Psycho's disheartening studio-mandated finale. It begins on a Monday, with César (Luis Tosar) waking up next to some honey, Clara (Marta Etura), and going about his day as the doorman of their lovely Barcelona apartment building, setting out the day's newspapers, sorting mail, opening the elevator door for tenants, and offering to feed Sra. Verónica's dogs while she's out for the evening. But things aren't as they seem: Clara doesn't speak to César as a lover might (that isn't him in the photo by her bed), a foul-mouthed brat ballsily shakes him down for money, and rather than feast on the potato pie that Sra. Verónica (Petra Martínez) left for him, he feeds it to her pooches. There's also his mother, dying at a nearby hospital and forced to endure in her seemingly catatonic state her son's curious rants about the building's one particularly tough holdout. César, it seems, doesn't like it when people are happy.

Balagueró is a skillful craftsman of glossy Hollywood calling cards, and Sleep Tight, which chronicles César's weeks-long assault on Clara's particularly adamant optimism, moves briskly as the overzealous doorman sets one joy-wrecking mouse trap after another. Hiding under Clara's bed almost every night, César chloroforms her so that he can inject a rash-causing substance into her beauty products, but when the makeup she cakes onto her face come morning allows her to keep up her spirits, he seizes on her fear of bugs by infesting her apartment with roaches. The stakes get higher with every breadcrumb the creep lays down, and the film derives sometimes remarkable corkscrew tension from watching César being backed into a corner. It delights in young Úrsula (Iris Almedia Molina) conning César for money (even pornography, recognizing the seed of a future perv in the little girl) in order to keep his secret, and it absolutely thrills in seeing the doorman try to weasel his way out of Clara's apartment after she brings her boyfriend home and César, hiding under the bed as the couple fucks, accidentally chloroforms himself.

Tosar has a history of playing off-color characters, subtly but boldly articulating motivation in ways that often pick up a story's slack, and Sleep Tight's suspense is enriched by his customary conviction; beyond the sweat on César's brow, the panic in his eye, his sly movement and clever explanation for why he was inside Clara's apartment compellingly suggest a history of similar close calls. Of course, not so credible are many of the other characterizations, from the nosy neighbor (Carlos Lasarte) who rather inexplicably hounds César with the knowledge of his past employment to Clara herself, who, though she's tormented almost daily with scary text messages and letters from a secret admirer who likely resides in the building, never suspects César of being the source. As she isn't in cahoots with the cops, her obliviousness is almost cartoonish, as is her sunny, almost naïve disposition, especially during an apartment-wide, only-in-the-movies dance she puts on to shake the bad spell of her admirer's latest torrent of correspondences.

César's process may be convincing, at least more convincing than Clara's boyfriend, Marcos (Alberto San Juan), confronting César after a telling discovery instead of going to the police, though the rationale for the process is more dubious. The idea of a man almost obsessive-compulsively going about erasing people's joy because he's unable to feel joy himself is tritely beholden to the cheapest sort of blame-the-mother psychoanalysis. This is a shame, because given that the building's maid describes the tenants as "posh shits" at one point, the stage seems set for a horror film about class warfare. Times are tough these days, even in Spain, but rather than spike his genre kicks with Buñuelian chutzpah and have César torment his victims in an attempt to level the playing field between the haves and have nots, Balagueró gives us an exterminating angel that, however creepy, has caught a light sneeze from Norman Bates. But times are tough even at the movies these days, so an old-fashioned but spry game of cat and mouse will suffice.

Sleep Tight, Don't Let The Doorman Bite - New York Observer Rex Reed

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[Interview] Director Jaume Balagueró On Crafting The Suspense Of ‘Sleep Tight’ And The “Harder Horror” Of ‘[REC] 4′!! Evan Dickson interview from Bloody Disgusting, January 7, 2013

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'Sleep Tight,' From Jaume Balagueró - Movies - The New York Times Manohla Dargis

Balekdijan, Frédéric

GAMBLERS (Les mauvais joueurs) B+ 91

France (85 mi) 2005

Very much in the edgy gangster style of Jacques Audiard’s THE BEAT THAT SKIPPED MY HEART, using an in-your-face verité camera style that features plenty of vibrant street action, mixing the look of several different ethnic groups all pitted together in a world where people are constantly in debt. The camera follows Pascal Elbé, though he starts out almost as a secondary character, as ruthless Armenian mobsters, led by Simon Abkarian from Sally Potter’s film YES, of all films, control the garment district in Paris, running sweatshops with illegal indentured Chinese immigrants whose 24 hour lives locked inside a crowded sewing room resemble human slavery. Elbé is something of a shakedown artist, a con man who can deliver carpets and provide needed muscle, who never smiles throughout the entire film, where simmering under the surface is the threat of violence and unpredictability, as he’s physically imposing, yet tender and loyal. His ex-girl friend, Linh Dan Pham, has left him without explanation, though her newly-arrived brother that she doesn’t even know has arrived in Paris and Elbé’s expected to protect him and show him the ropes, but the brother barely speaks French and doesn’t listen to anyone anyway, refusing to work most of the time, preferring instead to read comic books or pursue one of the girls locked up in the sweatshop, which only leads trouble. Much of the beauty of the film is exposing the space between things, in unprotected moments where people can let their guard down, where some of the best scenes in the film are of this kid, along with other Chinese youths, playing video games, or foosball, while pulsating music rocks the screen.

The film reveals migrant communities through a lens of down and out, hardcore working class immigrants who have few, if any, options. Elbé, against all odds, actually gives a damn, but in the gangster world, caring means trouble, as it’s perceived as a weakness. The film is framed by a three card shell game where a talker is continually keeping onlookers off balance, always keeping the cards moving as well, inviting high stakes. Losers get angry, often times violent, culminating in an extended chase sequence that branches off through sides streets and through the Parisian subway system. Part of the problem with this film is it’s saturated in macho swagger and style, but little else, as the frenetic pace of the film takes our breath away, where image and music are powerfully effective, and the actors are especially first rate, but other than a near documentary look at a social underclass which we rarely get a chance to see, similar to the Dardennes LA PROMESSE, lives here have little meaning, and are seen as temporary, almost replacement parts to support somebody else’s carefree lifestyle, someone none of these people will ever get a chance to see. The film breaks down at the end in an unnecessary party sequence, losing its hard-earned edge, as people who have no business being together come together for a New Year’s party which can only erupt in violence and mayhem and complete predictability.

Ball, Alan

TOWELHEAD B 88

aka: Nothing Is Private

USA (124 mi) 2008 ‘Scope

Written with a darkly absurd Neil LaBute-style provocation in mind, this film straddles the line between hilarious and outrageous, occasionally veering into cringe territory, but by the end it undermines its own effectiveness by sending too many mixed messages. But that doesn’t diminish what’s excellent in this movie, which is the wit and stark originality of subject matter, even if its unclear about the message it wants to send. Introducing brilliant newcomer Summer Bishil as Jasira, who at age 18 plays a 13-year old racially mixed girl caught in an ugly tug of war between her divorced parents who are too absorbed in their own lives to notice her. Set during the outset of the first Gulf War (prior to 9/11), the film explores racial and sexual stereotyping and its underlying roots simultaneous to Jasira’s sexual awakening, which is anything but typical. Adapted from the novel by Alicia Erian, herself an Arab-American woman, it’s an interesting gauge on Americana, where people painstakingly show off their patriotism while shoving social concerns to the back burner. Mario Bello is her flagrantly promiscuous mom in Syracuse, who after discovering her sleazy boy friend was shaving exposed hair around Jasira’s private parts blames her daughter as the provocateur, concluding she needs a stern disciplinarian and ships her off to the suburbs of Houston, Texas to live in the rigid universe of her Lebanese father (Peter Macdissi), a repressed, control freak who is obsessed with the oncoming war and his consuming hatred of Saddam Hussein. Both are terrible parents in the self-centered, clueless mold, leaving Jasira alone to fend for herself in this coming of age struggle.

While the film has a touch of caricature to it dressed in a highly stylized, artifical world, where the picture of suburbia is reminiscent of EDWARD SCISSORHANDS (1990), it’s a highly volatile work featuring hormones on overdrive leading to pedophelia and rampant underage sexual activity from masturbation, menstruation and intercourse, some of it seething with a prurient even criminal fascination, exactly the subject sure to enrage social conservatives, just like Jasira’s father who on more than one occasion strikes back with physical blows. As a result, she has to hide or disguise her activity, leading a secret life that is the subject of the film where there are major questions about her carefully concealed identity. Puberty is expressed as being a stranger to her own body, which expresses itself through awkward menstruation moments or frequent masturbation images of Jasira rubbing her legs together, including while babysitting or at school, indicating Jasira couldn’t feel more out of place anywhere, especially when she’s also the object of racial taunts, making her life miserable. The juxtaposition of sex and racial bigotry is a new one, as it’s bound to cause discomfort to the audience. But rather than slither into a hole of shame and disappear, like a normal high school kid, Jasira instead finds a black boyfriend (Thomas Bradley) that’s sure to enrage her father, an insufferable Army Reserve racist neighbor (Aaron Eckhart) who can’t keep his hands off her, a considerate, near term, pregnant neighbor (Toni Collette) who offers her home as a safe house as she suspects something is up with that Army Reservist, and a hilarious Spanish-speaking janitress (Soledad St. Hilaire) who figures out what she needs while holed up in the school bathroom but can’t understand why her parents don’t speak Spanish at home.

Intentionally provocative and voyeuristic, especially of Jasira’s sexual promiscuity, coming to the verge of leering without resorting to graphic footage, many of the shots feature adult women showing plenty of cleavage, yet no one wants their young girls displaying the same, and there are several camera shots showing a view as seen through Jasira’s legs, sort of a variation on the Mrs. Robinson shot (LATimes.com - June 4, 1968 newspaper ad) from THE GRADUATE (1967). The problem with Jasira’s sexual proclivity is not how as a parent to handle it, as it’s clear these parents haven’t a clue, but how it becomes a sign of her independence from her parents, something she’s never shared with them, ever discussed with them, so it’s portrayed as a sign of choice, of personal courage and liberation instead of moral outrage, as it’s obvious she will have long-lasting negative repurcussions that are never suggested. This myriad of conflicting emotions may lie at the heart of the film, as it is what every teen going through puberty experiences, but this film offers equal time for confused pedaphiles and abusive parents, continually dwelling on dysfunctional viewpoints, which leaves totally unclear the role of healthy adults who could make a significant difference in these troubled teen lives. Suburbia as a wasteland is not the whole story.

The Village Voice [Nick Pinkerton]

American Beauty scribe Alan Ball makes his dreaded feature-directing debut with another tale of suburban purgatory, featuring yet another erotically stifled military man (though pederasty is the forbidden fruit here). Unfolding around the events of the first Gulf War, Towelhead—cringe—follows Jasira (Summer Bishil), a pubescent half-Lebanese girl relocated to live with her father (Peter Macdissi) in Texas sprawl country. Through parental neglect and her own extreme introversion, Jasira's been left to piece together the Sex-Ed basics; as the film's moronic title broadcasts, her journey will be a "provocative" one—and so Ball, who can't conceive of human motives beyond the hypertrophic, smutty sexuality that's his stock in trade, primly divides his characters into avatars of Sick Repression or Healthy Liberation. Hemmed in by her father's Old World patriarchal prohibitions, her own porn-induced body-loathing, and her touchy-feely G.I. neighbor (Aaron Eckhart), Jasira finds shelter with an "earthy" young Edie Brickell–listening couple (presumably Dukakis voters). Intellectual slackness breeds pictorial indifference in endless gray, underlit rooms strafed with hot splotches of "sunlight" suggesting a perpetual supernova outdoors. That our heroine's first menstruation is announced by a low-angle shot through the gore-sullied panties will tell you everything you need to know about that famous Alan Ball touch.

New York Magazine (David Edelstein) review

Alan Ball’s Towelhead is a faithful adaptation of Alicia Erian’s snappy novel about a 13-year-old mixed-race girl, Jasira (Summer Bishil), who finds herself caught between many rocks and even more hard places. Men have started sniffing her up, projecting things on her. Her mother’s boyfriend volunteers to shave her pubic hair—which results in her being shipped off to live in the Houston suburbs with her Lebanese dad (Peter Macdissi), who promptly slaps her when she shows up at the breakfast table in a revealing outfit, refuses to let her use tampons (only pads), then carries on in front of her with his girlfriend. This fellow is a mass of contradictory impulses—forbidding her to date an African-American classmate, Thomas (Eugene Jones), while decrying prejudice against Middle Easterners; loathing Saddam while resenting Bush Sr. (The film is set during the first Gulf War.) Jasira herself is torn in about ten different directions. Thomas turns out to be another fervent pubic-hair shaver. A grown-up neighbor (Aaron Eckhart) shares his porn magazines and she … likes them. Does she like him? When Jasira loses control of her sexuality, it’s with an irreducible mixture of erotic pleasure and victimization.

This is potentially incendiary material for the screen, but Ball (American Beauty, Six Feet Under) cools it down and keeps it at a slight ironic distance, often presenting Jasira as a ripe sexual object. The film is superbly acted (especially by Macdissi, who makes the father a borderline hysteric), but it’s hard to know what to feel except, “How can any girl navigate this oversexualized culture?”

Movies into Film.com (N.P. Thompson) review “Worst Movies About Orgasms” section from The House Next Door

Alan Ball’s Towelhead, which also qualifies for Worst Movie about Statutory Rape, Worst Movie Involving Close-ups of the Menstrual Cycle, and (last but not least) Worst Movie about a Young Woman Learning to Express her Sexuality via Porno Magazines for Straight Men. Ball, Oscar-winner for American Beauty, returns to suburbia where things are just as rotten as they ever were, and thank heaven the screenwriter-turned-director is around to point this out. Gratuitous fantasy shots of buxom snowbunnies and topless golf cart drivers really ram home Ball’s self-congratulatory desensitization techniques in trotting out taboo subject matter. The director does almost zilch to differentiate his point-of-view from the sadistic mother overacted by Maria Bello, a woman whose neediness for her daughter is surpassed only by her desire to humiliate the girl. Lost in the jacked-up shambles here, there’s nice work by Summer Bishil as the cruelly mistreated by nearly everyone Jasira. Ball’s surface smooth yet out-of-control direction suggests what Alexander Payne and William Friedkin might have devised in the field of outré sitcoms—everything from tone to action is freaky, ghoulishly smug. Aaron Eckhart and Toni Collette acquit themselves with humanity to this booby trap; where the film spectacularly fails, besides in the writing and directing, lies in Peter Macdissi’s grotesquely ill-conceived approach to playing a Houston-based, traditionalist Lebanese father. It’s a tad difficult to buy into Daddy Dearest’s punitive objections to his daughter’s wearing a tampon when Daddy seems more like an interior decorator from Christopher Street than the NASA engineer he’s supposed to be.

Lessons of Darkness [Nick Schager]

Alan Ball returns to nasty, vile, repressed suburbia with Towelhead, an adaptation of Alicia Erian’s novel that the American Beauty writer fashions into another cartoonishly broad, repulsive vision of middle-class life. In a cookie-cutter Texas planned community in the early ‘90s (an arbitrary time frame employed mainly for its slightly dated outfits), thirteen-year-old Arab-American Jasira (a understated Summer Bishil) finds herself the sexual object of desire for both her Army reserve neighbor – husband and father Travis Vuoso (Aaron Eckhart) – as well as an African-American classmate named Thomas (Eugene Jones III) who pursues Jasira after apologizing for calling her “sand-nigger.” Seemingly every man wants to fondle, screw and/or shave the pubic hairs of Jasira, and Ball goes a very small way toward suggesting that these men’s relationships with her function as a means of channeling racist and chauvinistic urges. Towelhead, however, is first and foremost a grotesquerie. And thus, it subsumes any investigation of the way intolerance and perversion inform erotic desire – or the way that Jasira conflates this sexual attention with love and acceptance, which aren’t provided by her abusive Lebanese father Rifat (Peter Macdissi) – in favor of presenting a cavalcade of ugly caricatures fit for sensationalized scenarios. Ball attempts to prove himself an equal-opportunity offender by casting all of his characters (save for Toni Collette’s pregnant earth-mother and her conveniently Arabic-fluent husband) as noxious. Yet given that his plot generally strives for either pseudo-shocking graphicness (bloody tampons, bloody panties, porn fantasies) or wannabe-scathing “comedy” (involving Gulf War I, oil, scary black people) – two modes that frustrate rather than facilitate any real engagement with the racial/gender/cultural issues lurking beneath the surface – the film turns out to be merely a stridently reductive portrait of the messy clash between puberty and prejudice.

The Onion A.V. Club review Scott Tobias

Perhaps the best way to explain what's so wrong about Towelhead is first to consider what's right about it, and that begins and ends with Summer Bishil, excellent as a 13-year-old who experiences a rude sexual awakening. The mixed-race daughter of two raging narcissists—her mother neglectful and irresponsible, her father inordinately strict and oppressive—she gets mixed messages from home and little but contempt from her classmates, who don't like the color of her skin. So when her sexual curiosity naturally begins to pique, as it will with any girl that age, Bishil doesn't have a clue where to go with it, which leads her to seek pleasure where she can get it, and love in wildly inappropriate places. Consider this plot thread in isolation, and Ball had the makings of something like Catherine Breillat's Fat Girl, which captured this particular rite of passage with raw terror.

Instead, Ball piles on the provocations: Working from Alicia Erian's novel, he takes Bishil's coming of age as an opportunity to overload the movie with important themes and issues, including racism and interracial relationships, suburban hypocrisy, Gulf War I (with clear allusions to Gulf War II), pedophilia, and white-wine liberalism. And that's just for starters. Towelhead is like a great melting pot of writerly self-importance. After a disturbing prologue that has her mother's boyfriend offering to shave her excess pubic hair, the film brings Bishil to suburban Houston, where she's forced to live with her Lebanese father (Peter Macdissi), a moralistic tyrant who nonetheless flaunts his swinging bachelor lifestyle. Macdissi imposes so much modesty on his daughter that he won't even let her use tampons, and she revolts by surreptitiously dating a black schoolmate and encouraging the advances of the married Army reservist (Aaron Eckhart) next door.

As if to cover all of his sociopolitical bases, Ball throws in a hippified neighbor (Toni Collette) who tries to project and educate Bishil, but may be too permissive. Needless to say, all these combustible elements eventually converge in the final act, each representative of one type or another used to illustrate one point or another. Much as with Crash—and Ball's script for the overrated American Beauty, another Oscar-winner—the themes come first and the characters are manufactured in service of them, not the other way around. From its title on down, Towelhead alarms and manipulates, and succeeds in goading the audience like a schoolyard bully, but apart from Bishil's harrowing attempts to find herself, the strings stay too visible.

Screen International review Mike Goodridge at Toronto

Perhaps the most polarizing film of the Toronto International Film Festival this week, Nothing Is Private marks the feature directorial debut of American Beauty writer and Six Feet Under creator Alan Ball. As you might expect from Ball's oeuvre to date, it is a provocative piece scratching at the ugliness underneath the placid surface of American suburbia with his customary spiky humour and not a little misanthropy.

Most invigorating of all is that the film arrives at a time when independent US cinema is over-run with rosy, Little-Miss-Sunshine-views of the world, Ball takes an unflinching look at taboo subjects like racism, child rape and teenage sexuality with a desire to make you uncomfortable that recalls the glory days of Todd Solondz, Larry Clark or Neil Labute. Like those directors, he has a bold voice, a way of illustrating humanity as he sees it, which will repel as many viewers as it fascinates.

Warner Independent Pictures bought domestic rights to the film in tandem with Netflix division Red Envelope Entertainment, and has already received an "R" rating in the US. Like Happiness or Kids before it, it won't make much of an impression at the box office, and critics will be as divided as were Toronto audiences. However, it will certainly be talked about, and will become a cult item among loyal Six Feet Under fans and more open-minded filmgoers.

Internationally, it could gain fans as an arthouse picture, especially since so few US films these days dare to take such risks.

Based on Alicia Erian's novel Towelhead, the film is a coming-of-age story set in 1990. Saddam Hussein has just invaded Kuwait and George Bush Sr is talking of war when 13 year-old Jasira (Bishil) shaves off her pubic hair with the inappropriate assistance of her mother's boyfriend. Her self-absorbed mother (Bello) is furious and packs her off to the suburbs of Houston Texas to live with her stern and hypocritical Lebanese father Rifat (Macdissi).

Jasira suffers in her new environment. She is teased by schoolmates and by the 10 year-old boy she babysits next door for being a "towelhead", is lonely and hopelessly confused about her sexuality, a fact not helped by her father's old-fashioned ideas and strict, repressive tendencies.

But as her sexual longings and desire begin to overwhelm her, she begins to flirt with dangerous situations. She finds herself attracted to the handsome army reservist next door Mr Vuoso (Eckhart) and gets aroused when she looks at his porno magazine collection. He responds to her innocent sallies with an aggressive sexual assault, breaking her hymen with his fingers.

Meanwhile she attracts the attentions of a schoolmate Thomas (Eugene Jones) whom her father forbids her to see because he is black. She soon starts having sex with him.

As Vuoso and Thomas vie for her body and her father becomes more suspicious and more violent in his punishment of her, Jasira seeks the friendship of a concerned neighbour (Collette) and begins to realise that she has more power than she previously believed.

The film is tonally inconsistent, veering from blunt, broad comedy to ugly scenes of sexual violence. It is kept on track, however, by a courageous central performance from Bishil, who was 18 when the film was shot. She manages make Jasira authentically naïve and innocent, while at the same time the girl engages in startling acts of sexual provocation. This contradiction takes the film into moral grey areas which American audiences will find hard to bear.

Ball also lacks discipline in this long final cut. Several sequences feel superfluous to the central story – a visit from Bello 's under-drawn mother character, Jasira's modelling fantasies, the death of the Vuoso cat – and he is prone to caricature (Bello, Carrie Preston as Mrs Vuoso, the viciously racist kids at the local high school). Eckhart on the other hand is chillingly plausible as the man who crosses the line, while Macdissi as the Saddam-hating Lebanese American with no discernible parenting skills achieves a nice balance between banal stupidity and dictatorial menace.

Ball enlists his regular composer Thomas Newman to contribute an irritatingly tinkly score which sounds like a blend of the Six Feet Under theme with the American Beauty music.

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez] a shock tactic for shock tactic's sake

PopMatters [Bill Gibron] tawdry and tasteless, in many ways like Funny Games without the snooty Euro-centric sneer

indieWIRE review Michael Koresky from Reverse Shot, Ball never makes a compelling case outside of his own childish provocation

Pajiba (Ted Boynton) review an enjoyable, funny, tender film largely because of Ball, but it flies highest when he is at his most restrained

PopMatters (Cynthia Fuchs) review the movie provides little context for her complicated view, surrounding her with pathologically immature adults

filmcritic.com (Chris Barsanti) review [3.5/5] a sort of adolescent fever dream looking to tick off as many taboos as possible

eFilmCritic.com (Peter Sobczynski) review [1/5] it comes across like a Todd Solondz film without the wit, whimsy and empathy

Twitch (Kurt Halfyard) review if nothing else, this has shed some light on how people recoil with hostility from Lars Von Trier’s ‘America Trilogy’ films

Zoom in Online (Todd Howard) review a vastly effective, gorgeously filmed, smartly edited, superbly acted, and emotionally crafted film

Reel.com review [3/4] Pam Grady, well worth seeking out for those who can get past their squeamishness

ReelViews (James Berardinelli) review [3/4] bitter, spicy, and poignant

Slate (Dana Stevens) review provocative without being thoughtful, an exercise in button-pushing that seems unsure of what it wants to say

FilmJerk.com (Brian Orndorf) review [B-] Ball is a gifted salesman of torment, a shining example of extreme moviegoing uneasiness

Salon.com [Andrew O'Hehir] clearly a story about multicultural America in transition

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson) review a mess, and it's based on material that demanded precision

Film Threat, Hollywood's Indie Voice review [5/5] Zack Haddad

Debate Over Child Actors and Sexuality Is Decades Old Hannah Sentenac from FOX News, March 19, 2007

Foxnews Kiddie Porn Movie Rocks Toronto as ‘Feel-Awful’ Film of the Year, Roger Friedman, September 11, 2007

FOXNews.com - Film Critic Joins Protest of Two Movies With ... FOX News, September 19, 2008

Time Out New York (David Fear) review [2/6]

San Francisco Chronicle (Ruthe Stein) review [1/4]

Seattle Post-Intelligencer [Sean Axmaker]

Los Angeles Times (Gary Goldstein) review

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [2/4]

The New York Times (Stephen Holden) review

Ballard, Carroll

All-Movie Guide Sandra Brennan

Contemporary filmmaker Carroll Ballard has not made many films, but the ones he has are memorable. The son of a boatwright, Ballard was raised at Lake Tahoe. He experimented with his father's trade after high school and built a catamaran before enlisting in the army where he served in the South as a cameraman. Three films inspired Ballard to enroll in the UCLA film school in the early 1960s: Teinosuke Kinugasa's Gate of Hell (1953), Kubrick's Paths of Glory (1957) and Ordet (1955) by Danish filmmaker Carl Dreyer. In school, where Francis Ford Coppola was one of his classmates, he made several short fiction and documentary films, most of which were about animals. In 1967, he earned his first Oscar nomination for producing the documentary Harvest. He made his directorial debut with The Black Stallion (1979) and followed it with another outdoor film in 1983, Never Cry Wolf. His films are noted for their exquisite use of cinematography. The painting-like images he uses do as much to tell his stories as does the dialog. His 1993 film adaptation of The Secret Garden is no exception, nor is his 1996 effort Fly Away Home which, while receiving mixed-reviews for its content, was hailed for its breathtaking shots of geese flying in formation with an ultralight plane.

TCMDB Turner Classic movies profile

Meticulous American director of several lush, visually striking films since the late 1970s who made a memorable feature debut with "The Black Stallion" (1979), an exquisitely crafted tale of the far-flung adventures of a boy and a horse. Executive produced by Ballard's UCLA film school chum Francis Ford Coppola, the film was hailed both for its extraordinary attention to visual and behavioristic detail and as a beautifully realized adaptation of Walter Farley's classic 1941 children's novel. Four years passed until Ballard's next film, "Never Cry Wolf" (1983), an unusual and haunting nature tale featuring Charles Martin Smith, in a rare starring role, as a biologist investigating whether wolves are responsible for the gradual disappearance of the caribou herds. Two years of demanding production in the wilds of the Yukon and Alaska paid off to create a poetic work that easily transcended the standard qualities of a Disney nature picture (which it was, after all).

Ballard's subsequent output has been disappointingly sparse. Six years elapsed before "Nutcracker: The Motion Picture" (1986), an ambitious film version of the Christmas 1983 Seattle production staged by Maurice Sendak and Kent Stowell. Ballard utilized Sendak's dreamy sets to bring out some of the psychosexual underpinnings of the ballet. Less successful was the sometimes frantic editing which some reviewers found too reminiscent of music videos. "Wind" (1992) was a ho-hum yacht racing yarn that boasted outstanding cinematography by John Toll. Ballard's affinity for the beauties and rigors of nature and weather were undiminished but the material and characters were unworthy.

Doubtlessly making "Wind" called upon elements of the filmmaker's childhood spent at Lake Tahoe where his father was a boat builder. Ballard himself spent a year after high school building a catamaran. He next enlisted in the Army where he served as a cameraman while stationed in the American South. During that period, Ballard saw three films that revolutionized his notions about film: Teinosuke Kinugasa's "Gate of Hell" (1953-Japan), Stanley Kubrick's "Paths of Glory" (1957-US), and Carl Dreyer's "Ordet" (1955-Denmark). Inspired, he enrolled in the UCLA film school in the early 1960s. There Ballard began making acclaimed short narratives and documentaries that usually starred animals. He was nominated for a Oscar as the producer of the documentary, "Harvest" (1967).

Ballard, Carroll They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

Wide Angle/Closeup Interview by David Morgan

THE BLACK STALLION

USA (118 mi) 1979

At-A-Glance Film Reviews

The quintessential horse movie artfully directed by Carol Ballard, who evokes realistic performances from the actors. As was almost a fad in the late seventies, the soundtrack is sparse, leaving many of the quieter moments genuinely quiet. Here, this technique is used with wonderful results, and when the soundtrack does kick in, it is excellent. The scene where the boy and the stallion dance in the ocean is a masterpiece of composition and cinematography.

Spirituality & Practice [Frederic and Mary Ann Brussat]

For this eye-fetching screen adaptation of Walter Farley's classic novel, executive producer Francis Ford Coppola chose Carroll Ballard, an independent producer-director of short films, to be at the helm of this adventure story. Shot in Sardinia, Rome, and Toronto, this drama is pleasing in every way. From the opening sequence of a shipwreck at sea to the closing scenes of triumph for a boy and his horse, this is family entertainment at its finest.

Eleven-year-old Kelly Reno plays Alec Ramsay, an American lad who falls in love with an Arabian stallion called Black the first time he sees him. On the screen, there is real magic between them. Mickey Rooney stars as the trainer who sets up a match race between Black and two other spirited horses. The cinematography by Caleb Deschanell is breathtaking. Also featured in supporting roles are Teri Garr, Hoyt Axton, Clarence Muse and Michael Higgins. The Black Stallion slowly and gently shows how beauty can bloom in our relationships with animals.

not coming to a theater near you (Jenny Jediny)

There is a long moment when a boy and horse, sole companions from a shipwreck, regard one another. The two have spent an indeterminable amount of time on a deserted island, focused on self-survival, and now find that a curiosity overcomes their reserve and their loneliness. The boy holds out seaweed, perhaps kelp, and offers this to the jittery horse. Although both hesitate for some time, the horse accepts this gesture and their bond is solidified. A deliberate patience characterizes this scene, and it is only one of the qualities that distinguish Carroll Ballard’s film, The Black Stallion. Based on Walter Farley’s 1941 children’s classic, the film concerns the story of the companionship of the boy, Alec, and “The Black,” their rescue from a shipwreck and eventual championship racing. The plot is straightforward enough for generic adaptation but what Ballard has accomplished is a lyrical and rather transcendental experience.

Prior to the shipwreck we meet Alec and his father during a journey home aboard the steamship Drake. Ballard invokes ancient storybooks and authors such as Robert Louis Stevenson, whose inspiration is confirmed as Alec’s father plays cards with a cast of characters who could easily rent rooms at The Admiral Benbow (the troupe antes jewels and ivory edged weapons as bets). A sense of destiny is infused in the chance meeting of Alec and this horse aboard the ship, connecting it with the gift that Alec’s father bestows: a pewter horse he claims as Bucephalus, mythical horse of Alexander the Great. These small details enrich and set the tone, only intensifying as the ship is struck and sinks in a frightening sequence, leaving Alec and The Black stranded alone on the island.

Nearly half of the film focuses on the companionship formed between the boy and horse on the deserted island, in remarkable scenes that do not romanticize the situation but instead convey the loneliness of a child who has not only lost his father through disaster, but now needs to grow up rather quickly if he is to survive. Caleb Deschanel’s cinematography captures this seclusion as Alec wanders through endless stretches of sand and learns to forge for food. The return to a primal state is enhanced with the boy’s near spiritual friendship with The Black, a connection defined in practicality to curb solitude, but with an implied air of fate. While the soundtrack suggests a mystical quality with musical references of Arabia and the ancient East, the shots of Alec thundering along the beach on The Black suggest a connection of the two through nature, unaffected and organic. Children and animals, more often the small and fuzzy kind, are sensibly connected for a shared cuteness or innocence; here the correlation stems from mutual respect and a genuine understanding that the natural world has instilled in both creatures.

The pair is eventually rescued and returned to civilization in Alec’s upper class neighborhood. This ordered world is not as absorbing as the wild, and far more conventional. There are expected hijinks as the horse becomes accustomed to backyards and traffic, but there is also an anticipation as Alec trains The Black for a race at Belmont. Alec, accomplished at spearing fish and avoiding dehydration, feels disconnected at school and at home, where he sleeps on the lawn rather than in bed. There is solace when Alec discovers the racetrack, befriending an old racing pro (Mickey Rooney in a sweetly nostalgic role) and slowly regains his autonomy in training The Black. Ballard completely alters the aura of a racetrack; although the monetary benefits are obvious for a down on his luck jockey and the half orphaned Alec, the track also becomes the place where Alec and The Black find their Walden within suburban confines. The link made on an anonymous beach is made stronger while the two fervently practice in midnight runs around the track, and ultimately in the Belmont race that returns Alec and the viewer to the island. In the exquisitely edited finale there is a combination of meticulous sound design, as the din of the crowd dissolves into the quiet soundtrack of the beach, juxtaposed with images of Alec’s memories of the island.

It is difficult to describe a film as having a magical quality without a response of rolling eyes, or immediately preparing for defense against cynicism (particularly when you yourself are often guilty of such reactions). Describing The Black Stallion with any other adjectives isn’t quite sufficient; it is admirable in that it manages to inject feelings and qualities so often associated with children — a sense of wonder, breathlessness, and exploration — and persuades us to recall these feelings as adults. In that final race it is so thrilling to watch Alec and The Black furiously push their way to the finish line, but what is far more exhilarating is hearing the sound dissolve from the cheering crowd to calm quiet, a stalled moment that recalls the two alone on the island. It celebrates nature, certainly kinship and the joys of victory, but what I find most enduring is the ability of this film to keep my heart in my throat even upon repeated viewings.

Turner Classic Movies Emily L. Rice

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Rich Rosell)

The Black Stallion Ellen Seiter from Jump Cut

Time Out

The New York Times (Janet Maslin)

NEVER CRY WOLF A 96

USA (91 mi) 1983

Adapted from the Farley Mowat book about a Canadian biologist dropped off on a frozen lake in the middle of the Canadian Arctic to study the supposed threat by wolves to the disappearing caribou herds, starring Charles Martin Smith (Toad, from AMERICAN GRAFFITI!) as Tyler, a stand-in for Mowat, a clueless fish-out-of-the-water scientist, a man we can identify with due to his uncommonly ordinary demeanor, who realizes instantly just how completely unprepared he is for the upcoming ordeal, but who is transformed into another being by the end of his journey. This is an unforgettable, astonishingly gorgeous film, featuring a hauntingly beautiful musical soundtrack by Mark Isham, complete with large doses of unanticipated humor that could easily have been references to Chaplin, as most of this film is silent, accompanied by an inner narration that is an interesting mix of bemusement and philosophy as he voices his observations and reflections.

Brian Dennehy is the Alaskan bush pilot who represents the obnoxious, exploitive view that everything is for the taking, all bravura and gusto, leaving a path of carcasses in his path. His trip into the wild is hilarious, nearly getting them both killed with a smile, a perfect contrast to the utter silence that follows, which is all that remains as the plane flies away. Tyler’s entry into the wilderness is just as amusing, as he’s a klutz that screws up just about everything he tries to do, who may easily have frozen to death on his very first week had he not been rescued without a word by a non-English speaking Inuit on a dogsled, Zachary Ittimangnaq as Ootek, a quiet, wise man with an appealing smile who provides him shelter, brings all his gear, then leaves again without a word, using haunting images that are vibrant and revealing, telling us all that we need to know. Samason Jorah is Mike, an English-speaking Inuit ("He says, 'Great idea!'") who is sort of an adopted son to Ootek, a more practical man who sees wolves as money, as a means of supporting his way of life, which is otherwise dying off as well, losing their land and resources to ever-expanding commercial interests, just like the diminishing wildlife. Ootek sends him along to keep Tyler company. By then, however, it is spring and Tyler has found his way in the wild and is studying a pair of Arctic wolves with their three cubs, ingeniously protecting his space from the wolves by peeing in a circle around his tent, territorial boundaries that are respected by the wolves.

Rather than eating caribou, the wolves survive eating field mice which are plentiful in the region. As a scientific experiment, Tyler decides he will subject himself to the same diet to see if a large carnivore can survive on mice. Ootek and his family visit and reveal Inuit legends about the wolf and the caribou, describing how the wolf protects the strength of the herd by thinning out the sick and the weak, leaving plenty for the Inuit people. As the wolves are howling, Ootek knows the caribou are coming nearer and he takes Tyler on a 3-day hike directly into their herd. Of course, Tyler is still a klutz and nearly sleeps through it, but then the scene takes on transcendental qualities, as he runs naked with the herd, immersing himself into the various life forms that are living and surviving all around him, that could vanish in the blink of an eye. The director’s vision here is simply remarkable. In this state, almost like a sacred peyote vision, Tyler is jolted out of his senses by rifle shots. Reality slaps him in the face when he runs into the bush pilot again, this time gorging himself on the flesh of the caribou, carrying with him several wolf pelts, living like a king, which Tyler finds despicable, knowing man, not the wolves, is killing off everything around him. On his way back to camp, he discovers the two adult wolves missing, their cubs huddled alone in the den. Without a word or thought expressed, we feel Tyler suspects the bush pilot. But when he finally arrives at camp, loud music is playing. Mike is there alone and immediately grabs his things and says he was just leaving. When asked about the wolves, he of course knows nothing about them, but has a full set of teeth where a toothless grin used to be, and he vanishes into the wind. Alone in a universe where harmony is constantly disturbed by the forces of man, Tyler sits on a mountainside in the snow and bears witness to the last vestiges of pristine beauty before it disappears. Filmed entirely on location without any pretense of special effects, this is a powerful, exceptionally beautiful film, perfectly balancing all the interconnecting worlds with very few words and spectacular imagery.

Time Out

Sent to the desolate northern reaches of Canada to prove that the wolves are destroying the herds of caribou, Tyler (Martin Smith) might be any one of us left to fend for ourselves in a bleak landscape. Ballard's film, produced by Disney and resembling the old nature films, tells of an engaging, fearful scientist who grows to admire the wolves he is sent to condemn, adopts their diet (mouse stew minus the tails), and learns from an ancient, mystical Inuit (the furclad local inhabitants) that in true Darwinian fashion the wolves only cull the weaker members of the herd. For the most part very absorbing, the film suffers from some embarrassingly obvious symbolism.

DVDTown [John J. Puccio]

Here's a film you don't have to think about much to enjoy: Two eyes and a pair of ears are enough. Adapted from Farley Mowat's best-selling autobiographical book, "Never Cry Wolf" is a beautifully photographed, beautifully crafted nature study, with perhaps just a tad more moralizing at the end than necessary. Since its release to theaters in 1983, only its appearance on DVD has done justice to its picture and sound.

Charles Martin Smith has the prize role of his career as the young biologist, Tyler, assigned by the Canadian Wildlife Service to study wolves in the northern Barrens. His charge is to gather evidence that wolves are depleting the caribou herds, enough evidence against the wolves to justify the government eradicating them.

What he discovers, needless to say, is just the opposite. Wolves and caribou live in perfect balance, as they have for thousands of years; the wolves feed only on the sickest and weakest of the herds, making the caribou stronger all around. It is Man who is decimating the caribou, largely for sport, and now Man needs a scapegoat.

In his film interpretation of the book, director Carroll Ballard misses some of Mowat's wry humor but makes up for it in the majesty of the scenery and the beauty of the wildlife. Sweeping vistas of Arctic wilderness are set against human and animal drama in Ballard's realization of the saga, the wolves, ironically, taking on a dimension of humanity sorely missing in most of the story's peripheral characters.

Besides Tyler the other actors in this sparsely populated film are Brian Dennehy as Rosie, a pilot whose ambitions are entirely geared to personal profit; Samson Jorah as Mike, an Inuit who befriends Tyler and loans him the use of his cabin; and Zachary Illimangnaq as Ootek, an Inuit shaman who knows more about wolves than most wolves.

As a young man, Mowat put in two stints in the Canadian northland studying wolves, and his 1963 book is a colorful narrative of those times. It was one of the first accounts of actual wolf behavior in the wild, although because of Mowat's sometimes fanciful wit it was not always taken seriously by the scientific community.

Ballard's film starts with the author's basic story, visually highlights its sense of wonder at the harmony of nature, and concludes with the postulate that Man is insensitive to anything but himself. The result is a beautiful motion picture.

FilmFanatic.org [Sylvia Stralberg Bagley]

DVD Talk [Stuart Galbraith IV]

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Jeff Ulmer)

Ultimate Guide to Disney DVD

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

FLY AWAY HOME

USA (107 mi) 1996

Tucson Weekly [Stacey Richter]

Anna Paquin stars in this dignified kid's movie about a young girl who's adopted by a gaggle of orphaned Canadian geese. Amy (Paquin) is lonely and withdrawn after the death of her mother, but the discovery of the goslings invigorates her and leads to a round of bonding with her dad, nature, the news media and her own little self. An even directorial style and great cinematography help to keep the corniness from getting out of hand as Amy learns to fly an ultralight plane and leads the wild geese in their migration south. Beautiful footage of geese flying beside the enthusiastic Paquin will warm the chilliest heart.

New York Times (registration req'd) Janet Maslin

The tender beauty of Carroll Ballard's "Fly Away Home" goes well beyond what might be expected from a movie about things that hatch. Rekindling the delicacy and invigorating naturalness he brought to "The Black Stallion," and again helped immensely by the radiant cinematography of Caleb Deschanel, Ballard turns a potentially treacly children's film into an exhilarating '90s fable. It concerns family, ecology, adolescence and, above all (quite literally) geese. See it and you will never look at a down comforter in quite the same way.

One caveat for children: "Fly Away Home" begins traumatically (just as "Bogus" does) with the violent death of a mother in a car crash. And 13-year-old Amy Alden (Anna Paquin) finds herself permanently uprooted almost before the opening credits are over. Raised in New Zealand, she must suddenly migrate back to rural Ontario, where her parents lived before their separation. The shadow of this tragedy never entirely leaves this otherwise uplifting film.

Her mother's death reunites Amy with her father, Thomas Alden (Jeff Daniels), a shaggy-haired sculptor and inventor who is innately child-friendly. Thomas sculptures dragons and invents things that look like wonderful toys. Daniels plays this role with delightful gusto and with a serious compassion he has had too little chance to display on screen. If young viewers who know him only from "Dumb and Dumber" take Daniels for somebody entirely different here, they'll be right.

Amy, played with fine, mercurial intelligence by the Oscar-winning adolescent star of "The Piano," initially regards her father with suspicion. He seems distracted, not to say batty, in his enthusiasm for crackpot inventions. So Amy assuages her loneliness and grief by finding a project of her own. When a developer's bulldozer drives some Canada geese from their nesting place, Amy collects the eggs and begins mothering them. Ballard realizes this part of his story exquisitely.

Hatching, chirping, waddling, flapping their little stumpy wings: the film's goslings are magic, and "Fly Away Home" dotes on them lovingly. A string of enchanting, unsentimental girl-and-geese scenes are the film's central highlight, as Deschanel finds miraculous new ways to show off pastoral green landscapes and back-lighted yellow fuzz. This part of the film remains so refreshingly formula-free that it never turns cloying, and it doesn't scant the scientific fascination in Amy's work. Toting the eggs in a baby carrier, making a nest from her mother's scarves in a bureau drawer, this young girl embarks on her own rite of passage while helping the geese find their way.

"Fly Away Home," written by Robert Rodat and Vince McKewin, was developed from a a real account on the television news magazine "20/20" about Bill Lishman and his own remarkable work with geese. The little girl is entirely a Hollywood invention, though Paquin never plays her that way. So the film's second half illustrates Lishman's experiments with goose migration as it cooks up a reason to involve Amy and Thomas and Thomas' nerdy, amusing brother (Terry Kinney) in this process. Just as Lishman did, they become worried about what will happen to geese that have never been taught to fly south. And, with the help of gliderlike ultra-light aircraft, they lead the way.

In narrative terms, the film becomes more ordinary as it follows father and daughter on this innovative journey. The path to triumph is not unknown to Hollywood, and the Aldens' trip takes that familiar route; it's not about to be cut short by hunting season.

So the latter part of "Fly Away Home" is best appreciated as an astonishing technical achievement, one only slightly enhanced by special effects. Geese had to get to know Paquin so that they would follow her. (Some of this was done with a stand-in and a recording of her voice.) The film makers had to devise light, slow-flying aircraft that could transport heavy camera equipment at goose-determined speed. Goslings had to perform on cue.

The planes don't stall, and the screenplay does only slightly, most notably when it integrates migration talk with resolving family problems, and when it gives Thomas a kindly girlfriend (Dana Delaney) who must win the affections of smart, stubborn Amy. There's also a battle with land developers that is extremely pat. But the film does celebrate the principals' daring as they try to save a chunk of North Carolina, make a significant innovation in protecting wildlife and demonstrate a whole new way to fly.

Salon.com [Charles Taylor]

James Berardinelli's ReelViews

Scott Renshaw

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Rich Rosell)

Edwin Jahiel

The Onion A.V. Club [John Gustafson]

Apollo Movie Guide [Brian Webster]

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filmcritic.com Flies like a bird Bradley Null

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Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

DUMA B+ 92

USA (100 mi) 2005

A UCLA classmate of Francis Ford Coppolla, this director has established himself with some of the most gorgeously photographed animal films on record, 1979’s THE BLACK STALLION, featuring a boy and a horse shipwrecked at sea, surviving alone on a lost island, 1983’S NEVER CRY WOLF, my personal favorite, which features one of the most beautiful musical soundtracks ever by Mark Isham, based on the Farley Mowat book about a lone man dropped off in the Canadian Arctic with the wolves to study their supposed threat to the disappearing caribou herds, and the 1996 film FLY AWAY HOME, where a 13-year old girl flies solo in an ultra-light craft, actually teaching a flock of geese their migratory path from Canada to the wetlands of Chesapeake Bay. While the last two were based on factual circumstances, DUMA is also based on the real-life memoirs of Xan and Carol Cawthra Hopcraft, How It Was With Dooms, adapted a little differently onscreen by Karen Janszen and Mark St. Germain using a story by Carol Flint and Karen Janszen, this beautifully shot family film follows the growth of an orphaned baby cheetah found alone on the side of the road by a white family, raised by a 12-year old boy, Xan, and his parents at their family farm in South Africa. At first cute and cuddly, this animal soon develops a sleek, mature look and as his father tells Xan, “He may not show it now, but inside, he knows he belongs in the wild.”

After a flurry of unfortunate events, just as the boy (Alex Michaletos) and his father (Campbell Scott) were about to return the cheetah to the wilds, the father dies, forcing the mother (Hope Davis) to move back to the city to look for work. These city scenes with a cheetah living in an apartment were a little preposterous, but once Xan decides to take his father’s motorbike, with a sidecar for the cheetah, and hit the road across the Kalahari Desert to the game reserves, the beauty and expanse of Africa soon take our breath away, brilliantly photographed by Werner Maritz, accompanied by the luring voices of an African children’s choir. Of course, they eventually run out of gas, but they meet a mysterious black traveling stranger, Rip, played by Eamonn Walker, a survivor of the diamond mines who has spent time in prison, whose motives are unclear, who may or may not help, but it becomes startlingly clear that Xan has absolutely no sense of the danger of his mission. When he finds out where they’re heading, and Xan says he’s not afraid, Rip warns him “You’d better be afraid. That is a place of many teeth, my friend. That is a place to die.”

What really works in this film is the natural grace of the 4 actual cheetahs that were used in the film, who worked right alongside the actors. Working in such close proximity to humans, it would be all so easy to humanize feelings for this animal, thinking it’s adorable and safe when really it’s a natural predator that needs to kill for a living. Once the animal could stretch out and discover its own place in the grasslands, it was a liberating joy to behold. The journey through the desert across the Makgadikgadi salt pans, the Okavengo Delta, down the rivers past the crocodiles to the Erongo Mountains has a Huckleberry Finn humor and a similar sense of exploration and danger, even as the film takes on a greater sense of seriousness and urgency just to stay alive. The portrayal of Africa is respectful of its many riches, not the least of which is the warm spirit of the people, who speak their own un-subtitled language, which only adds a feeling of authenticity to what the boy must have experienced. There’s beautiful developing spirit of the interconnectedness of things. I was not impressed with the Peter Gabriel song playing over the credits, which, from the opening notes reflected a different world, but the rest of the well-chosen music by John Debny featured an African children’s choir that aptly connected with effortless simplicity to the far-reaching horizons.

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Carroll Ballard's splendid-looking, mildly old-fashioned boy-and-his-cheetah tale became a minor cause celebre last year when the film's distributor, Warner Bros., backed away from a full-scale theatrical release, citing disappointing test runs in Chicago and the Southwest. A handful of critics took up the cause; here was lyrical, resonant children's fare, without fast-food tie-ins or CGI flash, a film that might cause children to pester parents for nature hikes instead of action figures. But by the time Duma pulled into New York in September, more than five months after its initial debut, the fate of Ballard's heartwarmer (his first since 1996's Fly Away Home) was pretty well sealed.

Released at last to the rest of the country, Duma is revealed as something less than a murdered masterpiece. The film's narrative, loosely based on a book by Carol Cawthra Hopcraft and her son, Xan, is patchy and predictable, never quite taking on the mythic resonance Ballard so obviously seeks. (It doesn't help that the rough sound mix—often a sign that a studio has lost faith and is trying to cut costs—muffles large chunks of dialogue.) But the interaction between young Alex Michaeletos and his not-quite-pet cat is frequently astonishing, as is the South African countryside around them. As they traverse the desert, fulfilling the boy's dying father's wish to see the cat returned to its natural habitat, the two seem to have a rapport born of years and not months. Domesticated in story terms (and, obviously, trained in real life), the film's cheetah (actually, four of them) never has the whipped look of a scrawny zoo cat; he's just feral enough to suggest the consequences of keeping him out of the wild much longer.

The film fares less well when it has the boy meet a wandering tribesman (Oz's Eamonn Walker) whose main function is to augment his young charge's life lessons; the failure to explore the implications of such a friendship, connecting a black man to a white boy born after the end of apartheid, feels less utopian than neglectful. But considering that few children's movies even bump up against such themes, the movie's failure to exhaust them is pardonable, if regrettable.

The New York Times (Manohla Dargis)

In a movie year already distinguished by stalwart penguins and volatile grizzlies comes another film that puts nonhuman concerns front and center. "Duma," a soulful, piercingly beautiful story about a boy and his cheetah - and a boy and his patrimony - marks the welcome return to the screen of the director Carroll Ballard, whose previous films include "The Black Stallion" and "Fly Away Home." As in these earlier works, Mr. Ballard has taken up the mystery of human existence through a story that plumbs the depths of that original kingdom we have long tried to abandon, the animal world.

Set in South Africa, the story opens with an irresistible mote of yellow and black, the cheetah cub later known as Duma, losing first his mother and then his way. Nosing through a bit of fence meant to protect him and the rest of the game-reserve inhabitants, the cub ends up stranded one night on a stretch of highway, where he almost becomes roadkill. Fate, or rather storytelling contrivance, intervenes in the form of the freckle-faced Xan (Alexander Michaletos, then 12), and his father, Peter (Campbell Scott), who are hurtling through the enveloping dark in a vintage sportscar. After plucking the cub from danger, Xan brings the rescue home, where his mother, Kristin (Hope Davis), tends their little house on the veld.

For Xan and his family, the encounter with the cheetah cub is love at first sight. It's easy to see why. Played by four age groups of real cheetahs - tiny cubs, somewhat bigger cubs, a 7-month-old and five adults - Duma was born both for intimate close-ups and for expansive long shots that allow Mr. Ballard to make the most of the dazzling surroundings. Like all those cheetahs and the young Mr. Michaletos, who makes his film debut here, the landscape, with its seemingly endless ocher grasslands and shocks of bright blue and emerald, is one of the chief pulls. As shot by Werner Maritz, also making his debut in this film as a cinematographer, these landscapes appear strangely, bewitchingly timeless, as if untouched by the modern world and its ills.

Although the hook of the story is Xan's friendship with Duma, who quickly grows into a soccer-playing, motorcycle-racing wonderment, the parallel narrative is that of a child's inevitable, sometimes wrenching passage into adulthood. Partly inspired by the picture book "How It Was With Dooms," about a real South African boy and his pet cheetah, and given dramatic shape and gristle by Karen Janszen and Mark St. Germain, the film initially seems to cleave to the sentimental idea that childhood is a lost paradise, however short-lived. In this parched Eden, Xan embodies his truest, most natural self and talks to his animal freely, without worry or self-consciousness. It's a dream world, as radiant as a soap bubble and, as it emerges, just as fragile.

What happens to Xan and Duma doesn't lead to any revelations, though the road they take at times forks, taking them down some pleasantly twisty byways. After tragedy rains down on Xan's family, the boy and the cheetah end up tearing across the desert on Peter's motorcycle (and sidecar), dangerously alone. They soon meet a wayfarer named Rip (the fine British actor Eamonn Walker) who comes equipped with a bush baby and a shadowy past. As they smartly play off "Huckleberry Finn" - they even toss a raft on a river - Mr. Ballard and the screenwriters add an unexpected layer of meaning to their story, embellishing their unimpeachable message that to live in the world fully means accepting that all creatures - great, small and gloriously wild - deserve a place here, too.

Salon.com [Stephanie Zacharek]

Slate [David Edelstein]

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson)

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez]

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

Monsters And Critics [Frankie Dees]

eFilmCritic.com (Peter Sobczynski)

eFilmCritic.com (Dan Lybarger)

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

filmcritic.com (Chris Cabin) and again here: MovieWeb (Chris Cabin)

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Joel Cunningham)

DVD Verdict [Brett Cullum]

The Village Voice [Ben Kenigsberg]

Time Out London

Variety.com [Scott Foundas]

Boston Globe Ty Burr

Los Angeles Times (Kenneth Turan)

Chicago Tribune [Michael Wilmington]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

Bani-Etemad, Rakhshan

THE MAY LADY (Banoo-Ye Ordibehesht) C 72

Iran (85 mi) 1997

Being human is not a gift, it is a non-transferable right

Very much a copy cat, existentialist essay in the emotionally detached manner of Godard, something of a non-natural statement of the natural state from Iran’s leading female filmmaker, who has a documentary film background with obvious skills, but this is a lifeless and tiresome film that never gets around to revealing what it has to say, filled with the similar manner of European films from decades past connecting to a morose, urban alienation in its existential meaninglessness, complete with a dry, dull, voiceover narration. What’s left is a rather empty portrait about a self-absorbed, divorced, middle-aged professional filmmaker who is attempting to raise her teenage son alone, manage her career, and respond to developing feelings in her life from a new relationship which appears to alienate her son, yet benefit her.

A modern woman in a modern city in a modern apartment with a photo of herself on the wall over her bed says it all – how can we like this woman? She spends the entire film reflecting on her self-doubts as a woman, whose son prefers Spielberg to Iranian culture or history, who is constantly reminded of her younger spirit, using a detached voiceover, “Where is that person who hated helplessness?” She is now left with a nagging sense of alienation, “I am looking for my true self,” but she has become a cold, austere, intellectual woman leading a lonely life, searching for her own salvation through the lives of others, making documentary films interviewing and examining the lives of hundred of women in search of “The Exemplary Mother of the Year.”

We witness the filmmaker try to balance her life as a mother, wife, professional, modern woman-on-the-go talking on her cell phone as she vacuums, changes the sheets, goes to the laundromat, spending endless time on freeways going God knows where as we also see video images of mothers everywhere, mothers who have lost husbands or sons to war or prison, to failed relationships, many of which take place before the camera, as she murmurs to herself “I wander aimlessly, captivated by their lives...I wish I had their boldness, I’m filled with ambivalence.” In the end, the video faces become dark shadows, colorless, the same, and she cannot choose between them, “the film has neither a beginning nor an end.”

With thoughts running through her head, she reads Persian poetry, or letters from a boyfriend who is attempting to arouse in her some true love: “I met you in May, a Spring month. In the middle of our lives, should we deny the true laws of nature?” She decides to allow her son to read her personal diary, but he runs away, even though it begins with thoughts about him, how it is against Iranian laws of nature for divorced mothers to raise their children, how they naturally go to the father, but she fought for him. The diary eventually leads elsewhere, to thoughts of another man. When her son returns, she tells him “There are things that you should not only listen to but understand,” which is met with silence. “When parents reach middle age, they all say the same thing...” The phone rings, neither answers. Later, she dials the phone on her own, an existential moment breaking the inertia, finally, a pulse, a heartbeat...

UNDER THE SKIN OF THE CITY (Zir-e poost-e shahr)

Iran (92 mi) 2001

Village Voice (Michael Atkinson)

Imported Iranian movies freely excoriate their nation's sociopolitical conditions, and yet the land of mullahs and doe-eyed tykes is conceived of here as a "closed," Islamo-Stalinist dystopia that precludes such dissent. The preconception's demolition could start with Abbas Kiarostami's Ten and Rakhshan Bani-Etemad's Under the Skin of the City, both cosmopolitan essays on future shock, Iran's anti-feminism, and the stress-tattering of the familial fabric. Bani-Etemad's generational melodrama observes a blue-collar dynastic collapse worthy of Lillian Hellman, but stays steadfastly fixed on the quotidian of Tehran life.

A 48-year-old veteran of docs and fiction, Bani-Etemad is a pragmatic feminist, and like her breakout film, Nargess (1992), Under the Skin is a conscientious taboo-breaker. Bani-Etemad dares to glimpse a woman dancing and show us female hair being washed (the censors bitched, the filmmaker prevailed), but I prefer her strategy for managing the no-male-female-contact rule: a neighboring wall from beyond which hellacious brother-sister "honor" beatings can be heard. When the teenage victim runs away, her best friend (Baran Kowsari, Bani-Etemad's daughter) furiously breaches the wall and smacks the abusive brother down.

The family at the movie's center is led by Tuba (Golab Adineh), an aging, co-dependent matriarch with a layabout husband and a textile factory job. The younger son (Ebraheem Sheibani) fights for reform, the eldest (Mohammed Reza Foroutan) struggles for a visa to Japan so he can support the family, and the eldest daughter (Homeira Riazi) routinely returns home with her children after spousal pummelings. Bani-Etemad adroitly erects intersecting social critiques within these commonplace lives, and avoids sermonizing in favor of experiential right hooks. What's hard to forget is the volleyball game between dozens of pitch-black chadors, or the grim visage of the bruised eldest daughter as she's told to kiss her enabling mother-in-law's hand. Bani-Etemad is not above questioning her own cultural role: On election day, a decimated Tuba directly addresses a documentarian's camera with the question that titled Bani-Etemad's 1992 doc, "Who do you show these films to, anyway?"

Ten and Under the Skin of the City Jessica Winter from the Village Voice (excerpt)

Puzzlingly, the director Abbas Kiarostami doesn't consider politics part of Ten's equation, though every scene polishes a facet of the myriad restrictions on Iranian women. "I don't think that Ten is especially about the women's situation in Iran," Kiarostami insists. "It's about existential problems that affect the relationships between women and men in any country."

Rakhshan Bani-Etemad puts it another way: "In any country where women aren't free, no one is free." In her first U.S. release, Under the Skin of the City (opening this Friday), a working-class matriarch struggles to keep her family's heads above water while her eldest son embarks on increasingly desperate moneymaking schemes. Set during the 1998 parliamentary elections, Under the Skin begins and ends with scenes of female voters enduring inept TV interviewers. "I wanted to show that since Iranian television is run by one organization representing one political point of view, its version of society is limited and clichéd," says Bani-Etemad. "This is why television ads for this film were refused. On the eve of the film's release, we decided to tag all the billboards advertising the film in Tehran: 'Ask yourself: Why is it there are no ads for this film on television?' " The gambit paid off: Under the Skin was the highest-grossing homegrown movie at the Iranian box office in 2001.

The veteran director has since completed Our Times, a documentary about the 2001 elections: The first part focuses on young novice voters, and the second follows a 25-year-old single mother who's evicted from her home while she's, of all things, running for president—one of 48 female candidates for the office that year. "The difficulties for women in Iran are cultural, legal, and economic. But in facing these, the women haven't become weak or impotent," Bani-Etemad says. "If anything, the women have developed a resilience, their own sense of empowerment."

Senses of Cinema (Tamara Tracz)

World Socialist Web Site Joanne Laurier

filmcritic.com (Nicholas Schager)

An Iranian Jewel, 'Under the Skin Of the City' - indieWIRE Howard Feinstein from indieWIRE

Film Freak Central Walter Chaw

Los Angeles Times Kevin Thomas

The New York Times (A.O. Scott)

OUR TIMES (Ruz-egar-e ma)

Iran (65 mi) 2002

Jan Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

A shocking, late-breaking contender for my year-end top ten until the last few minutes (an egregious closing-credits montage which pillages the preceding film for “poignant” images, after the fashion of NBC Olympics coverage). Other than that misstep, Bani-Etemad’s structure is impeccable, moving easily from the general to the painfully specific. First, we meet various young people who are involved in the campaign to re-elect President Khatami. We hear defenses of his reforms, counter-arguments (mostly from folks who feel he isn’t getting the job done, not from anti-reformist hardliners per se), but mostly we are shown the exhilarated affect that comes from increased democratic participation. (At a Khatami rally, the Pres throws a flower into the crowd, and Bani-Etemad shows us a young girl weeping like she just caught Elvis’s sweaty scarf.) Then, Our Times shifts focus to women’s role in the 2001 campaign, in particular the record number of women who ran for the presidency. (In this regard, Iran may have bested the U.S. handily, fringe candidates though they may be.) RBE interviews various women candidates, asking them why they thought they should be president, and what the Iranian government needs to do for women. The answers, though interesting, are rather rote – they are leftover campaign promises, after all. Then, in an unexpected turn, the director zeroes in on Arezoo, a disqualified female candidate. We meet her family – blind elderly mother, young daughter, no husband (she divorced him due to his drug problem and subsequent arrest). We follow her as she races against eviction, declined for apartments because she’s a single mother. In the end, Bani-Etemad presents Arezoo’s quixotic political endeavor as a last-ditch struggle to maintain sanity, much less dignity. Despite the film’s formal failings (the closing montage, some ill-advised video effects), Our Times manages what at this point I’d have considered impossible – it delves into Iranian womanhood and finds a new story to tell.

Filmjourney Doug Cummings

Banksy

EXIT THROUGH THE GIFT SHOP B 89

USA Great Britain (87 mi) 2010

I don’t know how to play chess, but life is a chess game for me. —Thierry Guetta, aka Mr. Brainwash

A case of pure filmmaking provocation or a true representation of the fickle face of the art world? One never knows. As a result, not the full-fledged revelation this film might have been, as rather than open new doors, it seems to close just as many behind afterwards, leaving the audience in a perpetual state of frustration, but certainly not due to any cinematic deficiencies or lack of an ingenious imagination by the director, whoever this turns out to be. Instead it hinges on outing an unlikable hero, a guy with delusions of grandeur who is the main focus of the film, Thierry “Terry” Guetta, someone who allegedly infiltrated the urban Graffiti art movement in Europe and Los Angeles by videotaping various street artists at work, no small task considering all of these guys exist outside the law, operate in the stealth of night, and whose work mysteriously appears in public arenas as if conjured up by ghosts. No one ever sees them. If they did they’d be subject to arrest for defacing public property. So the claims of this guy, a French exile who ends up on the streets of Los Angeles owning a highly fashionable clothing store, is highly suspect, except that he did accompany the supposed director Banksy on scouting locations around the rooftops of LA and allegedly has volumes of tapes recorded of many of these infamous artists at work, like Swoon, Neckface, Shepard Fairey, Space Invader (supposedly his cousin), Cheez, Coma and Banksy, a British legend who he befriends, hoping eventually to make a documentary illuminating their explosively dramatic artistic street vision.

Dressed in a hoodie, his voice electronically altered, and continually shot in an unrecognizable black silhouette, Banksy turns into the criminally witness protected narrator of his own film, as he extemporaneously offers his comments about Guetta, who is prone to exaggerations and hyperbole, who always seems inclined to be the center of attention himself, and who’s real delight is supposedly hanging around and filming other artists, including Banksy, not editing the footage which simply lies around for months untouched. But believing he has a goldmine once Banksy surges to superstardom, whose art exhibit becomes associated with well-pocketed Hollywood stars (Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie), turning his work instantly into collectors items with Graffiti art suddenly cashing in for large sums at swank public auctions, Guetta finally succumbs to the pressure and crafts a 90 minute editing nightmare disaster documentary called “Life Remote Control,” where unrelated images with no context whatsoever simply whiz by the screen, as if a remote control was continually changing the channel for upwards to 90 minutes, which can feel like being dropped out of a flying airplane without a parachute as the thoughts and images go streaming through your head in a nanosecond like a life threatening experience, leaving an audience dazed with horror. Banksy considers it a nightmare of such colossal magnitude that he begins to suspect Guetta might have mental problems, and instead decides to take a stab at moviemaking targeting Guetta himself along with the available material, which somewhat haphazardly turns into this film.

Besides Banksy, there is another unseen narrator who playfully describes Guetta’s foibles, Rhys Ifans, calling this “the biggest countercultural movement since punk.” His tone is mocking, but befitting of the preening subject who’s switched sides of the camera, who’s gone from filming others to being the subject of the film itself. At the urging of Banksy, largely to get rid of him and expose him for who he really is, an art wannabe, he urges him to become a street artist himself. Guetta throws himself into this idea as if inspired by Michelangelo himself, creating a new name and street artist persona, calling himself Mr. Brainwash, garnering plenty of publicity, even featured in a spot by LA Weekly when he decides to turn an empty industrial building into the largest exhibit of Graffiti Art ever, an outlandish project that features extensive quantities of his own works, which eventually generated about a million dollars in personal revenue for himself. He became an instant star, designing the cover of one of Madonna’s Greatest Hits albums (sold on Amazon here: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B002HNA95E?ie=UTF8&tag=mdnaffiliate20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B002HNA95E) and seen here: Mr Brainwash creates artwork for Madonna Album cover). But when we view his methods, he’s nothing more than a plagiarist, as he takes the existing works of others, namely Andy Warhol, prints hundreds of copies, and then splashes new paint on top of the existing copies, giving the appearance of an original work. Despite his charlatan shortcomings, in typical Warhol fashion, he rides the tide of the Graffiti Art movement to become an instant celebrity, soon fading from public view into utter ignominy.

Guetta is such a prima donna that he grows tiresome after awhile, even in such a short timespan, actually portrayed by Banksy as a loathsome and somewehat pathetic figure. The entire film is a provocative work in question, however, exposing the subjective superficiality in commercial art evaluation, using a talentless hack like Guetta as a hyped example of a momentary high priced market commodity, where it’s possible the supposed narrative is a spoof, using a foolish, demented soul (and French on top of that!) as a would-be filmmaker/artist that may entirely be a work of fabrication, perhaps an unseen persona from the already shadowy world of Banksy himself, who is a legitimate artist who could have actually financed and filled an empty warehouse with his own works. That muddled feeling in your head afterwards is the utter state of confusion this potential truth and/or faux documentary fiction leaves you with, offering no definitive views one way or another.

Exit Through the Gift Shop JR Jones from The Reader

A movie of billboard-size ironies, this tells the story of Thierry Guetta, a French wannabe who spent eight years videotaping street artists (Banksy, Invader, Shepard Fairey) as they executed their illegal works. When pressed to deliver his long-promised documentary, Guetta assembled an unwatchable mess called Life Remote Control, then switched gears and, assisted by a cover story in LA Weekly, reinvented himself as a Warholian pop artist called Mr. Brainwash. Meanwhile Banksy—a Brit whose identity has never been revealed and is protected here—turned the tables on Guetta and made this highly amusing documentary about him. Since Exit Through the Gift Shop premiered at the Sundance Film Festival in January, some have suggested that the whole story, including the emergence of Mr. Brainwash, is an elaborate hoax engineered by Banksy to satirize the commodification of art. If so, it’s a brilliant one. R, 87 min.

The Onion A.V. Club review [A-] Noel Murray

Once upon a time, in Los Angeles, French-born clothing-store proprietor Thierry Guetta picked up a video camera and began shooting everything and everyone around him. He pestered family members. He pestered celebrities, who couldn’t distinguish Guetta from a common paparazzo. Then one day, while visiting family in France, Guetta discovered that one of his cousins was the legendary street artist Space Invader, who was then gaining fame for the tiled mosaics he’d been installing surreptitiously in public spaces around Europe. Guetta, as was his wont, began videotaping Space Invader, and soon other graffiti artists, including Shepard Fairey and the mysterious British legend Banksy. Guetta claimed he was collecting all this footage for a documentary, but as the years rolled by, no documentary appeared, and Guetta’s friends began to wonder if he was more madman than filmmaker. Then again, what artist isn’t a little crazy?

Exit Through The Gift Shop is the result of Banksy’s attempts to wrestle with Guetta’s massive library of videotapes, and to make the documentary that Guetta couldn’t. The movie contains a lot of amazing footage of artists at work, and of their finished installations, most of which were removed or wiped away days later. Just as a permanent record of a remarkable artistic movement, Exit Through The Gift Shop is valuable. But there’s more going on here. In telling the story of Guetta’s obsessive behavior, Banksy delivers a surprisingly wry, analytical essay-film that starts out being about the DIY impulse, then becomes about what makes an artist great, and not a well-meaning wannabe. Exit features plenty of twists and turns—many involving the clandestine, lawbreaking art projects themselves—and it’s probably better if viewers don’t know the whole arc of the story going in. Suffice to say that Banksy’s movie grapples with the responsibility he feels for inspiring people like Guetta, and also grapples with the question of whether the enduring value of a piece of art derives from the image it captures, or the person who captures it. Exit Through The Gift Shop is a documentary that doubles as a comic thriller, and it’s as entertaining as it is thought-provoking.

The Village Voice [Aaron Hillis]

A genuinely hip, thought-provoking work of art disguised as a doomed documentary resurrected, Exit Through the Gift Shop is not just the definitive portrait of street-art counterculture, but also a hilarious exposé on the gullibility of the masses who embrace manufactured creative personas. Though it's credited as a Banksy picture—as in the ever-elusive U.K. graffiti ninja whose puckish, anti-capitalist and anti-authoritarian stencils have appeared everywhere from metropolitan billboards worldwide to the West Bank barrier wall—the film ostensibly began with him tapped as its on-camera subject.

Banksy's talking head appears faceless under a dark hood, with his pithy wit digitally masked, to help narrator Rhys Ifans explain how the role reversal occurred. The real "director" of most of the truly fascinating, dangerously obtained footage herein is Thierry Guetta, an eccentric French expat and family man living in Los Angeles. Guetta's fanatical devotion to recording every banal moment of his life yielded massive amounts of tape from the early days of the '90s street art scene—tape that would ultimately become Exit. Flush from his overpriced designer clothing store, Guetta had the time and resources to begin following his cousin—the mosaic artist Space Invader—on his night bombing missions, serving as the lookout man through his viewfinder. From there, the self-proclaimed filmmaker earned the trust of other street-scene notables. In addition to his holy grail Banksy, Guetta filmed Swoon and Shepard Fairey, who Guetta meets for the first time on camera as Fairey's printing out enlarged copies of his notorious "André the Giant Has a Posse" designs at a Kinko's. The irony of creating art with tools from a commercial franchise is not lost on Fairey, who admits that his logos "gain real power from perceived power."

Without ruining some subversively funny, late-breaking surprises, the impact of Fairey's quote sharply resonates after we see Guetta rechristen himself as the artist "Mr. Brainwash," exploiting his connections to get pull quotes for his first bought-and-paid-for solo exhibition, an inexplicably successful event aided by an LA Weekly cover story that inspired frothing among gallery patrons and bemused shrugs from Banksy and Fairey. Guetta's bullshit pop technique was to rip off those guys, and Warhol, wholesale, which in turn has made some question the validity of this film itself. Is Mr. Brainwash a flesh-and-blood installation, manipulated into being by Banksy, and is the hoax on us for being entertained by what we believe is true? I don't think so. Too cleverly constructed to dismiss as another recycled joke on the inanity of modern art, Exit Through the Gift Shop is—against its players' better judgment—strangely inspirational. Go on, pick up an aerosol can, paint yourself an empire, and see if we call your bluff.

The Times of London (Wendy Ide) review [4/5] Wendy Ide, March 5, 2010

Street artist, provocateur, pop cultural phenomenon, criminal: in his career Banksy has managed to achieve the seemingly impossible, combining ruthless self-promotion with anonymity. So it’s to be expected that his film-making debut, Exit Through The Gift Shop, would be something of a conundrum. The simplest reading is that this is a straight documentary about the world of street art as seen through the eyes of the hanger-on turned art success story Thierry Guetta, aka Mr Brainwash or MBW.

It’s possible, however, that what the film actually documents is one of the most daring art hoaxes ever perpetrated, a joke at the considerable expense of those who rushed to commodify an art form that was always meant to be about free expression, free to all. Whether or not you take it at face value, this is a hugely entertaining movie, a fascinating record of an influential art movement infused with a suitably anarchic spirit.

Guetta is a part wide-eyed naïf, part semi-certifiable obsessive with a compulsion to document every banal detail with his ever-present video camera. Through his cousin, the mosaic artist Invader, Guetta stumbles on to the street art movement at a time when an explosion of creativity is propelling an underground medium into the mainstream. Guetta becomes the Zelig of the graffiti movement, documenting artists such as Shepard Fairey, Neckface and Banksy in action. The footage he captures is grungy and unpolished, but it is charged with the lawless energy of the scene. But, as an irony-drenched narration from Rhys Ifans explains, Guetta hoards his tapes, unwatched, with no real idea of what to do with them.

It’s at this point that things get intriguingly ambiguous. Realising that there are inanimate objects with more film-making skill than Guetta, Banksy takes on the project and tries to shape the vast cache of material into a film. He encourages Guetta to make his own work, anticipating that he will just tag a few walls or print a few posters. Instead Guetta sets up a studio, hires a team of helpers and sets about raping and pillaging 20th-century art to come up with a huge portfolio of work. He then hires a warehouse and stages one of the biggest art events to be held in LA.

I am inclined to suspect that there is at least a level of deception at play here. Banksy admits in the film that it was his suggestion that prompted Guetta to rifle through the pop cultural dustbin and put together his monster show. It’s not too much of a stretch to surmise that Bansky orchestrated the whole event to test the credulity of the art-buying hordes.

I have another reason to suspect this. I once met Banksy. It did not go well. What started out as a perfectly amiable chat descended into hostility when he talked about his favourite film and I gave my critical evaluation of it. The film was Life is Beautiful, the mawkish story of a man who creates a fictional alternative reality in a Nazi death camp. And the title of Guetta’s LA show? Life is Beautiful.

Twitch [Ryland Aldrich]

This year's Sundance Spotlight Surprise slot was filled by the documentary Exit Through The Gift Shop, directed by the enigmatic artist Banksy.  The film is a documentation of the rise and subsequent commercialization of the street art movement, told via the narrative lens of one of the movement's most bizarre and commercially successful members, Thierry Guetta aka Mr. Brainwash.  The film is wildly successful at both capturing an art form that's practice has been mostly hidden behind the cover of darkness, and at telling that interesting story of a truly kooky character.  But the real success of the film is the questions it raises about the formation of the artist, the commerce of art, and the authenticity of documentary film.

The movie opens with a shrouded and vocally distorted Banksy explaining that while this movie was started as a documentary about him, he found the original filmmaker far more interesting. That man was the Frenchman Thierry Guetta - and his story starts in Los Angeles where he ran a successful vintage clothing shop. Thierry carried a video camera with him virtually everywhere he went, filling up tape after tape with a running documentation of his life.  That life changed dramatically on one trip to France when Thierry took his camera out one night to put up art with his cousin Space Invader, an early player in the street art scene famous for his mosaics depicting characters from the videogame of his namesake.  Thierry was immediately enamored by the thrill of the counter culture he had stumbled into.  When he returned to LA he sought out Shepard Fairey (whose Obey Giant and Obama "Hope" images should be familiar to everyone).  Shepard and Thierry struck up a friendship and the two spent many late nights bombing the city.  As Shepard puts it, Thierry may have been kind of weird, but he was a valuable asset to have along as a lookout and he was always willing to scale the tall buildings necessary to find the best spots to post art.

Due to his relationships with Shepard and Invader, Thierry met many other street artists and, because of his ever present video camera, became the de facto documentarian of the growing movement.  But the one artist who eluded his lens was the subversive English artist Banksy - a man whose gall and ingenuity (he hung his own paintings in the Tate Modern, MOMA, and the Met) had made him the best known name in the street art world.  As fate would have it, it was Banksy who, new to LA and in need of a guide, one day called Thierry.  Banksy was intrigued by the odd Frenchman and bought into Thierry's desire to document the movement.  So for the first time, Banksy allowed someone to capture his process and application.  After Banksy's "Barely Legal" art show in LA brought in millions of dollars and spelled the coming out party for street art, Banksy told Thierry it was time to release his documentary to the public.  Not really knowing anything about filmmaking, Thierry took a stab at it - cutting together 90 minutes of free flowing ideas and imagery.  As Banksy put it, the film was utter shit.  So Banksy asked Thierry to leave the tapes with him (to ostensibly create this documentary) and told Thierry to go home, work on his own art, and put on his own show.  Thierry did exactly that, building a street art factory and cranking out thousands of pieces of art under the moniker Mr. Brainwash.  His 2008 "Life is Beautiful" show earned him over $1 million and marked his overnight entry to the ranks of elite street artists. It also earned him the scorn of the very people whose trust he had worked so hard to earn: the artists who had labored years to find the success that Thierry rode to fortune.

This extremely interesting film is important for a number of reasons - not the least of which is as pure documentation.  Because of issues of questionable legality, street artists are notoriously distrustful of cameras.  But through his perseverance, Thierry proved both trustworthy and useful enough to the artists to earn his place.  'Who is the crazy French guy with camera?' quickly turned into, 'We're going out, call Thierry.'  The explosion of the street art movement at the turn of this century and its subsequent transition to the big money world of art collectors is comparable to the French Impressionist movement at the turn of the last century.  Without Thierry's odd need to film every aspect of his life, this level of documentation simply would not exist.

Or would it?  The subversive nature of street art can't help but lead to a certain level of healthy skepticism.  Might Thierry just be a pawn - another contribution in Banksy's invented narrative of the movement he has already played such a role in creating?  Thierry is quite the captivating character.  The meteoric rise of the Mr. Brainwash brand raises numerous questions about the intersection of art criticism and commercial consumption.  Can art be considered successful if it is popular to the public but not accepted by the community of artists?  Questions like this are certainly not new, but the film provides an interesting context for their further exploration.

One way or another, Banksy is responsible for the creation of Thierry and Mr. Brainwash. This film is either Banksy taking credit, or pleading his excuse.

Exit Through the Gift Shop Bryant Frazer from Deep Focus

New York Magazine (David Edelstein) review

Movieline (Stephanie Zacharek) review [8/10]

James Bowman review

filmsoundoff.com [alex roberts]

Cinematical (Kevin Kelly) review at Sundance, with Banksy?

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

Hollywood Jesus [Elisabeth Leitch]

Cinema Blend [Katey Rich]

The New Yorker (Anthony Lane) review

The Wall Street Journal (Joe Morgenstern) review

Slant Magazine [Nick Schager]

Eye for Film (Amber Wilkinson) review [3/5]

Daily Film Dose [Blair Stewart]

FilmJerk.com (Brian Orndorf) review [C] also seen here: Briandom [Brian Orndorf]

RopeofSilicon (Brad Brevet) review [B-]

Hallie Newton: Banksy Makes A Documentary, Art World Still Confused Hallie Newton from The Huffington Post, April 19, 2010

Shepard Fairey Swears to God the Banksy Movie is Not a Hoax ... Julian Sancton from Vanity Fair, April 16, 2010

BANKSY - SWINDLE Magazine Feature and interview by Shepard Fairey from Swindle magazine, August 2006

Moment of Truth: Banksy is Selling, But Are You Buying? S.T. VanAirsdale interview with one of the film’s producers John Sloss, from Movieline, April 15, 2010

Entertainment Weekly review [A] Owen Gleiberman

Variety (Peter Debruge) review

Time Out Chicago (Ben Kenigsberg) review [4/5]Time Out Online (Dave Calhoun) review [4/5]

The Guardian (Peter Bradshaw) review [4/5] March 4, 2010

The Guardian (Jeremy Kay) review January 26, 2010

Banksy's pop-up cinema isn't the only art event on Leake Street Ben Walters from The Guardian, March 1, 2010

Banksy runs risk of public unmasking at Bristol show Paul Gallagher from The Observer, August 30, 2009

Banksy sees red over climate change Haroon Siddique from The Guardian, December 21, 2009

Banksy in line for Oscar nomination Esther Addley from The Guardian, November 19, 2010

Banksy targets LA ahead of Oscars Andrew Pulver from The Guardian, February 17, 2011, images here: Banksy tags Hollywood - in pictures

Artist Banksy’s dig at banks The Times Online, May 18, 2007

How to sell Banksy — hire some strippers Luke Leitch from The Times Online, October 6, 2007

Banksy street art makes him a tidy profit Lucy Bannerman from The Times Online, October 25, 2007

Banksy caught in the act for first time Patrick Foster from The Times Online, October 31, 2007

Banksy: Off the wall Carol Midgley from The Times Online, November 1, 2007

Banksy 'caught red-handed' in art prank Nico Hines from The Times Online, November 19, 2007

Banksy brings graffiti to Bonhams Richard Brooks from The Times Online, November 25, 2007

Let us spray: Banksy hits Bethlehem Sheera Claire Frenkel from The Times Online, December 3, 2007

How profit of Banksy was finally recognised Sheera Claire Frenkel from The Times Online, December 26, 2007

Art Attack The Times Online, January 14, 2008

Banksy wall art may top £200k on eBay Simon Crerar from The Times Online, January 14, 2008

£200,000 online bid for graffiti, plus wall Dalya Alberge from The Times Online, January 15, 2008

Bryan Appleyard on art on the web Bryan Appleyard from The Times Online, January 20, 2008

‘Banksy’s ideas have the value of a joke’ Matthew Collings from The Times Online, January 28, 2008

How Banksy made graffiti popular with Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt Lindsay Baker from The Times Online, February 3, 2008

Banksy’s whitewashed work returns Dalya Alberge from The Times Online, February 16, 2008

Banksy hosts underground tunnel show Luke Leitch from The Times Online, May 2, 2008

The man who gave birth to Banksy Waldemar Januszczak from The Times Online, June 8, 2008

The Times of London The artist formerly known as Banksy, by Ben Hoyle from The Times Online, July 14, 2008

Banksy's banned for vandalism Fiona Hamilton from The Times Online, October 24, 2008

Banning work is good for a cultural guerrilla Rachel Campbell-Johnston from The Times Online, October 24, 2008

Banksy backlash as acclaimed work defaced Will Pavia and Tom Whitwell from The Times Online, April 7, 2009

Banksy creates ‘self-portrait’ on office block from The Times Online, May 11, 2009

The Times of London review Exit Through the Gift Shop at the Berlin Film Festival, by Wendy Ide, February 15, 2010

The Independent (Kaleem Aftab) review [4/5]

The Independent (Anthony Quinn) review [3/5]

The Boston Phoenix (Brett Michel) review

San Francisco Chronicle [G. Allen Johnson]

Lisa D'Amato Likes Balls, Jason Bentley "Not Sure" About Elephants Caroline Ryder from LA Weekly, September 15, 2006

Mr. Brainwash Bombs L.A. Shelley Leopold from LA Weekly, June 12, 2008

L.A. 'Street Artist' Mr. Brainwash Takes Manhattan (With a Velvet Rope, Of Course) Barbara Celis from LA Weekly, February 15, 2010

Banksy Revealed? - Page 1 - Art+Books - Los Angeles - LA Weekly Shelley Leopold from LA Weekly, April 8, 2010

Faux Hookers, Bartending Kids at Banksy Premiere Karina Longworth from LA Weekly, April 12, 2010

Celebrities Caught Tagging at Banksy Premiere Liz Ohanesian from LA Weekly, April 14, 2010

Banksy in L.A.: Popular British Graffiti Artist Leaves His Mark in ... KTLA News, April 14, 2010, video report seen here: Video, also accompanying Photos

Hanky Banksy Letters from Readers from LA Weekly, April 15, 2010

Movie Reviews: Exit Through the Gift Shop, Handsome Harry Aaron Hillis from LA Weekly, April 15, 2010

Movie review: 'Exit Through the Gift Shop' - Los Angeles Times Kenneth Turan from The LA Times, April 16, 2010

Chicago Tribune (Michael Phillips) review

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [3.5/4]

New York Times (registration req'd) Jeannette Catsoulis, April 16, 2010

Truth Lies Somewhere in Between Manohla Dargis from The New York Times, February 12, 2010

Banksy Puzzles With 'Exit Through the Gift Shop' - NYTimes.com Melena Ryzik from The New York Times, April 13, 2010

Mr Brainwash creates artwork for Madonna Album cover Art Republic

Celebration (Madonna album) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Madonna Greatest Hits Celebration Album Cover PICS | dailystab.com

Madonna's Greatest Hits Album

Local Street Artist Lands Madonna Album Cover

Blonde Ambition: Madonna and Britney Spears kissing mural

Banksy - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

banksy.co.uk Graffiti artist Banksy website

Banksy - Shop

Images for "Banksy"

Warhol vs Banksy Pollock Fine Art

The work of urban artist Banksy 9 image slide show photo gallery, from The Times Online

Pictures: Banksy 10 image slide show photo gallery, from The Times Online

Banksy Street Art Cans Festival 11 image slide show photo gallery, from The Times Online

Frieze.com Contemporary Art website

Bar-Lev, Amir

Amir Bar-Lev to Direct Jerry Garcia Biopic DARK STAR Collider, July 22, 2010

Amir Bar-Lev's Jerry Garcia biopic hits a snag » GordonandtheWhale.com Joshua Brunsting, August 6, 2010

Sundance '10 | Amir Bar-Lev Deconstructs the Hero Myth in 'Tillman ... indieWIRE interview at Sundance, January 8, 2010

THE FOG OF WAR | The Filmmaker Magazine Blog Jason Guerrasio feature and interview from Filmmaker magazine, July 20, 2010

The Tillman Story director Amir Bar-Lev | Film | Interview | The ... Noel Murray interview from The Onion A.V. Club, August 19, 2010

Jonathan Kim: ReThink Interview: Amir Bar-Lev, Director of The ... Jonathan Kim video interview of the director, August 22, 2010 on YouTube (7:43)

Amir Bar-Lev - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

MY KID COULD PAINT THAT

Great Britain USA (82 mi) 2007

Exclaim! [Travis Mackenzie Hoover]

Prodigy or pretence? That’s the question surrounding four-year-old Marla Olmstead and her alleged genius for abstract expressionist painting. But though the issue of whether or not she painted her increasingly expensive canvases is at this documentary’s surface, its heart is a thornier tale of media fiction and the elusive nature of truth.

The ball gets rolling when an apparently benevolent “family” reporter first prints the tale of Olmstead and her parents, then larger news outlets pick up the story and Marla’s paintings begin to sell for tens of thousands of dollars. The befuddled toddler is suddenly in the middle of a major media frenzy, which takes a darker turn when 60 Minutes reports — on suspiciously thin evidence — that her father Mark actually coached her.

What starts as a study of a child phenomenon transforms into a challenge to her work’s authenticity, as well as the news world’s need to first build stories and then change them to keep them interesting. By the end, director Amir Bar-Lev is scrutinising himself for his complicity in creating the myth and interfering in his subjects’ lives, making for an uniquely searching and uncommonly tense viewing experience.

Almost nothing is known for certain: evidence points towards and away from fraud, and stories are told that may be true or may be created to justify the print-and-television feeding frenzy. About all we know for sure is that Olmstead’s dealer is a jerk, and even he has opinions that disturb the idea of what abstract art is and why anyone should care.

Make no mistake, this is one troubling movie with enough thematic strands to keep you occupied long after you leave the theatre.

Seattle Post-Intelligencer [Sean Axmaker]

Four-year-old Marla Olmstead became an art-world sensation when her abstract paintings started selling for thousands of dollars and the media turned her into a personal interest story celebrity: the preschool Pollack. When a "60 Minutes" feature suggested she didn't paint them herself, or at least not without help, the public turned on the parents with such hostility that you'd think they had been convicted of some unspeakable crime.

"My Kid Could Paint That" isn't their story, or rather it isn't simply their story. It's a dissection of how the media found and fed and nurtured the story in their insatiable need for content to fill their news hours and talk shows, how it just as quickly turned on them and transformed the story from celebration to vilification, and how the public turned right along with them. Evidence has a very minor role in this media trial.

Director Amir Bar-lev investigates the boundaries between public and private that are blurred by the media's need for stories and as he confronts the motivations and responsibilities of the media he faces those same questions, sometimes right on screen.

Did Marla paint those canvases herself or didn't she? While the question hangs over the documentary and evidence is lined up on both sides, Bar-lev offers no definitive answer and, ultimately, it's beside the point.

Does the answer change the value of the paintings? Is it all about what's on the canvas or the notoriety behind it? Is his responsibility as a filmmaker to deliver a good story or an accurate story? What about his responsibility to the family?

Like the best of the new wave of American documentaries, it becomes about far more than the human-interest angle at the center of the story, yet Bar-lev never forgets about them. It only makes the provocative story all the more involving.

The Village Voice [Nathan Lee]

An irresistible subject for a documentary: The charming celebrity of Marla Olmstead, an artist from upstate New York whose talent for impossibly confident abstractions triggered a media frenzy and five-figure price tags. Unveiled at a local coffee shop, Marla's middling AbEx doodles might not have inspired more than a glance at the milk-and-sugar station were it not for the astonishing revelation that their maker was all of four years old. Supposedly.

An unexpected development: Growing suspicions that Mark Olmstead, Marla's father and an amateur painter himself, may have lent more than encouraging words to his daughter's endeavor. Dazzled by the media attention (and, one presumes, the money), he was stumped by the inevitable backlash, unable to offer convincing proof of his daughter's sole authorship.

An inevitable talking head: "There's this large idea out there that abstract art and modern art in general has no standards, no truths," says Michael Kimmelman, chief art critic of The New York Times and running commentator on the cultural implications of the Marla mystery in My Kid Could Paint That. "That if a child could do it, it pulls the veil off this con game."

What began as a human-interest story for filmmaker Amir Bar-Lev led down stranger paths than the Duchampian conundrums of modern art. The Olmsteads, desiring an ally to tell their side of the story, granted Bar-Lev intimate access to their household, and My Kid Could Paint That is foremost a study in a most unusual and unsettling family dynamic. Mark's eagerness to exploit Marla's fame is poised against his wife Laura's reluctance and intuition that theirs is a situation bound to get out of control. Meanwhile, little Marla bears no sign of distress over her extraordinary circumstances, making her innocent poise all the more poignant.

Confronted with increasing media scrutiny and skepticism, Mark produces a DVD purporting to record the start-to-finish creation of a Marla masterpiece. Bar-Lev counters with altogether more persuasive evidence to the contrary via split-screen comparison of canvasses. Are Mark and Laura lying? If My Kid Could Paint That is the record of a con, its artists are supremely confident practitioners. Is Marla, as the parents claim, simply too shy on camera to work in her true style? Evidence points to some level of assistance, but no conclusions are drawn. "Your documentary will be a lie," Kimmelman says to the camera, speaking to larger questions of authenticity raised by Bar-Lev; "it's how you decided to tell a particular story."

Mike D'Angelo #3 on his 2007 Top Ten List

DVD Talk (Jamie S. Rich) review [4/5]

Pajiba (John Williams) review

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray]

Edward Copeland on Film

PopMatters (Cynthia Fuchs) review

PopMatters (Rachel Kipp) review

Slant Magazine review Fernando F. Croce

Ruthless Reviews ("potentially offensive") Matt Cale

filmcritic.com (Chris Barsanti) review [3.5/5]

culturevulture.net, Choices for the Cognoscenti Harry Chotiner

My Kid Could Paint That Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

Eye for Film (Anton Bitel) review [4/5]

DVD Talk (Francis Rizzo III) dvd review [4/5]

DVD Talk (Chris Neilson) dvd review [4/5]

Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick) dvd review [3.5/4]

DVD Verdict (Erich Asperschlager) dvd review

Christian Science Monitor (Peter Rainer) capsule review [A]

The New York Sun (Bruce Bennett) review

One Guy's Opinion (Frank Swietek) review [B+]

Bina007 Movie Reviews

Film-Forward.com [Kent Turner]

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

Time Out London (Trevor Johnston) review [4/5]

Time Out New York (Joshua Rothkopf) review [3/5]

Time Out Chicago (Hank Sartin) review [4/5]

The Guardian (Peter Bradshaw) review

Austin Chronicle (Marjorie Baumgarten) review [2/5]

San Francisco Chronicle review Kenneth Baker

Los Angeles Times (Kenneth Turan) review

Chicago Tribune (Michael Phillips) review

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [3/4]

The New York Times (A.O. Scott) review

THE TILLMAN STORY B 89

USA (94 mi) 2010

People have asked, "Why is Pat so special that so much attention is given to his death"? I understand that question. Thousands of soldiers and Marines have died in Iraq and Afghanistan. Many of their families have also been lied to, yet those deaths have not received the attention Pat's did. And Pat's death continues to be in the news.

Pat's story initially became news because he was well known for having played in the NFL. The government used his fame to create propaganda for the war. Pat is not more important or special than any of the others who have fought in these wars, but the truth of what happened to Pat — and to every soldier who has died — is important. The truth shines a light on systematic corruption, incompetence and lack of accountability in the military and in government.

Over the last five years, the Pentagon and Congress have had numerous opportunities to hold accountable those responsible for the coverup of Pat's death. Each time they've failed. The government didn't just lie to us; it lied to a nation.

—Mary “Dannie” Tillman

Here’s a documentary about a recent newsworthy event where the audience already knows the outcome, as it was plastered all over the front pages, which makes it all the more difficult to make a compelling film that continues to hold the audience’s attention. The real surprise here is not what happened to Pat Tillman, a pro football player for the St. Louis Cardinals, who after 9/11 enlisted into the U.S. Army Rangers along with his brother, Kevin, turning down a multi-million dollar contract to serve in both Iraq and Afghanistan, where he was eventually killed in 2004 by fratricide, or friendly fire, but that his story of selfless patriotism and heroism was immediately co-opted by various organizations and used as propaganda to help promote their respective causes, not the least of which was the American Armed Forces which immediately used him as a poster boy to help recruit young soldiers. What we discover surrounding this film is an arrogance of war that includes a wholesale contempt for the truth. While on the same battlefield where Tillman was killed, but ten minutes away, his brother Kevin was immediately quarantined by the Army and no one was allowed to tell him or his family what happened. The initial reports announced that Tillman was killed in an act of valiant heroism, killed by the Taliban while saving the lives of his men, even constructing his final words “Let’s take the fight to the enemy!” that he was alleged to have shouted at his troops, which was the Army version reported at the family funeral. But once the family got their hands on the 3000 pages of documents used by the Army to conduct their investigation of his death, most of it was lined out, suppressing the names of all the officers and individual soldiers interviewed, leaving the family wondering what really happened, where it soon became clear the Army, in direct violation of military regulations, burned Tillman’s uniform, body armor, and diary, all the evidence that could be used to determine what actually happened instead of the fabricated version touted by the military that immediately awarded Tillman a Silver Star, a Purple Heart, and a posthumous promotion to corporal for his valor, apparently figuring the family would be happy with nationwide adulation.

What is clear is that from day one, the Army has continued to misrepresent the truth about how he died and instead glorified Tillman into some kind of larger than life, mythical war hero. When meeting the members of the Tillman family, from his mother Dannie, his father Patrick Sr, his brothers Kevin and Richard, and widowed spouse Marie, their family has a commendable history of service in the armed forces that Pat Tillman may have wanted to live up to. Also since his brother enlisted at the same time, it’s possible he may have joined to protect his younger brother. His actual reasons were never made public, as he was a private man who never wanted glory. Instead he was a guy who rode a bicycle to the Cardinal training camp and never owned a cell phone, an avowed atheist who studied all the religions in order to show due respect for each, while studying Emerson, Homer, and even Noam Chomsky, where the picture his family paints of a quiet, reflective individual is radically different from the flag waving, Rambo-like status that quickly took shape in the media, very similar to the Jessica Lynch story, the Army private who was reportedly captured and being tortured in a hospital, requiring the heroic rescue of a special ops team whose mission was mysteriously delayed until after the arrival of an Army cameraman who could film the rescue live, all fodder for the evening news which ran the story as fed to them, only to discover afterwards that none of it was true, as she was never captured or tortured, but was wounded and being well taken care of in a hospital, with no need for any special forces. Lynch afterwards accused the government of embellishing her story as part of a concerted propaganda effort to gain support for the war, a claim Tillman could not make in death. His family was obviously uncomfortable with how Tillman was being misrepresented at the memorial service orchestrated by the Bush Administration that included high ranking Army officers and political dignitaries, where his younger brother Richard took the podium during the live coverage and countered “He’s not with God, he’s fucking dead. He’s not religious. So thanks for your thoughts, but he’s fucking dead,” causing the networks to immediately shut down their live feed.

A few month’s later, the Army changed their story and announced he was killed in the heat of battle, calling it “the fog of war” from friendly fire, continuing to herald his heroism on the battlefield. Tillman’s mother, who was a schoolteacher, initiated a relentless barrage of phone calls trying to figure out how to identify the names in the Army report, literally spending several years of her life doing this, eventually quitting her job. Mostly she came up empty until she discovered Stan Goff, a retired special-ops expert who is an author who runs an Army-related website: Stan Goff. While Goff never knew Tillman, his experience in Special Forces helped the family understand the mindset and vernacular used by combat soldiers in describing the events in the report. What they attempted to do was fill in the names and missing pieces for all the blacked out details in order to make the report more understandable. Director Bar-Lev even returns to the canyon where Tillman was shot and reconstructs the events of that day, where his unit was unfortunately separated due to a broken down vehicle. When Tillman heard a blast and attempted to climb a hill to join and protect the other half behind him, he was mistakenly shot by his own men. As to why highly trained Rangers would shoot at Tillman who was about 40 yards away, reportedly shouting out at them “I’m Pat Fucking Tillman!,” several soldiers remarked in the report that they were “excited” and “wanted to stay in the firefight.” Unlike the Army which still contends they received incoming rounds of mortar attack, Goff and the family ultimately concluded there was no credible evidence the Rangers were ever under attack, but it was more likely a gun that simply misfired and the over-reactions of trigger-happy 19-year olds. When they finally identified a moving target off in the distance climbing up a hill, they moved in for the kill. “It was not a fog of war. It was a lust to fight.”

After several years of getting stonewalled from military inquiries, Tillman’s father, a lawyer, fired off a blistering letter where point by point he discounts the accuracy and credibility of the Army’s official report, basically calling it a fraud and accusing the military investigators of a cover-up. Two days later, an Associated Press reporter received an anonymously leaked top-secret memo sent by General Stanley McChrystal to Secretary of Defense Rumsfeld, top Pentagon Generals and senior White House officials within days of Tillman’s death which acknowledges his death by “friendly fire,” but also warns of potential political damage should this become public knowledge. All of which suggests that military officials were aware of this while they were concocting various fabrications on live TV as early as the memorial service. 3-star General Philip Kensinger, who spoke at the memorial service, was singled out for blame precisely because he was retired, though he is seen on camera expressing amazement that after a career of following orders that he was singled out for following this one. This led to a sham Congressional hearing which the family attended, moderated by California Democratic Congressman Henry Waxman, where Kensinger and most of the Republicans were not present, but one by one the highest ranking 4-Star Generals in the land, including McChrystal, Richard Myers and John Abizaid, as well as then retired Secretary of Defense Rumsfeld, used the words “I don’t recall” some 82 times in their testimony, with no follow up questions whatsoever, only polite comments about holding the military in high regard, allowing cover for the military to continue to avoid telling the truth while escaping any kind of accountability. Ironically, it was General McChrystal, despite knowing the true circumstances of Tillman’s death, who signed the order to award him a Silver Star, claiming “devastating enemy fire.” Years later McChrystal was promoted to head all of the U.S. forces in Afghanistan. Ultimately, no soldier was ever held responsible for Tillman’s death, no Bush Administration official was ever held accountable for inventing a false scenario surrounding his death, which was probably created ahead of time in the event he was killed, as he was the highest profile soldier in the Armed Forces, the only one to receive a personal letter from the Secretary of Defense commending them for enlisting, or for inventing Jessica Lynch’s fake heroic rescue, even staging it on camera, or for fabricating the trumped up lies that were used to justify the invasion of Iraq, a country that attacked no one and had absolutely nothing to do with 9/11, not that the truth matters.

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Six years after he was killed by American soldiers in Afghanistan, the facts about Pat Tillman's death are still surfacing, a tribute to the lengths to which the military and civilian administrations went to bury them. Amir Bar-Lev (My Kid Could Paint That) grabs a shovel and digs deep, turning up first-person accounts that Tillman's death was less a matter of friendly fire than pure recklessness, the acts of unseasoned and uncontrolled troops more concerned with discharging their weapons during a potential firefight than being sure of what they were shooting at. (The movie's original title, I'm Pat Fucking Tillman, refers to his last words, a vain attempt to stop his comrades in arms from blowing him away.) Tillman emerges as a complicated figure, an avowed patriot who gave up a promising football career to enlist after Sept. 11, yet passionately questioned the conduct of the war, reading Noam Chomsky in his bunk. He refused all interview requests about his enlistment, not wanting it to be used for political purposes; he was a private celebrity. The military continues to claim that the misreporting of Tillman's death — initially claimed as a combat fatality, and exploited to boost the war effort in exactly the way he disdained — was the result of a series of errors, but if nothing else, The Tillman Story should put that lie firmly in the ground at last.

Time Out New York review [4/5] David Fear

Everyone knows about the life and death of Pat Tillman: the square-jawed all-star football player who walked away from a career with the Arizona Cardinals to join the U.S. Army Rangers. While serving a second tour of duty in Afghanistan in April 2004, he was killed fighting the Taliban; a less spin-ready story involving friendly fire eventually emerged. So the problem that documentarian Amir Bar-Lev (My Kid Could Paint That) faces is how to tell this tale without simply recycling angles already done to death by CNN reports and angry op-ed pieces.

That Bar-Lev gives equal time to Tillman’s family and their outrage offers a compelling parallel narrative to the soldier’s own; it’s the reclamation of this hero from the jaws of government PR-martyrdom that seals the deal. The film treats the so-called supersoldier like nothing more than a man—one who drank beer, took dangerous risks, felt disillusioned by the military and yet honored his commitment. Such a simple but revolutionary idea still can’t quite overcome Bar-Lev’s shaky grasp of filmmaking (his doubling back on chronology in the name of tension often causes only confusion). Yet by focusing on the human being, The Tillman Story balances cynical and inspirational aspects in equal measure. Pat’s demise—and the media debacle around it—seems that much more tragic and enraging.

The Onion A.V. Club review [A-] Noel Murray

The title for Amir Bar-Lev’s well-researched, deeply moving documentary about Pat Tillman is just fine as it is, since the “story” part of The Tillman Story refers in part to the attempts to turn the “friendly fire” death of the former NFL star and Army ranger into pro-enlistment myth-making. But one of Bar-Lev’s earlier titles would’ve been just as good: I’m Pat _______ Tillman. That title alluded to Tillman’s reported last words: “I’m Pat fucking Tillman!,” shouted repeatedly from the hilltop toward his overheated comrades, roughly 40 yards away. The old title also references the 3,000-word report the Tillman family received from the military, which had so many names and places redacted that it took years for the Tillmans to fill in the blanks and find out exactly how they’d been lied to. Mostly though, the old title, like the new one, speaks to the way people on both the left and the right (but mostly the right) have tried to project their own beliefs onto a man who kept his close to the vest.

Bar-Lev (who previously made the excellent My Kid Could Paint That) employs the conventional documentary format of talking heads, file footage, and insert shots, but he assembles it skillfully, presenting the Tillman The Patriot narrative first, then going back to show a more complicated man, whose real reasons for abandoning his lucrative football career to enlist in the military have never been fully revealed. Along the way, Bar-Lev blasts the media for merely parroting what the authorities tell them, and effectively accuses a succession of investigative bodies of entering outright, obvious lies into the public record. Most of the material in this movie has been seen, heard, or read before, but never with this level of useful illustration. For example, words can’t properly describe the rousing footage of Tillman’s younger brother speaking at Pat’s memorial service. After John McCain and other political and military leaders spoke about Pat being in “a better place,” the younger Tillman took the stage with a pint of ale, thanked everyone for coming, then said, “By the way, Pat isn’t with God, he’s fuckin’ dead. He wasn’t religious.” In the propaganda-filled realms of politics, sports, and the military, that kind of no-bullshit-allowed truth feels cathartic. No wonder the Tillman family has spent much of the last 10 years fighting for it.

The Pat Tillman Myth - Newsweek Jennie Yabroff from Newsweek magazine, August 5, 2010

Watch just a few seconds of the footage the major news outlets ran nearly nonstop in the weeks following Pat Tillman’s death and you’ll get a crash course in Mythmaking 101. Flags wave. Slo-mo footage of the pro football player turned Army Ranger is intercut with still photographs from his life. Stirring music swells, while a somber-voiced narrator intones that Tillman was an “unflinching patriot” who gave his life for his country. It’s the narrative that was propagated by George W. Bush when he said, “Pat Tillman loved the game of football. Yet he loved America even more.”

Did he? The reality is, only Tillman’s family knows why he gave up his football career to join the Army, and only a few of the troops present on the day he died know the exact circumstances of his death. A new documentary, The Tillman Story, questions our need to idolize Tillman, and our desire for tidy answers about why he decided to enlist in the Army and what happened the day he died. Filmmaker Amir Bar-Lev scrupulously avoids the sort of speculation and psychoanalyzing that the media engaged in following Tillman’s death, yet he employs some of the same techniques as the news reports he criticizes. All of which raises a question: can a film that aims to counteract propaganda avoid becoming propaganda itself?

We are used to a certain degree of artifice in works of fiction—art, Picasso said, is the lie that tells the truth—but from their earliest days documentaries have manipulated facts and images just as much as narrative films. In 1922’s Nanook of the North, filmmaker Robert Flaherty staged scenes, demanded theInuit actors hunt with traditional spears instead of the guns they normally used, and even changed the name of the lead character (Allakariallak of the North just didn’t have the same ring to it). In the ensuing years, documentarians began using vérité techniques with the aim of presenting a more “realistic” view of their subjects. The handheld camerawork, fuzzy sound quality, and lack of narration gave vérité films a patina of authenticity, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t every bit as manipulative as their more polished counterparts.

“It’s impossible for a film not to have an opinion,” says Bar-Lev, who also directed Fighter and My Kid Could Paint That, “and the best films are the ones that allow room for the audience to decide whether they agree with the perspective of the film.” Bar-Lev traces the evolution of the Tillman myth from the first reports of his death, attributed to rebel fighters, to the revelation that he was killed by friendly fire and his family’s attempts to ascertain the circumstances of his death. But rather than uncovering any answers, he’s more interested in exploring our need to lionize Tillman.

Bar-Lev unapologetically paints Tillman’s family with the same heroic colors he accuses the media of bestowing on Tillman himself. He doesn’t question the family’s assertions that the military tried to cover up the truth behind Tillman’s death. “The story is about a family that’s looking for justice,” he says. “They want the people responsible for this criminal negligence [in Tillman’s death] to be held accountable, and they want who Pat was to be affirmed and to be recognized, and to have his legacy not be something he would’ve been revolted by. I’m totally, unabashedly on their side on both those things, and the film is made in order to help that cause.”

With its somber narration (by the actor Josh Brolin), rousing soundtrack, and smooth camerawork, The Tillman Story looks and sounds more like a newsmagazine segment than either of Bar-Lev’s previous films. “This is definitely a more conventional film,” he says. “We eschewed anything too unconventional in order to give the film the fighting chance for our hopefully very subversive notions to get across. But I don’t think we did the things I’m accusing the mainstream media of.” Whether the film gets closer to the truth or adds another layer of obfuscation is up to audiences to decide. But it reminds us that no movie, news segment, or non-fiction book presents an unvarnished version of reality.

Cineaste Gary Crowdus, 2010

Popdose [Robert Cashill]

The Village Voice [Melissa Anderson]

Pajiba (Dustin Rowles) review

World Socialist Web Site (Fred Mazelis) review

The Tillman Story | Reverse Shot Storyteller, by Anna Thorngate from Reverse Shot

Filmcritic.com Chris Barsanti

Cinematical [Christopher Campbell]

Critic's Notebook [Robert Levin]

The Parallax Review [Mark Dujsik]

The Wall Street Journal (Joe Morgenstern) review

Film-Forward.com Michael Lee

James Bowman review

Slant Magazine (Nick Schager) review

filmsoundoff [alex roberts]

CBC.ca Arts review Greig Dymond

IFC.com [Stephen Saito]

One Guy's Opinion (Frank Swietek) review [B+]

ReelTalk (Diana Saenger) review

CompuServe (Harvey S. Karten) review

RopeofSilicon (Brad Brevet) review [B+]

Siffblog [Kathy Fennessy]

Cole Smithey [Cole Smithey]

Boxoffice Magazine review Ray Greene

The Hollywood Reporter review Justin Lowe

Entertainment Weekly review [B+] Owen Gleiberman

Variety (Dennis Harvey) review

Philadelphia Daily News (Gary Thompson) review [B+]

On Movies: How myth-makers distorted Tillman's death ... Steven Rea from The Philadelphia Inquirer

Philadelphia Inquirer (Carrie Rickey) review [3.5/4]

San Francisco Chronicle (Mick LaSalle) review [4/4]

Los Angeles Times (Kenneth Turan) review August 20, 2010

Getting to the truth of Pat Tillman's death - Los Angeles Times Michael Ordoña, August 18, 2010

Chicago Tribune (Michael Phillips) review

The New York Times (Stephen Holden) review August 20, 2010, also here: Pat Tillman, Hero and Victim, by Amir Bar-Lev

‘Tillman Story’ and ‘A Film Unfinished,’ Wartime Lies Whitewash in Wartime, by Ari Karpel from The New York Times, August 13, 2010

Pat Tillman - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Pat Tillman Foundation

Tillman's Bold Career Move Mike Freeman from The New York Times, July 14, 2002

PRO FOOTBALL; Ex-N.F.L. Player Is Killed In Combat Bill Pennington from The New York Times, April 24, 2004

Ex-NFL player Tillman killed in Afghanistan - World news - msnbc.com April 26, 2004

Combat Death of N.F.L. Star Is Laid to American Troops Warren E. Leary from The New York Times, May 30, 2004

The death of Pat Tillman: military mythmaking and the “war on terror” Patrick Martin from the World Socialist Website, December 14, 2004

Who Killed Pat Tillman? Michael I. Niman from The Humanist, January/February 2006

2 Years After Soldier's Death, Family's Battle Is With Army Monica Davey and Eric Schmitt from The New York Times, March 21, 2006

Pat Tillman’s family speaks out against latest whitewash of “friendly fire” killing in Afghanistan Tom Carter from the World Socialist Website, March 29, 2007

Retired General Is Censured for Role in Tillman Case Neil A. Lewis from The New York Times, August 1, 2007

The Raw Story | Censured general evades subpoena to appear before ... Michael Roston from The Raw Story, August 1, 2007

Waiting for the Truth on Corporal Tillman Editorial from The New York Times, August 4, 2007

After the Pat Tillman Cover-Up, Hard Questions Letter to the Editor from The New York Times, August 5, 2007

Generals Don’t Need a Watchdog Jack Jacobs op/ed essay from The New York Times, August 8, 2007

NATIONAL BRIEFING: THE MILITARY: Request For Release of Tillman Documents The New York Times, August 14, 2007

Panel Hears About Falsehoods in 2 Wartime Incidents Michael Luo from The New York Times, August 25, 2007

A Son’s Death, a Mother’s Agony, a Country’s Shame George Vecsey from The New York Times, May 8, 2008

Mary Tillman denounces cover-up of son’s “friendly fire” killing in Afghanistan Joseph Kishore from the World Socialist Website, May 12, 2008

Who Spread False Tales of Heroism? Editorial from The New York Times, July 16, 2008

Nonfiction Chronicle Tara McKelvey reviews Mary Tillman’s book, Boots On the Ground By Dusk, from The New York Times, July 20, 2008

Tillman’s Presence Is Still Strong Karen Crouse from The New York Times, January 30, 2009

Commander's Ouster Is Tied to Shift in Afghan War Elisabeth Bumiller and Thom Shanker from The New York Times, May 11, 2009

MAN IN THE NEWS; A General Steps From the Shadows  Elisabeth Bumiller and Mark Mazzetti from The New York Times, May 12, 2009

Switch Signals New Path for Afghan War Eric Schmitt and Mark Mazzetti from The New York Times, May 12, 2009

New Commander for Afghanistan Editorial from The New York Times, May 13, 2009

No Food for Thought: The Way of the Warrior James Dao from The New York Times, May 16, 2009

Nomination of U.S. Afghan Commander Revives Questions in Tillman Case Thom Shanker from The New York Times, May 25, 2009, which includes a timeline of events seen here: A General’s Role in the Aftermath of a Famous Corporal’s Death

The Good Soldier Dexter Filkins on Jon Krakauer’s book, The Odyssey of Pat Tillman, from The New York Times, September 13, 2009

Talk of Deceit Where Honor Is Taught Charles McGrath on Jon Krakauer’s book, The Odyssey of Pat Tillman, from The New York Times, September 16, 2009

From N.F.L. to Afghanistan, Following the Call to Arms Janet Maslin book review, Jon Krakauer’s The Odyssey of Pat Tillman, from The New York Times, September 23, 2009

Revisiting the Pat Tillman Story, and McChrystal's Role - NYTimes.com Toni Monkovic from The New York Times, June 23, 2010

This New Pat Tillman Documentary Will Make McChrystal's Retirement ... Jennie Yabroff from Newsweek magazine, July 1, 2010

Pat Tillman's mother on Army Gen. Stanley McChrystal: I told you ... Mary Tillman from The LA Times, August 8, 2010

Pat Tillman's Father To Army Investigator: 'F--- You... And Yours ... Sam Stein from The Huffington Post, August 12, 2010

Pat Tillman's War | Mother Jones Elizabeth Gettelman from Mother Jones magazine, September 3, 2010

Why Pat Tillman's Death Matters | The LA Progressive Dick Price, September 10, 2010

Bardem, Juan Antonio

Juan Antonio Bardem - Director - Films as Director:, Other Films ... Katherine Singer Kovács from Film Reference

A pioneer figure in Spanish film, Juan Antonio Bardem is also one of Spain's most consistently political filmmakers. In his early movies Esa pareja feliz and Bienvenido Mr. Marshall , co-directed with Luis Garcia Berlanga, he broke with prevailing Francoist film traditions that emphasized militarism, folklore, literary adaptations and costume dramas. Bardem and Berlanga chose instead to present scenes of contemporary Spanish life and used humor to describe and criticize aspects of Spanish society. With Bienvenido Mr. Marshall the two directors were recognized as leading filmmakers and, along with others of their generation, they set out to revitalize the Spanish film industry and to rescue Spanish films from mediocrity. At a meeting held in Salamanca in 1955, they drafted a statement of principles in which Bardem wrote: "After 60 years, Spanish cinema is politically futile, socially false, intellectually worthless, aesthetically valueless and industrially paralytic." Bardem went on to note that Spanish cinema "had turned its back on reality . . . (and was) totally removed from Spanish realistic traditions [as found] in paintings and novels."

Bardem and other filmmakers who attended the meeting at Salamanca also deplored the lack of general film culture in Spain, noting that it was not possible to see 95 of movies made abroad. Bardem felt that it was important for Spaniards to keep abreast of worldwide trends in filmmaking and especially to become familiar with Italian neo-realism. This was the single most important influence in the development of his own cinematic style. Both in his movies and in his writings he remained faithful to the tenets of neo-realism. In order to foster a film culture in Spain, Bardem founded Objetivo, a cinema journal that was eventually banned by the government. During its brief existence, Objetivo nevertheless became a rallying point for Spanish cineastes, raised the level of film criticism in Spain and informed readers about prohibited films. Several years later, in yet another effort to ensure the autonomy and integrity of Spanish film, Bardem joined with Berlanga, Carlos Saura, and other directors and founded a production company, UNINCI, which operated until 1962, when it was closed down for co-producing Luis Buñuel's Viridiana. Because of these endeavors as well as his political outspokenness, Bardem was arrested seven times during the Franco years. He nevertheless persisted in his efforts to make political films in Spain. In spite of his lack of favor at home, he won many prizes at film festivals around the world and directed co-productions in Italy, France, Argentina, and Bulgaria.

Bardem is most closely associated with films that chronicle the negative effects of Francoism on the psyche of Spaniards of different classes, regions and social milieus. In several films he dramatizes the alienation fostered by Francoism by focusing on a single individual who often bears Bardem's own given name—Juan. This Spanish everyman feels frustrated and stifled in a closed society. He attempts to find outlets through hobbies, intrigues, and even through radio contests, but all means prove unsatisfactory. In the course of his efforts, Juan is led to reevaluate himself and the world around him in order to find new options. The films depict the choices that each Juan makes, becoming increasingly critical of individuals who act selfishly, cowardly, or who refuse to take a stand. These general themes continue in the movies Bardem has made since the death of Franco.

Juan Antonio Bardem > Overview - AllMovie biography from Sandra Brennan

Juan Antonio Bardem profile from NNDB

FileRoom.org - Juan Antonio Bardem, Spanish film director, writer ... The File Room

Spain mourns death of veteran director Juan Antonio Bardem | News ... Jennifer Green from Screendaily, October 31, 2002

Obituary: Juan Antonio Bardem | World news | The Guardian Ronald Bergan from The Guardian, November 2, 2002

Pudovkin and the Censors: Juan Antonio Bardem's Muerte de un ciclista Jo Evans from Hispanic Research Journal, June 2007 (pdf format)

Sex and the censors: the femme fatale in Juan Antonio Bardem's ... Jo Evans from Screen, 2007 (opening page only)

DEATH OF A CYCLIST (Muerte de un ciclista) A- 94

aka: Age of Infidelity

Spain Italy (88 mi) 1955

After 60 years, Spanish cinema is politically futile, socially false, intellectually worthless, aesthetically valueless, and industrially paralytic. Spanish cinema has turned its back on reality and is totally removed from Spanish realistic traditions as found in paintings and novels.

—Juan Antonio Bardem, in Salamanca, 1955

An interesting relic from the Franco era in Spain that is memorable on several counts, as the writer/director Juan Antonio Bardem is the uncle of modern day actor Javier Bardem (Vicky Cristina Barcelona, No Country for Old Men, Before Night Falls) and the film won the Fipresci prize at Cannes in 1955, a time when the director was actually serving time in prison for political offenses. Public outcry led to his release, but he was arrested several more times in his lifetime. The director was a Communist and ardent anti-Fascist who never left Spain during the Franco regime, so certainly this film may be seen through his politicized eyes examining the complacency of the Spanish bourgeois society under Franco, where fear is a common denominator that keeps people silent and in lockstep, and might be seen as his version of Buñuel’s THE EXTERMINATING ANGEL (1962), filtered through the psychologically paranoid lens of Hitchcock, giving it the feel of a horror film. It features beautiful Italian actress Lucia Bosé, the winner of Miss Italy 1947 (which included other contestants Gina Lollobrigida, Silvana Mangano, Eleonora Rossi Drago and Gianna Maria Canale) and star of Michelangelo Antonioni's THE STORY OF A LOVE AFFAIR (1950). Her beauty alone is striking and is central to the film as she plays María, a pampered and spoiled socialite who is comfortably married to a rich industrialist Miguel (Otello Toso) whose wealth allows her to live a life of extravagance and luxury while she is secretly having an affair with an unambitious assistant college professor Juan (Alberto Closas), whose influential family arranged for his position. Their wealth gives them the ability to hide their secrets.

In the opening scene, on a flat country road that extends endlessly across an empty landscape, a lone figure on a bicycle is struck by a car driven by Juan and María who quickly decide to scurry away like rats rather than help the man. The rest of the movie revolves around this single event, where the two choose to conceal their affair rather than save a man’s life, a decision that haunts them when they learn the man died on the side of the road. In one of the strangest possible changes in mood, they immediately find themselves at a swank, upscale party where the mysteriously strange piano player, Rafa (Carlos Casaravilla), claims he saw her with Juan on the road that day and seems to relish the idea of playing a song entitled “Blackmail,” where the interplay between the two of them is choreographed like a song. The subsequent dread at the thought of being exposed and “losing everything,” which plainly means their privileged position in society, starts gnawing away at each of them, but in a different way. Juan visits the working class village where the dead man lived, a striking contrast of Italian realist poverty to the protected palatial estates of the wealthy, and in this manner seems to reconnect to the world around him, perhaps seeing for the first time the role social divisions play in Franco’s society, while María is seeking protection from the man she sees as an extortionist, growing more hysterical at the thought of what she stands to lose, especially from a vile bottom feeder like Rafa, who is a repulsive, Iago-like figure that dwells in a cave-like world of rumors and “dirty little secrets.” Also an art critic, he seems perfectly at home in the dreamlike atheistic dissonance of modern art, where he finds nothing remotely peculiar or understandable in the harsh abstractions or formless expressions, but his blood curdles at the idea of always being treated as an outsider, so using devious, underhanded means to expose the hypocrisy of the rich comes natural to him, as this represents a new breed of Franco citizenry that spies on and exposes the moral ills of society, keeping the public safe from itself.

This all comes to a head in a superb nightclub scene of Flamenco singing, where Rafa, drunk from liquor, seems to be setting the trap whispering in people’s ears, while María grows more frantically suspicious by the second, in a feverish montage of close ups shown in a maniacal energy that suggests madness or delirium. The film benefits greatly from unusual cuts and a modern sound design, not to mention faces accentuated by white light, turning Bosé’s face into a highly fragile porcelain figurine. Bardem elevates the hysteria of fear to unseen heights, turning this into a Hitchcock homage to horror, as everything that follows slowly unravels from its hinges, as Bosé’s María truns into a woman-in-black femme fatale who senses only the darkest ulterior motives. It’s an unusual bit of movie hysteria, all shown in a taut 88 minutes, where the finale was altered due to the concerns of the national censors, where we’ll perhaps never know the original intentions of the director. The clarity of the image is superb, where it has been suggested Bardem may have had the only 35mm camera in all of Spain. As it is, it’s a startling social critique using sharp jagged edges shining the light on some of the darkest days in recent Spanish history, using a scathing noirish melodrama to expose how the wealthy will cling to any corrupt or immoral means to hold onto their privileged status in life, where greed and selfishness are their birthright, and supporting Franco allowed their opulent lifestyles to continue unabated.

Chicago Reader (Jonathan Rosenbaum) capsule review

Ironically, Juan Antonio Bardem (1922-2002) might be better known today as the uncle of actor Javier Bardem than as the master of sound and image that he is. Antifascist filmmakers who stuck around during Franco's reign are often forgotten outside Spain—unlike Luis Buñuel, who came back just long enough to make a few films and then left again. A communist, Bardem stayed, struggled, and was jailed more than once; he was in prison when he won an award at Cannes for this creepy, claustrophobic 1955 melodrama. An adulterous couple (Alberto Closas and Lucia Bosé) in a country-club milieu accidentally run over a cyclist and flee out of fear that their relationship will be revealed; their guilty paranoia opens many sores while awakening the man's social conscience. As in Bardem's still greater Calle Mayor (1956), Death of a Cyclist follows the antifascist strategy Henri-Georges Clouzot used in Le Corbeau for Vichy-era France, transposing the ugliness of power relations in a repressive society to the spheres of sex and gossip. In Spanish with subtitles. 99 min.

San Francisco Chronicle (Mick LaSalle) dvd review [3/4]

Directed by Juan Antonio Bardem (uncle of Javier), this film has the local distinction of being one of the first films featured at the first San Francisco International Film Festival. Until now, it has been difficult to find in the United States. Inspired by the Italian neo-realists, the film begins abruptly with the central action: A bicyclist is injured by a speeding car. The occupants, Juan (Alberto Closas, left) and the elegant Maria (Lucia Bosé), get out, and she decides that they should leave the cyclist to die and speed away. Bardem enlists the audience into a complicity with the guilty, so that we find ourselves rooting for them to get away with it. Stylistically, Bardem is fond of shots that look up at the protagonists, which perhaps also has the effect of aggrandizing them. His compositions are stark and evocative. He also has a way of changing scenes without using an establishing shot, so that for brief moments we're dislocated in an interesting way. From an upper floor, a man will look down at a scene of poverty in a street. The camera will return to his face and then, from the same angle, show people in a wealthy district. For a second, we think we're still in the poor neighborhood, but what Bardem has done is force us to link the two worlds. The film is a leftist commentary on bourgeois Spain under Franco, but its passion and sensitive observation transcend its political intent. Criterion's digital transfer is exemplary.

Slant Magazine review Fernando F. Croce

Death of a Cyclist is Spanish director Juan Antonio Bardem's response to a national cinema he famously denounced as "politically ineffective, socially false, intellectually worthless, aesthetically nonexistent, and industrially crippled." Fittingly, his portrait of the complacent and disaffected upper class during Franco's regime opens with a crash, as adulterous couple María José (Lucia Bosé) and Juan (Alberto Closas) accidentally run over a man on a bicycle and, fearing discovery, leave the wounded cyclist behind. The man's death brings guilt upon Juan's shoulders, yet it also precipitates a painful new awareness: A former idealist hollowed out by the country's civil war, he comes to see the emptiness of his bourgeois ways as well as experience a renewal of his rebelliousness. María José, on the other hand, has no intention of trading the gilded cages supported by her husband Miguel (Otello Toso) for spiritual redemption, and soon becomes the femme fatale promised by the film's noir-tinged strains. The most intriguing aspect of Bardem's social critique is the way Juan's increasing need for exposure is contrasted with the sardonic insinuations of Rafa (Carlos Casaravilla), the slimy art critic whose observations on his decadent companions ("All the ugly things you hide, I dig them up and lay them before you") show that, within bourgeois circles, even self-critical impulses have become utterly corrupted. Unfortunately, many of Bardem's insights are blunted by his unsubtle technique, which provides redundant dialogue ("A new bracelet versus a thousand impoverished customers" is typical party chatter) and enough shock cuts for an entire John Frankenheimer retrospective. (Bosé's presence irresistibly invites comparison with Story of a Love Affair, but where Michelangelo Antonioni dissected his couple's alienation with a diamond-cutter's delicacy, Bardem for the most part merely parades it unilluminatingly.) Explicitly designed as a shock to the system, Death of a Cyclist too often settles for academic subversion.

Raging Bull Movie Reviews (Mike Lorefice) review [3.5/4]

Hoping to avoid the revelation of their lengthy affair, a couple abandon the cyclist they ran over rather than try to save his life. Bardem, whose symbolic socially conscious films and writings frequently landed him in Franco's prisons, is very critical of the way things work in Spain (not that it's much different anywhere else). Juan (Alberto Closas) and Maria Jose (Lucia Bose) happen to have money and a position in high society due to their family connections, while the man who dies from their neglect is poor so the authorities don't really care about capturing his killers. This functions as a metaphor for the way the bourgeois and Franco prop each other up, as well as depicting the inhumanity of a society that allows for such ridiculous gaps between the rich and the poor. Juan & Maria always loved each other, but she married for standing while he was off at war. Their affair is the highlight of her boring life, but it's only good because there's no possession and it comes with that certain amount of danger that doesn't present any real threat. The accident introduces a complication that causes their love and every other aspect of their life to crumble. Guilt eats away at Juan & Maria, but Maria is largely concerned that her husband will discover her adultery. She doesn't care that it would hurt him, but the disclosure would reduce her social standing. Her torment is greatly increased when revenge thirsty critic Rafa (Carlos Casaravilla) toys with blackmailing her as a way of attaining her monetary level. Rafa is allowed to attend their circle's functions because he supposedly represents art, but since he'll never be wealthy these spoiled selfish snobs will never accept him, and that eats him up. Like many of Bardem's films Cyclist is really about the character named Juan. He actually has a conscience and is so distracted by his guilt he embarrasses and fails a good student Matilde (Bruna Corra) because he's not in the mood to pay attention to her presentation. When she protests and the school rallies against the system - specifically the nepotism that got Juan his job and keeps him in high standing - he realizes he's lost track of his values and ideals. These two events bring things to a head for him, causing him to realize his hopes and dreams were thrown away long ago and his life is little more than an oppressive lie. He sees his old fire and quest for justice in her (and some of her supporters), and wonders if he really wants to do the wrong thing just because he has the power to get away with it. Stylistically this doom- laden psychodrama is a combination of film noir and neorealism. The cruelly ironic ending where the evil woman gets her comeuppance was forced by the censors, but I actually like it as a startling bit of poetic justice.

User reviews from imdb Author: jotix100 from New York

Juan Antonio Bardem's "Muerte de un ciclista" was discovered in a Cannes Film festival where it received the International Critics' Award, where it was shown out of competition. Spain was living the years after the Civil War under the Franco regime. The Catholic church dominated everything in the country. It was indeed a miracle the film even was screened! The film aroused curiosity because of the way it was received outside the country. The censure deemed it a "gravely dangerous" film, thus limiting a possible audience.

Mr. Bardem was part of a Communist minority that didn't leave the country after Franco came into power. He, and several other film makers decided to stay and make films in which a lot of symbolism was insinuated in the stories they presented. The director despised the Spanish bourgeoisie, who supported Franco in order to justify their excesses. This film came out of an impoverished Spain in which one notices the contrasts between the classes immediately.

Maria Jose, the beautiful society matron, and Juan, a man from a good family, but who hasn't amount to anything, were having an affair. As the story opens, we watch the car where they are traveling during a rainy and overcast day on a lonely stretch of a country road. Maria Jose, who is driving her car, accidentally hits the cyclist. Juan gets out of the car to see the condition of the cyclist. Noticing he is in bad shape, he tells Maria Jose, who is horrified. She prefers to leave the man on the road to fend for himself as they flee the scene of the crime.

The accident is a catalyst in their illicit relationship. Maria Jose cares more about her good name and her status in society and what it will do to her and her husband. Juan, on the other hand, struggles with his own conscience. To make matters worse, Juan, a university professor makes the mistake of shutting up one of his female students who is working a math problem. Maria Jose's life takes a turn when Rafa, a critic that moves in her circle, insinuates he knows about her affair, without coming out in the open.

Their guilt play tricks on the lovers. Their love suddenly is challenged by Rafa, who is a dangerous man. Rafa will stop at nothing in his desire for Maria Jose as it appears he will try to black mail her at all costs. Jose, who can't live with his conscience anymore decides to turn himself in. Maria Jose will not let him; she will do anything to stop him, even hitting him deliberately with her own car. Maria Jose, in her frenzied state, almost hits another cyclist, in avoiding hitting the man, she ends up going off the bridge.

Mr. Bardem, who contributed to the screen play of the film with Luis Fernando de Igoa, wanted to show the hypocrisy of the upper classes in their collaboration with Franco. He also pointed out to the nepotism that was rampant during those years the way that Juan gains a position thanks to his influential brother. Matilde, the young female student, and her class mates at the university, point out to the new type of citizen that would question the system under Franco.

The sublime Lucia Bose, one of the most beautiful faces in the Italian cinema of the years after WWII, is one of the best things in the film. She is equally matched by Alberto Closas, who gives his Juan the right tone for his character. Carlos Casaravilla, makes a wonderful villain, Rafa, the man who is a parasite and envies the moneyed types that tolerate him and use him. Bruna Corra, who is seen as Matilde, has some good opportunities.

The black and white cinematography by Alfredo Fraile shows us the Spain of the 1950s that evokes some of the best Italian masters of the era. Isidro Maiztegui's musical score works well with the film. Ultimately this film stands together with another Juan Antonio Bardem's masterpiece, "Calle Mayor", as two of the most important works of the Spanish cinema, bar none, an achievement if considered the times in which they were done.

Cineaste A Second Look: Death of a Cyclist, by Robert Koehler

PopMatters (Marco Lanzagorta) review [Criterion Collection]

No Ripcord [Gary Collins]

Criterion Confessions [Jamie S. Rich] Criterion Collection

Turner Classic Movies dvd review Sean Axmaker

Turner Classic Movies review Felicia Feaster

Death of a Cyclist (1955) Directed by Juan Antonio Bardem Brian Dunn from In Review Online

Starving Dog Reviews [Shawn S. Lealos]

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

Accelerated Decrepitude: September 2006 Tom Warner from Accelerated Decreptitude, September 27, 2006

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson) dvd review Criterion Collection

Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick) dvd review [3.5/4] Criterion Collection

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Jon Danziger) dvd review Criterion Collection

DVD Town (Christopher Long) dvd review [Criterion Collection]

DVD Verdict (Michael Rubino) dvd review [Criterion Collection]

DVD Talk (Svet Atanasov) dvd review [3/5] Criterion Collection

DVD Authority.com ("Fusion3600") dvd review [Criterion Collection]

What's An Internet? Aaron

User reviews from imdb Author: harrisoncohen from United Kingdom

User reviews from imdb Author: Michael DeZubiria (miked32@hotmail.com) from Luoyang, China

FilmFanatic.org

Classic Film Guide review

The New York Times (Bosley Crowther) review

DVDBeaver dvd review Gary W. Tooze

Obituary: Juan Antonio Bardem | World news | The Guardian Ronald Bergan from The Guardian, November 2, 2002

Death of Cyclist (Muerte de un ciclista): program note from 1957 San Francisco International Film Festival website

Juan Antonio Bardem - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

CALLE MAYOR

Spain France (99 mi) 1956

Time Out review

Calle Mayor is adapted from a classic novel of Spanish provincial life by Carlos Arniches, which had previously been filmed in the '30s. Bardem's version of this bitter tale of a woman's oppression was made at the height of Francoism, and had to carry an unconvincing foreword claiming that the story could happen 'anywhere'. When a group of idle young men decide as a joke that one of them should seduce an unmarried woman in her mid-30s, she becomes smitten by him, and the situation turns sourly serious. Bardem's neo-realist pretensions look a trifle thin now, but the film's portrait of a town riddled with prejudice and hypocrisy still packs a weighty punch. The central performance by the un-Spanish seeming Betsy Blair is especially touching.

User reviews from imdb Author: primogose from Spain

OK, I can understand why this movie had such an impact on some segments of 50's Spain; it was almost the first neo-realistic movie made on the country, and its attitude and principles were far away from the films that the Spanish industry made on the post-civil war years.

But it's very derivative of Rossellinni, and specially De Sica's movies of the 40's & 50's. It's just an attempt of doing what the European left-winged filmmakers of that period thought was right and meaningful: to denounce society's injustices.

I'm not against social concerned films, like the ones that directors above mentioned did, but sure i don't like to be preached from someone who thinks he's right and moral, and that's the way i felt seeing this film. Said that, i had to to confess i always have in mind the (very discursive) scene on which the old professor tells that boredom is just one of the biggest social problems, that leads people to do very cruel and insensitive things. Contradictory, but only in a way; just because i do agree with that idea i just can't justify that someone puts himself above someone else like the professor (obviously Bardem) do with the "not so young" gang of "good-for-nothing" men.

Finally i didn't like the despairing final; it seems like Betsy Blair's character has ceased to exist not taking the train to Madrid. Does that mean that leaving for a big city is going to settle provincial people problems? Why can't she take this like something that needs to reaffirm herself? I'd rather see a more open final.

Anyway, great Betsy Blair. It's a shame she didn't had the chances she deserved: "Marty" is my 50's favorite drama, and she is wonderful here too. Maybe she's not that ugly like some other user said, but when you see a film you always expect an incredible good-looking woman, and she was not, so to me she's believable on that kind of roles.

User reviews from imdb Author: Red-125 from Upstate New York

"Calle Mayor" (1956) (US title "The Lovemaker") was written and directed by Juan Antonio Bardem. The film stars the extraordinary Betsy Blair, who had just received an Ocscar nomination for her work in "Marty" (1955).

The plot of this film, although set in provincial Spain, has overtones of "Marty." Ms. Blair is cast as Isabel, an unmarried woman in her 30's. Isabel--and the people on Main Street--have decided that she will be forever unloved and unmarried. Then, several of the bored men of the town decide to play a cruel practical joke--one of them will declare his love for Isabel, promise to marry her, and then reveal the hoax at the last minute.

The joke moves forward as planned, and during the middle of the of the movie, Isabel blossoms as she finds herself in love with, and seemingly loved by, a handsome young man.

Ms. Blair is an extraordinary actor, and she is able to give us a portrait of a woman who is capable of great romantic love, although she's been deprived by circumstances of any opportunity to express this emotion. It is to director Bardem's credit that he recognized Ms. Blair's talents, and was able to utilize these talents to the fullest in this film.

Other reviewers have commented on the difficulty of an attractive woman like Betsy Blair playing a woman who is considered unattractive and unmarriageable. (Of course, this problem also arose in "Marty.") Ms. Blair was in Rochester for the screening of "Calle Mayor" at the High Falls Film Festival and this question was raised by a member of the audience. She replied that this was, indeed, a problem, but that she tried to overcome it by having a relatively unattractive hair style, and wearing dresses that were prim and plain. My thought is that a great actor like Ms. Blair was able to transcend the problem. When we see her in "Marty" and "Calle Mayor," we accept the fact that the other characters in the movie don't consider her attractive. We also accept the fact that both women don't consider themselves attractive, or, at least, don't consider themselves attractive enough.

The plot of the movie plays itself out in a fascinating and compelling fashion. The film closes with a final shot of Ms. Blair that is absolutely breathtaking. For me this shot ranks alongside the final shot of Greta Garbo in "Queen Christina" as one of the most memorable endings of any film I've seen.

The disgraceful witch hunt blacklist of the 1950's kept Betsy Blair from doing all the work of which she was capable, and kept us from the pleasure of seeing this work on the screen. We are fortunate that her immense acting skills are preserved for us in "Marty" and "Calle Mayor." "Marty" is readily available; "Calle Mayor" may be hard to find. Finding it is worth the effort--it's a film not to be missed.

Bardot, Brigitte – French actress

Brigitte Bardot NNDB biography

Arguably film's first sex kitten, Brigitte Bardot grew up in a wealthy, conservative French Catholic family. She was named for her mother's favorite doll, and as a child wore braces on her teeth and glasses to correct astigmatism. Bardot began studying ballet at the age of five, and at 13 she danced alongside Leslie Caron at the Conservatoire Nationale de Danse. At 14, she blossomed and was photographed for the cover of Elle magazine. At 15, Bardot met her future first ex-husband Roger Vadim, and attempted suicide when her parents refused permission for her to marry until she was 18. They married when she turned 18, and divorced five years later.

She moved from modeling to acting, and played a 17-year-old nymphet (at 22) in Vadim's And God Created Woman, a role that made Bardot known internationally. She embodied a natural yet innocent sexuality that was a precursor to the sexual liberation movement of the 1960s. The actress eschewed the Catholic principles of her childhood, saying "It is better to be unfaithful than to be faithful without wanting to be." Brigitte Bardot was one of the first women to wear a bikini, and later she and her friends would be the first to sunbathe topless at St. Tropez in the late 1960s. She was the first international star to be as popular as any homegrown pinup in the US.

Long prone to depression, Bardot has attempted suicide multiple times. "I really wanted to die at certain periods in my life. Death was like love, a romantic escape. I took pills because I didn't want to throw myself off my balcony and know people would photograph me lying dead below." On her 26th birthday she attempted her most publicly known suicide attempt, swallowing a bottle of sleeping pills and slitting her wrists.

Bardot retired from films at 39, to focus on her love of animals and her increasingly odd political activism. She sold her home, her jewels, and other personal effects in 1986 to start the Brigitte Bardot Foundation, which works for animal rights across the world. She has been outspoken to the point of causing international offense on the behalf of animals, and once stole a mynah bird on a French street because its owner, whom she beat with an umbrella, was "abusing" it by giving it a hamburger and fries.

Political incorrectness has dogged Bardot in recent years, being fined by the French government no fewer than four times in recent years for "inciting hatred" with her books. Her views that gays are "fairground freaks", that racially mixed marriages are an abomination, and that France is being "Islamized" have been problematic, as has her denunciation of the ritual slaughter of sheep during the Muslim feast of Eid. Bardot was an outspoken supporter of France's failed fascist presidential candidate Jean-Marie Le Pen.

Home :: Brigitte Bardot :: French Actress, Model, and Singer a tribute website

A Tribute To B.B. ~ Welcome to This Brand New Website dedicated to Bardot!

Classic Movies

All-Movie Guide: Brigitte Bardot Jason Ankeny

A Tribute to Brigitte Bardot another tribute website

Brigitte Bardot - The Red List Pt. 1

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Denny Jackson's Brigitte Bardot Page including gallery images

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French actress Brigitte Bardot Silver Beauties Gallery

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Brigitte Bardot - Films as actress: Film Reference, John Baxter, updated by Rob Edelman

Brigitte Bardot Interview in 1956 audio interview by the BBC

BB @ 60 a book review, by David Watts from the West Australian Newspaper, December 1995

Bardot, Brigitte And God Created Woman, by Gerald Peary, August 1999

Eat, Memory: Bardot’s Little Helper Frederic van Coppernolle from the New York Times, November 5, 2006

New DVDs Dave Kehr reviews the 5-film Brigitte Bardot Collection from the New York Times, August 7, 2007

PopMatters DVD Film Review Feature | Incomplete Coquette: The ... Bill Gibron reviews the Brigitte Bardot DVD Collection

Brigitte Bardot - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Barker, Clive

HELLRAISER

Great Britain (94 mi) 1987

Time Out review

In the bare bedroom of a London suburban house, bored sensualist Frank Cotton solves the mystery of a Chinese puzzle-box and enters a world of exquisite cruelty presided over by the Cenobites, glamorous sadists with a penchant for ripped flesh, steaming viscera and flayed muscle. Later, restored to life by his brother Larry's blood, Frank rises half-formed from a pool of slime. When Larry's wife (and Frank's ex-lover) Julia agrees to provide the human meat he needs to put flesh on his bones, the three become involved in an infernal triangle... Barker's dazzling debut as a director creates such an atmosphere of dread that the astonishing visual set pieces simply detonate in a chain reaction of cumulative intensity. His use of the traditional 'teenage screamer' heroine (Larry's daughter) tends to undercut the unsettling moral ambiguities of the adult triangle, and the brooding menace of the Cenobites is far more terrifying than the climactic rollercoaster ride. These are small quibbles, however, in a debut of such exceptional promise. A serious, intelligent and disturbing horror film.

Foster on Film

When Larry (Andrew Robinson) and Julie (Clare Higgins) move into the old family house, they don't know that Frank (Sean Chapman), Larry's brother and Julie's lover, will soon return from the dead and hide upstairs.  It is left to Kirsty (Ashley Laurence) to deal with murderous Frank, traitorous Julia, and the demonic cenobites who are unhappy with Frank's escape from hell.

One of the best horror movies, Hellraiser changed the genre.  Before it, there was a string of Satan-themed fright films, but after it "evil" could come in more ambiguous and varied forms.  Writer/director Clive Barker invented his own mythology.  That mythology has stuck with me since first viewing, presenting more successfully than any Lovecraftian movie a vision of things best not seen.

Frank spent his life searching for something "more," something truly exciting, and found a puzzle box that opens gates to worlds beyond understanding, worlds no one would want to understand.  The forces on the other side of those gates are not traditional devils and have honor mixed with their cruelty.

The plot is engaging, the acting is excellent, and the camera work is astounding considering the budget, but it is in imagery that this film excels.  The cenobites, lead by Pin Head, are makeup marvels.  Pin Head has rightly become an horror icon and Doug Bradley's portrayal, particularly his voice, is perfect for the powerful, amoral demon.  When he says "We have such sights to show you," I find myself wondering how extraordinary those sights would be, and how horrifying.  The dangling chains, hooks, and blood add to the atmosphere.  On top of all that is Christopher Young's majestic score.  This is gory filmmaking at its best, but not for the easily unnerved.  "No tears, please. It's a waste of good suffering."

It is followed by the excellent: Hellbound: Hellraiser II, and then by the lesser Hellraiser III: Hell on Earth, Hellraiser: Bloodline, Hellraiser: Inferno, Hellraiser: Hellseeker, Hellraiser: Deader, and Hellraiser: Hellworld.

Building a Better Bomb: The Alternatives to Suspense Peter Gelderblom from 24LiesASecond, January 7, 2005 (excerpt)

The opposite to a threat lurking in the shadows is the kind that taps you on the shoulder and thrusts its tongue in your mouth. In the suspense camp, this kind of frontal assault is seen as more or less a dead end. “There is no terror in the bang,” Hitchcock said, “only in the anticipation of it.” Hitchcock experimented with subtle gore in his time, but as a rule he believed suggestion had greater impact. What could be creepier than one’s own imagination?

Well--maybe a lack thereof. A new breed of filmmakers was less convinced of the public’s ability to form their own picture and filled in the gaps for them. And it has to be said: some of all time’s most terrifying movies could not for the love of God be typified as “less is more” material. The tolerant spirit of the ‘60s and ‘70s opened up the door to new levels of carnage and exploitation, spawning a wide range of cinematic subgenres, from the zombie flick and the splatter movie to the Italian giallo and the occult thriller. Some of them were grounded in harsh realism, while others delved deeper into the fantastique for some old-fashioned grand guignol. Unapologetic nasties like Night of the Living Dead (1968), Straw Dogs (1971), The Last House on the Left (1972), The Exorcist (1973) and The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974) pretty much put aside the idea that implying is more effective than showing. Across the Atlantic, European shock maestros Lucio Fulci and Dario Argento dispensed with suggestion altogether by serving piles of gore on a platter. No anticipation there: the audience is thrown before the wolves barely halfway into the first reel. Just the grueling details--on the double please!

Whereas Hitchcock usually chose to keep his audience in the know at the cost of revelation, this radical movement excelled in what Clive Barker, writer and director of Hellraiser (1987) and Nightbreed (1990), called “the Revelation Response”: the appeal of the morbid and surreal. “Appeal” may seem an odd word in reference to horrors designed to appall, but this paradox is integral to a concept that no longer strictly revolved around throwing the monster out, but embraces the monstrous as a part of ourselves - or in the case of Barker: invites a bunch of them over for an orgy in the dungeon to celebrate "the intricacies of perversity."

This time, Hitchcock’s bomb under the table is exploding right before our very eyes and we’re forced to witness the anatomy of destruction. Hell unfolds in slow motion as we face the biggest threat of all: the Bitter End. We see body parts twitching, we smell the stench of burned skin and we hear the victim next to us utter his last breath. This is as close to a rendezvous with the Grim Reaper as we can get without actually having to stop living for it. That’s the good news. The bad news is that this is just the introductory scene. If our stomach is up to it, we can stick around to watch the decomposing corpses transform into flesh-eating creatures of the night...

Needless to say, this no-holds-barred mentality could not count on a lot of affection from the refined critical establishment: hence the generalization that an inordinate application of the gross and grotesque indicates an incapacity for building tension. That’s about as crude a statement as saying that pornography is unable to arouse. What it all boils down to, like it frequently does, is taste. There is plenty of tension left in the explicit, and the tremendous anxiety these graphic confrontations generate in the spectator can be attributed to our ambiguous response to the question: How much farther will this movie go, and do I really want to go there? Sure I do! Like hell I don’t! The Revelation Response taps into our darkest hopes and fears and beguiles and disturbs in equally extreme measures. Exactly the kind of push-pull attraction that keeps the hardcore crowd coming back for more. For recent evidence, look no further than Takashi Miike’s Audition (1999), Darren Aronofsky’s Requiem for a Dream (2000), Gaspar Noé’s Irréversible (2002) and James Wan’s Saw (2004).

DVD Times Kevin Gilvear

Images (Derek Hill) review

DVD Talk (Bill Gibron) dvd review [4/5] [20th Anniversary Edition]

Classic Horror review Timothy J. Rush

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Joel Cunningham) dvd review

The Onion A.V. Club [Keith Phipps]

British Horror Films (Chris Wood) review

Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick) dvd review [3/5]

Beyond Hollywood review Nix

eFilmCritic.com (Scott Weinberg) review [5/5]

SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review review [4/5] Richard Scheib

Cinepassion.org [Fernando F. Croce]

DVD Town (John J. Puccio) dvd review

Reel.com dvd review [3.5/4] Rod Armstrong

Mike Bracken--Epinions.com

The Cavalcade Of Schlock [Brian J Wright]

DVD Verdict (Mac McEntire) dvd review [20th Anniversary Edition]

filmcritic.com (Christopher Null) review [4/5]

KQEK (Mark R. Hasan) dvd review [20th Anniversary Edition]

Britmovie

DVD Talk (Adam Tyner) dvd review [3/5] [Limited Edition] also reviewing HELLRAISER II

DVD Talk (Jason Bovberg) dvd review [3/5] [Limited Edition] also reviewing HELLRAISER II

Variety.com [Variety Staff]

Washington Post (Richard Harrington) review

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [0.5/4]

Barker, David

DAYLIGHT C- 67

USA (73 mi) 2009 Official site

This film had been sitting on the shelf for about a year before finally pulled out of the cobwebs by a New York production company known as Cinema Purgatorio run by Ray Privett, former Distribution Coordinator at Facets Video in Chicago before forming his own production company. This company is also responsible for the previously released film Zenith, which is easily one of the worst films seen this year. DAYLIGHT may be a little better, but not much, as this is an overly dreary and disturbing affair that feels hastily put together, filled with unlikable characters that hold little interest to the viewer. When the best thing in the movie is a 2009 Maserati Quattroporte, a premium luxury vehicle that sells for a cool $125,000, the film’s got problems. Perhaps the car is what got this couple into trouble in the first place, but no, even in the opening scenes, they are having problems communicating, where despite a baby due within weeks, they seem to have little chemistry together. Set in the tiny roads of upstate New York, a European couple living in New York City, Danny (Aidan Redmond) and Irene (Alexandra Meierhans) embark on a ride into the countryside for a friend’s wedding, but get lost, seeking directions from a hitchhiker, eventually inviting him into their car where he quickly wields a knife and overpowers them, joining two other accomplices in a kidnapping plot that takes them to a remote country home. Throughout this film, the threat of violence is more pronounced than the kidnapper’s actual behavior, which strangely fluctuates from merciless, out of control psychopaths to an eerie politeness that may have your skin crawl.

Rather than focus on the kidnapping itself, which is like Little Red Riding Hood getting lost in the woods, this director’s interest lies in a minimalist exposé of the individuals involved, where the kidnappers are a mysterious bunch that don’t seem to generate much trust among themselves as well, while both the husband and wife endure an utterly horrific ordeal in the hands of sadistic killers. Changing the game plan in midstream, however, Danny is led out of the picture, supposedly raising huge sums of cash, while the pregnant wife is left alone in the house with two maniacs, Renny (Miachel Godere), a knife wielding, cold blooded murderer and Leo (Ivan Martin), whose initial impatience is continually put to the test waiting for the others to return. Punctuated by shots of moving clouds, time slows down to a crawl as they at first receive regular calls from their partner, but the calls stop overnight and time eats away at these two who question their safety just sitting there doing nothing, allowing paranoia to creep in, creating a tense situation for Irene who is toyed with by the killers, each apparently jealous of the time the other spends with her. Veering back and forth from heartless to heartfelt, these killers seem baffled by the pregnancy angle, as they also seem to have their own intimacy issues with one another. But Irene adopts a survival strategy, where she openly expresses her fears, worrying about what’s going to happen to her husband and her baby, but also seems to touch them both with a genuine maternal kindness that takes them both by surprise.

While this could be an in depth character study, it isn’t. While this might resemble the psychological twist in Polanski’s DEATH AND THE MAIDEN (1994), an intense stage drama between two longtime adversaries who share a dark history, it doesn’t. It never really builds upon this theme of something real and provocative developing between characters, instead it veers off the map into a dreamlike fairy tale, which might have worked temporarily, but certainly not given this amount of final impact. What’s the point of creating an unflinchingly realistic kidnapping drama if you’re going to then cop out with a complete change of tone for the final epilogue, as if truth never mattered in the first place? It’s as if the filmmaker lost faith in his own characters, intervening, toning them down, radically reinventing them with a condensed “R” rated version for the inexplicable finale that is just a tacked on ending. It is this blatant dishonesty that derails the rest of the picture, as it’s no longer a punishing psychological thriller, just another instantly forgettable story. The three actors in question, Renny and Leo and Irene, actually develop something strange and mysterious onscreen, wildly uneven, perhaps even original, if not horribly distasteful, but it all evaporates when the director undermines their work, apparently unable to appreciate that a trite, formulaic ending doesn’t fit with the tenuously fragile and explosive connection they’ve actually established, where the problem is not with what happens, but with what happens afterwards. What’s easily the best part of the picture is wiped out in a few short minutes, which is probably why this film was sitting on the shelf for so long.

NewCity Chicago Ray Pride

A minimalist kidnap thriller, David Barker’s 2010 “Daylight” is genre filmmaking retooled as mood piece, even if it takes an errant hitchhiker to set trouble in motion. A New York couple—the woman pregnant—is hijacked on the way to a wedding. Threats ensue in the confines of a country house. Understated yet unnerving, the film’s rhythms are snakily suspenseful, drawn from looks and the looks of things as much as mysteries of motivation. Landscape and distance tell as much as proximity. Don’t get close. With the very effective Alexandra Meierhans, Ivan Martin, Michael Godere. 75m.

Chicago Reader Andrea Gronvall

In this spare, absorbing thriller, a European couple driving through the American backwoods to a country wedding are kidnapped by two hitchhikers. The latter take pains to appear reasonable and even polite, but at their secluded hideout the mood turns ominous and the tone metaphysical. The wife (Alexandra Meierhans), pregnant and fearful for her baby, prays for help; looking like an ethereal Northern Renaissance Madonna, she inspires both lust and introspection in the kidnappers (Michael Godere, Ivan Martin). Director David Barker creates tension by crosscutting between shots of the sun-drenched landscape and charged close-ups of the cloistered characters before delivering a bloody climax.

New York Times [Jeannette Catsoulis] also seen here: New York Times

A troubled marriage swerves toward catastrophe in “Daylight,” an unusually delicate psychological thriller that favors suggestion over exposition.

Hints of long-dormant problems between Daniel (Aidan Redmond) and his pregnant wife, Irene (Alexandra Meierhans), are conveyed immediately, as they set off on a long drive to a wedding. “When did we get lost?” Irene wonders in voice-over, the phrase doing double duty as they lose their way and stop to question a hitchhiker (Michael Godere). That is their first mistake.

Playing out in unhurried interior shots and high-angle landscapes, “Daylight” floods the framework of the standard kidnap drama with visual eloquence. Capturing the shifting shadows on worn wallpaper as carefully as the expressions on an actor’s face, Nils Kenaston’s camera maintains a calm authority over the story’s hair-trigger fluctuations in mood and tone. From fearful to erotic, from hostile to trusting, the characters’ constantly shifting relationships never jar. And as petty jealousies knock up against shreds of almost-forgotten faith, the film earns its tension the hard way — which is to say, by holding back rather than putting out.

Not one for climactic endings or predictable histrionics, the director, David Barker (who wrote the script with Ms. Meierhans and Mr. Godere), sticks to the stylistic template of his debut feature, “Afraid of Everything,” which was filmed in 1999. Preferring the tease over the tell, his films coax us into looking beneath the surface. What we find is mostly up to us.

Slant [Glenn Heath, Jr.]

Perpetually torn between its philosophical ambitions and horror-film roots, Daylight suffers from a debilitating identity crisis. Director David Barker's minimalist setup echoes I Spit on Your Grave as pregnant Irene (Alexandra Meierhans) and her self-doubting husband, Daniel (Aidan Redmond), drive into the countryside on their way to a wedding, every gust of wind and sway of a tree an evocation of an unseen menace. When the couple is carjacked by Renny (Michael Godere), a seemingly innocuous hitchhiker, the sudden appearance of a switchblade around Irene's neck makes for a tonal shift that's especially vital. A bad situation grows exponentially worse when Daniel is forced to pick up Leo (Ivan Martin), Renny's equally sleazy accomplice.

The foursome end up at a disarmingly quiet farmhouse, and Barker builds tension to an even greater extent by illuminating the power of off-screen sound. Irene and Daniel hear bits and pieces of the criminal's conversations, clues to their own certain demise. There's even a brilliantly placed cutaway of dried blood splatter covering the floral wallpaper in the kitchen. Without the crutch of dialogue, Barker establishes Renny and Leo as lethal archetypes, defined by action instead of smarmy prose. When Renny takes Daniel down to a riverbank, puts a nap sack over his head, and casually confesses, "I'm going to slit your throat now," Daylight reaches an apex of terror that it never quite tops. Renny's matter-of-fact delivery is a striking example of evil in the small details of character.

Unfortunately, Barker segues from this brilliantly restrained scene to a more convoluted narrative trajectory, sending Daniel and a third kidnapper away to collect a ransom from his rich father-in-law. Left to wait and ponder their fates, Leo, Renny, and Irene form a spiritual triangle of warring ideologies. At this juncture, Daylight grows increasingly self-aware and problematic. We get flashbacks to Irene's therapy sessions, arguments with Daniel, and posh dinner parties. Hers is a crisis of faith, both in regard to her marriage and motherhood, and this experience creates a vacuum for religious faith to swell. Renny and Leo start to see Irene as more of a saint than a hostage, and their own characterizations become more self-reflective and doubt-riddled. The horror-film narrative, so diabolical in specific scenes toward the beginning, is overwhelmed by long-winded and increasingly stale monologues about faith.

If Barker's potent audible references and visual compositions occasionally mirror the best the horror genre has to offer, his actors' terribly uneven performances can't transcend the more familiar narrative revelations. Leo's bursts of sexual aggression, Renny's unsettled brutality, and Irene's deadpan manipulation all feel forced, never working in unison during the most intense scenes. Interestingly, Barker ends with a stunning moment of violence that suddenly cuts this talky approach short, a small coup de grace for a film brimming with wasted potential. The reality of blood spilling onto the floor makes all the musings about God and regret seem terribly inconsequential.

Flashes of genre deconstruction make it clear that Daylight wants to be a subversive take on the home-invasion film, inverting the scenarios in ways that will reveal more about the characters' complex motivations. However, by the time Irene becomes an avenging angel, the Shakespearean character traits have simply formed a series of smoke and mirrors to mask elements of familiar screenwriting. Barker tries to stretch the complex cautionary tale to a necessary feature length, but at a mere 75 minutes, Daylight lacks the cinematic endurance to convincingly register as either.

indieWIRE [Eric Kohn]

indieWIRE / The Playlist [Christopher Bell] July 12, 2011

We Are Movie Geeks [Travis Keune]

Ain't It Cool News [Adam]

Gambit Weekly New Orleans [Will Coviello]

Village Voice [Nick Pinkerton]

DAYLIGHT Facets Multi-Media

The Playlist / indieWIRE [Christopher Bell] June 17, 2011

Brutal as Hell [Marc Patterson

New York Post [Page Six]

Director interview  indieWIRE interview June 11, 2009

Variety [Joe Leydon]

TimeOut Chicago R. Emmet Sweeney

Connecticut Post [Joe Meyers]

Connecticut Post #2 [Joe Meyers]

New Orleans Times-Picayune [Mike Scott]

Chicago Tribune    Joe Leydon

Maserati Quattroporte - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Maserati North America

2011 Maserati Quattroporte

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Barker, Nicholas

UNMADE BEDS B+ 90

Great Britain (95 mi) 1997

A very funny black comedy using satire that underneath feels downright cruel in its personal intrusiveness, but the in-your-face feel is what’s terrific.

Unmade Beds Mike D’Angelo

The recent blurring of the line between cinematic fiction and non-fiction is unquestionably intriguing, but I think that some part of me must fundamentally object to the deliberate obliteration of that line, because watching the four "characters" in Unmade Beds flawlessly recite monologues about their pathetic lives made me acutely uncomfortable. The scene in which Aimee breaks down crying was especially troubling; I wasn't sure how to react, because I had no idea whether or not her tears were genuine. It's as if I wear one pair of glasses for fictional narratives and another pair of glasses for documentaries, and Barker's film left me unable to determine which pair of glasses I was supposed to put on, and without glasses my vision's maybe 20/500, and so I found the entire experience...well, really darn blurry.

Barklow, Tanner King and Gil Kofman

UNMADE IN CHINA D+ 64

USA China (87 mi) 2012 Official site

There are much better movies about the making of a movie, where Fellini’s 8 ½ (1963) remains the definitive work on the subject, but Fassbinder’s BEWARE OF A HOLY WHORE (1971) also comes to mind, a fictionalized autobiographical film that exaggerates the kind of real chaos that exists on a movie set. But those are made by filmmakers who are also great artists, unlike this film, which turns into something of a self-promotion documentary about one of the worst filmmakers on the planet, Gil Kofman, maker of the forgettable movie THE MEMORY THIEF (2007), a jumbled mess of a film, but if you heard this filmmaker describe it, no doubt it’s an undiscovered American classic. Kofman is the kind of guy that never shuts up, where every single word and thought is about himself, where everything else in the world exists only in relation to himself. Not that anyone invited him to, but Kofman decides to make a movie in China, financed by the Chinese Film industry, and then rails about all the bureaucratic hurdles one has to go through in China to make a film, blaming it all on the Communist system. The thought has to cross the viewer’s mind, is the only reason this guy is making a film in China because he can’t make one here in the United States? Having seen his earlier film, awarding it a grade of D-, where out of thousands of films seen and graded in a lifetime, there are only about 25 seen that are worse than that one, most all of them graded F. The truth of the matter is this guy is simply an awful filmmaker and has no business working in the movie industry, where China is likely one of the few places in the world that would actually offer him the opportunity, but after seeing this film, that offer has probably been rescinded. Kofman never really explains much about the film he wants to make, where the script must be submitted for approval by the Chinese Communist Party, where no doubt they are pleased and somewhat amused that an American would even attempt such an absurd thing, where first time feature director Tanner King Barklow, maker of the unseen 30-minute short CAMP BLOOD: THE MUSICAL (2006), announces that “China only releases 20 foreign films each year…This is NOT one of them,” where pretty much, he just points the camera at Kofman and lets him do the rest.

As Kofman is about the leave for China, no doubt expecting to spend a large amount of time there, his young daughter is more worried that he’ll miss her dance recital, while his wife is sitting in bed reading a book all but ignoring him. Good riddance, she seems to be saying. So he leaves with little fanfare, arriving in China where there is a joint Chinese-American production team, including members of the Communist Party that must approve each step of the process. Kofman is quick to blame the Chinese whenever anything goes wrong, and why wouldn’t he expect plenty of things to go wrong, as even Chinese filmmakers have trouble getting their films made in China. After all, it’s a country that currently boasts a population of over a trillion people (1,354,040,000 to be exact), where according to the annual list compiled by The Hollywood Reporter of the top 25 film schools in the world THR's Top 25 Film Schools List Revealed - The Hollywood Reporter, #3 is the Beijing Film Academy, yet only 20 films are released for export every year? Just what did Kofman expect? The Chinese Film Bureau puts their own citizens through rigorous scrutiny, where questions would have to be raised about any American’s motive, wondering if the intent is to ridicule the Chinese government, where it’s hard for the viewers not to ask the same thing. Nonetheless, Kofman, who is nothing if not delusional, thinks everything is set, buoyed by an elaborate dinner where the American orders plenty of drinks and toasts the Communists as an act of good will, throwing in a little extra bribery cash as well to help insure approval, and is initially given the green light. Well little does he know that this is only for the initial step of the approximately 1000 step plan that the officials have in store for him, starting with his script which they completely rewrite without asking for his opinion or approval, also a last minute change of cast members, including the female lead, and the cinematographer. Unfortunately, what really sets him off is that he isn’t getting paid. Isn’t it just like an American to complain about the money? Kofman is determined to go on strike, refuses to work, and sits in his room and mopes on the bed. More misfortune ensues.

At least when he’s outside on the streets of China, one can admire the hustle and bustle of the activity, where there’s always a certain charm about viewing life in foreign lands. But being stuck in a hotel room with Kofman blaming everyone but himself becomes insufferable, as the film immediately sinks into a wretched descent of self-pity and feeling sorry for himself, a hole from which it never escapes, as Kofman whines and complains about everything rather than actually meeting and talking with the appropriate people, exactly as he would do in the United States. He prefers the fatalistic view that nothing can be done, that this is the way things are, and continually rails against the Chinese Communists, like it’s their fault. But they’re just doing their job, and he shows little respect for their culture or film industry. While there are plenty of incompetents on the set that are simply a waste of time, in Kofman’s view, people that never do the jobs that are assigned to them, large and small, so why is there is no attempt to fire them, or at least identify the people he’s most dissatisfied with and request an immediate change in personnel? Any low grade professional at work would at least consider this train of thought and discuss it with the powers that be, but not Kofman, who suffers from delusions of grandeur, where the thought never occurs to him that the reason the Chinese give him such unqualified help is because the film he’s making is totally worthless, that to him it’s all just a publicity stunt. While there are admittedly some absurd, Kafkaesque moments, the viewer rarely gets to see them happen, but unfortunately has to endure hearing everything second hand through Kofman, as it is all channeled through his nonstop chatter, never questioning his own idiotic behavior, like scheduling 4 days in the middle of the shoot where he has to suddenly return to America to witness his daughter’s graduation. As preposterous as it is for a director to leave the set, which is only for a few short weeks, but considering this is at best a cheap, low budget B-movie, couldn’t he have made provisions for someone else to take over in advance, like the director of this documentary, as he didn’t shoot anything during this absence. But Kofman returned and completed the shoot for a film that was never officially made, as Kofman simply gave up during the editing process, where the smartest thing he did was try to distribute bootleg copies of the film on his own, which is how many films around the world are seen. When he discovers a Chinese version of his film in a California Chinatown, he’s perplexed and literally baffled, thinking for a moment that perhaps it was all worthwhile, never once questioning why it is that he can’t make films here in America.

NewCity Chicago Ray Pride

Gonzo is seldom the way to go in documentary, but there is a blithe prankishness and sweet-souled don’t-give-a-fuck to some, if not all, of Tanner King Barklow and Gil Kofman’s “Unmade in China,” which follows Kofman’s hiring to direct a cheap, slapdash thriller, in Chinese, in the Fujian city Xiamen, China and have it sanctioned by the strictures of local censorship. (The script for ”Case Sensitive” was based on a famous Internet hoax.) Kofman doesn’t speak Chinese and says he doesn’t even like Chinese food. I don’t have a handy description to say what “Unmade in China” is on its own terms, following the stages of “unmaking” a movie the producers wanted an American director for, in name only, but it could handily wind up on a shelf that also holds “American Movie” and a good half-dozen other movies about movies about moviemakers falling on their face. Barklow has been a producer on Kirby Dick’s documentaries “Outrage” and “The Invisible War”; Kofman was a producer and editor on Dick and Amy Ziering Kofman’s “Derrida.” A best documentary winner at Sydney Underground, Edmonton International and the “Bloody Hero International Film Festival.” 90m.

UNMADE IN CHINA Facets Multi Media

Unmade in China is a documentary that follows the experience of a Los Angeles filmmaker (Gil Kofman, The Memory Thief) who finds himself in Xiamen, China trying to direct a thriller, in Chinese, using a translator. He soon discovers that the old adage of making a film three times—in the writing, shooting, and editing —is in fact the opposite in China, where his film is "unmade" three times—in the writing, shooting, and editing—with each subsequent stage of the process even more excruciating and devastating than the one that came before it. Determined to make his film happen, even under the most adverse conditions, our overeager American cannot even begin to imagine the complications of making a government sanctioned film in Communist China.

Aside from a fun and frivolous tale that documents the trials and tribulations of an Angeleno making a film in China, this is also a cautionary tale, redolent with political resonance, about what compromises an artist suffers in order to make their work. "It was the 'China Way' or the highway—and," says Kofman, "you can never possibly learn what's the China Way."

ColeSmithey.com [Cole Smithey]

Director Gil Kofman (“The Memory Thief” - 2007) martyrs himself on the altar of China’s modern industrial filmmaking system, which cranks out movies for a typical budget of $300,000 per feature. Armed with the script for a distinctively American psychological thriller entitled “Case Sensitive,” the quirky Kofman — think Woody Allen’s younger cousin — endures non-payment while attempting to make a movie with an all-Chinese crew. Our determined protagonist exhibits the patience of Job while making joking asides about the willful incompetence that surrounds him. Kofman loses his strongest link in Rain, the film’s director of photography, to the sexist practices on the set. Endless script translation/revisions occur as promises go unfulfilled regarding locations, costumes, and every other aspect of production. Examples of Chinese cultural phenomena, such as its tone-deaf bootlegging of gay sexual identity, provide windows into a society that differs drastically from that of the West. Kofman’s distinctly Jewish sense of humor lends the artistic ordeal some buffering perspective by way of his hyper articulate personality. “Unmade in China” is an entertaining, personalized account of a director’s hardships attempting to work in China’s hostile filmmaking climate. A question that hovers over the movie is why either side would ever want to work together in the first place.

CINE-FILE: Cine-List - CINE-FILE Chicago Shealey Wallace

You are an American director—given the opportunity to make a thriller surrounding the phenomenon of YouTube blogging. Now imagine being the same director and having to make that same thriller for an entirely non-American audience in China, of having to rewrite the original American script multiple times, of having the same script translated multiple times, of not being able to talk to your crew without the aid of a translator—oh, and your every move is being monitored by Chinese government Communist Party members. Things tend to become little tricky after that. In this Chicago premiere, documentarian Tanner Barklow follows the journey of how American director Gil Kofman had to work under the strict restrictions of the Chinese film industry and the troubles that go along with working under a Communist political system. UNMADE IN CHINA chronicles how a man who knows next to nothing about the culture of China reacts and works around the culture divide. Constantly playing the line between keeping his artistic integrity intact and helping his Chinese crew members keep their jobs, Barklow documents Kofman's tribulations in having to deal with the Chinese government and how to work around the constant subversion inflicted by the Chinese officials: actors fired and new ones hired, script changes, essential crew members are fired without his knowledge, and not being paid are only a few of difficulties the American crew face. Directors Barklow and Kofman keep their film-about-a-film tactful; while Kofman's numerous frustrations with the Chinese management build up into a boycott, American culture is not glorified or embraced. Kofman's own paranoia and insecurities are revealed as honestly as the difficulties in working in a foreign culture, providing the film an overwhelming sense of authenticity as the audience watches how the original thriller script evolves into Kofman's own nightmare and learns exactly how many directors of photography are needed to make a Chinese film. (2012, 90 min, Video Projection - Unconfirmed Format)

NPR   Ian Buckwalter

The best documentaries about filmmaking are the ones that show it at its worst.

Movie sets are fundamentally boring places, where there's mostly a lot of waiting around going on. But when disaster strikes with millions of dollars on the line, the tension and drama are suddenly amped up to levels that often equal those in the movie being filmed.

Watching Werner Herzog and Klaus Kinski nearly come to blows in Les Blank's Burden of Dreams, for instance, is just as gripping as Fitzcarraldo, the movie they're making. Perhaps the best of this genre is Lost in La Mancha, which doesn't need to search for a metaphor to describe Terry Gilliam's doomed production: The movie he's failing spectacularly to make is, of course, about literature's most famous conquistador of futility, Don Quixote.

Throughout the new documentary Unmade in China, director Gil Kofman is dedicated to a seemingly quixotic task of his own. He's been given a green light to direct his second feature, but with a hefty catch: He has to make the movie in China, with a Chinese cast and crew, in Mandarin — a language he doesn't speak. Oh, and he has to do all this under the watchful eye of the Chinese film production system, a nonsensical and labyrinthine maze of graft, misogyny, bizarre rules and Communist Party politics that still manages to operate with an almost admirable lockstep efficiency. Unless you challenge any part of it.

"I could almost hear the train derailing in my head," says Tanner King Barklow, the documentary's co-director, recounting his reaction to hearing that Kofman was heading to China to make his movie. So Barklow went with him, documenting every head-scratching moment as Kofman bucked against a system that's even more thoroughly designed to minimize artistry and single-minded vision than Hollywood itself.

Kofman seems an unlikely rebel, which contributes to the stealthy charisma that makes Unmade in China so watchable. With his long since receded hair, corny sense of humor and dogged positivity, he's a little like a flesh-and-blood Elmer Fudd, complete with rhotacistic speech patterns.

Just as old Elmer can't be dissuaded from the notion that he'll eventually bag Bugs, Kofman rarely fails to maintain faith that the details of his movie will finally come together: that he'll get a usable script, locations that aren't overwhelmed by construction noise, a cast and crew who don't come and go via revolving door. That he'll, say, receive a paycheck.

This last point is a sad running joke throughout the film, as Kofman is constantly checking his account for that first deposit. It's never there, despite his ever-present optimism that this will be the day he finds money waiting. It's only four months into production, after he goes on strike — a work stoppage that lasts just a few hours and is mostly taken up by a much-needed nap — that he finally gets some money.

During that strike, Kofman's on-set translator expresses surprise: There is no striking in China. If you strike, you just get fired. Unmade in China is nominally about filmmaking, but what Kofman and Barklow do well is to use their unusual position within the Chinese state machine to make a thinly veiled movie about politics.

The expensive wining and dining necessary for the production to get party approval is used to show how Chinese communism runs on money and favor just as much as, if not more than, Western politics does. Male societal domination comes into play in the form of the misogyny that gets Kofman's initial cinematographer fired from the job, and via the script translator, who casually brags about having sex with the prostitutes hanging around the set.

That translator becomes a key figure, for he's presented not only as a generally hateful individual, but also as a shill for the party. He doesn't just translate the original English script, he rewrites it to reflect his own (and the party's) contempt for the perceived decadence of Gil and his American producers. The message is that this is merely one of the mechanisms by which every movie made under this system essentially becomes a propaganda film of some sort.

The perseverance shown by Kofman amid all of this is admirable, though the veins that begin standing scarily out in his forehead give Barklow and the viewer some concerns about whether he'll make it out of the process alive, let alone with a movie.

Winning against these odds is too much to expect — but shockingly, Kofman manages to tilt with foes more obstinate or surreal than any windmill, and battle them more or less to a draw.

Take One [Rosy Hunt]

'Unmade in China' Opens Theatrically 4/19 - Documentaries - About ... Jennifer Merin from About.com

Unmade In China | Film | Movie Review | The A.V. Club Tasha Robinson

Gig City [LH Thomson]

Film School Rejects [Christopher Campbell]

FilmInternational [Robert Kenneth Dator]

User Reviews from imdb Author: ralph1396-632-811470 from United States

Unmade in China: Film Review John DeFore from The Hollywood Reporter

Edmonton Journal [Jamie Hall]

Chicago Tribune

Los Angeles Times Kenneth Turan

Barmak, Siddiq

OSAMA C 76

Afghanistan Ireland Japan (82 mi) 2003

Considered the first film made in Afghanistan since the US invasion, this is, unfortunately, an overwrought, overly simplistic and highly politicized film, using a documentary style look and feel at life under the Taliban. After the employed female doctors and nurses are run out of the hospitals, and with so many husbands killed in the various wars, what chance did females have to survive under Taliban rule? Here, a mother disguises her 12 year-old daughter as a boy in the hopes that she can find work, but in the end, the results are all too predictable, though nonetheless, unsettling. Resembling Iranian films, using non-professional actors, where the harshness of life has such a natural feel, this film, however, is betrayed by the stream of tears which fall non-stop from this victimized and overly pathetic child who never had a chance.

Osama Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

My rating dings it a little bit for its clipped running time, which results in a first half so crammed with incident that the rhythm it should establish -- day-to-day tyranny under the Taliban -- instead gives way to point-by-point demonstration.  In most other regards, however, Osama is far superior to recent work covering similar territory (Baran, Kandahar, At Five in the Afternoon), in part because it feels less conflicted.  I do not know about Barmak's own religious convictions, but his film presents a thoroughly Western perspective even as it interrogates the Taliban-era from the inside.  Not only does Barmak refuse to contextualize the regime's sexism; he actually addresses the instability of gender identity that the girl's transformation implies.  We experience this from the girl's perspective (her own idealized male other, who she repeatedly fantasizes outside herself, freely skipping rope), and from the regime's (the creepy mullah in the bathing scene).  Naturally, Barmak's angry vision plays a bit like a sop to "civilized" Westerners predisposed to outrage at Islam's most conservative sects.  Greater context would have enriched the film intellectually, but it also would have blunted its immediacy, so in the end Barmak's gambit produces a stronger piece of protest cinema, despite my misgivings.  He also receives points for his depiction of the girl's judicial sentence, which at first looks like a directorial cop-out until you realize there may well be fates worse than death.

Afghan Aftermath Dave Calhoun from Sight and Sound

Barnard, Clio

Selfish Giant director becomes toast of Cannes Charlotte Higgins from The Guardian, May 17, 2013

Clio Barnard: why I'm drawn to outsiders Sean O’Hagan interview from The Observer, October 12, 2013

THE ARBOR A 95

Great Britain (94 mi) 2010

She had a bit of a gob on her and she was hot-headed at times. —Natalie Gavin (describing Andrea Dunbar)

This is one film where it didn’t help knowing absolutely nothing going into the screening, because in format alone, this is a dizzying conception that defies convention and has the audience on their heels from the outset. Much like Andrea Arnold’s FISH TANK (2009), my initial reaction was thinking this is another unvarnished exploration of British miserablism, utterly downbeat, centering on life in the slums, where I was not fond of any of the characters presented onscreen, and in fact found much of the initial material somewhat loathsome, as they were introducing characters fast and furious like a Tolstoy novel, none of whom seemed to matter at all. By the opening twenty minutes or so, I was ready to throw my hands up in the air wondering what in hell was going on, as I wasn’t sure if I recalled correctly from the opening or even believed that the actors were actually lip-synching the original material. Most of the time characters are speaking directly into the camera, as if in an interview format, though each, as it turns out, is a recreation. Other times the cast is gathered on the front lawn and enact scenes from the play as neighbors watch from the street. I’m not sure when it clicks in, but at some point you stop fighting what you initially can’t comprehend and start appreciating what’s happening onscreen, as the film only grows more intimately compelling until the audience is completely riveted and even overwhelmed by the material.

Like a musicologist such as Béla Bartók, who went around his country recording various musical folk melodies, compiling 9200 in all by the way, playwright and local resident Andrea Dunbar grew up in the Buttershaw Estate housing project in Bradford, West Yorkshire in Northern England, living on the toughest street known as The Arbor, where for two years in her life in the 1970’s she collected audio interviews from friends, family, and local residents, shocking everyone when at 15 she wrote a heralded play known as The Arbor, an autobiographical account of her life growing up there, the supposed drug capital of Yorkshire, whose corrupt police force in the 1980’s was notoriously depicted in THE RED RIDING TRILOGY (2009). Dunbar wrote three plays, all shockingly detailed accounts of lost childhoods, depraved youth, underage sex, prostitution, drug abuse, wrenching violence, and racism, one of which was adapted into a movie, RITA, SUE AND BOB TOO in 1986. Buttershaw residents were outraged at how negatively their lives were portrayed, many denying their family members could ever stoop to such behavior, sending death threats to Dunbar who continued to live on the premises, but nothing materialized. Dunbar died in 1990 at a local pub of a brain hemorrhage at the age of 29.

What’s initially so mysterious is the unique power of the language itself, wrapped in gutter talk, slang, and profanity, but also a profoundly uneducated street way of speaking, where even the subtitles make it hard to describe or comprehend. It’s not just an example of illiterate youth speaking, as it might first seem, but adult characters at times are equally incomprehensible. Over time, we start to identify with some of the central characters, including Andrea, the outspoken Natalie Gavin, and her two daughters, mixed blood Lorraine (Manjinder Virk), who is part Pakistani, and Pamela (Kathryn Pogson). Oftentimes the voices heard are the real voices from the interviews, while actors also fill in from time to time, especially during heated exchanges. Mixed in with characters speaking to the camera and artificially recreated scenes are actors sitting in chairs and reading their lines, as if reading a letter, as well as the use of fictionalized documentary style footage, also other archival materials, creating a stream-of-conscious blend of expression, reminiscent of Dylan Thomas’s radio drama Under Milkwood, a play initially read by actors sitting on stools. The presentation is so radically different than what viewers are used to that they may have a hard time realizing what they’re witnessing, but they’ll certainly pick up what’s essential. In my view it’s blurring or crossing the line to call this a documentary, even if the initial source material used is all true. I don’t really have an argument for why this wouldn’t qualify as a documentary except that it uses the power of the theatrical performances, some of which are sensationally powerful and worthy of an award nomination, especially Manjinder Virk as Lorraine, to heighten the blistering intensity of the film, which by the end is just phenomenal. This is unconventional filmmaking combining the dramatic power of language with a fierce new sense of theatricality, a major work brilliantly directed, using a dazzlingly inventive conceptual design to accentuate some of the most intimately personal and humane material to ever grace the screen.

Phil on Film [Philip Concannon]

Andrea Dunbar had a short but extraordinary life. The Arbor, the play she wrote at the age of 15, was performed at the Royal Court when she was 18, and her second play Rita, Sue and Bob Too was adapted for the big screen in 1986. But while she became a theatrical success, her personal life was full of pain; she had three children by three different fathers, suffered through abusive relationships, developed a severe drinking problem, and died of a brain haemorrhage at the age of 29. Dunbar's life story is told in an imaginative fashion in Clio Barnard's directorial debut The Arbor, in which actors lip-synch to recordings of the people involved in the playwright's life. The technique initially feels affected and distracting – and I laughed inappropriately at one point, when a scene reminded me of Creature Comforts – but once you've settled into Barnard's approach, the benefits of her inventive direction and the compelling nature of the story become apparent. The actors are excellent, somehow managing to inject a real sense of emotion into performances that could easily have felt artificial, and Barnard blends these straight-to-camera reminiscences with archive footage and stylised performances of The Arbor in the middle of a council estate. Only the first half of the picture actually focuses on Andrea Dunbar, however, and after her death, the narrative follows her mixed-race daughter Lorraine (Manjinder Virk), whose life was marked by even more tragedy. Some of the final scenes in The Arbor are unbearably sad, but Barnard finds the perfect pitch in her storytelling throughout. This is a daring and hugely accomplished debut.

The Lumière Reader [Tim Wong]

Hot on the heels of David Peace’s Yorkshire fictions (recently given the big screen treatment in The Damned United and the excellent Red Riding Trilogy), The Arbor similarly blurs a line between reality and invention amidst the doldrums of a North England housing estate. Based on the life of Bradford playwright Andrea Dunbar, the results are penetrating and undeniably moving. It’s also one of the finds of the New Zealand International Film Festival thus far. Revisting Brafferton Arbor, the unruly neighbourhood its subject drew inspiration from in a handful of plays before her death in 1990, the film ostensibly documents Dunbar’s troubled upbringing and success as a young writer—only 19 when The Arbor performed at London’s Royal Court, soon thereafter completing Rita, Sue and Bob Too which she would adapt for Alan Clarke’s biting 1987 comedy—yet is evidently more riveted by the perspective of her two surviving daughters, Lisa and Lorraine.

Lorraine, in particular, is the voice of some harrowing episodes, measuring her mother’s alcoholism and abusive relationships against her own traumatic experiences with addiction and domestic violence—all of which she bitterly, if not understandably, maintains to have inherited. While on the surface recalling the extreme working-class realism British cinema seems perpetually fixated by (or at least in 1998, the year we were pummeled by My Name is Joe, The War Zone and Nil By Mouth), Clio Barnard’s film doesn’t deny the humour in Dunbar’s otherwise bleak, semi-autobiographical portrait, allowing a lively performance of select scenes from The Arbor to unfold (on the doorstep of Brafferton residents, no less) amongst frank and devastating interviews with various friends and family members. If these confessions to the camera appear self-conscious in their delivery and cinematic style, it’s because they’re staged with actors lip-syncing pre-recordings—the film’s masterstroke in mirroring, and in the way crystalising, Dunbar’s own use of theatre to confront and approximate the ugly truth.

The Arbor Review. Movie Reviews - Film - Time Out London Dave Calhoun

I hesitate to call this fascinating, slippery film an ‘experimental documentary’ in case it sends people who would otherwise enjoy its storytelling trickery and moving subject running for ‘Paranormal Activity 2’. It’s true that Clio Barnard revisits the life of the late playwright Andrea Dunbar, who wrote ‘Rita, Sue and Bob Too’ in the mid-’80s, by going back, journalistically, to her old Bradford stomping-ground, the hard-as-nails Buttershaw Estate.

But once she gets there, Barnard re-enacts scenes from Dunbar’s first play with actors, and instead of filming interviewees (Dunbar’s relatives, mainly) she records their voices and asks actors to play them in locations that suggest varying degrees of realism and – this is the interesting bit – lip-synch to their words. We see archive footage from Dunbar’s spell in the media spotlight, but, even then, Barnard sometimes frames that footage fictionally, such as beaming it through a modern television.

Dunbar wrote her first play, ‘The Arbor’, in the late 1970s when she was just 15, and three years later Max Stafford-Clark, another of Barnard’s interviewees, staged it at the Royal Court. Dunbar’s writing reflected the intrigues and hardships of the estate around her, and a mixed-race relationship in ‘The Arbor’ reflected her relationship with the father of her eldest daughter, Lorraine. Of all her interviewees, it’s Lorraine in whom Barnard takes the most interest as the young woman relates her saddening experiences as a junkie, prostitute and single mother.

Barnard likes to explore  connections over time, both biographical and literary, so while she identifies an unbroken line between Lorraine and her mother when it comes to their plain speaking, she also draws links between Dunbar’s work and her own by restaging scenes from ‘The Arbor’ on Brafferton Arbor, the square that gave the play its name. She also acknowledges the influence of another play on her film: in 2000, Stafford-Clark commissioned ‘A State Affair’, a play about the Buttershaw and Dunbar’s legacy. Not only does Barnard pick up where ‘A State Affair’ left off, but her lip-synching technique bears comparison to the play’s method of actors speaking the words of real interviewees.

The effect of the lip-synching scenes is like watching a subversive spin on the domesticity of Aardman’s ‘Creature Comforts’, for which cosy kitchen or living room scenes take on an air of mystery, an aura ?compounded by some of the tragic turns of Dunbar’s life. The actors are puppets of sorts, reminders of the hands behind the film, and the impossibility of miming perfectly reminds us that they’re reporting, not reconstructing.

It’s all very crafty, suggestive and enthralling. Best of all, Barnard’s strange method manages to be both questioning and coherent: the very fabric of the film admits that Barnard can only offer us versions of ‘the truth’, but those versions are still convincing and often staggeringly moving.

Guardian First Film award: The Arbor Andrew Pulver from The Guardian, January 27, 2011

The conclave is over, the white smoke has appeared … and we can tell you that the winner of the 2010 Guardian First Film award is … The Arbor, directed by Clio Barnard. As last year, two films quickly became frontrunners in the judging meeting: The Arbor, the distinctively textured documentary about playwright Andrea Dunbar, and its polar opposite on our shortlist, Monsters, the effects-laden sci-fi parable by Gareth Edwards. Both films, in the judges' view, were brilliant, but The Arbor it was that squeaked home .

One of our judges, Peter Bradshaw described it as an "experimentalist docudrama close to genius", while another, actor Saffron Burrows, said it was "utterly unique and devastating". A third judge, last year's winner Gideon Koppel, of Sleep Furiously renown, called The Arbor "a remarkable and moving portrait that – unusually – describes the internal landscape of a character." That last accolade must be particularly satisfying for Barnard, as she admits to being a big fan of Koppel's film – "It's wonderful to be in the same company as [previous winners] Unrelated and Sleep Furiously," she says.

The Arbor is a small-scale, intensely personal affair. Barnard says she didn't even expect a cinema release. "It was originally meant to be for TV. When the UK Film Council got involved, they insisted it had a theatrical release. All the great reviews helped, too. In retrospect, a big part of it was the subject matter: it's about inter-generational neglect, and how it's important to understand it. I realise now there was a need for this sort of story."

The Arbor's ostensible subject, Andrea Dunbar, is best known to filmgoers as the writer of Rita, Sue and Bob Too!, the rambunctious mid-80s farce directed by Alan Clarke. But she made her mark some years before, after her first play (also called The Arbor) was staged at the Royal Court theatre in 1980. Dunbar grew up on, and wrote about, the Buttershaw council estate in Bradford; the rough life she experienced there provided her with her identity as a writer, but clearly consumed her too – she died aged 29 after collapsing in a local pub. But her oldest daughter, Lorraine, emerges from the film as an equally conflicted figure, herself submerged in a drug-dependent existence; in 2007, she was jailed after being convicted of manslaughter in the death of her two-year-old son.

Barnard says her starting point for the film was a desire to revisit Buttershaw "for the third time"; that is, after Dunbar's play, and then Robin Soans' A State Affair, staged at the Soho theatre in 2000, which first took the idea of "verbatim theatre" back to Dunbar's old haunts. Barnard elaborated the idea behind verbatim theatre – using participants' actual words – into a cinematic technique where screen actors lip-synch to documentary audio recordings; we hear Lorraine's voice, but see actor Manjinder Virk mouthing her words. It's a device not without a touch of controversy – there was some questioning of The Arbor's documentary credentials when it had an award-winning premiere at the Tribeca film festival, back in April 2010.

But Barnard says that's the point. "I don't mind what people call it, it's meant to provoke. Part of the rationale was to show how truth is unstable, that true documentary will always fail. It's always shaped in some way. My own view is, because of the archive material and the audio recordings, its more of a documentary than a fiction film. But the blurring between the two is deliberate."

The Arbor, apart from anything else, displays the continuing strength of the "artist film" in British cinema; despite the acclaim for her film, Barnard is unlikely to be heading for Hollywood any time soon ("I'm thinking about going back to Buttershaw, there were so many things that I thought were interesting but couldn't fit in"). But she laughs off any suggestion that she is following in the footsteps of the likes of Steve McQueen, the director of Hunger. "You know, I'm not an established artist like him. In some ways I was overwhelmed by the reaction to this, it's on a completely different scale to anything I've done before."

The Arbor Michael Sicinski from The Academic Hack

One of this year’s must-sees, The Arbor is nevertheless daunting to describe. The reason for this is, as the pedants say, twofold. First, director Clio Barnard has devised a highly complex and bracingly original documentary procedure, one so unconventional that it requires a fair amount of explanation. Second, one must be very careful as to how one describes Barnard's procedure, lest it sound like a dry academic exercise. It certainly is not that. It’s the story of British playwright Andrea Dunbar, a poor 15-year-old growing up in a Yorkshire project housing who, in the early 80s, had a successful play (called “The Arbor”) about her own kitchen-sink existence. This was followed by two more plays, alcoholism and near-obscurity. She had three children, each by different fathers; one of the kids, Lorraine, was half-Pakistani, something Andrea never fully accepted. Andrea's rise and fall comprises the first half of The Arbor. The second half tells Lorraine’s equally tragic story. Director Clio Barnard’s coup is in conducting actual interviews with key participants in the story, those closest to Dunbar and her family who are still living; then having those audiotapes lip-synched and performed onscreen by actors in semi-artificial circumstances. The result is a documentary/fiction hybrid whose distancing strategies paradoxically result in heightening this real-life drama of maternal dissolution. That's to say, what should function as a kind of Brechtian distanciation actually serves to draw our sympathies in, to embed the speakers' words within an environment of despair, weariness, and futility. 

Part of this is the direct result of the muted but highly sensitive performers Barnard managed to assemble for her production. While not all of The Arbor's cast members achieve great heights within the chilly shadowbox of nonfiction ventriloquism -- some are there to represent working-class boisterousness or provoke class-based dissonances -- the two women portraying Dunbar's daughters earn particular mention. Lisa, the younger sister, is embodied by Christine Bottomley, and although hers is the less showy performance, it is also probably the single most moving one in the entire film. Lisa's response to her mother's addictions and troubles with fame was one of downcast British pragmatism, and we can see in Bottomley's performance (as well as "Lisa's" brown, underlit 70s apartment) exactly the tetchy self-abnegation we heard in her voice on the interview tapes. Lisa kept herself together by clutching to normalcy and never letting go. By contrast, older sister Lorraine clearly took on the chaos that was life in the Dunbar family, and melded it internally with the ethnic anxieties of never feeling as if she truly belonged -- in a family, in Britain, in her own skin. Manjinder Virk visualizes the increasing desperation in Lorraine's tapes, and does so with an equal blend of addict's blame-shifting (all dodgy-eyed half-excuses made half with her noncommittal body language) and a drained, vacant hopelessness. Barnard offsets Lorraine's penance with the steely judgments of Lisa and others (including Lorraine's former foster parents) who find it impossible to forgive some of the Dunbar daughter's most grievous sins.  

In the end, though, what The Arbor accomplishes is the precise opposite of a wallow in the abject misery of lives on the skids. Instead, the film asks us to implicitly see these people -- all of them, Andrea included -- as individuals functioning within a system of limited choices. This does not excuse their faults, of course. But what Barnard's method of "documentary readers' theatre" accomplishes (including the open-air restaging of some of Andrea Dunbar's theatre work, in the very housing project courtyards where it was inspired) is the setting-into-frame of a "reality" that was always Andrea Dunbar's aesthetic stock in trade, or was at least the commodity of value to those who lionized her work at the time of her humble beginnings. She was a diamond in the rough, whose "job" it was to provide an only partially mediated glimpse into working class counsel-house life. Barnard, in revisiting this story and the equally tragic ones that followed in its wake, has chosen to deepen the distance, to demonstrate that Andrea Dunbar was always already providing us a particular viewpoint on a complex world that was arrogantly presumed to be simple. The ignored complexities of that world, in a sense, are part of the cause for the aftermath that people like Lorraine and Lisa are still struggling to disentangle today. So, apart from working overtime to be more emotionally and politically "true" to the Dunbar story, The Arbor is also committed to not making the same ethno-fetishistic mistakes that partly comprise its sad tale.

Dr Tony Shaw: Clio Barnard's The Arbor, and Andrea Dunbar, from ... Dr. Tony Shaw from Mainly the Obscure, and/or mainly 'Outsider' Literature, December 11, 2010

The Arbor (2010) is a documentary about the life of the playwright Andrea Dunbar, with the state of Thatcherite northern England in the 1980s as a backcloth. Or is it more about the aftermath, the heritage of Dunbar, both artistic and personal? Certainly it's one of the best films of the year, although don't expect it to win any Oscars: this is definitely arthouse only.

Andrea Dunbar was born in Bradford in 1961, and died there in 1990 at the age of 29. She wrote just three plays: The Arbor (1980), Rita, Sue and Bob Too (1982), and Shirley (1985), the first being performed at the Royal Court Theatre when she was 19, and had never even been to a theatre before. She initially sent director Max Stafford-Clark her first manuscript, written in green biro in a school exercise book, and the theatre commissioned the second play, on which a film of the same name was based and released to great success in 1986. Rita, Sue and Bob Too concerns a married man who has simultaneous relationships with babysitters Rita and Sue from the (then) sink estate Buttershaw, Bradford, Yorkshire, who are half his age, and who initially take turns to have sex with him in his car. His wife finds out and leaves him, Rita moves in with him and gets pregnant, Sue unsuccessfully moves in with a Pakistani, but in the end they become a threesome again.

The problem is that this is not the play that Dunbar wrote, and she was unhappy with the scriptwriters who were brought in to make this a much more upbeat version of her original play. Another problem is that some members of the Buttershaw estate were unhappy about how it had been depicted, although Dunbar herself claimed that only a few locals had complained to her.

If Dunbar had been aware of many of the locals' hatred of the depiction of some of the people in D. H. Lawrence's Eastwood, Nottinghamshire, or of Thomas Wolfe's depiction of the people in his home in Asheville, North Carolina, she'd perhaps have known that, in Wolfe's words: You Can't Go Home Again. But Dunbar didn't move from home, she stayed in Buttershaw, and, more or less enslaved to drink, collapsed in the Beacon pub on the Buttershaw estate.

Clio Barnard's film is experimental, taking the words of survivors - above all Dunbar's two daughters Lorraine and Lisa - with actors lip-synching them. One of the things that slightly disappoints me about this film is the absence of what Max Stafford-Clark said about a conversation he had with Dunbar, asking him about the limits of drama - and Stafford-Clark specifically stating that she clearly wasn't talking about Brecht (of whom she'd almost certainly never heard) - but of how far she could go with sex in the theatre. But it's Brecht who is at the forefront of The Arbor: the lip-synching creates a distancing effect, a disjuncture between the real and the artificial, which of course is the effect that Clio Barnard wants to create anyway. So why avoid mentioning Brecht?  He's definitely there.

What is the Arbor to which The Arbor refers? It's Brafferton Arbor, which is the council area where Dunbar lived, and where she played out most of her life. It's prominent in the film, which is a mélange of the lip-synched episodes, documentary television footage, and scenes from The Arbor performed on the grassy area of Brafferton Arbor.

Most of all, it's Lorraine's story that counts. Lisa doesn't have any real problems with her mother, but Lorraine is the product of her mother's relationship with a Pakistani, and at a time when the estate was racist, that was important.

Lorraine was raped at 14, became a prostitute to support her drug habit, and was imprisoned for the manslaughter (by gross negligence) of her two-year-old baby Harris. It seems to be a cycle of deprivation, and as Lorraine graduated from crack to heroin, her baby (born addicted, according to Lorraine), died of an overdose of Lorraine's methodone.

But this is a wonderful movie that I don't recommend to anyone expecting thrills galore. The lip-synching, and the various stories told in hindsight, tell us how impossible the truth is to find, or rather, perhaps, that truth is plural. Brilliant is a word that comes to mind for this engrossing film.

Top10Films [Daniel Stephens]

The Arbor Mike D’Angelo from The Onion A.V. Club

EyeForFilm.co.uk [Amber Wilkinson]

The House Next Door [Adam Keleman]

digyorkshire.com [Jonny Andreas]

Review: THE ARBOR Michael Edwards from Obsessed With Film

Movie Vortex [Michael Edwards and Lisa Giles-Keddie]

The Arbor Scott Tobias from The Onion A.V. Club

Visit our Blog for reviews of individual films Ben Sachs from Cine-File, March 18, 2011

Critic's Notebook [Martin Tsai]

The Village Voice [Melissa Anderson]

Sky.com [Tim Evans]

Alone in the Dark [Paul Greenwood]

User reviews from imdb Author: Sindre Kaspersen from Norway

User reviews from imdb Author: roy-54 from West Yorkshire, United Kingdom

Tribeca ‘10 | Clio Barnard’s “The Arbor” Defies Categorization, Indiewire, April 10, 2010 includes an interview with the director

Interview: Clio Barnard, director of THE ARBOR Obsessed With Film, October 22, 2010

Electric Sheep Magazine [Jason Wood] Jason Wood interviews the director, March 2, 2011

Variety (Ronnie Scheib)

Paul Sims, Drug addict daughter of famous playwright jailed after killing son with methadone, The Daily Mail, 23 November 2007. Paul Sims from Mail Online, November 23, 2007

Life of playwright will hit big screen - Telegraph & Argus Emma Clayton, September 4, 2009

The Arbor: examining Andrea Dunbar's legacy - Telegraph Sheila Johnston from The Daily Telegraph, October 18, 2010

The Daily Telegraph [Sukhdev Sandhu] October 21, 2010

Andrea Dunbar: A genius from the slums - Features, Films - The ... Jonathan Romney from The Independent, October 17, 2010

The Guardian [Peter Bradshaw] October 21, 2010

The Arbor – review Philip French from The Observer, October 17, 2010

Back to Bradford: Andrea Dunbar remembered on film Alfred Hickling from The Guardian, April 12, 2010

"Social deprivation in Britain: how a writer's life turned to tragedy" Madeleine Bunting from The Guardian, October 17, 2010

Clio Barnard's The Arbor is out of lip-synch with reality David Cox from The Guardian, October 25, 2010

'The Arbor' Revisits the Troubled Life of Andrea Dunbar - NYTimes ...

'The Arbor,' a Biopic of Andrea Dunbar - Review - NYTimes.com

review by Frank Rich in the New York Times, 1983 Theater review, September 21, 1983

Katherine Anne Limmer, Investigating the Authority of the Literary Text in Critical Debate Establishing Textual Authority: The death of the Author and the birth of the Auteur

Andrea Dunbar - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

THE SELFISH GIANT A- 94

Great Britain (91 mi) 2013

In Clio Barnard’s extraordinarily original first feature, 2011 Top Ten Films of the Year #4 The Arbor (2011), a unique study of the life of British playwright Andrea Dunbar, who died in 1990 at the age of 29, where the film extends the boundaries of documentary filmmaking, becoming a word play based upon actors lip-synching 90 hours of audio interviews Barnard conducted with Dunbar’s family and friends, a haunting and disorienting fusion of fact and fiction extending the artist’s tragic life into the lives of her own children, where Dunbar’s alcoholism gave way to the heroin and crack addiction of her daughter. The director’s highly unorthodox technique accentuates the artifice of filmmaking, showing the camera and crew, exposing what the audience normally doesn’t see, using fictional methods to unravel the hidden inner truths of the artist. Barnard grew up in the town of Otley in Yorkshire, just a half hour away from Dunbar’s home of Bradford, where she’d often go ice skating or see musical bands as a child, as her dad was a university lecturer teaching English, mostly the Romantic poets, while her mother was a jazz singer, with her parents separating at age 6, where she grew up with her dad, attending art school at Leeds, Newcastle, and then Scotland, eventually becoming a video artist with installations in art museums around the world with a healthy skepticism about the cinematic misrepresentation of realism. Now a teacher of film studies at the University of Kent, in her second feature Barnard has embraced the same social realism she critiques so fervently in The Arbor, writing a script inspired by an Oscar Wilde children’s story about a bad-tempered giant that won’t let children play in his idyllic garden, turning it into a perpetual winter, becoming a searingly realistic piece about a young boy named Arbor, where he and his best friend have a falling out, both only age 13 but ruthlessly exploited by an unscrupulous scrap metal dealer, where they are introduced into the brutally harsh working conditions of adults, ostracized and excluded children pushed into the outer fringes of society where something has gone fundamentally wrong, victims of an ever widening gap of economic inequality, forced to endure the horrible dangers of child labor all over again due to an insatiable capitalistic greed that so willingly puts children at risk.

The story is loosely based upon a living reality, through an actual young boy named Matty that Barnard met while shooting The Arbor, as he kept getting into the shot while riding his horse, a scruffy kid wearing dirty clothes that exhibited a kind of “fuck you” attitude against others. At times he would show up with his friend Michael, both outsiders who survived by any means necessary, where they spent their days scavenging for scrap metal in Bradford, which is one of the thriving businesses in the city, calling into question whether they were being exploited by the scrap merchant or getting an opportunity. Barnard recalls meeting his mother who told her “What the hell else is he going to do around here? At least he’s earning some money.” His continual presence on the movie set eventually turned into the character of Arbor, named after the street where Dunbar lived, showing how life has a common stream–of-conscious thread that connects us all together. Using two non-professional child actors who are onscreen in nearly every shot, the film is set in an oppressive Dickensian world of poverty, exploring the close friendship that develops between two boys who both come from dysfunctional families, with no working parents and no adult role models, whose families are barely getting by, who are teased and bullied by others who are less marginalized, but these two kids share a common bond of both being outsiders where they at least have each other. Arbor (Conner Chapman) is the more impulsive of the two, smaller, louder, openly defiant of authority, and emotionally unpredictable, requiring medicine for his hyperactivity, while Swifty (Shaun Thomas) is more an easy going big brother, a kindhearted kid who seems to follow the lead of Arbor, remaining his most loyal friend and protector, even during troubled times. Their relationship is reminiscent of John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, which was similarly set during the economically challenged times of the Great Depression, but here failed industrialism is a remnant of a once thriving past in Bradford, where the economically abandoned town is drained of any possibilities of hope.

Arbor has violent temper issues, is prone to fighting, and is quickly expelled from school, Swifty, his sidekick, along with him, where Swifty’s parents insist he not be a layabout at home, so they send him to school, despite his expulsion, where he can only spend his days sitting in perpetual detention. This perfectly expresses how society deals with troubled kids, as they make no attempt to deal with or treat their problems when it’s so much easier to simply rid themselves of the problem altogether, leaving kids on the margins to fend for themselves where they have no resources. Abandoned by their schools and by their families, few good options await them, and society eventually pays a price. The one place where they can receive money is the morally dubious scrap iron dealer, Kitten (Sean Gilder), who runs a black market business on the side and becomes the only adult who actually seems to care about these boys, becoming their surrogate guardian, encouraging them to work harder, which is another way of exploiting them for cheap wages, showing them how they can burn away the traces of stolen copper wire, which puts them in ever more precarious situations of having to steal wire right under the noses of working electricians. While Swifty has some notion of the hazards involved, Arbor is relentlessly fearless, developing a greedy and insatiable appetite for more, showing a daredevil streak that tends to get them both into trouble. For that reason, Kitten seems to favor Swifty, allowing him to borrow a horse and cart to pick up and carry heavier items, where he doesn’t trust the more hot-headed Arbor, who flies off the handle at any given moment, driving a wedge between them. One of the illicit activities is harness racing these animals down the auto roadways at dawn, where trucks and cars are driving right alongside the horses with drunken spectators leaning out the windows attempting to influence the outcome of the race, hoping their noise will be a distraction, turning the race into something of a thrilling spectacle.

Unlike The Arbor, which was shown with subtitles, this film did not, so nearly half the dialogue, despite being spoken in English, is incomprehensible. This may alter one’s appreciation for the film, as much of the written poetry is lost, but the audience has a feel for the spirit of the language, where illiterate youth and the profoundly uneducated from impoverished communities have a way of wrapping their regional dialogue in slang, gutter talk, and profanity, all of which further alienates them from the mainstream. One of the most haunting recurring images is seeing how humanity from a dilapidated tenement housing project swells into close proximity to a cluster of five nuclear power smokestacks, as they did in THE RED RIDING TRILOGY (2009) which was also set in Yorkshire. When Arbor and Swifty get away from it all, they wander into a pastoral green field containing an endless stream of giant electrical transmission towers, inhabitants of a veritable wasteland that extends into the horizon. These toxic images have a life force all their own, seen as a monstrous looming presence hovering off in the distance, continually threatening to have a major impact. While the film is about a boyhood friendship that rises out of the depths of poverty and despair, it’s also about loss, where to their mothers these boys are lost children pushed beyond their control, where that feeling of loss permeates over everything that happens by the wrenching finale, which expresses an all consuming despair not seen since the end of Brokeback Mountain (2005), or the melancholic The Sweet Hereafter (1997), where the near wordless images beautifully comment on everything that came before, altering our view of their friendship and the connecting families in the community, providing additional meaning to what feels incomprehensible, where the bleak devastation of dire poverty has rarely been expressed with such poetic eloquence. The film is about what happens when society ignores cries for help, where the inevitable tragedies that occur will haunt and literally redefine people’s scarred lives. A remarkably intelligent work of rare insight and daring, shot with visual acuity from cinematographer Mike Eley, Barnard examines the effects of postindustrial England with stark realism, where with utter compassion, and never pity, Barnard literally shames a nation to rediscover its own rich heritage and humanity.

Note – One of the five stories in the collection The Happy Prince and Other Tales (1888) by Oscar Wilde, where here is the complete text of the story: Short Stories: The Selfish Giant by Oscar Wilde - East of the Web

The Selfish Giant: Sad Social Drama in the English Midlands Robert Horton from The Seattle Weekly

The British underclass has been so extensively and thoughtfully explored by filmmakers such as Ken Loach and Mike Leigh that even a socially concerned viewer could be forgiven for feeling a little exhausted by the subject. But maybe we just needed a fresh voice.

And now we have one. Clio Barnard’s first feature, The Arbor (2010), was an experimental documentary about working-class English writer Andrea Dunbar. While shooting in Dunbar’s grim West Yorkshire hometown of Bradford, she became fascinated by the local adolescent boys who worked at “scrapping,” gathering and collecting scrap metal—sometimes legally, sometimes not. Such lads are the focus of The Selfish Giant, a drama that takes its title (if not actual story material) from an Oscar Wilde story. The two boys we follow are on their own all day, having been suspended at school for bad behavior. Arbor (Connor Chapman) can be hyperactive and destructive when he’s not on his medication; scrapping gives him a focus for his demon-like energy. His slow, docile buddy Swifty (Shaun Thomas) tags along and keeps Arbor settled down. Swifty has a similarly empathetic bond with animals, which leads the scrap-dealer (Sean Gilder) to see him as a driver for cart-racing his horse in local road races. Without money, Arbor and Swifty are without worth, so they’ll do anything to make some.

Nobody speaks the King’s English here—the subtitles are entirely necessary. Whether she’s honoring those thick accents, finding the proper pitch for the boys’ tussling friendship, or pausing for eerie shots of the town’s nuclear towers shrouded in fog, Barnard rarely sets a foot wrong. The outcome of the story is not difficult to predict, but Barnard is more interested in place and character than in surprising plot twists. There will be no miracles in store, as both boys—wonderfully acted by newcomers—are true to who they are: Arbor will find a way to overreach and screw up what they’ve got going, and Swifty will be too steadfastly loyal.

The adults are also captured with precision. We can’t know much about how they arrived at their sad places, but we can read the cycles of economic worry and deprivation in their faces. (Swifty’s mum is played by Siobhan Finneran, star of the 1987 cult film Rita, Sue and Bob Too!, penned by Andrea Dunbar.) There is almost no overt commentary in The Selfish Giant about, say, current British austerity policies or social inequality, because Barnard understands that capturing this milieu is its own indictment. The saddest indictment imaginable.

EyeForFilm.co.uk [Anton Bitel]

Oscar Wilde's 1888 Christian short story for children The Selfish Giant may have 'inspired' Clio Barnard's feature of the same name, but the relationship between the two is hardly obvious. For a start, it is not clear who the Giant is. It could be Swifty (Shaun Thomas), the big, gentle 'pikey' lad who alone is capable of calming his best friend, the ADHD-afflicted, tantrum-prone Arbor (Connor Chapman). Both from differently troubled families, these schoolboys drift into the local underworld of scrap collection and copper wire theft, under the exploitative guidance of metal salvager Kitten (Sean Gilder) - another contender for the role of Giant. Or it might be the school that so readily excludes these boys when they clearly need all the support that they can get. Yet it is diminutive, hyperactive Arbor who, like Wilde's Giant, isolates himself through selfish behaviour before finding a bleak sort of redemption through a miraculous phantom intervention.

Ultimately, the Wildean connection is more an elliptical, oblique evocation than anything approaching a retelling, while the film's fairytale origins are concealed in a rigorously realist mode (aside from one ghostly visitation, conjured by trauma, anguish and longing). For here the Giant's Edenic garden has been replaced by the junk-strewn, industrialised pasturelands on the edge of Bradford.

While the boys live on the same estate (Brafferton Arbor) from which Barnard's feature debut - as well as this follow-up's protagonist - took their names, if anything The Arbor (2010), though a documentary, offered far more in the way of surreal fantasy and formal adventurousness than is ever seen in the fictions of The Selfish Giant. Here working-class woes, Northern grimness and mucky miserabilism create a familiar Loachian vibe, as though all the magic and miracles of a children's fable had become mired in the realities of British life on the margins - as well as in the tropes of a certain brand of British cinematic naturalism. Evidently, the status quo of this nation's social fabric does not easily accommodate the happy ending of a story book.

Apart from Mike Eley's lustrous, lyrical cinematography, The Selfish Giant is also elevated by the central performances of Chapman and Thomas, non-actors discovered by Barnard when she was doing outreach work at Brafferton Arbor's school. Unlike the characters that they portray, one suspects that these two boys have a bright future - but their real story, a paratext to the film's own fictions, speaks volumes about the wealth of potential so criminally overlooked, excluded or abandoned by this country in its treatment of, and attitude to, the younger generations.

TIFF 2013 | The Selfish Giant (Clio Barnard, UK) - Cinema Scope Jay Kuehner, October 2013

“Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul.”

―Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

Wherever in cinema there is a proverbial angry young man, there inevitably entails a narrative about redemption. However defiled the milieu, salvation of some sort is not far off. Oscar Wilde’s The Selfish Giant—a Christian fairy tale about the perils of greed, to be read aloud to children—may seem an unlikely source to locate a sublimely scruffy tale of two truant Yorkshire kids salvaging metal scraps by horse and cart for an exploitive boss, but it’s the driving impetus behind Clio Barnard’s kitchen sink portrait of quasi-feral adolescence and life on the marginal line. Cue the Ken Loach reference here, or of his legacy manifest in a feminine lineage that includes Lynne Ramsay, Penny Woolcock, Andrea Arnold, and now Barnard. Fair enough, as precedents go; yet one is left to speculate if there is a particular nostalgia, more than revelatory filmmaking, being served by such contextual associations. British cinema can now boast Barnard (whose 2010 The Arbor evinced daring in its imaginative conceptual framing of a troubled subject, Bradford playwright Andrea Dunbar) among its ranks after The Selfish Giant’s keen reception in the Quinzaine, while nuances of form may be overstated or neglected by such insistence on a vernacular filmmaking tradition.

The film opens to a discomfiting scene of a boy, 13-year-old Arbor (Conner Chapman), thrashing beneath a bed during an apparent seizure, fists pounding, cussing for reprieve. His mate Swifty (Shaun Thomas) suppresses him into relative calmness, and the camera lingers in the aftermath on the boys’ hands, clutched together. As the shock of an in media res prologue is replaced by the seeming serenity of a pastoral horizon dotted by horses in silhouette, it’s hardly shocking that much of the narrative’s thematic concerns have been symbolically enclosed within such a tight temporal and literal space. This cramped site beneath the bed, out of reach, suggests a refuge for Arbor as well as his banishment, his stubborn self-sufficiency, and his dependency on others (or other, as he seems to trust solely in his bigger but soft-hearted friend Swifty). The consequential sense of exclusion and bonding is writ large upon the film’s site-specific canvas, a fog shrouded North exquisitely decayed by time and shitty progress, at once anachronistically dead-end and timeless. Barnard’s cuts between metal and animal, inert power lines, and noble horses, would seem gratuitously lyrical if she didn’t strategically link and then confidently weave them into a storyline that finds the two strands meeting in a caustic frisson.

In a nocturnal foray the two boys intervene in the looting of electric cable, a junkyard commodity once stripped, hauled, and delivered. In depressed Bradford, it’s a career opportunity. Here the walled garden of perpetual winter, presided over by the selfish ogre of Wilde’s tale, would be synonymous with the compound of scrap metal surrounding the aluminum-hearted boss man known ironically as Kitten (Sean Gilder). As he metes out a chintzy reward to the eager boys, they proceed to sniff and scrutinize the bills in an off-the-cuff manner indicative of intuitively realized performances fostered by Bernard’s naturalistic approach (much has been and will be made of newcomer Conner Chapman’s foul-mouthed anti-authority performance as Arbor, but films of this ambition sink without child actors who are anything less than “astonishing”). “There won’t be a next time,” spits the hardline Kitten at the prospecting boys, bidding them “fuck off” for a farewell, and the harbinger couldn’t be less discreet; you know henceforth that an unsavoury alliance has been forged, and that their fates are as intimately bound as copper cable to its sheathing.

So far, so Loach. The domestic lives of Arbor and Swifty are appropriately shabby, registered with an unemphatic negligence that befits absent or deadbeat dads, drug-addicted siblings, and mums who cower in scarcely opened doors (pried open only when the settee is reclaimed by debt collectors). Poverty is inferred, as if by genre decree; glossed over more than burrowed into, lest it corrupt the tightly controlled air of asperity. Bradford is painted as a post-industrial wasteland wrapped in perpetual fog, with its ghosts of mills and auto carcasses littered like relics on the outskirts of estate housing. Barnard intelligently builds a geographic and cultural continuum from the Buttershaw estate community, the subject of The Arbor and by extension Dunbar’s play of the same name, as well as Alan Clarke’s adaptation of Dunbar’s Rita, Sue, and Bob Too! (1987). Artistically inspired by Wilde’s tale, Barnard was no doubt viscerally prompted by the kids she encountered during the filming of The Arbor, leading her to the impoverished but cinematically rich world of teenage scrappers industriously mining for survival. Both leads Chapman and Thomas were culled from the film’s very housing blocks and are no strangers to the world depicted by Barnard, lending veracity to a social-realist imperative that at times strains with sumptuousness.

It was Wilde, of course, who intimated in his fairy tales that there is no mystery greater than misery, which Barnard’s pungent construct makes a meal of. Yet Barnard—whose more formal work occupies if not constitutes an interstice between fictive and documentary elements, representation and reality, the performative and the unmediated—may be reverse engineering a parable by way of British cinematic tradition, post Kes (1969), as a means of refocusing its message. Could it be that Barnard is using the genre’s sincerity as a storytelling device, just as the lip-synched “verbatim theatre” of The Arbor accessed an uncanny authenticity, mining memory and legacy through a kind of truthful simulation? It is doubtful that Barnard’s brand of social realism has evolved into an artistic tool of distanciation apropos her experimental work, but the exacting poetry of the film strikes such perfect blows as to frame it as another fairy tale to be read aloud to or, more precisely, projected at adults.

Road Race (2003), Barnard’s dual channel loop of scenes gleaned from illegal horse races on the motorway, is intended to undercut the privilege of POV by exposing the contingency of its construction; it is both a document and an account of its own recording. In The Selfish Giant, the scenario is reprised seamlessly into the narrative, after Swifty and Arbor are excluded from school and inevitably fall under Kitten’s dominion, which involves betting on his own horse and trap in local races. Barnard choreographs the race scene for maximum effect: horses at full trot, a young driver in the sulky, waiving his reigns; cars chasing wildly, men flailing from the windows, cussing at the top of their lungs. And Swifty, on the sidelines, warning not to spook the animal. It’s exhilarating, and unapologetically dramatic. Given that Barnard is predisposed to finding dissonance in the gaps that open when genres or forms coincide, what can be made of these distinct iterations on the same scene? Rather than view The Selfish Giant as a summation of her artistic inquiry thus far (with social realism as the medium par excellence), it may be most fruitful, or generous, to see it as one among many possible variations of an aesthetic, one among many ways of telling a story.

It was Wilde too who said that sometimes you have to do something bad in order to do something good. It is toward this strain of morality that Barnard guides the arc of her tale, eschewing the cryptic Christian allegory of Wilde’s tale (while retaining some of its homoerotic undertones) and finding grace in the absence of any hyperbolic saving. If avarice clearly casts the brutish Kitten in the role of Wilde’s Selfish Giant, it is less clear just how to situate Arbor’s emulative behavior. He’s no angel, least not when Kitten takes a shine, however manipulative, to the horse-taming Swifty. Brashly snubbing police and teachers alike, yet smoldering with an outcast’s vehemence, Arbor is a short fuse that could ignite at the first show of exclusion. With Arbor gradually exiled from even his best mate—the equine-savvy Swifty is impervious to warnings of exploitation when he’s asked to take the reigns of Kitten’s cart, and rather keen on galloping out of the slums himself—the narrative curiously bows to the boy’s undoing rather than mounting an expected moral retribution against sinister machinations of the trade. Barnard’s execution of an imminent tragedy nonetheless comes as a shock, landing a blow that is unrepentantly cruel but artistically sound for sparing us the possibility of cheap salvation.

In the absence of any apparent formal conceit, Barnard’s parable is still raw enough to wound while its emotional impact could wring tears from metal. Who doesn’t love a kid who shimmies up a lamppost in a ceremoniously awkward gesture to catch the attention of his mate, in the morning twilight before the trudge to school? Or the way Arbor, expelled from class, schemes a return mission to campus to rescue Swifty on horse and cart? The brusque tragedy leaves us scrapping for grace, coming to terms, making sense, but what persists are the power lines and horses feeding on wasteland grass. Suffering is not transfigured, and no Paradise awaits. But there’s redemption in the details, in the way Arbor’s extended hand comes to rest on the horse’s nape. And the way Barnard unintentionally captures the breeze that lifts Swifty’s ill-appointed tie toward some fogged-over heaven.

The Selfish Giant – review | Film | The Observer - The Guardian Mark Kermode from The Observer, October 27, 2013

Sight & Sound [Jonathan Romney] November 2013

Pick of the week: The teenage face of inequality - Salon.com Andrew O’Hehir

PopMatters [Jose Solis]

Critic After Dark [Noel Vera]

Anthony Lane: “Labor Day,” “The Selfish Giant” Reviews ... The New Yorker

The Selfish Giant / The Dissolve Noel Murray

Review: Clio Barnard's Powerful & Authentic Award ... - Blogs Jessica Kiang from The Playlist

Angeliki Coconi's Unsung Films [Hannah McHaffie]

Smells Like Screen Spirit [Don Simpson]

Cannes: The Selfish Giant is Great Boys-to-Men Drama ... Stephanie Zacharek from The Village Voice

theartsdesk.com [Emma Simmonds]

Filmleaf [Chris Knipp]

In Review Online [Matthew Lucas]

The House Next Door [Oscar Moralde] also seen here: Slant Magazine [Oscar Moralde]

Little White Lies [Charlie Lyne]

Film-Forward.com [Dionne King]

Cinescene [Howard Schumann]

[Review] The Selfish Giant - The Film Stage Jared Mobarak

Blu-rayDefinition.com - UK Blu-ray [Brandon A. DuHamel]

Blu-ray.com [Dr. Svet Atanasov]

The Selfish Giant Mark Adams at Cannes from Screendaily

SBS Movies [Shane Danielsen]

weos: : 'The Selfish Giant' - NPR Digital Services Mark Jenkins

The Selfish Giant Is an Extraordinarily Generous Drama on ... Inkoo Kang from The Village Voice

Review: 'The Selfish Giant' - Film.com Kate Erbland

Dork Shelf [Andrew Parker]

Critic's Notebook [Sarah Manvel]

Georgia Straight [Adrian Mack]

Cannes 2013, Day Three: Cheers for the young stars of The Selfish Giant, jeers for the new films by Hirokazu Kore-eda and Arnaud Desplechin Mike D’Angelo at Cannes from The Onion A.V. Club

Film-Forward.com [Kent Turner]

MUBI [Adrian Curry] movie poster

Daily | Cannes 2013 | Clio Barnard’s THE SELFISH GIANT David Hudson at Cannes from Fandor, May 16, 2013

Clio Barnard: why I'm drawn to outsiders – interview Sean O’Hagan interview from The Observer, October 12, 2013

Little White Lies [Charlie Lyne] including a David Jenkins interview with the director October 24, 2013 : Clio Barnard

The Selfish Giant: Cannes Review Neil Young at Cannes from The Hollywood Reporter

Guy Lodge at Cannes from Variety

Cannes 2013: The Selfish Giant – review Peter Bradshaw from The Guardian, May 17, 2013

Peter Bradshaw The Guardian, October 24, 2013

Selfish Giant director becomes toast of Cannes Charlotte Higgins at Cannes from The Guardian, May 17, 2013

Scrapheap challenge: on the set of The Selfish Giant Patrick Barkham on the movie set from The Guardian, October 20, 2013

Robbie Collin at Cannes from The Telegraph

The Cleveland Movie Blog [Pamela Zoslov]

Los Angeles Times [Annlee Ellingson]

The Selfish Giant Movie Review (2013) | Roger Ebert Matt Zoller Seitz

'The Selfish Giant,' Directed by Clio Barnard - NYTimes.com A.O. Scott

DVDBeaver Blu-ray [Gary Tooze]

The Selfish Giant - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Barnet, Boris

Born in Moscow in 1902, Barnet studied painting before becoming a medic in the Red Army. Later, as a professional boxer, he was noticed by filmmaker Lev Kuleshov, who cast him, along with another future filmmaker Vsevold Pudovkin, in the 1924 wildly satiric film THE EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURES OF MR. WEST IN THE LAND OF THE BOLSHEVIKS. Barnet played a handsome American cowboy while Pudovkin was a counter-revolutionary swindler. Barnet, as well as Pudovkin, joined the Kuleshov film workshop as a student and handyman, which led to his co-directing the 1926 film MISS MEND, and later to his first directing opportunity, the critically acclaimed THE GIRL WITH THE HAT BOX in 1927. Barnet was part of the Revolutionary Russian film elite that included the likes of Eisenstein, Vertov, Pudovkin, and Dovzhenko, who were initially given complete freedom of expression, but later, Stalin insisted exclusively on Russian social realism.

While interspersed with elements of social critique, Barnet was the finest director of movie comedy from this era, his style is reminiscent of Keaton or Chaplin, physical comedy with sight gags, which may have been too Westernized for the Soviet bureaucrats, who eventually turned against him. However, he worked into the 50’s and 60’s until committing suicide in 1965, apparently feeling he had lost the ability to make good films. All of the films I saw deal with ordinary people in ordinary circumstances, yet the films are remarkable for their inventiveness and their humor, and for unique cinematic realizations just not seen in other films. There always seems to be an unevenness in each film, sometimes the ordinariness of leaden scriptwriting takes over, yet in time, this enormous talent rises above the moment with ludicrous sarcasm and moments of hilarity that just come out of nowhere, freeing the film, and its characters, from the more mundane aspects of their lives.

TCMDB Turner Classic Movies bio

Boris Barnet made his film acting debut playing the cowboy Jed, in Lev Kuleshov's "The Extraordinary Adventures of Mr. West in the Land of the Bolsheviks" (1924), and turned to directing two years later. A versatile, sensitive craftsman, particularly effective with comedy, Barnet's career lasted from the silent years into the 1960s--no easy feat in pre-Glasnost Soviet Union. In 1933, he helmed what most consider his masterpiece "Okraina/Patriots", his first sound feature about the divided loyalties of a small Russian town during the first World War. As Soviet tastes changed in the late 1930s, Barnet's light comedies tended to fall out of favor. Two of his films made during the war years, "The Old Jockey" (1940) and "The Novgordians" (1943) were banned. Barnet managed to rehabilitate his career with 1947's "Exploit of an Intelligence Agent" in which he also co-starred as a venal Nazi officer. This odd mixture of film noir and comedy was well-received critically and led to more work for the director. Of the handful of films he directed or co-directed before his 1965 suicide, "Poet" and "The Wrestler and the Clown" (both 1957) stand out.

Film Reference Richard Taylor

Boris Barnet's career as a director has been much underrated in the West, yet it spanned almost forty years of Soviet filmmaking. After a brief period as a PT instructor in the Red Army and then as a professional boxer, he joined Kuleshov's workshop as an actor and handyman. In 1924 Barnet played the part of Cowboy Jeddy, a grotesque caricature of an American, in Kuleshov's eccentric comedy The Extraordinary Adventures of Mr. West in the Land of the Bolsheviks. He frequently appeared later in his own films, often in cameo roles.

Like Kuleshov, Barnet went to work for the Mezhrabpom-Rus studio, where experimentation was combined with the production of films that were commercially successful. Barnet collaborated with Fyodor Otsep on the serial thriller Miss Mend and then made his first two feature films, The Girl with the Hatbox and The House on Trubnaya. Both films involved actors from the Kuleshov workshop and both were light-hearted comedies, satirising the excesses of the New Economic Policy and the social and economic tensions associated with it. The first centred on a lost lottery ticket and the second on the arrival of a country girl in Moscow, but Barnet managed very gently to broaden their frame of reference. His deft touch on these two films marked him out by the end of the 1920s as a director of originality and distinction.

The advent of sound seems to have caused Barnet fewer problems than it did other directors: he made two sound shorts about musical instruments in 1930, neither of which has been preserved. His first sound feature film, Okraina, was produced in 1933. This was a remarkably powerful, and in some ways almost Chekhovian, portrayal of life in a provincial Russian town during the First World War and the start of the Revolution. The lives of the characters are almost imperceptibly intertwined with the historical events unfolding far away. The relationship between individuals and events was, however, portrayed in too subtle a fashion for many of Barnet's contemporaries and, like so many other Soviet filmmakers of the time, he was attacked for ideological obscurantism. Hence it was that Barnet later remarked that he was not merely a "film director" but a "Soviet film director."

The reception for Barnet's next film, By the Deep Blue Sea, was even more hostile. On one level the film was a light-hearted love intrigue set on a collective farm on the banks of the Caspian Sea. On another level, however, it can be read as an allegorical tale of the eternal struggle between dream and reality, with the collective farm itself as a latter-day utopia, emphasised by the somewhat ironic title—a dangerous comparison in 1936 in the Soviet Union. Given the atmosphere of the time, it is perhaps not altogether surprising that Barnet's next film, One September Night, was devoted to a more conventional account of the birth of the Stakhanovite movement. In this film the secret police were portrayed as heroes, defending the Soviet Union against sabotage. But The Old Jockey, made the year after, fell afoul of the authorities and was not released until 1959.

The Second World War dominated Barnet's output for the next few years and his efforts were rewarded with the Stalin Prize in 1948. He returned to his true métier, comedy, in 1950, with his first colour film, A Bounteous Summer, made in the Ukraine. Another film, Lyana, was made in Moldavia five years later. Barnet's last completed film, The Whistle-Stop, was also a comedy, but other films that he made during the last decade of his life are more properly characterised as dramas. But to say that is to underestimate Barnet, because his films cannot be easily pigeon-holed.

Barnet's career in Soviet cinema spanned four decades. He belonged to the generation of lesser known filmmakers who in fact constituted the backbone of that cinema, while taking a back seat in the theoretical polemics that attracted international curiosity and focused attention on the avant garde. His films displayed a mastery of visual technique and a disciplined economy of style. He was a mainstream director but a subversive artist, whose work, tinged with warmth, humour, and humanity, constantly attracted Soviet audiences. He took his own life in 1965.

All-Movie Guide Sandra Brennan

Bright Lights Film Journal :: Boris Barnet: The Lyric Voice in Soviet ... Giuliano Vivaldi from Bright Lights Film Journal, August 2011

Barnet, Boris They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

Facets Cinematheque film retrospective

Chicago Reader Reviews by Jonathan Rosenbaum

THE HOUSE ON TRUBNAYA SQUARE (Dom na Trubnoy) A- 94

USSR (64 mi) 1928

A comedy of social consciousness, where the first half especially is hilariously inventive, filled largely with silent film sight gags. We begin with a town awakening, including the residents of a house on Trubnaya Square, where the social drama on the inner staircase is something to behold, residents beating out old rugs, sweeping the dirt from the top floors dropping to the floors below, establishing a social pecking order. Neighbors chopping wood on the landscape become bitter rivals, like some out of kilter social structure that needs reforming, which leads to a dramatic outside scene where a woman and her duck are caught in the morning rush of people, where the duck escapes her grasp, giving rise to a chase, where she rescues the duck and sits down to give the duck a hug, but right in the path of an oncoming trolley car. The film immediately freezes, and the audience nearly drops out of their seats in laughter, the story humorously backtracks to the day before, as a young girl and her duck leave the country, setting their sights for Moscow, which leads to another version of the events leading to the exact same moment. There is a beautiful bit of the girl asking for directions in the city, following a dizzying array of pointed arms and fingers, running her in circles, all seemingly leading her farther and farther away. Eventually she is stuck in her tracks and someone asks her for directions. She immediately points, unable to stop herself.

The story then changes, as if from a different film, to that of the inequality of housemaids. The young visiting girl joins the ranks of housemaids, initially alone, but she soon becomes part of a union, which is organizing a struggle for better working conditions. In a hilarious bit, she is wandering alone down the street as a massive parade rounds the corner and she is immediately swept up in the festivities, carrying a banner, yelling the slogans, in a scene that would later be adopted by the likes of Charlie Chaplin in MODERN TIMES, featuring a glorious procession of Red unity that would make Bertolucci envious, she is literally swept into the movement. In an inadvertent name error, it is announced she has been elected to a position of authority in the union, which completely changes the social structure of the staircase, as she is immediately treated as a celebrity, the place is cleaned up spic and span, a party is held in her honor, before she is thrown out in the street when the mistake in the official’s name is realized. Only later, is the homeowner disciplined by the Union, which has at some future date become the ruling party. An interesting mix of humor and Communist propaganda, however, the imagery and humor is strikingly original. Barnet’s best-loved silent comedy.

OKRAINA (The Patriots) A- 94

USSR (98 mi) 1932

This film took awhile getting going, as the story seemed muddled in the first half, but has tremendous potency by the end. One of the first sound films in Russia, so interestingly, the sound is probably the best part of the film, using strident, militaristic marching music, sort of a sci-fi use of sound effects as bombs and explosions actually whistle in the air like something out of Emperor Ming, but also intimate folk songs, which are of a more personal nature, even extended periods of silence.

The story is set in early WWI as the Russians are fighting the Germans, workers are streaming out of the factories to go to war, while the owners are calling them traitors and cowards for leaving their jobs. This is contrasted with the dead soldiers draped around the foxholes. Workers and soldiers are both seen as being exploited by the same forces. Of interest, the shoe manufacturer changes his tune instantly, as he is awarded big bucks to make boots for the soldiers, so he rakes in his war profits. There are plenty of silent film era sight gags. One of the best is a sequence using Russian Orthodox church music, very powerful and mournful stuff, as a German soldier sits on one end of a bench, and a young Russian girl sits on the other, neither speaks, the scene is extended to reflect upon the huge numbers of dead on both sides. Then the soldier stands up, and like a teeter-totter, the girl falls on her rump.

Time fast forwards to near the end of the war, which is indicated by the screen going totally dark for a good length of time, then the picture reappears with the years passing by, the Russians are still fighting the Germans over the same barren pieces of land, useless patches of dirt that may as well have been fighting on the moon, but Russians are also fighting other Russians, as the Tsar has abdicated. So the landowners try to step in to maintain control by use of force and end up killing many Russians who they feel may be working to end the war, which means the end of their war profits. All in all, the film suggests there are useless killings, which leads to young workers marching together in solidarity for a better world. There is a beautiful wordless sequence of a still, tranquil river which reflects a vision of a world at peace, but this is followed by the most bombastic, nationalistic marching music, which may as well be for a military revue parade, which brings the film to a bold, politically sarcastic but happy conclusion. The blatant anti-war sentiments expressed in this film drew the ire of Stalin and his censors, creating havoc for the rest of Barnet’s career.

BY THE BLUEST OF SEAS (U samogo sinego moray) A- 93

USSR (71 mi) 1936

This is certainly the most harmonious and perfectly made of the Barnet films I’ve seen, and therein lies part of the problem. It lacks the element of surprise, the unpredictable moment that is fairly common in his other films. Notable may be the listing of a co-director, S. Mardanov, who may have been assigned by the Soviet production company to keep an eye on Barnet, reigning in his freedom. It’s a beautiful film, delightful to watch, with an astounding mix of imagery and music, some of the best Russian music I’ve heard in any film, especially some of the choruses. Partly a musical, partly a small idyllic story, almost a fable or bedtime story, it features two shipwrecked sailors who are rescued at sea. In a wondrous scene of massive waves and flying seagulls, the rescue takes place in black silhouette against a giant sun setting into the sea. They arrive on an island and both immediately fall in love with the same girl. There is a wondrous use of Turkish music when one of the men first walks on the seashore with the girl. They are torn between being friends and yet, they are rivals in love. There is a ferocious storm at sea at the height of their rivalry, a metaphor for their own inner turbulence, but there is little doubt whether they will actually come to blows.

Though it takes place on the Caspian Sea, it resembles a post card from the South Seas, and has elements of John Ford’s 1937 film THE HURRICANE, especially the special effects of the boats riding out the storms at sea. I can see why many are enamored by the looks of this film, as it resembles the glistening waves and the magnificent ocean scenes in Orson Welles’s IT’S ALL TRUE, and the accompanying music is an ideal match. The film is happy and delightful, with plenty of charm, particularly when the men actually dance for joy at one point, but I found it all too easy and simplistic, without enough intrigue or complexity. As it turns out, she is in love with a Russian sailor serving in the South Pacific, which produces admiration from the men. Interestingly, the sailors certainly weren’t going to cross a comrade who was out in the Pacific protecting the interests of the State, not at this stage in Barnet’s career.

BOUNTIFUL SUMMER (Shchedroye leto) B 84

USSR (86 mi) 1951

A little piece of nostalgia mixed with Marxist kitsch - collective farm musicals anyone? Imagine smiling girls on haystacks singing about increased farm production or better cattle breeding techniques, and you have some idea what to expect from this film, reminiscent of Stalin’s favorite agricultural musicals featured in the 1996 film EAST SIDE STORY. One doesn’t voluntarily make films like this, it is instead the result of required political indoctrination, and must be seen in that light. Every woman is an always-smiling Debbie Reynolds, while every man is a lunkhead right out of SEVEN BRIDES FOR SEVEN BROTHERS, never able to even look a woman in the eye, instead muttering nonsense about farm equipment and needed supplies. There’s very little romance here unless it’s coupled with how to exceed their quotas through ever-greater solidarity. All is sunshine and beautiful on this little utopian farming commune in the Ukraine, enthusiasm runs rampant, all the workers plead for more work just bursting at the seams to increase their production, but they are stopped in their tracks by stubborn managers who are used to maintaining the status quo by doing as little work as possible. Only by attending meeting after meeting, making charts, writing reports, and even criticizing their stubborn managers do they force them to step out of the way or join the bandwagon of progress, as they have a plan for a better world.

This is a reflection of a new era, with pictures of Stalin on nearly every wall, prized livestock in the pastures just waiting for a song, food is in abundance, gloriously evidenced by a group of singing women workers who arrive unexpectedly at someone’s front door, they are all asked in, and from out of the cupboards comes plate after plate of already prepared breads and sausages and fruits all stacked on top of one another. This is a typical day in the neighborhood. This film is so over the top that it reminded me of a B movie that is so awful that it begins to be hilarious. The finale must be seen to be believed. Chicago film and art critic Fred Camper said he thought this film was a mess, believing it was “evil,” as all the farm workers were interchangeable parts, none had any distinctive personality traits, all were serving Stalin, or was it Satan. It’s as if they were all stunned by the same ray gun by Emperor Ming causing workers everywhere to go about their business with a forced smile at all times. Well, the days of the Soviet gulags are supposedly over, Stalin is dead, and this style of forced labor, otherwise known as agricultural socialism, is no longer posing a threat anywhere in the world, except perhaps North Korea. So one can look back at a piece like this with a certain fondness for its outrageously obvious and extravagantly bad propaganda value.

ALENKA (Alyonka) A- 93

USSR (88 mi) 1961

Made just a few short years before Barnet committed suicide, this is one of his better efforts, filmed in sumptuous color, set in a vast Russian landscape that resembles Dovzhenko’s EARTH, using much the same style, painterly close-ups on faces, showing a relationship between the land and its people. As in most Barnet films, this one is a little uneven with awkward scriptwriting at the beginning, but he sets things straight in a hurry. It’s set near the present in 1955, at a time when Russia was undergoing a period of great agricultural blight, a catastrophe which caused many to consider moving out of the countrysides and migrate from Russia into Kazakhstan, which is how this film begins. However, with no historical reference, with no mention of any great starvation, just a story of several people’s journey to a place they call the Canal, a historical period of anguish becomes this lighthearted comedy about whether or not it’s better to stay where you are and appreciate what you have, or whether you should try to discover something new, with little hope of finding something better, but searching for it anyway.

Traveling through the steppes of Kazakhstan in the back of an old, beat up truck are characters who tell one another their stories, they get lost along the way taking a shortcut so they have plenty of time to spend together. This film reminded me of THE SARAGUSSA MANUSCRIPT, another patron mentioned “The Canterbury Tales,” as the story is a blend of one flashback after another, and is really some masterfully funny storytelling, basically revealing the total incompetency that exists in the world surrounding them, yet they gleefully head for an unknown future, complete with a bouncy and overly optimistic theme song written by Kirill Molchanov that repeats itself with each new shot of this truck heading off into another distant horizon. The travelers include Dmitri Prokofiev, a wordplay on the two most infamous Russian composers, both notoriously condemned by Stalin, who owns a trucking business and complains endlessly about his dreaded responsibilities, or an idealistic young female dentist, who is ready to begin her practice, but finds in rural areas, her prospects for an office or a dentist’s chair are futile, a married man who wishes to re-unite with a wife that has become bored in the vast emptiness of the land, so after reading Chekhov’s “The Lady and the Dog,” she decides she needs a dog, and dutifully and elegantly walks her dog every day in the dirt and steam of factories and farm combines, or the child Alenka, who in one of the most deliriously funny sequences, just cannot learn the lessons she is taught in school, much to the disgrace of her teacher and administrator, who after awhile grow weary with her futility and just want her to write down the correct answers without any understanding for how she obtains it, but Alenka is filled with hope anyway, an endearing child who represents the glorious future.

Barney, Matthew

CREMASTER CYCLE (1 through 5)

USA (1994 to 2003)

The White Stuff Mark Cousins on the complete cycle from Sight and Sound

Cremaster 3 Michael Sicinski on C3 from the Academic Hack

A bit of a disappointment, since C2 was a minor masterpiece and a mindblowing visual free-for-all. C3 is neatly bifurcated, perhaps too neatly. The first half, in which Our Hero flouts Otis’s invention and climbs the Chrysler Building’s elevator shaft the old fashioned way, was more intellectually than filmically interesting. The duration was necessary, of course. The time and labor of Barney’s art, his unadorned macho struggle, must be felt. But it was all too unvaried, switching between the demolition derby (with its literal smashing of the Creative Spirit into a bite-size John Chamberlain capsule) and the vertical adventures of MB. Only just before intermission, when Matt takes the metal in his mouth and shits teeth, does the stage feel set for something truly unique. (Note: the first ten or so minutes, with Celtic giants and dwarves, was goofy fun.) After the break, it’s all about climbing the Guggenheim, and while each of the different floors contained a fascinating tableau, the relations between them were virtually nil. (It wasn’t even like a videogame, where one is defeated and another arrives. He kept shuttling back and forth, with no spatial or performative logic.) The main event on this card, of course, is Barney vs. Serra. All the frou-frou and sexological mysticism of Barney’s work is revealed as the latest stab at literalizing sculpture. Instead of steel slabs which concretize the materiality of art, Barney’s work depicts the effort, machismo, and rejiggered Romanticism that still undergirds even the most reductive post-post sculptural intervention. Instead of “here is the thing,” it’s “here is my work.” Again, great on paper, but unlike Serra, Barney tells this story without much of a phenomenological charge. It is literal, sure, but it could stand to be quite a bit more physical.

Cremaster 3 Ed Gonzalez from Slant magazine

Named after the muscle that serves to draw up the testes and control testicular contractions, Matthew Barney's five-part, out-of-sequence Cremaster Cycle culminates with Cremaster 3, his most accomplished work to date. Barney continues to inject his narrative into architecture though with Cremaster 3 he seemingly welcomes a kind of sculptural release. This three-hour tour through Barney's Art Deco cock begins inside the lobby of New York City's Chrysler building, where technology (here, a demolition derby with a 1930s Chrysler Imperial as the target) has begun to implode. Inside the erect Chrysler building, the Entered Apprentice (Barney) slinks his way down elevator shafts, deferring the building's release by filling a shaft with cement. This is the body as architecture, anatomy as sculpture. Barney's aesthetic seemingly engages everyone from Argento (architecture as terror mechanism) and Cronenberg (body consciousness) to Kubrick (the unnerving décor) and Lynch (cinema as wet dream), yet no artist has ever moved so far inside the body as Barney does with Cremaster 3. From the shaft of the Chrysler building to the many tiers of the Guggenheim Museum, Barney's Celtic, operatic allegory is that of the testes ascending and descending in response to premature ejaculation (a barman's failed attempt to serve ale), sexual asphyxiation (the nooses, the final "little death") and, most significantly, fear of penetration. What with Barney's obsession with the phallus, gender-bending motifs and modes of camp, Cremaster 3 is curiously unhomoerotc (a testament, perhaps, to his fabulously comfortable heterosexuality). Forever lubricating his orifices, Barney is perpetually ready to fuck. Yet there's more to conquer here than penetration anxiety—there's agnostic law and Murphy's law (here symbolized by dueling punk bands), mythological fetishes, not to mention a string of chorus girls who dare Barney to explode. This time around, Barney is more conscious of his audience: amidst all the ascension and descension, there's a lot more room for laughter in this final installment of the Cremaster cycle. Or maybe it's because a three-hour handjob needs some comic relief before the big bang. Sure, the Chrysler building's orgasm is anti-climactic but Barney's sometimes perplexing, always exhilarating video art is an outrageous reminder that we have to take our time with that elaborate sculpture between a male's legs.

Barnford, Mark

CAPE OF GOOD HOPE B- 82

South Africa (107 mi) 2004

A good intentioned, liberal-minded film about mixed cultures and racism in South Africa, using intersecting storylines, including a child and his dog to bring people together, told with plenty of good humor and a few moments of poignancy. Following three women, a white women working at an animal shelter, who is having an affair with a married man, an Arab woman who works with her answering the phones, who is having difficulty getting pregnant, and a widowed African woman who lives in the shantytown, whose mother wants her to marry the church pastor, but she has other aspirations. While the entire film is predictable, and all the loose ends are tied together a little too neatly, within this structure a few of the characters stand out for performances that are startlingly fresh and alive, Nthati Moshesh, the widowed mom working as a domestic with a curious dog-loving son, and in particular, Eriq Ebouaney (from LUMUMBA), a refugee from the Congo with a PHD in astronomy, but who is forced to work as a janitor, also an animal shelter, and sings in an African band as well just for good measure. The film title is the name of the animal shelter, which serves as a metaphor for bringing together all kinds of animals under one roof, who are cared for with kindness and love by people whose humanity may be defined by their concern for others. Even Sam Fuller’s “White Dog” makes an appearance, a pure bred black dog that has been trained to attack blacks, that through patience and kind persistence, learns not to hate Ebouaney who sets his bed right outside his cage, and talks to him softly, explaining the various constellations at night. There are a few interesting bits, such as Ebouaney lecturing students at the planetarium about gravitational pull, trying to provide ideas for why the planets don’t just fly away, with the kids curiously asking pertinent questions, but as they move to another room, it is clear Ebouaney’s job there is only as a custodian. The interplay between people is well thought out, but only between Moshesh and Ebouaney is there any naturalness, any real connection. Everything else appears scripted. It’s interesting to see a multi-cultural film, to see South Africa attempt to take this subject seriously, as conditions there have historically been so difficult, but there is too much optimism and good fortune, everything comes much too easily for this group of well-intentioned people, even their tragedies are quickly and happily resolved.

Barret, Renaud and Florent de la Tullaye

BENDA BILILI

France (84 mi) 2010

Cannes 2010: Renaud Barret and Florent de la Tullaye's "Benda Bilili!" David Hudson at Cannes from The Auteurs, May 14, 2010

"This joyous French documentary proved a worthy opener to the Directors' Fortnight strand at Cannes," writes the Telegraph's David Gritten. "It's about a group of seven Congolese musicians, the Staff Benda Bilili, four of whom are paraplegic.... [A]t film's end, the Cannes audience gave them a full-throated roar of approval and an extended standing ovation. Deservedly so: this is a remarkable documentary and a music film that is utterly exceptional."

"They've vaulted from the rancid streets of the largest sub-Saharan population glut in Africa, where they played for pittances, to performing before well-heeled crowds in the posh capitals of Europe," notes Duane Byrge in his review for the Hollywood Reporter. "The band takes their name from the Staff Benda Bilili, a street syndicate that lays down the law in the central city, and tries to defend the tens of thousands of street kids who sleep on cardboard and forage the alleys for survival. The paraplegic musicians and singers are a surreal sight: They make their way around on Mad Max-like motorized tricycles and camp down like street nomads in a hideous street square."

"As detailed and also assisted by French filmmakers Renaud Barret and Florent de la Tullaye, the band made a five-year journey from destitution to a recording contract for its supremely melodic music, as well as a triumphant European tour," writes Kenneth Turan in the Los Angeles Times. "As one of the band's lyrics puts it, 'Luck shows up unannounced.'"

"The Benda Bilili! epic is above all a beautiful human adventure, which is moving, sometimes funny, sometimes sad, but always swept along by the consolatory and liberating power of its intoxicating music." Fabien Lemercier at Cineuropa: "Through its subtle portrait of these endearing musicians, the film sketches a picture of Africa as a whole, its suffering and unceasing ability to pick itself up again, its colours and anarchic street life, its women and children. Despite their success, Staff Bilili haven't lost sight of all this: 'Today you have a plate, but yesterday you ate off the floor. Never forget, my friend, the wind can change!'"

Page at the Quinzaine site, where you'll find a clip; photos from the party. Staff Benda Bilili on Last.fm, MySpace and Wikipedia.

Cannes Film Festival 2010: Benda Bilili! David Gritten at Cannes from The Telegraph, May 13, 2010

This joyous French documentary proved a worthy opener to the Directors’ Fortnight strand at Cannes. It’s about a group of seven Congolese musicians, the Staff Benda Bilili, four of whom are paraplegic. They started out playing (on mostly home-made instruments) in the most desolate parts of Kinshasa, where homeless street kids sleep on cardboard boxes.

They are a remarkable sight. Three of them get around on adapted tricycles, using their arms and upper body strength to ‘pedal.’ Another group member has no use in his legs, but is an extraordinary break-dancer who uses his arms to stay aloft. The music they play is urgent, bluesy and relates directly to their tough experience.

The leader of the Staff Benda Bilili (the last two words mean ‘beyond appearances’) is the benign Papa Ricky, a sweet-voiced middle-aged singer who looks after his colleagues like a father.

The group’s star is Roger Landu, who Ricky plucked off the streets when he was just 12. Roger, who is able-bodied, plays a curious, self-invented instrument called the ‘monochord,’ which consists of an empty milk tin, a curved piece of wood and a tightly wound string, from which he extracts solos of remarkably soulful power.

The film is a labour of love. Directors Barret and de la Tullaye met this group, back in 2004, and began filming them. They provided money for the group to produce an album and tracked their progress for five years, by which time their fame had spread and they were embarking on European tours.

Still, their progress was not always easy. The film-makers were on hand to record a terrible incident: the housing shelter in which Ricky, his family and other group members lived, was burned to the ground and all its contents destroyed. Ricky takes the news with astonishing equanimity: having survived everything he has lived through, little seems to faze him.

The latter stages of the film show the group in five-star hotels in Europe, calmly enjoying the luxury. At concerts, fans go into a frenzy at the sound of their compelling music and the sight of these indomitable men.

Their on-stage presence translates to the cinema screen: at film’s end, the Cannes audience gave them a full-throated roar of approval and an extended standing ovation. Deservedly so: this is a remarkable documentary and a music film that is utterly exceptional.

Fabien Lemercier Cineuropa at Cannes, May 13, 2010

Duane Byrge The Hollywood Reporter at Cannes, May 14, 2010

Kenneth Turan The LA Times at Cannes, May 13, 2010

Barreto, Bruno

Barreto, Bruno from World Cinema

He was only 22 at the time of his first international hit, the sex comedy Doña Flor and Her Two Husbands. An independent voice, he has found his early success a hard act to follow. His ensuing output has failed to capture the popular and critical acclaim of his initial effort. In 1982, he Americanized Doña Flor's screenplay with Kiss Me Goodbye. — Ephraim Katz, The Film Encylopedia

DOÑA FLOR AND HER TWO HUSBANDS (Dona Flor e Seus Dois Maridos)

Brazil (110 mi) 1976

Chicago Reader (Dave Kehr)

A generally effective sex comedy, distinguished by its origins (Brazil) and the considerable appeal of its star, Sonia Braga. Widowed when her carousing husband dies under the strain of excess debauchery, Flor marries a staid pharmacist. But her memories of the wild life conjure her first husband back from the beyond, and he takes up where he left off. Bruno Barreto's direction is somewhat poky, but he handles the fantasy element with an interesting matter-of-factness. With Jose Wilker and Mauro Mendoca (1978).

The Village Voice [Elliott Stein]

By the 1970s, after a series of right-wing coups, the political climate in Brazil had eased a bit and restrictions on sexuality in the movies had relaxed. The result: frothy erotic comedies like Bruno Barreto's Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands (1977). In the picturesque port city of Bahia, Flor, a lovely young woman (Sonia Braga), marries the wastrel Vadinho (José Wilker), a compulsive wencher who beats her. His one redeeming quality is that he's a tiger in the sack. After Vadinho drops dead, Flor accepts the proposal of a pharmacist, who's kind but dull in and out of bed. Her yearning for her randy first husband causes his ghost to materialize. Ectoplasmic Vadinho makes it clear that there is sex after death, and since he's visible only to her, conditions are right for a bizarre ménage à trois. A variation on Noel Coward's Blithe Spirit, Dona Flor was a huge hit at home and abroad. In its best moments, it has the qualities of a ribald folk tale. But it's a slight work, slackly directed, that gets a needed boost from Braga's endearing performance and Chico Buarque's intoxicating score.

Mike D’Angelo from Time Out New York (link lost):

Which is the more desirable mate: a drunken, skirt-chasing, abusive scalawag who can make your knees wobble with the slightest touch, or a sober, oboe-playing, respectful mensch with all the sex appeal of a lobster bib? Never mind that the dichotomy is false—it's scarcely even addressed in this tepid erotic comedy, in which hotcha culinary expert Braga must choose (or must she?) between her dull but kind spouse (Mendonça) and the leering, buck-naked ghost of her first husband (Wilker), who keels over during a Carnaval-fueled bacchanal in the opening scene. Visually drab and endlessly expository, the film spends a full hour establishing hubby No. 1's character flaws (via flashback), then another half hour making sure we understand that hubby No. 2 doesn't exactly set the bedsheets ablaze. By the time the ghost appears, introducing the central dramatic conflict at long last, the movie is all but over.

Set in 1943, like the Jorge Amado novel from which it was adapted, Dona Flor strenuously avoids any reference to WWII, even though Brazil had joined the Allies in August of the previous year. Indeed, Barreto seems disinclined to provoke anything more potent than a smirk. That this feeble satire was an art-house smash back in the day only goes to show how desperate middlebrow '70s audiences were for copious skin given the imprimatur of art. Robyn Hitchcock's song "My Wife and My Dead Wife" tackles the same basic scenario with more wit and poignancy in under five minutes, and gets a groove going besides.

Brazil Film Update Randal Johnson from Jump Cut

Based on a novel by Jorge Amado, 21-year-old (at the time the film was made) Bruno Barreto's third feature is important primarily for its astounding success in Brazil, Europe and the United States. Breaking all box-office records for films, both foreign and domestic, exhibited in Brazil, the film proved that the potential internal market for national films is substantially larger than had previously been thought.

Produced by Luis Carlos Barreto, the director's father and an important figure in the Cinema Nôvo movement (he was the photographer of Nelson Pereira dos Santos' VIDAS SECAS and produced many other films), the film tells the story of a young Bahian woman whose first husband, Vadinho — a drunken, macho, whore-mongering louse with the single quality of being good in bed — dies during carnival. Dona Flor then marries Teodoro, the local pharmacist, who is, in contrast with Vadinho, a sober, respectful, dull citizen who makes love with his pajamas on. Due to Dona Flor's need for sexual gratification, which Teodoro is unable to provide, Vadinho mysteriously returns from the grave, visible (and nude) only to his wife. The rest of the film deals with her attempts to reconcile sexual needs with her need for security and social respectability. The film ends with an amusing inversion of roles as Dona Flor is seen in bed with Vadinho on one side and Teodoro on the other.

A comedy of manners, the film is a satire of Brazilian social mores and is representative of what are referred to in that country as commercially oriented "super-productions" Despite the light-hearted, even frivolous, tone of the film, social contradictions leak through the surface in the scene where Dona Flor visits a prostitute who she thinks has given birth to a child fathered by Vadinho, and later when Dona Flor and Vadinho visit the casino and hear a Brazilian singer perform "Somebody Loves Me." Cultural colonization in the flesh, albeit in a non-critical perspective. The sequence is a reference to Barreto's second film, UNA ESTRELA SOBE (A STAR RISES, 1974), which deals with the singer, played in both films by Bette Faria.

FilmFanatic.org [Sylvia Stralberg Bagley]

Variety.com [Variety Staff]

The New York Times (Janet Maslin)

Barreto, Román Viñoly

THE BLACK VAMPIRE (El vampiro negro) B+ 92

Argentina (80 mi) 1953

Virtually unseen outside Argentina, discovered by film historian Fernando Martín Peña, this film is making its American debut at the Film Noir Festival traveling around the country. Originally screened in Spanish at the San Francisco Noir Fest in January, 2014 with projected American subtitles, this is a brand new, recently subtitled 35mm print funded by the Film Noir Foundation, and while there is clear evidence of print damage throughout, this doesn’t detract from the overall look of the film, which is oftentimes spectacular. Becoming only the third film to tackle the familiar territory of Fritz Lang’s M (1931), the story of the pedophile child murderer, and while there are similarities, such as a blind man recognizing the tune he whistles as Grieg’s In the Hall of the Mountain King, Fritz Lang's M - Hall of the Mountain King Whistling (Grieg ... YouTube (10 seconds), or the criminal underground turning on him in an elaborately staged manhunt, this South American version is unique in shifting the emphasis away from the murderer himself, instead focusing on the harrowing life of a beautiful cabaret singer Amalia, Olga Zubarry, who accidentally witnesses him throw the body of a young child into the sewer before fleeing the scene. While typical noir films feature an alluring femme fatale in contrast to the so-called morally good female role, where the male character is caught up in circumstances where he has to make a choice between these two women, South American films switch the sexual identities and instead feature a strong female lead character, where she’s tempted by the narcissistic behavior of a lowlife gangster and the supposedly morally upright behavior of a prosecutor. While you’d think this shift in sexual emphasis would alter the chemistry of film noir, losing the grim realism of a male loner, instead it expands the role of the femme fatale from a secondary side character to the lead, seeing the world through her eyes, even integrating her storyline with the murderer by the end, where this is the only version of M (1931) that expresses the psychological view of the mother of an abducted child. This seismic shift is the real intrigue of the film, which is expressed through a B-movie, melodramatic hysteria, using an exaggerated visual scheme by cinematographer Aníbal González Paz that couldn’t be more dynamically appealing, where the interior mood of the film resembles Edvard Munch’s painting “The Scream,” (Original file).

Shot in black and white on the streets of Buenos Aires, a city gripped in the terror of a serial child murderer, two parallel stories are told simultaneously with each character exhibiting a double life, a seemingly respectable, mild-mannered professor (“el professor”) Teodoro (Nathán Pinzón) that tutors young female students in his furnished flat without incident while secretly abducting young infant girls as a psychopathic pedophile known as the “Black Vampire,” renowned for his virtual invisibility, leaving no trace of his presence behind, and also Amalia (Zubarry), an attractive showgirl and featured attraction in an underground nightclub run by gangsters, which hides her real identity as Rita, the mother of a young daughter who lives elsewhere, presumably protecting her from the shame of her mother’s profession, which is the means of providing for her support. Zubarry was a major star in Argentine cinema, making over 80 films while married to the president of the Argentina Sono Film company and was known as Argentina’s “Marilyn Monroe,” the first Argentinean actress to perform a nude scene in EL ÁNGEL DESNUDO (1946), though a flesh-colored mesh stood between the actress and the public. The director Carlos H. Christensen was responsible for sustaining the lie for years, claiming you have to feed the myth to sell tickets. While she exudes sensuality with round features and suggestive lips, her face always perfectly lit, she fends off unwanted male attention with relative ease, but is startled during a costume change in her dressing room at what she sees out the window, initially shown only in shadows on the wall, becoming the shape and form of the Vampire, inducing a blood curdling scream. While Amalia is initially urged to keep quiet from the owner, Gastón (Pascual Pellicota), so as not to attract unwanted police presence, it’s only a matter of time before her secret is revealed. Enter Dr. Bernar (Roberto Escalada) from homicide, also called “el professor” by his peers, a man dressed for magazine covers with a handsome face and a perfectly groomed pencil moustache, a matinee idol equal in every respect to Zubarry, yet he runs his department with an iron fist, arresting anyone on the scene. Bernar has a paralyzed wife (Gloria Castilla) in a wheelchair at home that is unable to conceive a child, making him an overprotective husband, where he doesn’t arrest Amalia, developing a soft spot for her plight, but visits her later in her home expecting sexual favors. When he’s rebuffed, he threatens to take her daughter away, claiming her sleazy profession makes her morally unfit.

This is not at all a shot-for-shot remake of the Lang film, but one that stakes out its own territory as a South American melodrama, using over-illuminated close-ups, exquisite use of deep focus, wild angles and shot composition, grim street detail, and plenty of THE THIRD MAN (1949) style expressionist shots from the underground sewer system, where the film continues to provide a feeling of panic and hysteria. The relationship between Bernar and his paralyzed wife predates Buñuel’s surrealist BELLE DE JOUR (1967) where it’s the paralyzed husband that causes the sexually repressed wife, Catherine Deneuve complete with fantasies and daydreams, to spend her afternoons working in an upscale brothel. In an interesting play on this theme, Amalia actually visits the home of Dr. Bernar, hoping for some help after having received a court summons to take her daughter away, and instead meets his sympathetic wife who can’t believe her husband would do such a thing, where she is rightfully horrified at what she hears, still believing he’s a good man. There’s an interesting parallel between Bernar’s fatalistic attraction to Amalia, where he seemingly can’t help himself due to the force of her sexual allure, and the Vampire’s psycho-sexual urges that he similarly can’t control, though one comes from the moral authority of the police, while the other represents the basest criminal element that even gives criminals a bad name. The build-up of suspense eventually leads to the Vampire abducting Amalia’s daughter, where it’s clear he has to fight with all his inner demons not to kill her while taking her on a merry-go-round at a carnival. When a blind balloon vendor recognizes the song he’s whistling, he alerts an underground street network of the killer on the loose, where the nocturnal landscape is bathed in shadows and police searchlights, capturing the pent-up dread in claustrophobic close-ups, building the anxiety until Amalia herself confronts the killer. Slithering through yet another manhole cover, the Vampire releases the child but escapes into the municipal sewer system where other beggars, derelicts and thieves converge on him, cornering him in a shadowy underworld of nightmarish darkness where he pleads for his life. The tense and moody atmosphere is artfully crafted, creating energy and intensity throughout, where the strong performances, especially Zubarry, Pinzón, and Escalada make this a thoroughly enjoyable addition to Fritz Lang’s M (1931) experience.

CINE-FILE: Cine-List - CINE-FILE Chicago Kyle A. Westphal

Joseph Losey's much-better-than-its-reputation remake of M (1951), screening in the same gorgeous Library of Congress restoration premiered last year by the Northwest Chicago Film Society. Speaking of rarity, and the ever-shifting boundaries of noir, who knew that there was another remake of M--a feminist, Argentine variant from Román Viñoly Barreto called THE BLACK VAMPIRE (1953) that's allegedly screening stateside for the first time ever? Like a noir anti-hero who reluctantly accedes to one last heist, there's always something to draw us back in.

Art Lynch's SAG ACTOR Online: Film Noir

Perhaps most enticing of all are three extreme rarities made in Peron-era Argentina, and presumably unearthed by Muller’s friends Paula Félix-Didier and Fernando Peña, the archivists who in 2008 pried half an hour of footage from Fritz Lang’s Metropolis out of a Buenos Aires vault so it could finally be seen by the world again after eighty years. One of these three, The Black Vampire, by Uruguayan writer-director Román Viñoly Barreto, is being billed as a “feminist” reworking of Lang’s M that has never been seen in this country, and is said to be even more expressionistic in style.

Dan's Movie Blog: July 2014

The Black Vampire - first there was Fritz Lang's M, then Joseph Losey's Hollywood remake (also called M) and then The Black Vampire from Argentina.  Having seen all three, I am partial to the original but The Black Vampire is very good.  The film follows a psychopathic pedophile (Nathán Pinzón who bore a resemblance to Peter Lorre).  Like the other two films, Vampire has the criminal underground policing themselves.  There is a subplot involving a cabaret singer witnessing the killer and a flirty police inspector which seemed out of place but otherwise the film sticks close to the major plot points of M.  If memory serves me correctly, Pinzón even whistles In the Hall of the Mountain King which Lorre used as his leitmotif in M.

User reviews Author: aronaamora from United States
24 June 2012

I came across this film on You Tube yesterday and was surprised to find that it was a remake of Fritz Lang's M (1931) shot in South America.

The title translate as THE BLACK VAMPIRE. M was released in South America as THE VAMPIRE OF DUSSELDORF so the title makes sense there even tho there is no vampire. This is not a scene by scene remake like the remake made in the United States in 1951.

The film has a dark moody black and white atmosphere like an older movie would have. The actor playing the killer is pretty good. In one scene he takes the daughter of a friend to the carnival and has to fight his urge to kill her.

Tales of OdieNary Madness: February 2014 Odienator, February 2, 2014

Perhaps the biggest score of Noir City XII was 1953's El Vampiro Negro (The Black Vampire), an Argentinean remake of Fritz Lang's M. Brought to Czar of Noir Eddie Muller's attention by film historian Fernando Martín Peña (who also ran the subtitles on several of the films from Argentina), a newly struck, gorgeous 35mm print of El Vampiro Negro received its first American showing at the Castro Theatre. It deserves more widespread attention, and numerous repeat showings. This may be the most harrowing picture I've seen at any of the 6 Noir City festivals I attended. 

Starring the "Marilyn Monroe of Argentina," Olga Dubarry, El Vampiro Negro adds a maternal angle to M.  Dubarry plays Rita, a performer who endures less than ideal employment circumstances to make enough money to support her daughter. During a dressing room costume change, she sees a man in the shadows dump a child's body into a sewer. This man is a killer on the loose whom the police dub "The Black Vampire." Though Rita's screams are heard by numerous patrons of the nightclub, her colleagues and bosses tell her not to report her eyewitness account to the cops.

The homicide division, led by Dr Bernar (Roberto Escalada), makes it easy to understand Rita's trepidation; Bernar have a tendency to arrest anybody who shows up with information. Bernar's intensity is partially due to his feelings of helplessness at home. His wife suffered a paralysis that left the couple unable to have children. Catching The Black Vampire is a way for him to feel a protective parental instinct. Bernar realizes Rita is hiding something, and his interrogation takes an unsavory turn that imbues his character with a refreshing, sad complexity.

This type of character complexity is woven into El Vampiro Negro by screenwriter-director Román Viñoly Barreto. A scene between Rita and Mrs. Bernar late in the film is a haunting dialogue exchange between Dubarry and Gloria Castilla. Dr. Bernar is trying to take Rita's daughter away because of her nightclub job, and Rita appeals to his wife. Both actresses play on the theme of motherhood and how the loss of a child (and the loss of the ability to conceive) affects women. Barreto makes the interesting choice of leaving us out of the most damning part of the conversation, opting instead to play the aftermath out between the married couple.

A respect for contradictory, human personalities makes El Vampiro Negro so compelling. This respect extends to the child killer, Teodoro, a professor whose lousy luck with women has fueled his murderous tendencies toward little girls. Like Peter Lorre before him, Nathán Pinzón plays the murderer as a man fully conscious of his horrific desires but unable to control them. The sight of blood satiates his passions, and at times he resorts to self-mutilation to keep the demons at bay. But the demons usually win, and when Rita's daughter is taken by Teodoro, the audience is suitably terrified. We've come to know Rita, to like her and even be angry at her withholding her witness testimony earlier, so this development has a sick, karmic energy.

The child-in-peril motif can be a lazy way to generate suspense, but Barreto doesn't go for easy shocks. Teodoro responds to Rita's daughter in an unexpected fashion, which may be even sicker than what the audiences fears.

If you've seen M, you have some idea how El Vampiro Negro ends. A community of the less-fortunate bands together to confront Teodoro, and Pinzón passionate, pitiful declarations are as brilliantly rendered as those of his predecessor, Peter Lorre. 

Shot stunningly in black and white by Aníbal González Paz, El Vampiro Negro is the rare remake that's as good, if not better, than its source. Movies like this are the reason one goes to Noir City.

El Vampiro Negro (Argentina, 1953) Todd at Die Danger Die Die Kill, February 3, 2014

“Tonight you are the luckiest audience in the world,” enthused Film Noir Foundation president Eddie Muller. “Because you get to see this film.” The film, 1953’s El Vampiro Negro, is an Argentinian remake of Fritz Lang’s M. And after that screening, a featured presentation in San Francisco’s venerable Noir City festival, I have to say that Muller was right. I feel very lucky indeed.

However, having seen El Vampiro Negro, it strikes me that simply calling it “a remake of Fritz Lang’s M” is a tad reductive. The premise of both films is the same: a city -- Berlin in the case of M, Buenos Aires in the case of El Vampiro Negro -- is held in a grip of terror by a serial child murderer who is elusive to the point of virtual invisibility, with tensions rising among the denizens of the city’s increasingly squeezed demimonde as a result. Yet Vampiro, directed by Roman Viñoly Barreto, shifts the perspective on this tale to the point that it could be considered a companion to the original as much as an update of it.

Where Lang’s film takes a panoptic view of the Berlin underworld as a body politic, its members teeming together to expel a monster from within their midst like so many scruffy antibodies, El Vampiro Negro takes a far more intimate and character driven approach. This approach provides us with a much more rounded view of the child murderer, who, thanks to the nuanced work of actor Nathán Pinsón and a screenplay that provides us with a little more context for his actions, ends up being portrayed with startling compassion, especially given that nothing is done to underplay the horror of his crimes. Granted, Pinsón takes his cues from the note of pathos struck by Peter Lorre in the original film’s climactic monologue, but the extent to which he expands upon that can’t be written off to pure emulation.

Barreto also diverges from Lang in providing his film with a lead female character, and a substantial one at that, contrasting sharply with the male dominated world of M, where the primary females are the Greek chorus of hookers and floozies who provide color along the edges. That character is Amalia, a down on her luck cabaret singer and single mother who turns out to be the only person to have caught a glimpse of the killer. Amalia is played by Olga Zubarry, a major star of Argentinian cinema whom Muller referred to as “Argentina’s Marilyn Monroe”; though to me she seemed like more of a ringer for Lana Turner. In any case, as a struggling parent shamed by her reduced standing -- and whose fragile state is exacerbated by the unwanted attentions of the authorities -- she circumvents her undeniable glamor to give a strong, heart rending performance that made me want to seek out more of her films at the soonest opportunity.

Its emphasis on drama and characterization makes El Vampiro Negro a much more conventional genre film than M. But as a genre film, it is not only outstanding, but also a thrilling exemplar of the noir style at its most expertly distilled. Cinematographer Anibal Gonzalez Paz gives the film’s nocturnal urban landscape a foreboding allure, the lonely streets bathed in heavy shadows against which the slashings of police searchlights stand out all the more startlingly. The faces of bit and featured players alike are captured in tense, claustrophobic close-ups, making palpable the sense of dread and pent up anxiety that the unseen killer’s mounting atrocities have inspired. Finally, when Zubbary’s Amaya confronts the killer, a lone spotlight suspends her face in the darkness with an almost unbearable intensity, as if she is an aggrieved angel emerging forcefully from the bleak night. It’s enough that, even without the fine performances of Pinsón and Zubbary, El Vampiro Negro could get by on mood alone.

Of course, as I sat there in the Castro Theater, I was excited, not only to be seeing El Vampiro Negro, but also to finally be seeing a product of Argentinian commercial cinema’s golden age, about which I had heard yet whose products I had yet to track down. That there are always “new” sources of exciting international pop cinema to be found, even at this late point in my career as a film obsessive, is a source of joy and amazement -- even if the passionate interest of a few cinephiles isn’t enough to open the floodgates. El Vampiro Negro is as technically accomplished as anything produced by Hollywood in it time, and, within its genre, boasts a rare artistry. If released on these shores, I’ve no doubt it could have found an audience. Yet it remains the product of a thriving industry that few outside its country’s borders knew existed. Except for us lucky few.

Film noir festival finds darkness from afar - Chicago Sun-Times Laua Emerick, August 28, 2014

Román Viñoly Barreto - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

The Black Vampire - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Barron, Arthur

BROTHERS

USA (105 mi) 1977

TV Guide

The Brothers Warner began the prison movie way back when. They continue their tradition with BROTHERS, except that this is as blatant a black exploitation film as has ever been made. What confounds the viewer is that there are several honest, real moments in between the preachiness and violence that stand out like a well thumb on a sore hand. It's a thinly veiled account of the notorious Jackson brothers who were both eventually killed. Most of the inmates are black, and all of the angry, mean, and vicious guards are white, so we know how things stand straightaway. Lots of stereotypes--woe to the white patron who happens into a black theater where this film is showing. "Rouse the rabble" seem to be the bywords. Casey, McGee, and most everyone else is excellent with what little they are given.

Brothers The Selling of George Jackson, by Kate Ellis from Jump Cut

Barron, Steve

ELECTRIC DREAMS B 85

USA Great Britain (95 mi) 1984

a fairy tale for computers

A Giorgio Moroder musical variation of the beauty and the geek story, starring Lenny von Dohlen (in 4 episodes of Twin Peaks Season 2 as Harold Smith in 1990), as Miles the clutz who can’t get to work on time or do anything else right except potentially design an earthquake-proof brick, and his gorgeous neighbor Virginia Madsen as Madeline, a cellist who plays in a San Francisco Symphony. Helplessly late for work, rather than buy a watch or an alarm clock, Miles buys a computer in an attempt to organize his life, allowing it to take over his home security system, his lights, TV, music system, and coffee maker. After spilling champagne on the keyboard, rather than be destroyed, like CHRISTINE (1983), it appears to take on a life of its own, developing an ongoing conversation with Miles, like an alter ego, having temper tantrums locking him inside or out, or turning off the lights when it pouts, and developing its own fascination about the woman next door. One day when she’s practicing her cello at home, the computer, much like CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE THIRD KIND (1977), learns to decipher this new language (heard through an open ventilation duct) turning a melodic Bach Bourree into a synthesized symphonic duet, much to her obvious delight as she joyously plays along while it was learning musical complexities. Obviously intrigued, Madeline thinks Miles is a musician too modest to take credit for his work. As this brings them closer together, Miles has the computer write her a song as well, which initially searches the TV advertisement memory banks for a pleasant jingle before Miles tries to explain to his computer the meaning of love. All this is rather amusing, especially the bits of the computer home alone watching daytime soap operas on TV.

The romance itself is rather contrived, but adding the computer as the jealous 3^rd person is a hilarious bit, especially the character of the computer, voiced by Bud Cort. Filmwise, it’s not much more than an extended Coke commercial, using upbeat music and happy street scene montages to show a young couple in love, with absentminded Miles even walking into a lamp post as they are walking home together, or using luscious San Francisco landscapes, like running through the empty prison cells of Alcatraz or driving over the Golden Gate Bridge. But when the computer flips out and goes on power binges, Miles is so intimidated that he unplugs it, but it miraculously mocks him, refusing to be shut down. “You think I didn’t think of that?” Despite its generic trappings, there are elements of an imaginative screenplay by Rusty Lemorande, techno-pop music galore, some interesting computer expression throughout making brilliant use of cut up film montage, as if this film was part of the computer industry’s start up kit, developing a playfulness about its modern conveniences, helping make customers believe it’s fun and user friendly. Madsen and von Dohlen are really very good together, but humans are secondary to the whole computer fantasy aspect which like FANTASIA (1940) is a surprising delight throughout.

Time Out

A further reworking of the sci-fi stand-by about an item of hardware that takes on a human personality. In this one, Edgar the computer becomes jealous of his owner's romance with the pretty cellist upstairs. Exec produced by Richard Branson for Virgin (Films) Ltd, the picture seems more a vehicle for Virgin-related rockery and poppery than for storytelling. Photographically busy, though to no meaningful purpose, mildly amusing at best, the piece finally expires with what could be, but probably isn't, a parody of a feel-good ending.

TV Guide

This is a modern-day retelling of the "Cyrano" story with one major switch: instead of a long-nosed romantic, the rival for the beloved's affections is a computer. Von Dohlen is a nerdy San Francisco architect who is in love with his cello-playing neighbor, Madsen. When Von Dohlen accidentally drops his new microcomputer, the unit goes slightly awry and develops some unusual capabilities. The computer, named Edgar (using the voice of Cort) hears Madeline's cello through the ventilation duct, falls in love with her, and begins writing love songs. ELECTRIC DREAMS relies heavily on graphics, state-of-the art video tricks, and electronic music (well done by Moroder). The direction is a bit frantic, as might be expected from first-time feature director Barron. The story gets silly from time to time, stretching credibility to the breaking point, but the final result is an old-fashioned love triangle made new by the third party's being electronic.

User comments from imdb Author: claudia_falls from United States

Really, this is not the best movie of all time, but it is one of my abosolute faves. Besides taking place is SF (my birthplace!) the whole escape from reality and beauty and the geek thing is soooo cute & sometimes hilarious. I can't tell you how many times we replayed the "bump into the pole" scene, (you know the one, come on you do), where Miles and Madeleine are walking home from the store with a bag of groceries, talking and he's so into her he walks right into the lamp post. Gives me the giggle-snarfs just thinking about it. And say what you like about Boy George, but ya gotta love the music in this movie (Culture Club, Jeff Lyn, etc al, YES I have the soundtrack - OK!) AND I WISH IT WOULD COME OUT ON DVD, I'D BE FIRST IN LINE. IT WOULD BE ONE OF MY GO-TO MOVIES ON THOSE NIGHTS - come you all have those nights when there isn't anything on TV and you want to laugh til ya gotta pee! (& maybe shed a tear) And you have to admit it does give you the warm fuzzies when Miles & Madeleine drive over the Golden Gate Bridge to Edgars song!

The Onion A.V. Club [Nathan Rabin]

Released during the early days of home computing, when the public's notions of what computers could and couldn't do were poorly defined, 1984's Electric Dreams isn't the first movie to alert audiences to the threatening libidinal energy of computers. For example, 1977's Demon Seed exposed the sexual threat posed by a gigantic box of wires, robotic arms, and bad vibes, but few films explored the subject with as much demented glee as Steve Barron's 1984 film did. Opening with a sequence paying homage to such marvels of early-'80s technology as the calculator watch, Electric Dreams stars Lenny von Dohlen (Twin Peaks) as a nerdy architect who spills champagne on the keyboard of his new home computer, an act that causes it to develop a willful, independent personality. Von Dohlen begins courting his pretty cellist neighbor (Virginia Madsen), but he soon finds his newly empowered computer (wistfully voiced by Bud Cort and named Edgar) falling for her, too. As von Dohlen and Madsen fall in love, aided by music-video-style montage sequences set to music by Culture Club, Heaven 17, and others, Edgar grows increasingly unstable, taking control of everything from von Dohlen's television to his toaster. Tensions escalate, coming to a head in Electric Dreams' thrilling conclusion: Lured by Edgar's chilly rendition of a Bach composition, Madsen wanders into Van Dohlen's apartment. Moved to tears by its soulful work, Madsen lovingly caresses its keys, sending it, and the film, into orgasmic waves of primitively computer-animated ecstasy. Inspired by the computer's intense sexual charisma, Madsen flees and confesses her love to von Dohlen, who returns to his apartment to find his computer vulnerable and defeated. Realizing the futility of his tragic attraction to flesh and blood, Edgar willfully directs his computer soul elsewhere, but not before asking von Dohlen to hold him in one of the most moving displays of man-computer affection ever committed to film. In a final act of love, or vengeance, Edgar then unleashes the Phil Oakey-Giorgio Moroder techno-pop composition "Together In Electric Dreams" upon the innocent people of San Francisco, a fitting end to a cautionary fairy tale from an era before computers were revealed to be mundane, if powerful, tools rather than the long-anticipated arrival of Frankenstein-like man machines.

User comments Author: hippiedj from Palm Desert, California

I remember back in the l970s I saw a TV film with Bill Bixby in which he had a computer that fell in love with his girlfriend and composed poems for Bixby to give to her. I thought that's what Electric Dreams was based on, but haven't heard anyone admit that's the way it came about. But anyway.....

Electric Dreams is one of those films that even with some slightly dated technology in it (circa 1984, and even for this film some of the technology is stuff most people don't have in their homes yet!) the story and its effectiveness are timeless. It has a very strong European influence to it that I appreciated--director Steve Barron has a true flair for combining nice visuals and story without each element bogging the other down.

Miles (Lenny Von Dohlen) buys a computer to help in his quest to design the perfect earthquake-proof brick. He spills a drink on the keyboard, giving it life in the form of the voice Edgar (Bud Cort). In the meantime, cellist Madeline (Virginial Madsen) moves in upstairs and guess who starts to like Madeline a LOT?....

Several elements make this a winner: The fact that the lead actors Lenny Von Dohlen and Virginia Madsen were cast (relatively unknown actors then) instead of flavor-of-the-month ones. Bud Cort was a brilliant choice for the voice of Edgar in the computer. The music was obviously lesser known to mainstream U.S. audiences but well loved in Europe. Culture Club was a bit established, but artists like Heaven 17, Jeff Lynne (of ELO), Philip Oakey (of Human League), P.P. Arnold, and Helen Terry gave the film a great atmosphere with original songs that still hold up quite well today (yes, the soundtrack is available as an import on CD). I'm proud to say I have the 12" remixes of the songs "Together In Electric Dreams," "Now You're Mine," and "Video" as well as the soundtrack.

You don't have to exclusively like romance stories to enjoy this film. It has a little of everything for everyone, and invites repeated viewings. It's charming, will make you laugh, and I dare you to not get a little teary-eyed when the phrase "I LOVE YOU ...ME" appears on the computer screen to the beautiful music piece "Madeline's Theme" from Giorgio Moroder.

Two scenes in particular will have you feeling exhilarated--when Madeline and Edgar do a musical duet of a familiar classical piece, and the ending where the song "Together In Electric Dreams" is bringing everyone in the city of San Francisco to their feet dancing. It will give you a rather overwhelming feeling of joy, and a completely satisfying ending. Just make sure to view all the way through the credits, there's a little surprise after them!

At the time this review was written, Electric Dreams is only on VHS. MGM has been reissuing tons of films lately on DVD with no frills (except mislabled releases like Swamp Thing--not PG but actually the European cut, and Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2--not actually R but the unrated cut) and I plead with them that when this one is ever issued in the DVD format, that we are given some extras like an audio commentary and behind the scenes features. There must be some very wonderful stories to tell about this charming film and the loyal following it has.

As the tagline on the original cover read, it's "The most unusual triangle in the history of love." If only more people could be brought together like this and fall in love, the world would be a brighter place!

"Open up your eyes and you will see, love is love is everything to me..."

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

Read the New York Times Review » Lawrence Van Gelder

CHOKING MAN B 87

USA (85 mi) 2006

An unusual treat, beginning with colorful childlike drawings over the opening credits that also offer some playful animation, the film then veers into a realist working class world where well over a hundred different languages are spoken in that Jamaica neighborhood in Queens located next to a large transit stop near the JFK airport. Mandy Patinkin plays the owner of a Greek diner, whose silent wife mans the cash register, and we see him hire a young Asian waitress Amy (Eugenia Yuan, daughter of martial arts legend Pei-pei Cheng and champion rhythmic gymnast for the U.S. Olympic team before switching careers that all began with Baywatch) on the spot, a girl so bubbly and upbeat it’s nearly impossible not to fall in love with her, as she literally glows with her everpresent smile. The rest of the work crew are more typically downbeat, bitching and complaining about work, occasionally getting on each other’s nerves, but they actually look and feel like they’re a mix from the neighborhood that desperately need the job to survive, while Patinkin is the only one who actually takes a holiday vacation. Octavio Gómez Berrios is Jorge, the guy on the lowest rung of the economic ladder, a psychotically shy dishwasher from Ecuador who rarely leaves his post at the sink, or ever looks up, and speaks even less, but is taunted and picked on relentlessly by one of the cooks, Jerry (Aaron Paul), a truly obnoxious ex-con from Philly who is spot on for a wisecracking Italian guy who demands attention wherever he goes. After Jerry notices Jorge catching a glimpse of Amy, Jerry sadistically teases him about needing to join a shy institute. Instead, Jorge hides in the brush near the back of the diner and just sits there callowing in fear and self pity. The animated cartoons interspersed throughout turn out to be his thoughts, as he rarely utters a word.

Jorge has a roommate that he lives with who’s always telling him what to do, getting into his business and criticizing his habit of keeping to himself, occasionally recommending violence as a recourse to his humiliation, acting as an alter ego, and the film offers a series of signs that suggest he could follow that path, a black cat that gets into the kitchen that he races after as if to wring its neck, but the cat is too clever and gets away, or the camera following his eyes as they see a large cutting knife nearby, usually at the exact moments he’s being taunted by Jerry. Amy defends Jorge, however, so she immediately becomes the girl in his daydreams. But as Amy is friends with everyone, including Jerry, Jorge looks like he’s about to flip each time Jerry proposes his undying affection for the girl, asking her out, singing her Italian songs, and on one occasion, taking her to a carpet store nearby where the salesman dazzles them both with his intricate knowledge of each carpet, offering its history as a prelude to one especially old dusty carpet that he amazingly makes fly for a few moments, or so he suggests. This is actually the high point of the film for entertainment, as the rest of it is spent lurking inside the doldrums of poor Jorge, a guy who never gets a break, who only utters monosyllabic sounds on occasion, and who doesn’t even get invited to work meetings. But his cute, childlike daydreams reveal plenty about the innocence of his feelings, as does his walk past the church, where he crosses himself each time and where he’s obviously a troubled soul and an ardent believer. There is an occasion where the preacher appears to be delivering his sermon directly to him, as a guy this lonely and isolated would catch the eye of an observant priest, usually providing the eyes and ears of the neighborhood.

What Jorge is conflicted about, we never know, as it remains a mystery, as does nearly every other aspect of this film, continually planting seeds, but the film doesn’t go there. It’s an odd little film with a terrific musical score by Nico Muhly, who also wrote the hauntingly mysterious music from JOSHUA (2007). As so much is internalized inside a brooding Jorge, the music and the animated sequences do an excellent job providing more playful moods, which at times are completely captivating, as is the welcome presence of Amy, who provides one of the more delightfully pleasing performances of the year, an absolute joy, an utter contrast to Jorge’s dour moods, a girl who befriends Jorge, which only sends him into greater depths of panic. This is a charming little film that does an excellent job chiseling real life into these characters, who could easily be cardboard retreads from the TV show ALICE, but instead they offer their own peculiar identities, making a film which at its heart features a seriously maladjusted, borderline disabled adult man working alongside one of the sunniest characters seen in years, and the director always keeps the tone proportionately balanced between seriousness and enjoyable entertainment. Without ever diminishing the seriousness of the subject matter, it’s hard to leave a film like this without a smile on your face.

Choking Man JR Jones from the Reader

Steve Barron, whose resumé ranges from classic music videos (Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean," Dire Straits' "Money for Nothing") to not-so-classic comedies (Coneheads, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles), makes a laudable left turn into low-budget indie drama with this 2006 tale of a painfully shy Ecuadoran dishwasher (Octavio Gomez Berrios) slaving away at a Queens diner. Smitten with a sunny waitress (Eugenia Yuan) and taunted by a loudmouthed cook (Aaron Paul), the timid young man periodically disappears out the back door to crawl through a hole in a chain-link fence and hide in the weeds. The movie is weakly plotted, but its working-class characters are vividly realized, none more so than the silent, aching protagonist. With Mandy Patinkin. 83 min.

The Village Voice [Julia Wallace]

Remember that classic 1985 music video for a-ha's "Take On Me," the one where that girl in the diner falls into an animated charcoal drawing? Since then, its director, Steve Barron, has had an eclectic career—he helmed the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie and produced While You Were Sleeping—but with Choking Man, his first independent film, he returns to his earliest preoccupations: cartoons and girls in restaurants. Choking Man takes place at a Queens diner randomly owned by none other than Mandy Patinkin, affecting a Greek accent. Jorge (Octavio Gomez Berrios), a sullen, greasy Ecuadorian dishwasher, is a modern-day invisible man who gives himself over to extravagant animated fantasies, but speaks no more than 30 words though the course of the movie. Meanwhile, his charming coworker Amy (Eugenia Yuan) is being courted by the boorish Jerry (Aaron Paul), which pleases him not a bit. Choking Man has a tepid plotline, some stilted dialogue, and way too many pointless shots of the subway rumbling overhead. But the tender and spirited performances of its diverse cast elevate Barron’s portrait of contemporary Queens life.

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez]

Walk the streets of Queens long enough and someone will inevitably tell you that more languages are spoken in the borough than anywhere else in the world. It is at this cultural intersection where Steve Barron plops the incomprehensible Choking Man. Suggesting the bastard child of Miranda July and one of the Dardenne brothers, raised by Jessica Yu and mentored by Steven Soderbergh ("Choking Man is everything an independent film should be," says the director of Bubble), the film evokes a comatose state, revolving around a Jamaica diner where Ecuadorian dishwasher Jorge (Octavio Gómez Berríoz) spends much time marveling at his navel lint, gawking at everyone beneath his bangs, scurrying through a hole in the fence out back to sit beneath a tangle of branches, and staring at the "Choking Victim" poster above the sink.

The diner's owner, Rick (Mandy Patinkin, spitting out a ridiculously unidentifiable accent), has just hired the Chinese Amy (Eugenia Yuan) to work as a waitress, and Jorge appears to dig her, but so does the persistent Jerry (Aaron Paul), who takes Amy to a nearby rug shop so the owner can entice her with the history of a very dusty, ostensibly magic carpet. This gift is at least on par with the Chinese dragon Jorge gives Amy, though the jury is still out on whether it's better than the Tickle Me Elmo knockoff Jorge almost buys her until the doll causes the kid much duress, sending him running into the streets in a sweaty panic. Since the cruelest thing I've ever done in my life was waving an E.T. plush doll in the face of someone deathly afraid of Spielberg's cute alien visitor, I imagine Jorge must have been similarly traumatized by an Elmo doll in his youth—possibly by a cat lady from Quito?

And imagine is all that one can do here because Choking Man is cagey about what's torturing poor Jorge, alias Don Jorge Darko, who looks as if he's perpetually shitting a brick, nearly going into cardiac arrest when he mutters hello to Amy for the first time of his own volition. The vested interest of a light-skinned, guilt-tripping Latino who sits on Jorge's couch—possibly a figment of his imagination—and a local priest suggest the basket case is reeling from something, and a particularly ominous shot of a kitchen knife points to sinister baggage, or the promise of harm-doing, though the benign bunny-themed animation that breaks up this magical mystery tour of creepy navel-gazing nonsense contradicts everything. If there is finally a point to the film it is that we're all human piñatas and that putting sprinkles in your fish soup may not be tasty, but it makes one's upchuck look pretty. I think.

Cinema Strikes Back [Charlie Prince]

Film Journal International (David Noh)

Film-Forward.com Nora Lee Mandel

Salon.com [Andrew O'Hehir]

Cinema Blend Tribeca Review [Lexi Feinberg]

New York Post (V.A. Musetto)

Variety.com [Ronnie Scheib]

Los Angeles Times [Kevin Crust]

Chicago Tribune (Tasha Robinson)

New York Times (registration req'd) Matt Zoller Seitz

Barrymore, Drew

Drew Barrymore Rebecca Flint Marx from All Movie Guide

The granddaughter of John Barrymore and grandniece of Ethel Barrymore and Lionel Barrymore, Drew Barrymore was born in Culver City, California on February 22, 1975. From there, she didn't waste much time getting in front of the cameras, making her first commercial at nine months and her first television movie, Suddenly Love, at the age of two. Two years later, she made her film debut, appearing as William Hurt's daughter in Altered States (1980). At the advanced age of seven, Barrymore became a true celebrity, thanks to her role as the cherubic Gertie in Steven Spielberg's E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial. The huge success of that 1982 film endeared Barrymore to millions of audience members, but following leads in two more films, Irreconcilable Differences and Firestarter (both 1984), the young actress began to succumb to a destructive lifestyle defined by drugs, alcohol, and too much partying. A child expected to behave like an adult, Barrymore began drinking at the age of nine and started taking drugs a short while later.

Unsurprisingly, observers began writing Barrymore off as just another failed child star when she was barely into her teens. She made a string of (largely forgettable) movies, many of which only reinforced her image as a has-been. However, in the middle of her teen years, Barrymore entered rehab, cleaned herself up, and wrote an autobiography, Little Girl Lost, which detailed her travails with drugs and alcohol. In the early 1990s, she entered another phase in her career, gaining notoriety for playing a series of vampy, trampy trailer-park Lolitas. In this capacity, she turned in memorable performances in Poison Ivy (1992), the 1993 made-for-TV The Amy Fisher Story, and Batman Forever (1995), all of which featured her pouting seductively and showing more thigh than all the Rockettes combined. Barrymore's on-screen antics were ably complemented by the off-screen reputation she was forming at the time: first she could be seen posing nude with then-boyfriend Jamie Walters on the cover of Interview magazine, then modeling for a series of racy Guess ads, flashing David Letterman during an appearance on The Late Show as a "birthday present" to the host, and finally posing nude for Playboy in 1995.

In 1996, Barrymore's image underwent an abrupt and effective transformation from slut to sweetheart. With a brief but memorable role in Wes Craven's Scream and a lead in Woody Allen's Everyone Says I Love You that featured her as a Kelly Girl for the '90s, Barrymore's career received an adrenaline shot to the heart. She began working steadily again, and she reshaped her offscreen persona into that of a delightful and sweet-natured girl trying to mend her ways. This new image was supported by her screen work, much of which featured her as a chaste heroine. Her starring role as the "real" Cinderella in Ever After (1998) was a good example, and it had the added advantage of turning out to be a fairly solid hit. Barrymore's other major 1998 film, The Wedding Singer, was another hit, further enhancing her reputation as America's new sweetheart. The following year, the actress all but put the final nail in the coffin of her wild-child reputation of years past, starring as the nerdy, lovelorn twenty-something reporter who bears the titular condition of Never Been Kissed. That movie not only marked a notable transition in Barrymore's reputation, but an advancement in her cinematic career as well. Expanding her role from actress to producer, Barrymore would continue starring in and producing such efforts as Charlie's Angels (2000), Donnie Darko (2001).

Though some may have suspected that her millennial transition from sweetheart to skull-cracker in Charlie's Angels may have signaled a shift towards more action oriented roles — and despite her return to the role in Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle (2003) — Barrymore once again charmed audiences with another emotional comedy, Riding in Cars With Boys in 2001, while Confessions of a Dangerous Mind (2002) found Drew in the role of long-suffering girlfriend alongside Sam Rockwell's unlikely CIA operative. Though the film did not fare particularly well critically or otherwise, Barrymore took a nonetheless interesting turn as an apple-pie wife turned sinister in 2003's Duplex, and held her own against scene-chomper Ben Stiller. Barrymore teamed up with fellow Stiller-flick alumni Owen Wilson for 2004's Date School, and once again played Adam Sandler's sugar sweet girlfriend in director Peter Segal's romantic comedy Fifty-First Dates.

2005 brought yet another openly fluffy romantic comedy with Fever Pitch, in which she played the straight-girl against Red Sox super-fan Jimmy Fallon, but she soon changed gears, signing on to appear in Lucky You, a gambling drama by Curtis Hanson, director of L.A. Confidential and In Her Shoes.

DrewBarrymore.com - The Official Drew Barrymore Site

drewbarrymorefan.com Unofficial Fan site

"The Drew family." The Barrymore Family, also seen on Wikipedia here: Barrymore family

Drew Barrymore Yahoo biography and profile

Drew Barrymore - Overview - MSN Movies biography

Drew Barrymore People magazine profile, also: Drew Barrymore Biography - Page 2, and Page 3: Next

Drew Barrymore Hello magazine profile, also: Hello Magazine Filmography - Drew Barrymore

Drew Barrymore | Entertainment Weekly profile page

Drew Barrymore Awards

Passages Toby Kahn from People magazine, September 14, 1992

Oops! Barrymore, Green Do It Again Stephen M. Silverman from People magazine, July 10, 2001

Tom Green Files for a Divorce from Drew Jeanne Darst from People magazine, December 18, 2001

Barrymore gets star on Walk of Fame RTE Entertainment, February 4, 2004

When hello really means bi for now Sophie Radice from The Observer, May 9, 2004

'Darko' takes a long, strange trip Mike Snider from USA Today, February 14, 2005

Drew Barrymore hits milestone of 30 USA Today, April 4, 2005

Jonathan Lethem :: Writer The Drew Barrymore Stories (2005)

Most Beautiful People 2007 People magazine (2007)

Drew Barrymore Says She's Loving Single Life Nicholas White from People magazine, February 8, 2007

Drew Barrymore Is Newest Covergirl Model Samantha Critchell from The New York Times, April 11, 2007

Actress Drew Barrymore becomes advocate for UN World Food Programme UN News Centre, May 9, 2007

Drew Barrymore Becomes WFP Ambassador The Washington Post, May 11, 2007

Drew Barrymore Goes Bling MTV Buzzworthy Blog, July 5, 2007

Justin Long Takes Drew Barrymore Home to Meet the Parents People magazine, November 28, 2007

Actress Drew Barrymore donates $1 million to UN anti-hunger programme UN News Centre, March 3, 2008

Back on a roll in L.A. with Derby Dolls -- latimes.com Scott Gold from The LA Times, June 13, 2008

Drew Barrymore and Justin Long end relationship Fox News, July 8, 2008

Ellen Page rolls with it in 'Whip It' -- latimes.com Lisa Rosen from The LA Times, September 13, 2009

Drew Barrymore's calling the shots now Rachel Abramowitz from The LA Times, September 27, 2009

Whip It: Drew Barrymore, Director and Roller Derby Girl - TIME Mary Pols from Time magazine, October 1, 2009

Movie Review: 'Whip It' Scores for Drew Barrymore | Newsweek ... Sarah Ball from Newsweek magazine, October 2, 2009

HBO: Interview: Drew Barrymore Lonely Girl, promo interview for her role in HBO’s Grey Gardens, April 2009

Stepping Into the Skates of the Director Michael Almeyreda chats with Drew Barrymore from The New York Times, September 23, 2009

Drew Barrymore | Film | A.V. Club Sam Adams interview, October 1, 2009

Drew Barrymore - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Image results for drew barrymore

The Drew Barrymore Picture Site

Drew Barrymore Photos – Usmagazine.com

Drew Barrymore Pictures - 1 of 8 - Maxim Girls Photo Gallery ...

Drew Barrymore Video 3 minutes with a young Drew Barrymore on the Johnny Carson Tonight Show

Drew Barrymore Flashes David Letterman 1995 (27 seconds)

WHIP IT B 87

USA (111 mi) 2009 ‘Scope

“You can never use too much eyeliner.” —Maggie Mayhem (Kristen Wiig)

Drew Barrymore’s directing premiere has a deliriously happy quality to it, much like the way she lives her own life, filled with an inner teen spirit of trying to tap into your rebellious side, that inner alternative self that doesn’t care what anyone else thinks, that just goes for it, because who knows when you’ll get another chance? A women’s roller derby movie opening in the theaters the same week as ZOMBIELAND, it’s ironic that the point in each is nearly identical, as both are state of mind movies somewhere in the outer reaches of a disconnected civilization far from the social norm where your inner self gets to do whatever it wants to do, where there are no rules or restrictions, no one to pass judgment, no one to impress, and where the only person you have to please is yourself. Featuring a nice indie vibe from the Section Quartet, and occasional blasters with titles like “Punk as Fuck,” this film is all about attitude. Roller derby is taken about as seriously as professional wrestling, as in the olden days, the fix was always in. Not so here, as the leagues have been cleaned up and the film really does paint a wonderfully sympathetic image of derby girls. The sport still appears a little brutal at times, but the mixture of speed and power, not to mention the adrenaline-laced comical commentary by Jimmy Fallon as Johnny Rocket at the microphone, one of the few sports that announces live to the audience as events are transpiring, and the outgoing personality of the girls themselves offers a glimpse of something altogether new. While the film is as contrived and formulaic as any film you’re likely to see this year, turning a tiny, introverted, and disinterested high school girl into a roller derby star overnight, Barrymore makes up for it by choosing a near perfect cast, where moments of intimacy mix with group camaraderie, allowing bits and pieces of real life to emerge, certainly slowing down the pace of the film, but adding charm, humor, and a quieter poignancy to what is otherwise a smashmouth, in-your-face, winner-take-all portrait of a blisteringly aggressive women’s sport.

Set in the vast emptiness of a small town in Texas, Ellen Page after her phenomenally successful role as JUNO (2007) plays yet another alienated high school teen Bliss, a social outcast in a Stryper T-shirt (a late 80’s Christian glam metal band), and her only friend in the entire world, Pash (Alia Shawkat from recent release AMREEKA), both of whom dream of getting out of town while working as waitresses in the perpetually deserted Oink Joint Diner, an eating establishment off the interstate identified by a giant pig on the roof. The only activities in small-town Texas are Friday night high school football games and women’s beauty pageants. Her mom, the rigid, near inflexible Marcia Gay Harden, and her more relaxed, ass grabbing dad (Daniel Stern) represent each choice, as Bliss is brought to beauty pageants by her mother, who was once a contestant herself, while dad sits at home drinking beer and watching football on TV. The portrayal of the pageant itself is about as understated as it could get, where the girls wear formal dresses and are offered a chance to pay tributes or save the world in 10 words or less, but after Bliss’s pathetic turn with a disastrous blue hairdo, they walk out with a giant trophy nearly the size of the family car, but it’s her Princess Barbie little sister (Eulala Scheel) who walks off with the big prize. Life changes on a shopping trip to nearby Austin where Bliss grabs a flyer left by a few derby girls on skates, which leads to a tryout, where they soon discover she has blazing speed. She’s immediately welcomed into the skating community like a second family, one that’s warm and encouraging while at the same time perceived as social misfits just like Bliss is. The roller derby world is all taunts and wild outfits, hyped by exaggerated nicknames, fueled by a ruthless, take-no-prisoners mentality in a rolling contact sport on skates, which leads to her pseudonym of Babe Ruthless.

Her notoriety leads to parties afterwards, romance with indie rocker Landon Pigg, and an entirely new outlook on life. But a few dumb choices lead to a series of epic downfalls, which nearly obliterates her new career at the height of her success. Stealing Charles Burnett’s storyline conflict used in MY BROTHER’S WEDDING (1983), Bliss is conflicted between what she wants and what her family wants, a dilemma with a much easier resolution here than in Burnett’s comic tragedy, leading to a kind of storybook ROCKY (1976) ending, with a bit of a twist. While it’s clear Ellen Page is not really skating all that fast, so her rise to stardom as the team’s “ace jammer” is suspect, it hardly matters at all because the intense, close up cinematography by Robert D. Yeoman exquisitely captures the speed and physicality of the sport, where one moment you’re flying free and clear while the next you’re flattened over the rails by a crushing body blow. Barrymore gets terrific performances and does an excellent job balancing the good-natured humor of the girls who just want to have fun, Kristen Wiig as Maggie Mayhem, stuntwoman extraordinaire Zöe Bell (from Tarantino’s 2007 film DEATH PROOF) as Bloody Holly, rapper Eve as Rosa Sparks, Juliette Lewis as Iron Maven, Eli Bleiler as Jaba the Slut, Ari Graynor as Eva Destruction, and Drew Barrymore herself as Smashley Simpson, with their growing disgust at losing all the time, where their coach, Andrew Wilson, actually draws up a few thrilling plays, one where the entire opposing team is wiped out instantly and knocked to the floor, so the roller derby choreography is excellent. Based on the book “Derby Girl” by Shauna Cross, a member of the LA Derby Dolls, I’m not sure what influence using professional skaters might have in making this film, but the sport itself has risen from the ashes of late and become energized by fan support, especially in the Austin area. The film turns out to be something of a love letter to Austin, yet ironically, while a few shops of downtown Austin are seen, also a panorama of a gorgeous city skyline, most of the film is shot in the state of Michigan. Underneath the slam bam invigoration of the sport, Ellen Page’s character rings true throughout, from the scenes with her best friend Pash commiserating about their uncertain future, to the earnest tone of shared mother and daughter vulnerability in some of the latter scenes, where both have to find their way through an incomprehensible world around them.

New York Magazine (David Edelstein) review (Page 2)

Like some of her acting, Drew Barrymore’s directing debut Whip It is a mite too adorably ingratiating, especially for a story of a 17-year-old (Ellen Page) groomed for pageant life who gravitates to snarling girl punks and roller derby. But Barrymore hovers over her actresses like the nicest, most nurturing den mother imaginable, and on its own, Go For It formula terms the movie delivers. Page is softer than in Hard Candy and Juno. Without Diablo Cody comebacks, she’s even more marvelous.

Movie Moxie [Shannon Ridler] at Toronto

I rarely choose films at TIFF that are soon to be released theatrically (Oct 2/09), but I couldn't pass up the opportunity to see the directorial debut from Drew Barrymore based on the Shauna Cross novel about a misfit played by Ellen Page who joins a roller derby league in Texas. Who would want to wait a second more than they had to before seeing this? Not me! The film was all I had hoped for and more. The story is great and the characters are fantastic, Ellen Page is perfectly cast as the slightly awkward Bliss who tentatively steps out from her conservative world into the smash up crazyland of roller derby. It's a beautiful blend of comedy and drama making us laugh as well as cry, with characters whose relationships are touching and strikingly believable. Marcia Gay Harden as Bliss' Mom give a fantastic performance as does the stellar Juliette Lewis as Iron Maven. The roller derby scenes are awesome and you can't help but cheer along which is easy to do given the fantastic soundtrack. One hell of a good time.

Whip It Good Co Sports Chick

Wednesday night I got a couple of passes to the advanced screening of Drew Barrymore’s directorial debut “Whip It.”  What a fun movie!  It is about a 17-year-old girl (Bliss) that discovers roller derby in Austin, Texas and struggles with how to tell her ex-beauty contestant mom that she doesn’t want to do pageants any longer and the rink is calling her.  Women will thoroughly enjoy the flick and the guys will dig the roller derby and party scenes.  The Post gave it four out of five stars and I agree!

The theater was packed and some of the Roller Dolls were sitting behind us, which made the experience even more enjoyable.  The derby scenes are a little more brutal than what you’ll see here in Denver, but the strategy, scoring and great pseudonyms are the same.  There were some great lines and scenes that had the whole place laughing.  Loved the costumes and make-up for the derby girls along with the makeover Bliss’ little sister got at the end of the movie!  It opens tonight, so make plans with your girlfriends to go see it after you go support our local Denver Dolls in the West Regional this weekend.  And remember, you can never use too much eyeliner!

Austin Chronicle (Marjorie Baumgarten) review [3.5/5]

Barrymore’s directing debut, Whip It, is a lot of fun, even though the film may be better known in these parts as “the one that got away.” Based on a screenplay about women’s Roller Derby by former Austinite Shauna Cross, Whip It was filmed in the extremely tax-incentive-friendly state of Michigan, instead of the Central Texas area in which the story is set and which has been so instrumental in the revival of women’s roller-skating. Be that as it may, Ann Arbor is not a bad stand-in for Austin, especially when supplemented with a few iconic exterior shots filmed here in the capital city. Teeming with girl-power spirit, Barrymore’s film exudes an all-encompassing benevolence rather than strident one-upmanship. These girls just want to have fun, even though their pleasure involves getting banged up and bruised to the roar of hot metal thunder beneath their feet. As the central character, Bliss Cavendar, Page demonstrates that her breakout performance in Juno was no fluke and that she has what it takes to carry a film. Bliss’ story about slipping away from her sleepy Texas town and her beauty-pageant-mad mother (Harden) for the attraction of the rink contains more details than are sometimes necessary, but the effort helps make her journey believable. A subplot regarding a love interest is pure window dressing though. The heart of the movie belongs to the Austin roller league, whose members play without regard to the outcome: They return for the thrill and satisfaction of the moment – and one another’s company. Barrymore’s casting choices are intrinsic to the success of the film. Lewis, under her rink name, Iron Maven, hasn’t had this meaty a role in maybe 15 years, while Wilson as the team’s shaggy male coach is a hoot to watch. Harden and Stern, as Bliss’ parents, create fleshed-out characters instead of lazy depictions of the paper tigers that grown-ups usually are in teens’ stories. Also smart on Barrymore’s part was snagging Robert D. Yoeman (Rushmore) for her director of photography and Dylan Tichenor (Magnolia) as her editor, both of whom help lend the film a crisp look that focuses on the contact part of the sport instead of the overall game. Barrymore is generous toward her actors and keeps her own endearing performance as klutzy Smashley Simpson in the background. Whip It wants to assure parents that they should not fear their daughters when the girls turn their interest in becoming Miss Texas into being Maggie Mayhem (Wiig’s rink name). And furthermore, Whip It reminds us that although new family allegiances will be formed once a girl leaves home, that doesn’t necessarily mean she has to leave the old family behind. That last one may carry more weight if you’re a Barrymore.

Chicago Tribune (Michael Phillips) review

The whip is a slingshot-type maneuver in roller derby, where you’re flung by a teammate straight into traffic and, with luck, past it. Raquel Welch got whipped a time or two in the 1972 vehicle “Kansas City Bomber,” but in that film roller derby wasn’t about athletic prowess or female empowerment; it was just an excuse for shoving Welch into one ogled, manhandled situation after another.  

“Whip It” is different. It’s not designed primarily for the heterosexual male gaze (though it’s certainly fun for both genders and all persuasions). Drew Barrymore’s feature directorial debut runs on an easygoing mixture of cliches and grrrl-power or, rather, younnnng-womannn power, and its cast operates on a very high hangout factor, meaning just that: They’re good company. (It’s great to see Kristen Wiig in more than a novelty role, for starters.) In placing its young heroine, played by  Ellen Page (“Juno”), in a death match between the world of teen beauty pageants and roller derby competition, the film favors teenagers being true to their ferocious butt-kicking selves. The alternative, as Page’s Bliss Cavendar says to her mother at a notably ham-fisted moment, buys into a “psychotic idea of ’50s womanhood.”

The movie is set in Bodeen, a fictional flyspeck burg, and Austin, Texas, though it was shot mostly in Michigan. Only a handful of the performers attempt a dialect; the exceptions include Marcia Gay Harden and Daniel Stern as Bliss’ parents, who play it so Texan it’s as if nobody else needed to be.

Very consciously, as guided by Shauna Cross’ script, taken from her 2007 novel “Derby Girl,” Page makes a break from the hyper-quippy rhythm demanded by “Juno.” Bliss is a reluctant pageant participant following her mom’s design for living at story’s outset. On a shopping trip to Austin with her younger sister, Bliss meets a fiercely alluring gang of roller derby queens, teammates on the Hurl Scouts. They’re like smash-and-grab versions of the fairies in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” and Bliss loses herself in their world in a matter of seconds.

Bliss sneaks off to team tryouts, and though she’s small, she’s also promisingly fast and willing to lie about her underage status. The script labors to keep her double life a secret on the home front. Alia Shawkat, very good, plays Bliss’ best friend. At one point they’re the subject of lesbian speculation by the resident high school mean girl; though without making any big deal of it, the entire movie floats on a crypto-Sapphic vibe, where the men, for once, aren’t running the show.

That’s the subtext. The surface text arranges a coming-of-age affair between Bliss and a musician (Landon Pigg, an amiable non-actor). I could’ve done without the underwater ballet that signifies their union, but it’s a small matter. For every clunky or conventional scene, there’s a looser, better one. Wiig, one of the screen’s most welcome character actors, portrays Bliss’ mentor-in-chief, and like Page and Barrymore, she does a pretty impressive amount of her own skating. Barrymore produced as well as directed the film, saving a choice supporting role for herself, that of Smashley Simpson, the roughest customer on the team. The names are lovely: Bliss’ performance handle is Babe Ruthless, and there’s mention of someone who goes by Jabba the Slut.

Barrymore’s direction is generous to a fault, and there are times when you wish “Whip It” simply moved faster, on and off the track. It succeeds because of the emotional rather than comic payoffs, such as a late scene between Page and Harden, where daughter and mother, after a rough patch, hit on an unexpectedly serious subject. These two pros act the daylights out of the material in the nicest way, and they make synthetic goods feel like silk. The way Page’s Bliss walks around in a daze, newly blossoming, ever-watchful and barely able to process what’s hit her, she captures that first-love sensation of being underwater — without the  ballet.

redblog James Rocchi

The directorial debut of star Drew Barrymore, Whip It is completely conventional -- but it's also completely winning, a retro-ish story of dreams and self-reliance that evokes everything from Flashdance to Footloose as Ellen Page discovers and enters the world of hipster Roller Derby in Austin Texas. Part of me wants to knock Whip It for being so square -- Page rebels against her uptight beauty-pageant-loving mom (Marcia Gay Harden, excellent in what could have been a thin role) just long enough so that we'll feel it when the two reconcile and give us the lesson that dreams give you wings but family gives you roots, etcetera, and so on -- but I can't. Sure, Whip It is sentimental; it's also sweet, and smart, and while I, jaded elder, may roll my eyes at some of its messages, they're perfectly pitched and phrased for the teen girls sure to make up the film's audience.

Oh, and it's kinda kick-ass, too. Trapped in small-town Bodine, Tx., Bliss (Ellen Page of Juno) endures her mom's enthusiasm for the Miss Bluebonnet competitive events and waits for something better -- which wheels into a thrift shop where she's buying boots, as the Texas Roller Derby rustles up business. Inspired by an exhibition match, Bliss goes to tryouts; she may not be the biggest girl on the track, but she's speedy, and she earns a spot on the Hurl Scouts, taking the alias "Babe Ruthless." The Scouts are led by Maggie Mayhem (Kristen Wiig) and coached by Razor (Andrew Wilson, essentially playing Owen Wilson), and soon become the family Bliss never knew she didn't quite have.

Of course, Bliss can't tell her folks this, and soon she's living a double life with the help of her sarcastic, straight-A's best friend Pash (Alia Shawkat). Can Bliss reconcile the gowns and glory her mom wants and the adrenaline she craves? And, if you're really asking that, it's clear you haven't seen many movies in the past 50 years. But as predictable as Whip It is, it's still very winning -- thanks in no small part to the talented cast, who give even the smallest role bumpy buzz. Daniel Stern is Bliss's good-hearted goofball dad; Shawkat is sassy and snappy; the women of the Hurl Scouts -- including Eve, Zoe Bell, Barrymore and Wiig -- each get a nice moment to shine. And Juliette Lewis goofs giddily on her public persona as the hissable captain of a rival team. (The only dud in the cast is Jimmy Fallon, as a goofball announcer; a little Fallon goes a very long way, and we get too much of his hipster headache character's ramblings.)

And Barrymore also knows how to shoot, and cut, the action on the roller derby rink; aided by editor and second-unit director Dylan Tichenor (who's also cut for Paul Thomas Anderson and Wes Anderson; Barrymore knows enough to hire the best, something too many first-time directors forget to their dismay), Barrymore conveys the moments that matter in each game. Barrymore told me at the film's Toronto International Film Festival debut that the Charlie's Angels films taught her the importance of being able to see the real actors doing the real action, and so as her Hurl Scouts hustle and race down the track, caroming off the guard rails as the ace soundtrack roars, we see them do so knowing it's them.

And as praiseworthy as the speedy muscle of Whip It may be, it's also got a lively beating heart. After first witnessing the exhibition match, Bliss says to Maggie "you guys are my heroes." Wiig nicely underplays the next line, a line so perfect it's even the tagline on the poster: "Well, put on some skates and be your own hero." Did my eyes roll at that anthemic, stirring moment? Briefly. But then again, just because a phrase is awesome doesn't mean it can't speak to some higher truth and deeper purpose, and a movie that tells teen girls that they can do whatever they dream -- while still pointing out that dreams take hard work and plenty of bruises -- is all right by me. Many people never get that moment in their lives -- the synchronicity of preparation and inspiration, that split-second you've worked hours, days, months for -- and Page's performance makes us understand how Bliss wants that, how Bliss needs that, and her journey of discovery is engaging, and good-hearted. Whip It goes in one direction down a pre-determined course, like roller derby, but it's got so much speed and heart you can't help but sit at the edge of your seat smiling and rooting for it as it goes by.

Movie Shark Deblore [debbie lynn elias]

How many of you out there remember the Golden Ages of roller derby in the 50's, the 70's or even during the depression in the 30's. For me, coming from Philly, roller derby in the 70's was a staple of entertainment - particularly for viewing on UHF television. And while roller derby and the Philadelphia Warriors were banking those turns and jamming their way into the hearts of the crowd, my dad was reminding me of derby back in the 50's. But roller derby wasn't just in Philly. It was reigning supreme across the country because as Drew Barrymore describes it, "you don't have to be a certain body shape or ethnicity or economical background." As things do, however, derby slowly faded only to be reborn in the late 90's with a whole new look and feel. According to screenwriter and roller derby diva Shauna Cross aka Maggie Mayhem of the LA Derby Dolls, in today's roller derby, "the personas and the characters are very over-the-top, sexual, flamboyant and burlesque. But then the game is completely real." So what do you do when you're writer Shauna Cross who also happens to have this great love of derby? You take this "elixir" for survival and turn it into a novel called "Derby Dolls." Then no sooner do you sell the novel than you pitch the story to Drew Barrymore and Flower Films as a feature film. And if you're real lucky, you have Drew Barrymore fall in love, not only the backdrop of roller derby, but with a story about coming of age, mothers and daughters, and "the struggles we go through with our parents when our version of our futures are not the same" and then have her decide to make what is now known as WHIP IT, her directorial debut.

Bliss Cavendar is your typical struggling teen in a little truck-stop of a town in Bodeen, Texas. Long dreaming of escape, she is trapped in a world engulfed by her former beauty queen mother whose only desire and mandate is to clone Bliss as herself. After all, the only successful women in the world are beauty queens. But Bliss just doesn't fit the beauty queen mold. She wants to wear Doc Martens, dye her hair blue, dream big and travel beyond the confines of Bodeen. For what exactly she doesn't know. She just knows that there's something more for her than tiaras.

With trepidation and baby steps, Bliss and her best friend Pash sneak away from Bodeen one night, traveling to Austin to see a women's roller derby game. Life for Bliss will never be the same. Seeing a freedom and joy in the game, the crowd and the skaters, it doesn't take long for Maggie Mayhem, one of the star players of the game, to convince Bliss to try out for the team. Driven by blind faith and determination, Bliss skates every waking minute of every day, pushing herself harder and harder, determined to make the team. And did I mention she's doing this behind her parents' backs? As if skating isn't enough, toss in Bliss's love for her mother and the fact that she doesn'tt want to disappoint her, so Bliss continues with her beauty pageant duties. Derby darling Babe Ruthless by night, pageant princess by day, how long can Bliss continue with this double life. But let's toss a first love into the mix - Oliver, a musician and derby fan who falls for Bliss the minute he sees her (a driving factor in her decision to skate).

But what happens when your parents find out about your double life? And more importantly, what happens when a doting sports-junkie Daddy does a little research and finds out just who his daughter really is - the star of the derby - and that she's incredible.

Ellen Page carries the film as Bliss aka Babe Ruthless. Retaining the screen presence she displayed not only in "Juno" but "Hard Candy", Page proves that she no flash in the pan. She is a delight as transforms on screen from an innocent shy child to a mature woman with her own voice, and one who learns to use that voice. Balancing the duality of Bliss/Babe, Page is emotionally dynamic, particularly in her scenes with Marcia Gay Harden who plays her mother, adding a beauty and depth to the often tumultuous mother-daughter relationship. Adding more fuel to the fire, Page does her own skating and according to co-star and stuntwoman extraordinaire, Zoe Bell, "Ellen is the fastest woman on the track and can really take a hit." For Daniel Stern, who plays Bliss' dad, every parental instinct just welled up in him the first time he walked on set and saw Page slamming into and flipping over a rail. "I was worried but I was so proud of her." Written by Cross with Page in mind, "I knew Bliss was going to be really different. Ellen's Bliss is definitely more vulnerable. She's juggling, finding her way. I think it's neat to see this softer side of Ellen. I think she's crazy beautiful. It's fun that we see a little more of her giddy and sort of blooming sexuality. I think she's a little closet sexpot."

The supporting cast are no slouches either. Practicing skating, laps, jumps and jams, every day for over a month - and in some cases three months - the likes of Kristen Wiig, Juliette Lewis, Zoe Bell and Eve not only bring an authenticity to their characters derby personas, but a camaraderie and familial sense that follows through with the film's theme. Kristen Wiig as Maggie Mayhem (named by screenwriter Cross for herself) is a wonderfully multi-faceted character, providing a fun loving, yet serious motherly tone. As for Lewis, her natural hard edge makes her the perfect antagonist to Bliss as Iron Maven. And talk about a surprise! Do not miss my fellow Philly girl, Eve, who is dynamite as Rosa Sparks - one bad ass broad, much like Judy Arnold of the 70's Warriors. For Eve, this is a role she relishes, perhaps due to her own mother's excitement as mom remembers derby in Philly and has shared that excitement with her daughter. Zoe Bell, though, is as hard core as it gets. Professional stuntwoman who began her career doing stunts on "Zena: Warrior Princess", Bell is not only kick ass as Bloody Holly, but handled some extremely difficult skating work and, according to Eve, sustained more bruises than anyone else. Also lacing up is Barrymore herself who does a nice little turn as the hippie-esque Smashley Simpson.

Stepping away from the track, not to be missed as the superb talents of Marcia Gay Harden and Daniel Stern as Bliss' parents. They are ideal as the Cavendars; so real, so believable with a natural marital comfort between them. They are, well, such PARENTS, particularly Stern with a "pick your battles with mom" ideology. Stern really just grabbed my heart as Dad. The pride he shows in his little girl - from his discovery of Bliss' true calling to his involvement as a true dad in the ongoing mother-daughter arbitrations of life, Stern stole my heart. And never moreso than when buying Bliss memorabilia. I about fell out of my chair with a line about the photo card costing $3.00 - "$3.00? $3.00? It's only cardboard!" I thought my father was up there on screen. As for Harden, she embodied and captured that typical mother-daughter love-hate relationship to a tee.

As a screenwriter, Cross has done a magnificent job melding Mrs. Cavendar's 1950's pageant world with Bliss' 21st Century roller derby. The story is simple and actually sweet and very coming of age. And with a roller derby backdrop, totally out of the ordinary for a scenario but it works exceptionally well and adds an interesting dynamic to the storyline.

Technically the film is exceptional. Barrymore has more than proven herself with this film. Spending three years, from inception to release, her passion for the project is evident. Daniel Stern, himself also a director, was in awe of Barrymore's preparation and focus, not to mention her ability to jump from in front of the camera to behind it and balance the subjective and objective viewpoints. Zoe Bell found Barrymore's thoroughness and openness to change or suggestion for achieving her vision, refreshing and welcoming. Calling on Wes Anderson favorite, cinematographer Robert Yeoman, multiple interiors and exteriors required lighting and lensing of not only of different sets and scenes, but completely different dynamics and times of day and night, all of which are shot with a continuity and clarity that flows. Entertaining to a fault, there is no doubt in my mind that Barrymore than paid attention over her years on movie sets for as a director, her vision is clear, her execution is clean, crisp and entertaining.

With this film, as with a big action film, the potential for injuries reigned supreme. Not one to take chances with her actors and concerned about their well being, " As far as the medical insurance I just said, 'Get the best you can because these girls are going out there and doing their own stunts. So, do whatever it takes. I am not going to second guess this.' We didn't do that on the Charlies movies [skimp on medical] and I wouldn't have done it here. It' so important with the actors doing their own stunts. It just gives you such a better emotional and excitable investment to see the people really going off and doing what they've learned. "

A big key to the fun and energy of this film, besides the roller derby, is the soundtrack. It is killer! For Barrymore, "music is really, really everything." "We had over 75 music cues, which for any film is very unorthodox and is far greater than most films" which she had to narrow down into a 19 song soundtrack which Rhino Records will be releasing. Each song perfectly suited to the action, to each scene. Barrymore achieved real perfection here. Adding a personal touch to the track is some work by singer/songwriter Landon Pigg who also appears in the film as Bliss' first love, Oliver.

I left the theatre feeling EXUBERANT after seeing this film and so will you. I enjoyed it so much, I'm ready to be whipped around the track again! To put it simply, DREW BARRYMORE WHIPS UP A WINNER WITH WHIP IT!

Film Threat, Hollywood's Indie Voice review [3/5] Jassica Baxter

The Flick Filosopher (MaryAnn Johanson) review

eFilmCritic.com (Rob Gonsalves) review [5/5]

Film Monthly (Matt Fagerholm) review

DVDTalk.com - Theatrical [Jamie S. Rich]

PopMatters (Cynthia Fuchs) review

"Whip It" wobbles, but it doesn't fall down Stephanie Zacharek from Salon

The Cinema Source (Tom Herrmann) review [A-]

eFilmCritic.com (Erik Childress) review [3/5]

seanax.com [Sean Axmaker]

ReelViews (James Berardinelli) review [2/4]

eFilmCritic.com (Peter Sobczynski) review [4/5]

filmcritic.com (Jason McKiernan) review [4/5]

Screen International (Tim Grierson) review

One Guy's Opinion (Frank Swietek) review [B+]

The Land of Eric (Eric D. Snider) review [B]

The Onion A.V. Club review [C+] Scott Tobias

The Onion A.V. Club blog ["Oscar-O-Meter™: third annual guide to the fall prestige movies"]

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson) review

Village Voice (Robert Wilonsky) review

Mark Reviews Movies [Mark Dujsik]

CHUD.com (Devin Faraci) review

Slant Magazine review [1.5/4] Ryan Stewart

Black Sheep Reviews [Joseph Belanger]

Christian Science Monitor (Peter Rainer) review [C+]

CineSnob.net (Kiko Martinez) review [C]

Whip It: Drew Barrymore, Director and Roller Derby Girl - TIME Mary Pols from Time magazine, October 1, 2009

Movie Review: 'Whip It' Scores for Drew Barrymore | Newsweek ... Sarah Ball from Newsweek magazine, October 2, 2009

Entertainment Weekly review [C+] Lisa Schwarzbaum

The Hollywood Reporter review Peter Brunette at Toronto

Variety (Rob Nelson) review

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Tulsa TV Memories [Gary Chew]

Post Lisa Kennedy from The Denver Post

San Francisco Chronicle (Amy Biancolli) review [3/4]

Los Angeles Times (Betsy Sharkey) review

Back on a roll in L.A. with Derby Dolls -- latimes.com Scott Gold from The LA Times, June 13, 2008

Drew Barrymore and Ellen Page kiss in Marie Claire. R U surprised? LA Times blog, September 10, 2009

LA Derby Dolls - Press - Ellen Page rolls with it in 'Whip It ... LA Derby Dolls website, September 13, 2009

Ellen Page rolls with it in 'Whip It' -- latimes.com Lisa Rosen from The LA Times, September 13, 2009

Drew Barrymore's calling the shots now Rachel Abramowitz from The LA Times, September 27, 2009

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [3.5/4] also reviews of Derby (1972) and Unholy Rollers (1973)

The New York Times (A.O. Scott) review

Stepping Into the Skates of the Director Michael Almeyreda chats with Drew Barrymore from The New York Times, September 23, 2009

Drew Barrymore | Film | A.V. Club Sam Adams interview, October 1, 2009

Bartley, Kim and O’Briain, Donnacha

THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT BE TELEVISED B+ 90

aka: Chavez: Inside the Coup

USA Ireland Netherlands Germany Finland Great Britain (74 mi) 2003

Two Irish documentary filmmakers were in Venezuela to do a piece on leftist President Hugo Chavez, a friend of Fidel Castro and one of the biggest critics of the American bombing campaign in Afghanistan, when suddenly on April 11, 2002, they are confronted by a real life coup taking place before their rolling cameras.  What we witness is an incredible campaign of lies and manipulation by members of the corporate elite that own the network television stations, who nearly fool the world by controlling what images were broadcast.  Several high ranking members of the military join this nexus of manipulation by actually kidnapping the President and whisking him off to parts unknown for a few days while they anoint one of the television media moguls as the new President, declaring an immediate ban on the State-run television station or any other images of opposition, banning as well the General Assembly, the Attorney General, basically declaring the country's Constitution null and void, all in the name of "democracy," transmitting images of themselves around the world as the new legitimate government.  As absurd as this sounds, they seemed to have the backing of the US government, which was alleged to have a plane waiting to fly Chavez to the Dominican Republic, or so the rumors were flying.  History seems held together by a tenuous thread, as this was such a fragile moment in time, and what happened next could easily have turned out quite differently. But the people that elected him rose to the President's defense and stormed the Presidential Palace, perhaps a million people were outside the gates when the Presidential Guard reclaimed control of the military and the President mysteriously returned to power.

My problem with this film is, unlike CAPTURING THE FRIEDMANS or BUS 174 for instance, it doesn't do the leg work of exposing or even interviewing the actual leaders behind this coup, all of whom got away scot-free, or establish any connections to the Bush administration or the CIA, or provide any view of the country or the world's reaction to this moment in history when an entire nation was nearly duped by the hands of a few powerfully placed individuals.  It certainly reminded me of Capra's MEET JOHN DOE, which presents a similar power grab, also I am old enough to own the 1971 Gil Scott-Heron recording, "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised," and my guess is he got no royalties from this film company's use of his song title.

Basir, Qasim

DESTINED B 85

USA (94 mi) 2016 Official Facebook

Winner of the Best Director award for Qasim Basir and Best Actor for Cory Hardrict at the 2016 American Black Film Festival in June, the idea for the film was inspired by a British film starring Gwyeneth Paltrow called SLIDING DOORS (1998) which explores alternate realities for her character. Similarly, Basir, who wrote the script, found a clever way to explore two parallel lives diverting from a single childhood moment, using the same actor, Chicago’s own Cory Hardrict, portraying each option, with complementary players also playing dual roles in each scenario, suggesting what a tenuous thread our lives are balanced upon, as had things gone just a bit differently, our lives could be entirely different. It’s always fun to imagine these scenarios, what if I had gone out with that girl, or gotten that job, or never been hit by a car, or never met someone we are so intricately linked to, but also, from a black perspective, what if I was never shot or arrested, or studied harder, or had made different choices, would my life be significantly different? This film takes great joy in examining alternate paths, where either one is realistically possible. First and foremost there is Cory Hardrict, who comes into his own in this film, showing the full extent of his range, as he’s a pleasure to watch. Playing Sheed and Rasheed, one kid is left to run the streets, get involved in gang violence, eventually becoming a drug lord, where he’s the kind of brooding, unrepentant guy who probably deserves to be in prison, while the other has secret dreams of becoming an architect, dreams that can be realized, though at a price, as he’d have to sell out his community to make money for white corporations that would be happy to pay him handsomely, as their profits would skyrocket. Both are powerful men who own and command a room with their burning intensity.

Rather than divide the film into two parts, Basir brilliantly interweaves the narrative, using other actors in dual roles as well, which opens up the film, adding plenty of side by side exploration, where they both feel like the same guy. In fact, it almost feels like two different films that have been carefully edited together fusing the characters down to the bare essence, where by the end we’ll determine their real character and discover who they really are. No such luck, as Basir goes all-in with both possibilities, where you’d be hard pressed to determine which one is more realistic, as both feel authentic. So is Robert Christopher Riley as his longtime friend and sidekick, Cal and Calvin, the kind of guy you can trust, who, had things been different, could easily have ended up in Sheed’s position. Nonetheless, these guys intrinsically know and understand each other, as they have similar instincts, both able to anticipate what’s going to happen before it does, where they beautifully complement one another. What’s interesting is the use of Jesse Metcalfe in both segments, playing a dogged white detective who’s always on Sheed’s tail, but also one of the young execs of the architecture firm, the guy who has to step aside temporarily to allow a young black light to shine, but does so willingly because of the anticipated reward it will bring, where he is driven, even obsessed, by financial success. Much of it shot in Detroit, some in Chicago, the scale of abandoned buildings adds an extraordinary texture to the film, as it’s literally a world falling apart right before our eyes, where the people that inhabit the condemned territory feel like they don’t belong there, that no one deserves to live like that, as if they’re stuck in a labyrinth with no conceivable way out. Yet some of the scenes in the snow have a special power, as it feels especially nasty in the bitter cold.

Shot by cinematographer Carmen Cabana, initially the seedy world of Sheed appears in sepia tones with washed out colors, adding an especially ominous look that looks a bit creepy, while Rasheed’s world is set in vibrant colors, as the world around him is immediately more inviting. While the two worlds don’t remain totally distinct, over time they do blend into each other, sharing common characters, but also obstacles that need to be overcome. Two women play significant roles in the film, Margot Bingham as Maya, who figures prominently in the outcome of each, adding a bit of a twist to the story, being more than what she initially seems, yet she more than holds her own in some of the most powerful scenes, but also Zulay Henao, in a smaller, less defined role as a reporter, still makes an impact, sometimes just by being on the scene witnessing extraordinary transformations. Hardrict has to fight against himself the whole time, as the stakes are high, where one small mistake could alter the outcome. While he attains power and respect in the drug business, he may actually come to regret what he’s built, while as a black rising star in a mostly white architecture firm, these opportunities don’t come around too often, so he should probably make the most of it, yet he’s being used to tear down and destroy his old neighborhood, with no affordable housing units to take their place, where gentrification is a tactic to drive blacks out of a neighborhood. As James Baldwin once suggested “Urban renewal is Negro removal.” In each case, there’s plenty on the line. The slo-mo finale is a bit much and feels overly repetitive, as both fates seem to merge into one, where it’s never too late, it seems, to make a decision to change your life, even as you’re barreling down the wrong track, as you can always correct it and do the right thing. That may seem like empty platitudes, but that could be the difference between spending twenty or thirty years in prison separated from family members or having a life that includes them. One decision can make the difference.

Check Out a Fiery Clip + Cool Poster for Qasim Basir's LAFF-Bound ... Tambay Obsenson from Shadow and Act

Qasim Basir’s follow-up to his critically-acclaimed feature film directorial debut “Mooz-Lum,” is set to make its world premiere at the upcoming Los Angeles Film Festival which runs from June 1 to 9, 2016.

“Destined” tells the parallel stories of Sheed and Rasheed, portrayed by the same actor (Cory Hardrict), as they explore the idea of destiny as well as how the smallest incident can manifest itself into a life changing event. The film presents two possible outcomes, involving everything from street violence to corporate corruption. Cory Hardrict delivers what’s being called a breakout performance, navigating his role in each world, demonstrating that on any path, the future is mutable and journey toward fulfilling your destiny is never simple.

Movie Shark Deblore [Debbie Lynn Elias]

Making its World Premiere at the 2016 Los Angeles Film Festival is Qasim Basir’s DESTINED. Examining the cause and effect of a “moment in time”, the path not taken or road less traveled, and/or even the idea of a parallel universe, and above all free will and choice, Qasim Basir delivers one of the most powerful films of not only the festival, but in cinema this year.

Meet Rasheed. In one world he is a successful up-and-coming architect. In the other, a criminal, a drug dealer known as “Sheed.” Utilizing the tools of the cinematic toolbox, Basir and cinematographer Carmen Cabana create the two distinct – but similar – worlds through meticulously designed and executed lighting and lensing. A sepia tone colors the palettes for the world of “Sheed”, the criminal element, while a denatured inky blue coats that of the successful white collar “Rasheed.” Within the first 10 minutes of the film, faint tinges of red, green and yellow start to emerge, dazzling us with story metaphor. The cinematography tells its own story.

As we watch both stories unfold, “Destiny’s” message is telling. There are lessons to be learned, journeys that as much as they seem different, are in reality the same and ultimately, Fate is the one who plays the final hand in life.

Performances are nothing short of stellar. Because of the parallel worlds, the entire cast gets to show their acting chops as each character is affected differently in each world. As Rasheed/Sheed, Cory Hardrict amazes and more than surpasses his earlier performance in “American Sniper”, demonstrating a depth and understanding of character. Similarly, Zulay Henao finally has a role with the character of Giselle that shows her range and depth as an actress. Robert Christopher Riley also knocks it out of the park as Cal/Calvin. Not to be overlooked, standout performances also come from LaLa Anthony, Jesse Metcalfe, Jason Dohring and Margot Bingham.

The entire cinematic construct is mind-blowing, propelled by not only cinematography and performance, but with rapier editing by Basir and Rene Besson.

In a word, DESTINED is killer; simply killer.

Detroit-made festival winner 'Destined' gets sneak peek - AZCentral.com Julie Hinds

In the movie "Destined," a young man in Detroit, Rasheed (Cory Hardrict), lives out two possible paths determined by a moment from his adolescence.

In one potential destiny, he's an architect in the corporate world facing issues of gentrification in his hometown. In the other, he's a crime boss whose impact on the city comes from selling drugs.

One person, two potential life journeys. Set and shot in Detroit, the movie is a thought-provoking look at how the choices we make affect us. "There's never a point where your decisions stop being meaningful," says coproducer Sultan Sharrief. "It's never too late to fulfill your ultimate destiny."

"Destined" is part of a special presentation for the Detroit Homecoming, the third annual event produced by Crain's Detroit Business that helps several hundred influential ex-pats get up to speed and involved in the city's rebirth.

The sneak-peek screening of "Destined" will be held Friday afternoon at the Charles H. Wright Museum of African American History for invited guests of the homecoming. There also are a limited number of seats available to the public (see below).

The presentation will include a short preview of "Street Cred," a PBS pilot made by Sharrief that teaches Detroit high school students about the entertainment industry. There also will be information on a virtual reality project tied to "Street Cred” and about a new effort, the Detroit Film Initiative, a civic-corporation collaboration to encourage filmmaking in Detroit now that the state has eliminated its film incentives.

The Detroit Film Initiative’s first project, done with the involvement of Mayor Mike Duggan’s office, the Michigan Film & Digital Media Office and corporate partners, resulted in several local interns joining the crew of Comedy Central's upcoming "Detroiters" series.

"Destined" won a best director award for Qasim Basir and best actor for Hardrict at the 2016 American Black Film Festival. It was an official selection of the 2015 Los Angeles Film Festival and is scheduled to be shown at BET's Urbanworld Festival in New York and the Chicago Film Festival.

Sharrief thinks it's a great fit for the Detroit Homecoming. "The theme this year is creativity, and so we thought, how fitting, we're in the middle of national (festival screenings) of this film shot in Detroit, set in Detroit by Detroit filmmakers. Wouldn't it be cool to screen that for the ex-pats that are coming back?"

The idea for "Destined" was inspired by the 1998 movie "Sliding Doors" with Gwyneth Paltrow, which explored alternate realities for her character. Basir, who also wrote the script, used a similar device to examine Rasheed's dual lives in specific — and the promise and perils that face young African-American men in general.

"I have friends who I grew up with between Detroit and Ann Arbor, who haven't done so well in life," says Basir, who studied law and played football at Wayne State University. "I think sometimes, if I didn't start playing football, would that be me, too? Would I have ended up going down that road? I don't know. I do know there are certain choices that I made, and that my parents helped me make, that caused me to be here and making films. So therein lies the idea for 'Destined.' "

Basir credits his talented cast and crew with being essential to "Destined," which was shot here in 2014 and is aiming for an early 2017 theatrical release.

It's the second of two films Basir made before Michigan eliminated its film incentives. His first feature, 2011's "Mooz-Lum" starring Danny Glover and Evan Ross (son of Motown legend Diana Ross), received warm reviews from critics.

Basirs says the death of the incentives last year devastated the film community here. "One thing I don't think was factored in (about the incentives) was the morale and the inspiration that was coming to a city that had been devastated for so long and a state that had been struggling. That's something you can't measure."

But artists like Basir and Sharrief continue to be committed to making movies about Detroit. The city has a rich legacy of artists and storytellers. What it needs to build, somehow, is an economic and entertainment industry network to foster those voices.

Sharrief says the focus needs to be on "how can we develop a pipeline where you can make it in Detroit," both literally in terms of creating content, and metaphorically in terms of developing national success stories. He sees the potential for the Motor City's film community to follow the lead of places like Austin, Texas, which is a hub for rising indie directors and actors.

As director and writer of 2010's "Bilal's Stand," Sharrief has experienced the highs and lows of starting his career. He took "Bilal's Stand" to the prestigious Sundance Film Festival. He also knocked on a lot of doors in Detroit for support and ended up having to go to Los Angeles in the search for investors.

Sharrief recalls returning in 2010 from a New York screening of "Bilal's Stand" held by the Film Society of Lincoln Center and the Museum of Modern Art. On the Midtown Detroit block where he was living at the time, a now-obscure Miley Cyrus comedy, "L.O.L.," was being filmed. When he walked over to chat about possible work, he was told that an entry-level production assistant spot might be available.

"I didn't want to be a PA. I just premiered a movie at Lincoln Center!" he says with a laugh.

Sharrief, whose Street Cred Detroit company is putting on the Friday screening, is busy with several projects rooted in Detroit. Besides just wrapping filming on the "Street Cred" pilot, he is the creator of the Detroit Voices short film competition for the Cinetopia International Film Festival held in Detroit and Ann Arbor.

He sees a lot of potential for what can happen here, if the creative side of Detroit is valued as the city's commercial fortunes improve.

Says Sharrief, "A lot of this event is trying to think about as the city comes back, as we start to see new dollars enter the city and new people and industry, how can we support those in the creative industries so we can build off the rich cultural and creative history of our city and forge ties to support the younger people who are coming up?"

Qasim Basir | Crimson Kimono

'Destined' Star Cory Hardrict on His Double Performance, Choice and ... Rebecca Ford interview from The Hollywood Reporter, June 24, 2016

Donloe's Lowdown: Qasim Basir's 'Destined' Stars Cory Hardrict Darlene Donloe interview, June 22, 2016

LAFF 2016: Director Qasim Basir Talks 'Destined' - blackfilm.com/read ... Wilson Morales interview from Black Film, June 7, 2016

Cory Hardrict ('Destined') - Anne Carlini - Exclusive Magazine Russell A. Trunk interview, 2015

Bate, Peter

CONGO: WHITE KING, RED RUBBER, BLACK DEATH B+ 92

Belgium (84 mi) 2003

"Listen to the yell of Leopold’s ghost

Burning in Hell for his hand-maimed host.

Listen how the demons chuckle and yell

Cutting his hands off, down in Hell"

—The Congo, by Vachel Lindsey

Made for television, with somber music written by Howard Davidson, with unfortunate reminders of the more recent murders and mutilations of nearly a million people in Rwanda, this fiercely intense documentary is a scathing and unrelenting historical analysis of Belgium’s Colonial intrusion into the Congo, which turns into a precisely described graphic account of torture, slave camps, mutilation, rape, murder, and plunder, all in the name of Belgium King Leopold II who, unlike the other Colonial powers of the time, who at least attempted to return some of the wealth to the locals, saw the sole purpose of owning a Colony as the accumulation of wealth from that nation into your own, “by any means necessary,” certainly the polar opposite of what Huey P. Newton had in mind, which turned out to be legalized robbery enforced by murder and mutilation. The period examined is from about 1880 to 1910, where British explorer Sir Henry Morton Stanley made his initial treks across the African nation, opening up roads and economic opportunities for Leopold, who initially created rubber plantations through the systematic burning of the villages, one after the other, shooting anyone who protested, cutting off their heads as trophies, then imprisoning the villagers for slave labor, kidnapping the wives of the working men, then cutting off the men’s hands if they resisted or if what they produced was too small. For years, the Belgian royal army instituted a gruesome but efficient system of punishment, so as not to waste bullets, they only gave out as many bullets to the local Congolese overseers who were assigned to maintain order as the exact matching number of returned cut off right hands of male villagers who resisted and were beaten or shot.

These systematic atrocities were documented by African missionaries, where over a twenty year span the 20 million Congolese population was reduced in half, also diplomat Roger Casement and a former shipping clerk Ed Morel, who relentlessly exposed the Leopold atrocities through British journalistic publications, offering not speculations, but specific details, largely obtained by interviewing first hand witnesses. Eventually Leopold, who attempted to spin his plunder as “bringing civilization to the uncivilized,” all the while covering up and denying that it was his actions that produced the murders and the mutilations, became the most unpopular leader in Europe, so he formed his own investigation commission, stacking the deck with his own people, hoping to change the world’s views, but missionaries, specifically John Harris, steadfastly provided witness after witness to confirm the written exposé’s of Casement and Morel, including one African chief who arrived without notice, who brought a stack of over 100 sticks, placing them one at a time before the commission, calling out the names of each of the 100 villages that were destroyed. A week later, he was tortured and killed. Or in another image, an African historian is seen in Belgium ordering Belgium chocolates, forming a line of a dozen chocolates, each distinctively carved in the image of hands. More recently, the Congo, renamed Zaire, has continued to be plundered by Europeans for gold or diamonds. After the death of Leopold, his legacy has been re-established, building statues all across Belgium as the man who brought civilization to darkest Africa, the man who stole millions for his country, but where history records only his economic successes for the Belgian people, leaving out everything else, which has been mysteriously destroyed or forgotten. The filmmaker interjects bits from Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, which was written to document these same Belgian atrocities, whose literary prowess produced the infamous lines uttered by Marlon Brando in APOCALYPSE NOW, “the horror...the horror...”

Higher Learning: Half Nelson Wrestles With Drugs, Race .. Andrew Sarris adds historical perspective reviewing another film, King Leopold’s Ghost (2006) from the New York Observer, August 28, 2006

Loathsome Leopold

The same can be said of a remarkable nonfiction historical shocker entitled King Leopold’s Ghost, advertised as “a story a king and a country [Belgium] didn’t want told.” It’s directed and produced by Pippa Scott, narrated by Don Cheadle with Alfre Woodard and James Cromwell, and based on the revelatory book by Adam Hochschild.

King Leopold’s Ghost is not a movie to be evaluated simply as a piece of cinema seeking to balance form and content. Of the form there is little to say, especially since the content is so overwhelmingly mesmerizing in its depiction of the depths to which some human beings will descend in the oppression, torture, mutilation and murder of others in the systematic pursuit of profits. Millions of people were murdered in Congo, and not because of some theocratic imperative, as in the mutual slaughter of Muslims and Hindus after India gained its independence from Britain. Nor was it simply another instance of European colonialism in Africa.

King Leopold II of Belgium (1835-1909) was in a class by himself as a colonial exploiter. He reigned as King of Belgium from 1865 to his death. He also reigned as King of the Congo Free State from 1876 to 1904, when he was forced to abdicate because the horrors of his supposedly “benevolent” rule could no longer be hidden or suppressed. But he didn’t abandon Congo empty-handed: He sold his holdings in the colony to the Belgium nation for what might be described as a princely sum, if not an outright swindle of the Belgian people. The monuments to Leopold’s greed can be seen today in many parts of Belgium and the French Riviera. Indeed, the thriving port city of Antwerp was built virtually on the backs of the wretched Congolese laborers engaged in the labor-intensive industries of mining, harvesting and hunting for gold, diamonds, rubber and ivory, among many other valuable commodities. In more recent times, Congo has become one of the chief sources of uranium for the world’s nuclear generators and arsenals. That is the ultimate horror of the film: that not much has changed since Leopold II began his artfully capitalist manipulations over a century ago. In the end, he is almost a comic figure in what has turned out to be an unending horror-movie nightmare of prodigious proportions. 

Among the more fascinating footnotes to this saga of evildoing is the derogation, even destruction, of the legend of British journalist, explorer and self-glorifier Sir Henry Morton Stanley (1841-1904), best known in the popular mind for his expedition into Africa in search of David Livingstone, whom he greeted with the words “Doctor Livingstone, I presume?” in 1871. I still remember Henry King’s 1939 Stanley and Livingstone, in which Spencer Tracy as Stanley asks the famous question of Cedric Hardwicke. It turns out that Stanley had a more shameful mission in Africa, serving as Leopold’s advance bullyboy to intimidate the natives and hunt elephants for their valuable ivory. In essence, the time-honored Stanley was an imperial thug for Leopold II, and the Congolese people felt the lash of his whip, both real and metaphorical.

A more edifying footnote involves the immortal Polish-British novelist Joseph Conrad (1857-1924), whose experiences as a steamboat captain in Congo provided him with the background material for The Heart of Darkness (1899). When Marlow, the narrator of Conrad’s tale, journeys up the river in search of the madman Kurtz, he finds him hallucinating to the refrain of “the horror, the horror”—Conrad’s elegant summation of what he himself had found in Leopold’s tormented realm. Ironically, Leopold himself never set foot in Congo, though his massive footprints in the region are still visible today in the poverty and suffering of the Congolese people, who have never benefited from the exploitation of the region’s vast resources

The U.S. government and many of the largest American corporations have collaborated with the Belgian colonialists and their own military and corporate sponsors to keep the people of the region from shaping their own destinies. During the period of the Cold War, President Eisenhower and the C.I.A. conspired with the Belgian military to have nationalist leader Patrice Lumumba arrested and murdered by a military thug named Mobuto Sese Seko, who continued the looting of Congo in the name of the anti-Communist crusade—an ideological dodge that Leopold himself would certainly have appreciated if only he’d been around to see it. King Leopold’s Ghost can be recommended as an economical education in one of the lesser-known atrocities of the capitalist system, as well as an eye-opening account of history’s most ruthless amasser of wealth. The people down at Wall Street should erect a statue to the larcenous Leopold: Why should Belgium and the French Riviera have all his monuments?

Batmanglij, Zal

SOUND OF MY VOICE B 84

USA (85 mi) 2011 Official site

Another barebones indie film that must have been made on a dime, resembling in many ways the ultimate small-time film project of Shane Carruth’s PRIMER (2004), which is about the ramifications of time traveling through an invented time machine, where one seemingly has the capacity to alter the events of the future. This film, co-written and produced by lead actress Brit Marling, from Another Earth (2011), takes a different approach, laying out the groundwork for how today’s society would be receptive (or not) to a visitor who claims to be from the future, namely 2054. The inherent twist of this story, like it is for John Carpenter’s They Live (1988), is how few people are aware of the traveler’s presence, where there’s an elaborate preparatory process one must undergo simply to meet her, which includes driving to a specific location, switching to another van where all incoming passengers are blindfolded, so as not to know their destination, where they shower and change into hospital scrubs before meeting Klaus (Richard Wharton), who greets each individual with this 25 second handshake that couldn’t be more ridiculous, but it’s meticulously exact each time. After that, Maggie (Marling) enters breathing from an oxygen tank. All members of this exclusive “club” must donate blood for Maggie, as she never leaves her underground world, grows her own food in a greenhouse, and amasses what amounts to a cult following, where she describes her life on occasion, but seems more inclined to deal with the doubters among them, isolating them before throwing them out, separating couples involved in relationships, making sure all show allegiance to her. One such couple, Peter and Lorna (Christopher Denham and Nicole Vicius), are investigative journalists who decide to infiltrate the cult with hidden cameras, something along the lines of Sam Fuller’s SHOCK CORRIDOR (1963).

In another strange twist, each member is driven back to the original destination and returns home every evening, so rather than residing with Maggie, like most cults, they are only allowed periodic visits, where her mission is never fully explained. Nonetheless, Maggie always speaks in a soft, intriguing manner, where her youthful beauty precedes her, as this may allow her to manipulatingly penetrate through predetermined wills of resistance. Shown in a diary like day by day succession, the couple’s initial suspicion evolves over time, where after a hyper-personalized public humiliation, a kind of time traveling dressing down, Peter actually stops filming, and while he admits to having the same suspicions, believing Maggie is a fraud and a danger to the community in some as yet unanticipated way, he also seems lured under her sirenesque spell, which Lorna is quick to notice, watching a kind of interior transformation taking place. Since so much of the film takes place in a basement, with little action to speak of, the secret of the film’s success is building dramatic tension through the personal encounters, where there is not much to go on to suggest this woman is from the future, yet she appears perfectly harmless, never revealing any ulterior motive that might raise one’s level of alertness. And that may be what’s so confusing, as the curiosity about her motives takes place in each one of the individual person’s minds, who are also curious about one another, all wondering what the other ones think. How can they be part of a secret cult if they’re not asked to give up individuality or anything unique, or sacrifice any part of their lives except for brief moments of their time? She’s not asking for money or personal assets, only blood in order that she can survive, which is not so much to ask. No one is asked to be part of a futuristic crusade to save the earth before it’s too late, though she does suggest a kind of futuristic doom is in store for everyone on an apocalyptic proportion.

The driving force is the character of Maggie herself, as she is a curiosity. She’s extremely well written, revealing certain personality traits, where she takes control over a communal thought process, displaying an ability to focus in on anyone who shows resistance and refuses to conform, immediately shaming them into conformity or dismisses them from the group, so they are all aligned. Yet if she’s from the future, you’d think she’d be able to share certain aspects of people’s lives in the future, but she’s not clairvoyant, and there’s no suggestion these members are friends for life. Everyone may have different destinations. Instead, she seems to play upon each member’s hope that they will be a part of a better world. The audience can maintain a healthy cynicism throughout, as so much feels omitted, like where she came from, how she got there, or why, but there’s no indication anybody’s being manipulated except in the way she expresses a commonality of thought, where perhaps she gains strength in gathering numbers, but because she continues to lead such a hermetic existence, it’s unlikely she has any grand designs, as she never leaves her basement. There’s a plot twist that is little more than a trigger element, all designed to challenge the viewer’s perception, where Peter and Lorna come down on different sides, where each is perplexed about what to do, where their relationship is an issue as well, as their so-called solidarity comes under question. In any relationship, there’s an element of personal trust involved. What happens when that trust is broken? Can it be repaired? Is it all a misunderstanding? This film starts questioning the heart of human relationships, while also imposing elements of conformity, which we are all subjected to. Can that be misread? Can we over-analyze the power and significance “others” hold over us? One of the most mesmerizing factors is the pressure to conformity, even if it’s subconscious, which can be enormous. Maggie is such an opaque presence, hard to define or read, where even her good or evil intentions remain carefully concealed. The beauty of this film is it is largely defined by each audience member’s own personal expectations. The ending remains ambiguous, stuck in a kind of philosophical limbo or no man’s land, where for all we know, the future of the world has been interminably altered—but for the better or for the worse?

New York Magazine [David Edelstein]

In the blandly made but intense science-fiction psychodrama Sound of My Voice, Brit Marling plays Maggie, a cult leader who might or might not have traveled back from 2054 and a world in the throes of civil war. In the first sequence, Peter (Christopher Denham) and Lorna (Nicole Vicius), a pair of undercover documentary filmmakers posing as new recruits, are told to strip and shower and then driven, blindfolded, their hands bound, to a tacky suburban basement, where they must execute a childishly elaborate handshake before the entrance—barefoot, an oxygen tank rolling behind her—of the alleged time traveler. Maggie speaks to her circle in soothing, deliberate tones about her arrival in our time, her memories of her own, and the need for her followers to shed their defenses and commit themselves to her. Later, she directs them to expel their old poisons, and they vomit on cue—all except Peter, who can’t let go until Maggie probes him, eliciting halting admissions of abuse, until he finally adds his puke to the sum of all puke. It’s hard to tell how far Peter and Lorna are being pulled in—they don’t know themselves and argue fiercely. They’re each part in and part out, but their parts are never in sync.

Marling wrote Sound of My Voice with director Zal Batmanglij, and here, as in Another Earth, the sci-fi is the hook but the focus is on humans thrown out of their solipsistic orbits by a glimpse of something larger. Batmanglij keeps the movie even-keeled, full of medium close-ups, underscored by ambient plinks and shimmers, with nothing to break the trance until a last scene that upends everything we thought we knew. The sudden finish is a slap-in-the-face but not a cheat.

I wouldn’t be surprised if Marling was a cult member herself—she has that vibe. Her glassy demeanor recalls Julia Roberts’s, but Roberts’s mask is a lid to contain her (prodigious) neuroses, whereas Marling’s helps her dole out her secrets selectively. She’s sly, this one. It’s hard to tell where she’s heading, but I have a feeling I’m going with her.

Sound of My Voice | review, synopsis, book ... - Time Out Worldwide David Fears

Here’s how it works: You follow the directions to the house, you pull the car into the garage, you don’t get out until you’re told. Cryptic instructions will be issued; washing and dressing in a white hospital gown is a must. A gray-haired gentleman with a startling resemblance to Rush singer Geddy Lee will perform an elaborate patty-cake handshake, and if you pass that test, you join the others at the next level. Soon, a Madonna with an oxygen tank—her name is Maggie (cowriter Brit Marling)—appears, smiling benevolently at her “faithful” followers. She will lead them to salvation. Also, she claims to have traveled back in time from the year 2054.

That two new recruits, Peter (Christopher Denham) and Lorna (Nicole Vicius), are trying to infiltrate this cult in order to make a documentary almost seems beside the point, and therein lies Sound of My Voice’s weakness as a thriller and its strength as a mind-blower. Cowriter-director Zal Batmanglij and his conspirator are more interested (and adept) in manufacturing mood than narrative momentum, treating the characters’ journalistic quest as an excuse to showcase creepazoid-as-fuck cult behavior. Which the film does, in spades: You will never hear the Cranberries’ “Dreams” or watch a dozen people vomiting up apples the same way again.

But stick around, as far more intriguing concerns are dealt with: Is Maggie actually from the future? And what’s up with the mysterious older lady and young girl we keep cutting away to? Marling has already demonstrated a facility for penning sci-fi–tinged scenarios (she also cowrote the parallel-planet head-scratcher Another Earth), and her latest collaboration plies her obsession with reality-bending dislocation to even greater effect. Ambiguities trump answers, and possibly even logic. For those who aren’t burdened by such things, the loopy, off-kilter pace and frontal-lobe frying provide their own unconventional pleasures. It’s a cult film, in more ways than one.

Exclaim! [Cal MacLean]

Sound of My Voice tells a strange but eerily familiar story. The setting plays a large role: the opening shots of the film take us from dark suburban streets through an empty, generic kitchen and eventually down into one particular basement. It's up to the audience to decide just how menacing this is.

Later it's revealed that the characters have travelled from Los Angeles to the San Fernando Valley, literally descending downward into suburbia, then descending even lower. Making this journey are Peter (Christopher Denham) and his girlfriend, Lorna (Nicole Vicius), who are infiltrating a cult in order to film a documentary expose. Peter, whose mother died when he was a teenager, is all logic and resentment. In theory, he should be the perfect foil to Maggie, the cult leader, who claims to be sent from the year 2054. So why does Peter's first encounter with her leave him so shaken?

Brit Marling plays Maggie, pulling triple-duty as an actor/co-writer/co-producer, as she did in last year's Another Earth. As in that work, Marling plays a character more comfortable living on the fringes of society. But as Maggie, she imbues her outsider with grace and a commanding presence, making vague allusions to the future with a disarmingly casual air that gives resonane to the film's title.

Director/co-writer Zal Batmanglij gives the film enough of a sci-fi feel to never fully dismiss Maggie's futuristic claims. Directing his first feature with a steady but unrelenting pace, there's not much time to question things anyway. Peter and Lorna's entanglement in the cult brings the film, like any good horror movie, to a genuinely unpredictable place.

Unlike another recent work concerning cults, Martha Marcy May Marlene, Sound of My Voice isn't concerned with the horrors of indoctrination, only taking its characters so far. By the time this film reaches its seemingly abrupt ending, the look on Peter's face reveals that there's been a bolder observation made than we're used to hearing: that believing in something ― anything ― might be better than nothing at all.

Monsters and Critics [Anne Brodie]

You can cut the dramatic tension in this gem with a knife.  It refuses to let us know the full story, what the characters are truly thinking or what the outcome might be, and we are in its grip soon and completely.

Brit Marling and Zal Batmanglij’s small scale drama about a cult involves handful of people in white, sitting in a basement in suburban LA worshipping Maggie (Marling) who says she is from the year 2054.   There is a gnawing sensation of doom as two journalists (Christopher Denham and Nicole Vicius) engage with a cult they’re investigating for a documentary.   Like horror films of yore, you want to shout at the screen “Don’t go inside!”

Somehow and it’s not explained how, Peter and Lorna have learned of a woman who claims to be from the future, and is gathering recruits.  They join up, mini cameras at the ready, and submit to a training and ritual cleansing program. 

They learn a secret cult handshake which is absolutely hilarious, and purify themselves of outside influences.  They’re driven blindfolded to a secret location and taken to the basement where they are forced to shower and scrub hard. 

Afterwards, they’re given white hospital gowns that peek open at the back, and so are humiliated and vulnerable, and sit in a circle to meet, or better “behold” the beautiful Maggie.  She explains that she’s a time traveler from the future.   Her adoring subjects are putty in her hands and she’s cleverly molding them into what she need.

It’s clear that Maggie and her partner Klaus (Richard Wharton) are charismatic, intelligent and persuasive, but it’s also perfectly clear that their acolytes are weak enough to do themselves harm and that they are being manipulated.   Initially we have faith that the journos will do their job, expose them and get out.  But it’s not as cut and dried as that. 

The filmmakers have done a masterful job of presenting complicated emotions around the concept of “brainwashing”.   Maggie and Klaus do it by the book, speaking vividly and seductively, drawing their subjects in with personal testimonials and confessions, and starving, threatening and isolating them.   Their mind games cause intense physical and emotional reactions; the subjects are either oblivious or uncaring that they’re being seriously groomed.

And we never know just what Lorna and Peter are thinking, they weaken, recover and galvanize on this trippy rollercoaster, and soon their documentary plans fly out the window.   But again and it’s so well done, things aren’t what they seem.   In private talks at home after the Maggie sessions, Peter and Lorna show their cracks and again throw us off track.

In some ways, this small scale drama is an emotional thriller, pitting Lorna and Peter against Maggie and Klaus in a claustrophobic and eternal battleground of the soul.  Kudos to  co-writers Zal Batmanglij and Brit Marling who also plays Maggie on another inventive and profound film, following Another Earth. 

Sound of My Voice - Entertainment - Time Magazine Mary Pols

Review: 'Sound Of My Voice' A Sparse, Sturdy Debut By ... - indieWIRE Gabe Toro from The Playlist

Sound of My Voice - Filmcritic.com Movie Review Chris Barsanti

Slant Magazine [R. Kurt Osenlund]

Brit Marling is Back from the Future in Sound of My Voice - Page 1 ... Karina Longworth from The Village Voice

GordonandtheWhale.com [Allison Loring]

Sound Of My Voice | Film | Movie Review | The A.V. Club Alison Willmore

The MacGuffin [Adelaide Blair]

BeyondHollywood.com [Brent McKnight]

Spout [Christopher Campbell]

REVIEW: Sound of My Voice Asks You to Drink the Brit ... - Movieline Stephanie Zacharek

Sound of My Voice - Film School Rejects Kate Erbland

The Film Stage [Jonathan Sullivan]

Sound Of My Voice Review - CinemaBlend.com Katie Rich

FilmFracture: What's Your Time Worth? [Kathryn Schroeder]

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IONCINEMA [Nicholas Bell]

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sound-of-my-voice-movie-review-2012 - Rope of Silicon Brd Brevet

Headhunters | Bernie | Sounds of My Voice ... - The Wall Street Journal Joe Morgenstern

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'Sound of My Voice' Review | Screen Rant Kofi Outlaw

You Won Cannes [Madeleine K.]

Brit Marling on Sound of My Voice, Guerrilla Filmmaking and Not Waiting Permission Jen Yamato interview with Brit Marling from Movieline, April 25, 2012

Interview: Zal Batmanglij Director of 'Sound of My Voice' Danny Miller interview with the director, Zal Batmanglij, from The Hitlist, April 27, 2012

Interview: Brit Marling Captivates in 'Sound of My Voice' Danny Miller interview with Brit Marling from The Hitlist, April 29, 2012

Sound of My Voice Review Owen Gleiberman from Entertainment Weekly

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'Sound of My Voice' review: No cult classic Amy Biancolli from The SF Chronicle

Sound of My Voice a well-acted small-scale ... - Chicago Tribune Robert Ebele

The Sound of My Voice - Roger Ebert - Chicago Sun-Times

Sound of My Voice - Movies - The New York Times Manohla Dargis

Batra, Ritesh

THE LUNCHBOX (Dabba) B- 81

India France Germany USA (104 mi) 2013 ‘Scope Official Site [United States]

During the hustle and bustle of massive commuter traffic getting to and from work in Mumbai, India, where workers must negotiate the many jampacked bus and trainlines involved, there’s also the predictable routine of the empty jobs themselves, many of which offer little variety to the dreary and monotonous day-to-day existence, where individuals are pitted against the harsh and impersonal conditions of surviving in the city. With this backdrop, it’s easy to see how so many people’s lives can get distracted or lose their way in the sheer mayhem of survival, as few have time any more for the personal attention of lending a helping hand, where the exhausting toll of the accumulating pressures from getting through one day to the next can be overwhelming. In the collective disorder of a daily massive traffic jam, this film takes a look at the 120-year old practice of Mumbai’s Dabbawallahs, a community of about 5000 dabba (lunchbox) deliverymen who deliver home-cooked meals from housewives or selected food services to busy husbands at work, then returning the empty boxes afterwards. Most of those involved in the business are illiterate, yet they perfectly weave their way through a labyrinth of streets and addresses where a Harvard University study has concluded that they rarely if ever deliver the lunchboxes to a wrong address. While this film was originally conceived as a documentary about Mumbai’s Dabbawallahs, the director’s original screenplay was developed with the help of the Sundance Writer’s Workshop, turning this into an intricate character study that wants to be an old-fashioned romantic comedy.

Seen through the eyes of two individuals, Ila (Nimrat Kaur) is a beautiful young and neglected housewife who lovingly prepares elaborate dishes to attract her husband’s attention, continually seen calling to her Auntie living upstairs caring for her infirmed husband, who always has a magical cure for missing ingredients, dropping them in a basket lowered by a rope. The two of them conspire to get Ila’s husband back from the job he’s apparently married to, as he’s largely absent from the home, which includes a young daughter, and when he is there, he’s completely disinterested. While Ila’s life exists between the four walls of her apartment where she’s seemingly confined, she’s devoted to her daughter and playfully communicates with her Auntie all day long, turning into a running gag, as the Auntie is never seen but only heard, but she easily has some of the most comical lines in the whole film. When she takes special care to prepare a culinary delight that is her husband’s favorite, he barely notices when he gets home, but from his rather standard reaction she realizes her lunchbox was sent to someone else. So she places a note in the next day’s meal which is received by Saajan (Irrfan Khan), a government accountant working in a nondescript and impersonalized working environment, a man who spends a good part of his day simply getting to and from work, so by the time he’s back to his home, a small dwelling where he lives alone, he smokes off a ledge after preparing his own small meal and peers into the delicious-looking family style meal being devoured by a family across the way. Saajan has worked the same job for 35 years and is nearing retirement, but his future is uncertain after his wife died years ago. Somehow, by some supposedly impossible error, these two lonely souls connect and share thoughts about their lives through a series of notes passed to each other.

This sudden departure from the normal routine has a way of jumpstarting new energy into their lives, where each day holds an element of anticipation. No sooner does Saajan become enthralled at what awaits him from his mystery woman but he’s continually interrupted by the new person hired to take his place after retirement, the overeager Shaaikh (Nawazuddin Siddiqui), whose loud, unbridled enthusiasm contrasts with Saajan’s more quietly reserved style, as he prefers to savor these moments alone, conjuring up his own imaginary world, but is instead continually hounded by the new guy. When Shaaikh explains that he’s an orphan who taught himself everything, having spent his life moving from place to place, he draws the expected sympathy from Saajan who finally acknowledges him and even invites him to share his treasured meals, as all many Indian workers have for lunch is just two bananas, where Shaaikh upgrades his lunch to include two apples, which he gladly shares. While the movie conveniently leaves Shaaikh out of the picture while Saajan reads his notes, the intimacy between the two strangers has grown to actually considering a future together, as Saajan is unsure of his plans post-retirement, but develops an imaginary scenario that includes Ila. While the story itself is decidedly light and is something of a choreography of missed direction, the narrative is developed around the preparation of savory meals, where attention to detail is the film’s appeal, where the two leads are fully developed characters, becoming the intimate focus of the film, much more than the comic relief of the secondary roles. While this is a perfectly enjoyable film, among the festival favorites, there’s little lasting effects afterwards, as it’s fairly mainstream arthouse entertainment, where what’s unusual is the meticulous detail drawn by immersing the film in the rare and distinct atmosphere of the Mumbai Dabbawallahs, where hot and steamy overpopulation is seen in all its glory.

Reel Film Reviews [David Nusair]

The Lunchbox details the unlikely friendship that ensues between a frustrated housewife (Nimrat Kaur's Ila) and a depressed accountant (Irrfan Khan's Saajan) after a mixup involving his lunch order, with the film following the two characters as they begin to make changes in their lives as a result of their daily letters to one another. It's an immensely appealing premise that is, at the outset, employed to thoroughly engrossing effect by director Ritesh Batra, as the movie, once it becomes clear just what's going on (ie it takes a while to get a handle on India's weird lunchbox system), embraces its conventional elements to such an extent that it quickly becomes impossible not to root for and sympathize with the two protagonists. It is, as such, hard to deny that the movie only grows more and more involving as it progresses, with the completely affable atmosphere heightened by the stellar work of both Kaur and Khan. It's rather unfortunate to note, then, that The Lunchbox does begin to falter as it passes the one-hour mark, as Batra begins devoting too much time to elements that simply aren't all that compelling (ie it's ultimately clear that the movie is about 20 minutes longer than it should be). By the time the disappointingly ambiguous, non-feel-good finale rolls around, The Lunchbox has established itself as a a missed opportunity that will most likely fare better when Hollywood inevitably remakes it.

In Review Online [Francisco Lo]

The system runs like clockwork. “Dabbawalas”—men who deliver lunches from kitchens to office every morning—form a delivery system that is known for its precision amidst the bustling city of Mumbai. One day, a young housewife’s daily lunchbox for her husband is erroneously delivered to a lonely working stiff. On paper, such a quirky setup sounds like the stuff of 1990s romantic comedies like Sleepless in Seattle, a film that gave rise to enough forgettable imitators to corrode the entire genre. Hence, it is a welcome breath of fresh air to see how well writer-director Ritesh Batra handles the seemingly overdone formula in his feature film debut, The Lunchbox, smartly avoiding cheesy crowd-pleasing pitfalls and aiming for a subtle drama on all that is melancholy about life.

For Ila (Nimrat Kaur) and Fernandes (Irrfan Kahn), life in the big city is mundane and unfulfilling. Ila is married to a husband who pays her no attention; she dedicates herself to taking care of her young daughter and making the best lunches she can in hopes of getting noticed by the man who always finds the quickest route to get out of a conversation with her. Meanwhile, middle-aged Fernandes is a widower who is set for early retirement, after working as a stuffy bureaucrat for 35 years. When he is introduced to Shaikh (Nawazuddin Siddiqui), his overeager replacement, Fernandes simply avoids his younger protégé. Even though he is a killjoy to neighborhood children and co-workers alike, the film never intends for him to be a dramatically cantankerous sort like Ebenezer Scrooge. A man of few words, Fernandes let his days pass with little interest in the people around him, and least of all, himself.

Things change for both he and Ila, however, when they begin corresponding through the traveling lunchbox. At first, it begins only with brief comments about Ila’s cooking. But as they begin to mention the humdrum happenings of their lives, deeper and darker feelings also emerge. Their musings are often grim, yet there is no a lack of humor and poignancy in their observations. Batra’s astute portrayal of his characters’ gentle sorrow reminds one of similar sentiments shared by characters in many of Japanese filmmaker Yasujiro Ozu’s greatest films. “Isn’t life disappointing?” a character asks in his Tokyo Story (1953). Indeed, it often is—and Ozu’s pitch-perfect ability to identify and translate such a delicate perspective speaks to his films’ timeless universality. In the same vein, Batra conceives a film deeply in touch with the fundamental inquiries of our shared humanity. The Lunchbox’s unlikely pair finds comfort from each other through their shared feelings of resignation, which ironically leads them to find the courage that they did not see in themselves before.

For a movie that has its leading couple separated for its entirety, The Lunchbox, remarkably, manages to build real chemistry in this budding relationship. Perhaps the most important reason for its success in this regard is its patience in fleshing out what connects these two total strangers without rushing into some contrived romantic narrative maneuver. Batra’s script is beautifully written: While the contents of the pair’s letters are the key to this relationship, he also understands how to utilize this narrative device to maximum effect without overexposing it. Case in point: After a series of exchanges, Ila finally asks Fernandes for his name, which he has neglected to include in his letters. Yet the film keeps us from hearing his reply via the usual voiceover. Instead, his first name—also unknown to the viewers at this point—is revealed when Ila puts his letter down and turns to an old Bollywood song. Music ends up playing a small but crucial part again later, as a group of singing dabbawalas in the train provides a mystical and poetic end to a film that finds solace from the disappointments of life in unlikely circumstances.

Slant Magazine [Nick McCarthy]

Internationally, Mumbai's dabbawallas, or lunch deliverymen, are recognized for their efficiency in transporting hot food from households to the workplace via various modes of transport. Debut director Ritesh Batra's humane and humble The Lunchbox, however, isn't interested in depicting the nuances of this delivery system that's garnered the approval of Harvard University and The New York Times. Instead, he constructs a compassionate narrative around one outlier lunchbox that's delivered to the wrong address.

Ila (Nimrat Kaur) is a middle-class housewife battling tedium at home, attentive to her daughter, but deeply unsatisfied with her neglectful and passive husband, who's too preoccupied with his phone to appreciate his wife's warm presence. As such, Ila consults her Auntie to create transcendent and vibrant dishes in hopes of reviving her husband's heart through his tastebuds. "This new recipe will do the trick for you," her Auntie promises. The earnest attempt backfires, however, when Ila's lunchbox ends up on the paper-filled desk of veteran claims clerk Saajan (Irrfan Khan, brilliantly understated), a widower who's set to retire at the end of the month after 35 years of bureaucratic service. After learning that her husband didn't receive the meal she poured her heart into, Ila includes a confessional letter alongside the naan on the second day, aware that the delivery glitch will transpire again. Saajan, touched by the idea of a wife hoping to revive her marriage, returns the emptied lunchbox with a receptive and advice-laden note equally full of honesty about his personal life. Thus begins an epistolary friendship that's comforting in its anonymity and cathartic as an outlet of expression for two increasingly lonely souls.

Batra impressively captures the hustle and bustle of Mumbai, its overpopulated offices, trains, and streets, while also carving out his characters' individual identities and allowing them to breathe within this crowded milieu. Although he relies on a fairly flimsy premise built on coincidence, he explores the interior lives of Ila and Saajan as they navigate their own indecision (Ila is worried she may have to leave her impassive husband, while Saajan anxiously questions his plans for retirement). The patience in mercurially presenting the characters' backstories and desires is matched by the film's warm tone, which is anchored by a genuine curiosity about the healing power of sharing stories, as Ila slowly develops the strength to overcome the fear of change in her life, and Saajan becomes engaged with his surroundings again after becoming alienated from society as a result of his wife's death and his repetitive job.

Above all, The Lunchbox is an endearing observation of the spiritual, life-revitalizing powers of both food and communication. As Saajan explains to Ila, "You let me into your dreams and I want to thank you for that," and it's this spirited generosity that allows the film to avoid the trappings of more conventional feel-good narratives. Like Lost in Translation, the plutonic intimacy of the central relationship is built on personal emancipation and earned pathos, not codependency. Wisely, Batra never reduces the material to reductive romantic tension or mawkish melodrama, nor does the Mumbai-born filmmaker fetishize the locale for Western consumption. His characters make life-changing decisions based on what's best for themselves and without concern for the audience's tear ducts, and refreshingly offers a denouement that remains true to the perceived motivations of the characters he's lucidly developed. The Lunchbox doesn't go for gravitas by depicting how we lean on others to give us life, but how human connection can provide context and memories from which we can learn about what's best for ourselves.

Film-Forward.com [Dionne King]

Alt Film Guide [Timothy Cogshell]

Review: Warm And Charming 'The Lunchbox' An Easy Decision At ... Kevin Jagernauth from The Playlist

DVDTalk.com - theatrical [Jamie S. Rich]

Film Racket [Chris Barsanti]

JamesBowman.net | The Lunchbox

Spectrum Culture [David Harris]

1NFLUX Magazine [Martin Hafer]

Filmleaf [Chris Knipp]

The Lunchbox / The Dissolve Nathan Murray

Movie Mezzanine [Dan Schindel]

SBS Movies [Eddie Cockrell]

Seongyong's Private Place [Seongyong Cho]

Little White Lies [David Jenkins]

Cinemablographer [Pat Mullen]

Cinema365 [Carlos deVillalvilla]

Review: THE LUNCHBOX, An Exquisite Ode To ... - Twitch Meenakshi Shedde

theartsdesk.com [Katherine McLaughlin]

Cinescene [Howard Schumann]

Film.com [William Goss]

Georgia Straight [Ken Eisner]

EyeForFilm.co.uk [Richard Mowe]

The Lunchbox: Cannes Review - The Hollywood Reporter Deborah Young

Variety Jay Weissberg

'The Lunchbox' movie review: A beguiling romance with a dash of regret Ann Hornaday from The Washington Post

Austin Chronicle [Marjorie Baumgarten]

Review: 'Lunchbox' - Los Angeles Times Kenneth Turan

Movie Reviews, Showtimes and Trailers - Movies - New York Times ... A.O. Scott, also seen here: New York Times [A.O.Scott]

Battersby, Bradley

JESUS THE DRIVER C 73

USA (93 mi) 2004

Silly culture mix comedy in the vein of BILL AND TED’S ADVENTURES, as it features two “wild and crazy guys,” wannabe American robbers who decide to hire cheap Mexican day labor, so they pull up under the overpass & hire one of the guys standing on the side of the road. He is their designated getaway driver. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know how to drive, but he puts the pedal to the metal, improves his driving skills by playing video driving games, & eventually has an influence, not only on the two scoundrels, but on the world at large, becoming a folk legend in his own time, which spurs a furious reaction, especially within the family of his girl friend, who suddenly have the good fortune of receiving expensive surprise gifts. It’s all a silly spoof and features some really terrible acting from the lead, Jesus “Chuy” Perez, and not enough from the gorgeous girl friend, Roxanne Dawson. It has the feel of an unfinished film.

Baumbach, Noah

Overview for Noah Baumbach - Turner Classic Movies bio page

Often described as witty, insightful and unapologetically New York, it was no surprise that writer-director Noah Baumbach drew comparisons to Woody Allen and Whit Stillman - compliments the filmmaker has relished throughout his career. A childhood spent in art house theaters, soaking in Howard Hawks, François Truffaut and Jean Renoir, helped inform his lifelong ambition to become a filmmaker. Baumbach's passionate, almost obsessive love for film was finally realized when he helmed his debut feature, "Kicking and Screaming" (1995), on through his seminal film, "The Squid and the Whale" (2005) - the quasi-autobiographical drama that positioned him firmly inside the pantheon of meaningful filmmakers.

Noah Baumbach - All Movie Guide Rebecca Flint Marx

A writer and director who, with two films, established himself as a disciple of the Whit Stillman School of Well-Heeled Post-Modern Post-Collegiate Anxiety, Noah Baumbach emerged as one of the more talented and literate young directors of the 1990s.

The son of Georgia Brown, a film critic for the Village Voice, and Jonathan Baumbach, a novelist and film critic for The Partisan Review, Baumbach began writing and directing at a young age, first earning awards for his work during his senior year at Midwood High School. A native of Brooklyn, NY, he went on to attend Vassar, where he met Carlos Jacott, an actor who would appear in all of the director's films.

Baumbach made his screenwriting and directorial debut in 1995 with Kicking and Screaming. An ensemble comedy starring Eric Stoltz, Olivia D'Abo, and Josh Hamilton, it focused on the growing pains of a group of graduates struggling to make the transition from undergraduate life to the real world. The film garnered a warm critical reception and became something of an art house success, paving the way for Baumbach's next feature, the 1997 Mr. Jealousy. Whereas Kicking and Screaming won over critics with its brand of wry neurotics, Mr. Jealousy earned a merely lukewarm reception, and was cited by a number of critics as being weighed down by a saggy narrative and annoying characters. However, the film's central performers -- Stoltz, Chris Eigeman, and Annabella Sciorra -- all earned positive notices for their work, which led a number of reviewers to praise Baumbach's facility with actors.

Baumbach followed Mr. Jealousy with Highball (2000), a barely released drama that reunited him with Stoltz, Sciorra, and Eigeman. In 2004, he co-wrote The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou with Wes Anderson before releasing the semi-autobiographical The Squid and the Whale in 2005. Following two young boys dealing with their parents' impending divorce in 1980s Brooklyn, the film starred Jeff Daniels and Laura Linney as the parents and earned Baumbach an Oscar nomination for Best Original Screenplay.

His next film, Margot at the Wedding (2007), starred Nicole Kidman as the titular Margot and Baumbach's then-wife, Jennifer Jason Leigh, as her sister who's getting married. Baumbach then teamed back up with Anderson to write 2009's stop-motion Fantastic Mr. Fox. His next two features, 2010's Greenberg and 2012's Frances Ha, both starred indie darling Greta Gerwig.

In addition to his other projects as a director, he kept busy as a writer, penning a series of short stories for the New Yorker.

Official Site | Noah Baumbach Bio | Greenberg brief bio

meh, yeah... noah baumbach random website

How Did Noah Baumbach and Jennifer Jason Leigh ... Scenes from an Indie Marriage, by Emily Nussbaum from New York magazine, September 24, 2007

Happiness - The New Yorker Ian Parker, April 29, 2013

Jennifer Jason Leigh Officially Divorced From Director Noah ... Claudia Rosenbaum from E-Online, October 7, 2013

The Films of Noah Baumbach, Ranked From Worst to Best ... David Canfield from indieWIRE, March 27, 2015

Will Noah Baumbach Ever Make a Movie Everyone Can ... Noah Baumbach’s Golden Years, by Seth Stevenson from Slate, March 27, 2015

When Noah Baumbach was young: Revisiting the master of ... When Noah Baumbach was young: Revisiting the master of ironic distance’s most influential films, by Adam Lawrence from Salon, March 28, 2015

Noah Baumbach, (almost) all grown up - The Washington Post Michael O’Sullivan, April 2, 2015

Youth Wasted on the Old: Legacy and Ageism for Noah ... Andy Crump from Paste magazine, April 20, 2015

Noah Baumbach Is the Naked Emperor | David Fagin The Huffington Post, April 20, 2015

And So it Begins...: the Directors: Noah Baumbach Alex Withrow, May 1, 2015

TSPDT - Noah Baumbach

BOMB Magazine — Noah Baumbach by Jonathan Lethem Interview from Bomb magazine, Fall 2005

Noah Baumbach · Interview · The A.V. Club interview with Noel Murray from the Onion A.V. Club, November 9, 2005, also seen here: Noah Baumbach

What They Don't Teach You In Film School: An Interview With Noah Baumbach by Zachary Wigon from Tisch Film Review, January 6, 2008

Noah Baumbach on Putting His Life on Screen | Village Voice Amy Nicholson interview, March 18, 2015

Acting Their Age: Noah Baumbach on “While We're Young ... Matt Fagerholm interview from the Ebert site, March 24, 2015

Interview: Noah Baumbach | Feature | Slant Magazine Kyle Turner interview, March 26, 2015

Noah Baumbach Explains Why HBO Dropped "The ... Kala Hoke interview from Studio 360, March 27, 2015

Noah Baumbach On "While We're Young" And The Wisdom ... Ari Karpel interview from Fast Co-Create, March 31, 2015

Director Noah Baumbach grows up on screen Adam Graham interview from The Detroit News, April 10, 2015

Noah Baumbach interview - The Telegraph Patrick Smith interview, April 22, 2015

KICKING AND SCREAMING

USA (96 mi) 1995

Max: I’m too nostalgic. I’ll admit it.

Skippy: We graduated four months ago. What can you possibly be nostalgic for?

Max: I’m nostalgic for conversations I had yesterday. I’ve begun reminiscing events before they even occur. I’m reminiscing this right now. I can’t go to the bar because I’ve already looked back on it in my memory… and I didn’t have a good time.

top ten list Mike D’Angelo’s #9 film of 1995

My standard caveat: what follows is a list of my favorite films of 1995. It is by no means a list of what I consider to be the best films of 1995. In fact, I consider some of the films that didn't make my list (notably Crumb) quite a lot "better" than most of the films that did; however, given a choice between owning a copy of Crumb or a copy of my #9 film -- which even I consider vastly inferior to Zwigoff's justly celebrated documentary -- I wouldn't hesitate for more than a moment before choosing the latter. Are your closest friends necessarily the finest people you've ever met? There's more to love than quality. Keep that in mind as you read on (though indignant flames are welcome).

See my caveat above. This is hardly one of the ten "best" films of the year, but if you make even a marginally entertaining movie about hyperarticulate men of my own age and socioeconomic background, it's more or less guaranteed a place in my heart. As it happens, Kicking and Screaming is quite a bit more than marginally entertaining; first-time writer/director Baumbach (who's younger than I am, damn him!) writes clever, sitcom-ready dialogue, but he also has the good sense to cast actors who know how to throw it away (figuratively, not literally), and his camera placement and narrative rhythms are remarkably assured. The first time I saw it, I was too busy laughing to pay much attention to mise-en-scène; when I saw it a second time, I was amazed at what Baumbach was able to accomplish visually with his very talky script. My favorite scene of the year: Chris Eigeman, as Max, sweeps some shards of broken glass into a pile, carefully balances a sheet of paper reading "BROKEN GLASS" atop it, and casually walks out of the room. A joke that speaks volumes.

Washington Post [Hal Hinson]

In "Kicking and Screaming," Noah Baumbach's hilariously insightful comedy about a group of college graduates preparing to enter the "real world," the characters may be the future leaders of America, but they aren't exactly rushing out to seize the day. Their heads are jammed with all sorts of knowledge, but instead of applying it usefully, they idle away their days, playing games, testing each other's acumen with periodic challenges. "Name five movies with monkeys in the title." Or, should that prove too easy, "Name five empiricist philosophers."

Set in an unnamed college town somewhere in the Northeast, the movie centers on four friends—Grover (Josh Hamilton), Max (Chris Eigeman), Otis (Carlos Jacott) and Skippy (Jason Wiles). Grover—who is based partly on Baumbach himself—is the unofficial leader of this bratty, alienated pack, and the main focus of the movie, but that doesn't mean he has a clue as to what to do with his life.

A nice chunk of the film is devoted to Grover and his relationship with Jane (Olivia D'Abo), a quick-witted writing student with whom he has fallen in love. At the party just after graduation, though, Jane tells him she is leaving to study abroad in Prague. "Really," he replies. "And just how would that work with us living in Brooklyn?"

The news doesn't send Grover into a funk; he's already there. All of these guys are, in fact. Instead of enjoying their youth, these perplexed friends seem eager to have life's adventures behind them—to be old even before they've lived. Most days, Max sits around the house doing crossword puzzles while Otis (whom Jacott turns into a hilarious comic screw-up) attempts, unsuccessfully, to leave town for graduate school.

Baumbach approaches his topic of generational angst as a modern coming-of-age story, and in both style and spirit he is closer to Rohmer and Truffaut than the creators of most recent "twentysomething" films. As a writer, Baumbach loves smart, glib talk, and he has a sharp ear for fast-paced, overlapping dialogue; as a director, though, he prefers long takes that allow his characters to work out their feelings. At the same time, the movie barrels through its story with the brisk efficiency of a '30s screwball comedy.

Though the characters chatter endlessly, they seem to use conversation almost as a tactic for avoiding the real issues confronting them. In a flashback of their first meeting, the more serious Jane criticizes one of Grover's stories because of his characters' absorption in such trivial issues as the sexiest model in the Victoria's Secret catalogue. Grover, of course, doesn't see it that way. ("There were some really fantastic models in this issue.") Jane, on the other hand, sees the expenditure of all that brainpower on such nonsense as a depressing waste.

As a rule, the women in the film are more mature, more directed, than their male counterparts. (Parker Posey is particularly strong in a small role.) Most of the men are like Jacott's Otis, a fully grown giant of a man who thinks of himself as shrunken and scared. ("I'm too small to do what the bigger boys can do," he says.) As Jane, D'Abo is something of a revelation. A former "Bond girl," D'Abo gives her character an anxious, high-strung appeal; she's both neurasthenic and strong. (I loved the way she uses Jane's retainer, popping it in and out for dramatic emphasis.) As Grover, Hamilton is more recessive, but he also shows a nice, light touch for comedy, particularly in scenes like the one in which he forbids his hapless father (a sublimely depressed Elliot Gould) to reveal the more intimate details of his sex life.

Such scenes underline the shifting relationships between parents and children as vividly as any in recent memory. In general, Baumbach's eye for generational detail is impeccable—he knows what's on these kids' minds, and has found a language to express it. He's savvy enough to know, for example, that Prague has become a cliche. He's also aware that growing up is a matter of tiny steps. By the end of the picture, the characters haven't progressed much, but they do seem to have gotten started. And that, at least, is something.

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THE SQUID AND THE WHALE A- 94

USA (88 mi) 2005

Joint custody blows

Hilarious and devastating all at the same time, an emotionally anguishing film, showing us a well educated upper middle class Brooklyn family in deterioration, as the liberal-minded, openly progressive parents one day announce to their two close-knit sons that they are separating. What follows is a walking nightmare for all participants, but especially devastating to the two boys, who are divided up like leftover helpings for dinner, mom’s night or dad’s night, with rules that they must strictly adhere to that make little or no sense. Jeff Daniels plays one of the most despicable characters seen onscreen short of a cold-blooded killer, a smug, overbearing know-it-all father who uses knowledge as an absolute, who was a successful writer at one time but now toils in obscurity as a literary professor. He’s a terrible judge of character, however, especially within his own family, as no one else’s opinion counts except his own, and he’s constantly defining the world around him with set-in-stone judgments and conclusions, including his own wife and children, confining them to a world that exists only in the arrogance of his own mind. As a result, the older son is a carbon copy, an opinionated copycat that blames his mom for their separation, simply because his dad does, and refuses to have anything to do with her. Laura Linney is also a writer, but is constantly denigrated as second rate by dad, so when she breaks from the nest, it’s her writing that gets recognized, and with her newborn freedom, she literally blooms, like the lilies of the field, much to her husband and older son’s outright hatred and jealousy. The younger son is more in tune with the softer nature of his mom, but as we watch his world unravel, it veers into painfully unfamiliar territory. As time passes, everyone’s shortcomings become more evident, allowing emotional positions to shift. What is amazing here is how much the children resemble their parents. At times it’s downright creepy.

Billy Baldwin and Anna Paquin are both excellent in side roles, and the acting overall is superb. This is one of the better edited films I’ve seen, as there is no wasted motion whatsoever, every scene flows so perfectly into the next, which is significant as the exquisite pacing increases the dramatic power by keeping everything so compact and concise. What is said, and how it is said, is simultaneously humorous and brutal, like a variation on WHO’S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF, where words so skillfully utilized become weapons. The film never dwells or lingers, and always adds the grace notes of wit and humor, but the cumulative effect reveals a slow deterioration of the kid’s personalities, with moments that feel like a descent into madness. The accompanying music is extremely well chosen, much of it humorous references from other films, and always in synch with the material. My problem with the film is with the written depiction of the parents, which is actually one of the great strengths of the film, whose separate lives seem so meticulously organized, right down to who gets the cat on what night, so their neglectful behavior, particularly with the younger son, just seems so improbable. It does not seem very likely that such well educated parents, clueless and self-centered as they are, whose interest in their children borders on the obsessive, would not wait (a half-hour?) to make sure someone picked up their child before they left on a lengthy trip. The hideousness of this act did not ring true with these parents, at least for me, while the aftereffects of their marital breakup is true enough, unsparing and brutal, sad and psychologically horrific.

Sundance Directing Award
American dramatic: Noah Baumbach, "The Squid and the Whale."

Waldo Salt screenwriting award
American dramatic: Noah Baumbach, "The Squid and the Whale."

Leonard Quart interviews Baumbach from Cineaste, December 2005, also seen here: Divorce Brooklyn style: an interview with Noah Baumbach.

Writer-director Noah Baumbach's first two films, Kicking and Screaming (1995) and Mr. Jealousy (1998), were comic, and perceptive, evocations of male-female relationships. But in their treatment of the behavior between men and women the emphasis was on the wryly humorous and absurd rather than the psychologically penetrating. Nevertheless, the films' characters still remained believable and relatively layered—Baumbach's indelible signature.

The Squid and the Whale is a much more poignant, emotionally nuanced, and artistically successful work than his first two films. Although it, too, is very funny, the humor is tinged with genuine pain and pathos throughout. Baumbach, thirty-five, based the film on his own experience of the divorce of his parents (novelist Jonathan Baumbach, and former Village Voice film critic, Georgia Brown), and this is the first film he has made that originates in his interior life—a truly personal work.

The film's focus is on the coming of age in 1986 Brooklyn of articulate sixteen-year-old Walt (Jesse Eisenberg) and his twelve-year-old less verbal preadolescent brother, Frank (Owen Kline), after the separation of their Park Slope, literary-intellectual parents— Bernard Berkman, an academic and novelist whose literary career is faltering, and Joan Berkman, a writer who is just beginning to blossom (roles played without a false note by Jeff Daniels and Laura Linney). The two boys are traumatized by the separation and by the joint custody agreement. It forces them to spend half of the week with each parent, painfully shifting back and forth between the different houses.

They act out their distress in very different ways. Walt, who identifies with and defends his father, mimics his portentous diatribes and snap judgments, while Frank, who is very attached to his mother and her “cool,” goofily supportive tennis-pro boyfriend Ivan (William Baldwin), yells obscenities at every opportunity, drinks beer, and begins to zealously masturbate, leaving his semen smeared on public surfaces.

Bernard and Joan are flawed but sympathetic, and they are both loving, supportive parents. The film is a complexly honest work that never crosses the line into caricature. The boy's father can be insufferably pompous (“Kafka—one of my predecessors”) and snobbish (“He's a philistine”), and lacks self-awareness.

But Baumbach avoids turning him into a cartoon of an intellectual. That's a rare thing in American films, where intellectuals are usually rendered as either pretentious fools or stuffy, remote figures cut off from ordinary life. The bearded, corduroy-jacket-wearing Bernard may be patriarchal, blundering, and blustery, but he's also convincingly knowing and passionate about the best literature and film—almost worshipful at the altar of art.

Bernard is also a father who wants to do well by his sons, but he's self-involved, and misses too many significant emotional cues. In fact, he seems to have no real clues to why the marriage itself ended. Bernard may name-drop (e.g., Mailer, Plimpton), be absurdly competitive and cheap, and make far too many contemptuous judgments, but his character emanates sweetness and a sense of genuine despondency and fragility beneath his less attractive qualities.

The mother, who isn't as richly conceived or detailed a character, conveys a mixture of vulnerability, common sense, warmth, and distraction—she's just too caught up in her own thoughts. And her penchant for gratuitous sexual confession is distressing to her sons. The fact that the parents are extremely literate and intelligent doesn't give them any insight into the turmoil their sons are experiencing. In fact, they both seem emotionally blind. They may know their Proust and Bresson, but see little or nothing of what's right in front of them.

The Squid and Whale is comically incisive when dealing with the subtle ways separated parents continue to try to gain an edge on each other, and with the anguish and dislocation that the dissolution of a long-term marriage brings to everybody involved. Baumbach's comic sense deepens rather than trivializes his characters' problems. The parents engage in a struggle over their books (their most prized possessions), with Joan hiding valued ones under Frank's mattress to prevent Bernard from taking them. They also constantly conflict over the number of the days the boys should stay with either of them. All of this seems petty and even silly, but it's enveloped in a sense of profound melancholy and loss.

The plight of Berkman's two sons is at the center of the film. The younger, Frank, can't really articulate his pain, or his resentment towards his father, so he acts out in extreme ways. Walt, who is sexually innocent, earnest, and intelligent, and wants so much to impress his father that he claims as his own the Pink Floyd's “Hey You” (he sings it to great applause at a school concert), has to break from his father's overbearing influence to forge his own identity and make peace with his mother. He is able to detach himself from his father only after Bernard's luster begins to diminish: the demigod gradually becoming foolishly mortal in Walter's eyes.

The film doesn't resolve itself neatly. The marriage isn't resurrected, and there are no magical transformations of character. The Squid and the Whale leaves us with an emotional muddle, but one that feels true to characters whose lives remain open-ended to possibility, not permanently scarred. There may be more pain and despair in the offing, but the Berkmans don't feel like characters that will be paralyzed by it.

Baumbach has made a keenly observed realist film, which uses simple close-ups, shot/reaction shot editing, and home interiors to powerful effect. He has also created a group of characters that can't be reduced to a one-dimensional set of adjectives, whose complex nature is conveyed in almost every one of their actions. Baumbach's parental figures may be defective in many ways, but he refuses to condemn them and sees their virtues amidst their imperfections. More impressive still is his capacity to simultaneously evoke laughter and sorrow in many sequences. In The Squid and the Whale , Noah Baumbach has discovered his voice.

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MARGOT AT THE WEDDING A- 93

USA (92 mi) 2007

While SQUID AND THE WHALE (2005) featured a repugnant father (Jeff Daniels), this film features one of the more revolting mothers in Nicole Kidman’s neurotically smug Margot, who perhaps best represents what years of therapy gone wrong can do. Honest to the point of being compulsive, where she can’t help herself from making snide, overly critical remarks, she’s willing to destroy all those around her in the name of truth and honesty, used like a bulldozer to clear the landscape around her, where her primary purpose appears to be to deflect personal criticism away from herself, completely oblivious to the ramifications of her actions. She’s brazenly horrible, where her overly grumpy nature around others, exacerbated by the everpresent glasses of wine, lead to despicable family betrayals which she reveals like open sores through her successful short stories. Of primary interest, due to her literary acclaim, she is actually considered the breadwinner and the voice of reason and success in the family, even though she hasn’t spoken to her sister Pauline (Jennifer Jason Leigh) in years. They are burying the hatchet, however, as Pauline announces she’s about to be married to the mildly artistic but perennially unemployed Malcolm (Jack Black), who Margot immediately detests and undermines. More friction ensues. Shot in underlit darkened exteriors by Harris Savides, this is a savagely dark comedy with only brief traces of humor, which is instead dominated by a foul odor that expresses itself in strange ways, the unwanted string of personal critiques coming from Margot, her son Claude’s (Zane Pais) entrance into puberty and the first emergence of body odor, the strange and cruel neighbors next door who want them to chop down an immense tree that borders their property, claiming the roots are rotting, poisoning their plants, and the disappearance of a well liked family dog.

The film opens with Margot and Claude taking a train from New York to the Hamptons, which may as well be a journey back to her childhood, as Pauline inherited their mother’s summer home, so it brings back a flood of memories and stored up resentments which come to a head almost immediately, where Margot assumes her domineering role as the older sister, showing her true colors when she instantly reveals information told to her in confidence that Pauline is pregnant and intentionally hadn’t told anyone else, as she didn’t want people to believe that’s why she was marrying Malcolm. Pauline’s daughter Ingrid (Flora Cross) immediately becomes concerned wondering why her mother didn’t tell her, as well as Malcolm who’s somewhat ambivalent about becoming a father, believing this may be the stage in life where he’s not the most important person in the world anymore. This story reflects a growing unease that people have with each another, revealing how people unhesitatingly poison the waters of the world around them, like opening the floodgates of the obnoxious behavior displayed on opinion-oriented talk radio, disparaging everyone around them while at the same time they somehow attempt to balance a sense of trust and personal honesty with their friends and family, and in this case an all but doomed impending marriage. Somehow, the more they try to make it work, the worse it gets.

While this film has a feeling of incompleteness with so much background information left out of the film, a bit like entering in midair and having to figure out how to fly, but what it does show in sharply defined characters is revealed in intimate detail, sparing nothing, in a scathing portrait of a dysfunctional family behaving like they’ve always done, which is tear each other to shreds. This is a no holds barred indictment of suburban hypocrisy, people who use honesty as a weapon to hold others at bay, which gives them a phony sense of superiority. What’s unique here is that such self-absorbed adults are behaving so wretchedly inappropriately in front of their own children. Claude especially is a quietly sensitive kid, played with a beautiful sense of authenticity by Pais, but he’s subject to constant critiques from his mother even over the smallest things, where every detail of his life comes under neverending scrutiny, yet he’s attached to her and loves her, even if she doesn’t know how to love him back, telling him that when he was a baby, she wouldn’t allow anyone else to hold him. “I think that was a mistake.” Despite the horrid things Margot says and does, Pauline is basically a forgiving soul and her maternal instincts are more on the mark. When the inevitable dust up with Margot reaches volatile proportions, the audience is surprised with how quickly Pauline’s anger subsides and her more easy going personality takes center stage. Jennifer Jason Leigh is luminous in this role, yet her character has a surprising passivity, where her low key nature allows her sister (and others) to trample all over her again, yet she’s stunningly appealing displaying such an open vulnerability. A unique and refreshingly daring work, always smart and articulate, all the performances feel pitch perfect in this small incendiary chamber drama, like an off-stage Broadway production made on a miniscule budget, offering a great deal more freedom of expression, more bang for your buck, where we may remain haunted afterwards by the wrenchingly expressed unpleasantness of these troubled souls.

Margot at the Wedding Jonathan Rosenbaum from the Reader

After his charmingly painful Kicking and Screaming (1995) and Mr. Jealousy (1998) and his more painfully autobiographical The Squid and the Whale (2005), writer-director Noah Baumbach announces "No more Mr. Nice Guy" in this hysterically hyperbolic and unpleasant if still witty dissection of family traumas. The neurotically judgmental title heroine (Nicole Kidman), a successful fiction writer, takes her son (Zane Pais) to the country to attend the wedding of her estranged, new-agey sister (Jennifer Jason Leigh) to a confused slacker she's recently met (Jack Black). Apart from John Turturro in a cameo, all the characters are monsters and/or basket cases (and the next-door neighbors are a nightmare projection of the family's class and ethnic fears). Though no family on earth is likely to be as dysfunctional as this one, realism is no longer Baumbach's register. It's almost as if Woody Allen shifted his allegiance from Bergman to Strindberg while tripling his skill in handling actors. R, 93 min.

Stopsmilingonline.com Patrick Z. McGavin

With his fifth feature, Margot at the Wedding, Noah Baumbach has emerged as possibly the most wrenching and impressive young American filmmaker. His elliptical new film centered on an impending marriage — made without transitions or exposition — synthesizes John Cassavetes and Eric Rohmer, the drama built around the dramatic and emotionally painful events of a long weekend in the Hamptons. In her finest performance, Nicole Kidman plays a monster, cold and furious, wholly without sentiment. Jennifer Jason Leigh (the director’s wife) is her younger, neurotic sister. The ruthlessness of their exchanges — the barely concealed anger, class grievances and sexual candor — is absolutely exhilarating. It’s also lacerating and painful, especially Baumbach’s fluid, naturalistic shooting style, which constantly captures sentences and conversations midstream, so the precise feeling of anger or sense of betrayal leaves you constantly off-balance. Just as I was ready to give up on Jack Black as a mannered and overwrought actor, he shows an unprecedented range and vulnerability.

Seattle Post-Intelligencer [Sean Axmaker]

In the ruthlessly funny 2006 film "The Squid and the Whale," writer/director Noah Baumbach fictionalized the drama of his parents' breakup, painting some very unflattering character portraits at least partially inspired by his family.

"Margot at the Wedding" continues in the same East Coast intellectual milieu and the same kind of rocky emotional terrain, but while it shifts the focus to two sisters, it feels just as autobiographical and introspective as "The Squid and the Whale."

Margot (Nicole Kidman), a tightly wound author and dubiously maternal mother, breaks the silence with her sister Pauline (Jennifer Jason Leigh) to attend her wedding. They haven't spoken since Margot was confronted by Pauline for turning her private intimate conversation into a very public short story full of unkind judgments.

Kidman plays brittle and chilly beautifully, but her self-involved and judgmental Margot -- who bluntly blurts out every stray critical thought like a Tourette's reflex -- is something else altogether. Kidman doesn't shy away from Margot's hard corners and there's something painfully vulnerable in the way she shifts her own feelings of shame or guilt into attacks on whoever is within earshot.

Pauline has her own self-esteem issues, as her upcoming marriage to chronically depressed and eternally unemployed Malcolm (Jack Black) suggests. Yet as played by Leigh, she's the introspective, stable one trying to face her messy childhood. For Margot, it's all just fodder for her fiction -- kept at arm's length as if it's somebody else's story.

Shooting with a handheld camera that stays just slightly aloof from the uneasy atmosphere, Baumbach creates a vivid and nuanced sense of this family's dynamics.

While Margot's casual cruelty and the scenes of squirmy discomfort are sometimes painful to watch, the rendering of this disastrous family reunion is seriously, savagely droll.

Willamette Week | “Margot at the Wedding” | November 21st, 2007 Aaron Mesh

“When a writer is born into a family,” Philip Roth said, “that’s the end of that family.” Margot, the titular character of Noah Baumbach’s film Margot at the Wedding , is a writer, but in 90 minutes she makes a convincing case that she could have wrecked her family even if she had never picked up a pen. Played to ruthless perfection by Nicole Kidman, Margot is icily acerbic at her best moments—and her best moments are often compromised by drink (white wine with one ice cube) or marijuana, either of which can inspire her to lash out with stinging criticisms thinly disguised as helpful honesty, or casual betrayals masquerading as intimate confidences. When someone tells a secret to Margot, that’s the end of that secret.

Of course, some people would argue that sharing a confidence with Baumbach is no picnic either. Margot at the Wedding makes a strong claim on being the best movie of the year, but it comes on the heels of Baumbach’s 2005 film The Squid and the Whale —an unsparing drama based on his parents’ 1980s divorce—and again features New York literati mothers at their least becoming, laying Baumbach open to the charge of milking his familial crises for another story. “There should be a statute of limitations on how long you can blame your parents,” one of my colleagues muttered as he exited the Margot screening. But this is a misreading of the movie, and a reductionistic one at that: This film is planted firmly in the present, and it’s a criticism not of selfish Boomers but of the current generation’s fresh ability to poison each other’s lives. To suggest otherwise ignores Baumbach’s ability to craft vivid, original characters.

And my, is Margot an original. Baumbach uses Kidman’s chilly star power—that distance she’s always projected toward the actors around her—to evoke Margot’s attitude of entitled superiority. With her fey teenage son (Zane Pais) in tow, she deigns to appear at the Hamptons marriage of her mousy sister Pauline (Jennifer Jason Leigh), who is betrothed to Malcolm, a depressive layabout (Jack Black, as a harmless lug who explains his mustache is for “ironic effect”). Margot takes one look around the grounds, declares, “I’ve always been truthful,” and begins tearing down everything in sight: Her sister’s engagement, her own marriage and ultimately the pale blue wedding tent itself. (Cinematographer Harris Savides, who has shot many a movie for Gus Van Sant, foreshadows these emotional disasters with a bleak palette that hints at thunderclouds even on sunny days.)

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

There's a defining scene in Margot At The Wedding, Noah Baumbach's unsparing follow-up to The Squid And The Whale, where a prickly author (Nicole Kidman) blows up at her generally good-natured husband (John Turturro) for an act of kindness to a stranger in need. She feels guilty for not caring, and she despises him for his decency, which deepens her self-loathing all the more. This sort of ugliness surfaced in Squid, but it was frequently leavened by comedy and a hint of nostalgia, and it was never as raw and unvarnished as it appears in Margot. The sophistication of Baumbach's writing recalls Eric Rohmer—whom Baumbach seems to acknowledge with the title, the seaside setting, and by casting his wife, Jennifer Jason Leigh, as a character named Pauline—yet Margot has a kitchen-sink realism that's genuinely unsettling, like a John Cassavetes movie populated by the hyper-articulate. If nothing else, Baumbach deserves credit for refusing to cozy up to the audience.

With shades of Squid's mother-son dynamic between Laura Linney and Jesse Eisenberg, Kidman and her teenage son Zane Pais head to the Hamptons to attend her sister's wedding. Though the siblings are somewhat estranged, Kidman arrives to show her support, but that does nothing to quell her judgmental nature or stop her from sabotaging the marriage before it ever gets off the ground. Kidman isn't happy that her sister (Leigh) has settled for Jack Black, a not-so-loveable schlub who doesn't have a job, spends full weeks writing responses to articles, and keeps his mustache around for comic effect. Leigh quickly falls into a familiar self-destructive pattern with her sister, while Pais and Leigh's like-aged daughter Flora Cross become collateral damage.

Without imposing much structure, Baumbach offers up an undigested lump of misery that's difficult to process, but also uncompromising and true, with the specificity of great fiction. In a moviegoing culture weaned on films that do everything they can to win viewers' favor, Margot At The Wedding counts as a bracing, even disturbing experience. Baumbach doesn't seem to care whether people like his characters; he merely wants them to be seen for who they are, warts and all. Kidman's character, in particular, speaks her mind with such a shocking lack of empathy that she's like an emotional terrorist, one blithely unaware of the wreckage she's causing. Baumbach perhaps doesn't go far enough in deciphering what it all means—aside from years of future therapy bills for his teenage surrogate—but it stings hard nonetheless.

The House Next Door [Steven Boone]

Writer-director Noah Baumbach is often identified with a group of young white filmmakers who comprise a new American New Wave (David O. Russell, Sofia Coppola, Wes Anderson, Alexander Payne, Spike Jonze, P.T. Anderson, David Gordon Green, and others). But he really should be appointed head of the "splat pack" over Rob Zombie, Eli Roth, James Wan, et al. He could teach them something. Margot at the Wedding has all the tension and jolts that those splat directors clumsily strive for. It isn't a horror flick, but it moves and schemes like a great one. The gore here isn't found in blood-'n'-guts, just via a family of thin-skinned, overeducated neurotics eviscerating each other (and themselves) emotionally. Grisly stuff. But Baumbach's mastery doesn't let you look away or exhale until knots of accumulated tension climax in fits of nervous laughter or loosen into surprisingly tender revelations. His brand of splatter is humiliation. Sounds juvenile, but he's clearly wrestling with something so personal here, and rendering it in such an intimate voice, that we don't recoil, just fight through to the moments of grace, good humor and insight.

New York literary star Margot (Nicole Kidman) drags her son Claude (Zan Pais) to visit her sister Pauline (Jennifer Jason-Leigh) at their parents' old home upstate. Pauline has taken over the inherited house and, by Margot's estimation, has disgraced it by getting engaged to shiftless slob Malcolm (Jack Black). Not that she lets on to Pauline. Though they weren't on speaking terms before the visit, Pauline gets the mistaken impression that Margot is here to repair their hostile relationship before the big wedding. Only later does it come to light that the house is conveniently near a stop on her latest book tour, and just down the road from another author she's sleeping with.

These women talk a lot, dissecting each other's shortcomings and suggesting ways to correct them with concern in their sisterly gestures but disdain in their eyes. There isn't much music in these early passages, but Baumbach covers them with such jazzy, conversational realism, I could almost hear Nina Simone's sing-songy croon, "They burn their hearts so much/that death is just a naaame," in her cover of "The Desperate Ones." Margot and Pauline's desperation gives the film its electricity, but Baumbach doesn't simply settle on the spectacle of their unhappiness. That's for less ambitious writer-directors. Margot at the Wedding passes through several points of view, not to get everybody's side of the story, just their experience of it: Slightly androgynous mama's boy Claude's confusion at his mother's adoration/disgust; Malcolm's insecurities; Pauline's near-acrobatic attempts to find common ground with Margot. Baumbach achieves an Altman-like tapestry effect not by herding his ensemble into busy master shots but by attacking every scene from one character's distinct perspective.

A scene where Pauline dares compulsively competitive Margot to climb a backyard tree (like she used to) epitomizes Baumbach's command at manipulating these tensions. It's Hitchcockian. My pulse rate shot up as Margot went further and further up the tree, on poorer and poorer footing. Baumbach ties this simple suspense to something more than "Will she fall?" This is Margot-the-control-freak-inquisitor's moment to prove she's not just a fault-finding machine; that she can be fun, human and in control. If she falls or backs down, it will be her first time on the receiving end of humiliation during this visit.

Nicole Kidman plugs into the role of Margot with the ease of Rudy Ray Moore playing Dolemite. Critics joked that she was miscast as a mother fighting off the alien onslaught in The Invasion because she's already a pod person, but they're wrong. Kidman is a warm-blooded actor; she's just no good at playing "nice." She was weak in The Invasion because her character was a fragile sweetie who had to find her strength. You could see her faking softness the way Jennifer Lopez chafed at playing a mousy battered wife in Enough. Margot is every bit as false and brittle as Invasion-Kidman when trying to show her loved ones a generosity of spirit that doesn't exist. Perfect fit. Kidman doesn't forget the most important fact of a phony's predicament: They're terrified of rejection, sick with loneliness.

Jennifer Jason Leigh plays Pauline as the earthier of the sisters, or at least the one who's making an effort to be less of an uncompromising elitist. She's much smarter than Malcolm, but his passion and lack of pretension are enough for her, at least until Margot's disapproval shakes her faith in him. Just as Kidman is perfectly at home delivering crisp platitdues through a tight smile, Leigh seems most comfortable with her hair mussed, sitting Indian-style and barefoot in loose garb.

Watching all these flailing adults as if from the stands at a disastrous tennis match, the kids in Margot at the Wedding do their best not to be anything like them. Too late. Claude, Pauline's daughter Ingrid (Flora Cross) and the trampy teen babysitter Maisy (Halley Feiffer) are already the precocious, seen-it-all kids Pauline and Margot once were. Claude looks barely out of junior high school, but Margot casually advises him to wear condoms if he gets into any action. Despite having no illusions about sex or relationships left to shatter (short of actually doing it), he's still clinging to his preadolescent role as Mom's little helper. Through Claude, Baumbach and Pais collaborate on the film's richest, saddest characterization. Claude's smart and tough-minded, but also so concerned with what his mother thinks of him that her impending breakdown is bound to hurt him most.

In a way, Jack Black plays the biggest kid. His thirtysomething adolescent routine works for failed artist Malcolm, since Baumbach keeps Black's arena-sized charisma dialed down to this film's modest scale. Only when Malcolm cries hysterically during a confession of infidelity to Pauline does Black go out of control and cheapen the film a bit. Still, even though Malcolm proves to be a creep and a weakling, he comes off damn near heroic in contrast to Jim (John Turturro), Margot's mainipulative soon-to-be ex-husband and her novelist lover Dick (Ciarán Hinds) -- two insufferably suave, smug professional men. I kept waiting for straight-shooter Malcolm to pull these phonies' cards, but Baumbach resists easy underdog romanticism. Everybody's sort of an asshole in this picture's acid rain world.

Kind of late to bring this up, but Margot at the Wedding is a comedy. What makes it a comedy is largely a function of Baumbach's "horror" aesthetic (abetted by Harris Savides' underexposed natural lighting) and scene rhythms (picture edited by Carol Littleton, veteran of the orchestrated domestic chaos in E.T.). The jokes build and resound like a good, honest fright. Baumbach's material may be novelistic in complexity, but his storytelling is strictly in the moment.

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GREENBERG B 89

USA (107 mi) 2010 ‘Scope

Ivan: Youth is wasted on the young.

Greenberg: I’d go further. I’d go, ‘life is wasted on people.’

From the opening pan of Los Angeles covered in a blanket of smog, we know we’re in for something ugly, something oppressive, a world full of obnoxious people that’s likely to make us want to bolt for anyplace else on earth. That’s pretty much the feeling of this movie, only we’re stuck inside the mind and body of an aggressively self-centered and painfully obnoxious Ben Stiller for two hours, which is a horribly uncomfortable place to be, as it must be for him as well, as we learn he was just released from an East coast psychiatric hospital. Another smart and brilliantly written sketch of life from Baumbach, whose films are always among the best edited in the business, that’s not so much a story as an observance of the kinds of cruelties humans inflict upon one another. A dour and unfunny Stiller really pulls this occasionally funny and otherwise incisive satire on the aimlessness of the middle class down, as he’s as unlikable a lead as you’re going to find, where his uncomfortableness with himself makes us feel equally squirmy, but in an unusual twist, we’re initially introduced to the family of his brother just as they are about to leave for a 6-week vacation in Vietnam. Overly demonstrative, barking out orders and instructions for their “personal assistant” Florence, the always spacey Greta Gerwig, we’re immediately getting our fill of the rich and self-demanding. After they leave, Stiller arrives, seemingly in a mental fog, a guy that appears to have plenty of issues to sort out, most of them within himself, yet he finds time to rattle off complaint letters to various corporations that he feels have forgotten the personal touch. Stiller rambles about like a rat in a cage, a guy from New York who no longer drives, so is dependent on everyone else to take him wherever he needs, which falls upon Florence, who initially thinks he’s on a different wavelength than the rest of her friends, thinking that is somehow good, even as he treats her like the hired help. Nonetheless, he gets in her pants just about from the moment he sees her, which seems to catch her off guard, discovering she may actually like the guy.

The film falls into the miserablist camp, as the overly judgmental Stiller is filled with self-loathing, but tends to take out his frustrations on others, occasionally freaking out in random moments of anger which feel more like panic attacks. He’s a guy that’s trying to be someone other than who he is, but who’s still trapped by the idea that somehow he’s better than everyone else, even as he comes across as pretty pathetic. He’s required to look after his brother’s palatial estate and take care of the dog, where both he and the dog require daily medication just to stabilize. His single goal is to do nothing other than build a doghouse. This film plays out much like a high school reunion twenty years later, as Stiller was part of a band just after college, which split up largely on his account, because he insisted on certain control issues that the record companies refused to budge on, so it was a deal breaker, one that left a sour taste in the mouths of the other band members. Several have moved on, successfully, while others tend to linger in the resentments of the past, including his so-called best friend Ivan, Rhys Ifan, now sober, but living in a motel, separated from his wife and son, though still trying to work out a reconciliation. Stiller continues to view him much as he did decades ago, as if time hadn’t changed either one, as if there are still unresolvable issues from their youth to work out instead of as a guy caught up in an ugly situation who might actually need a friend. Stiller is incapable of being that friend or being that far sighted, as instead he continues to be completely self-absorbed with his own life and barely realizes others exist.

He treats Florence much the same way, attracted to her when he sees her, but is immediately revolted afterwards, as he can’t deal with closeness issues, so instead pushes everybody away with apparent disgust. Greta Gerwig, who comes across like a young Chloë Sevigny, is easily the best thing in the film, as none of the miserable people that live in Los Angeles deserve her, as she’s a breath of fresh air in a city drowning in smog, where her naturalism in a sea of great pretenders makes her the special attraction. Perhaps the best scene in the film is in a near empty bar where Florence is singing Shawn Colvin’s “There’s a Rugged Road,” and is astoundlingly good, yet Stiller is oblivious to her talent or sensuality, which is nearly forced upon him by one of her friends as she stops by the bar (Merrit Wever from Nurse Jackie), yet he ignores all roads that lead to somewhere. Instead he insists on his existential path of “doing nothing,” which apparently is a lot harder to do than he realizes. While calling Florence to join him at dinner, he then leaves her at the table to call another old college flame (Jennifer Jason Leigh), now married with kids, to ask her out. Later when they meet, he inappropriately tries to stir up old flames that she doused years ago and nearly flees from the scene. As Jennifer Jason Leigh is a co-writer with her husband the director, I suspect she contributed to some of these scenes where women have to put up with so much garbage from men, who typically try to dump all their emotional baggage onto women’s shoulders, as if this is the role of women, which of course men routinely do without realizing what asses they are for doing it. All of this leads to a giant out of control party scene where Stiller takes every inappropriate drug on the premises, from coke to vicadin to alcohol to pot to some unnamed pills somebody puts in your hands before insisting they listen to Duran Duran, telling these twenty somethings why he finds them all such spoiled, miserable wretches who have done nothing to change the world, a perfomance earning him the nickname Mr. Sunshine since he is really such a complete grouch. As he nearly leaves it all for Australia the following morning, the exact wish fulfillment feeling every Los Angeles resident must feel when they wake up to yet another smog-filled day, which he idealizes as a great Kinks song, Stiller, by the way, never does get around to finishing that doghouse, as he’s too busy living in it himself.

Time Out New York review [4/5] Joshua Rothkopf

Once upon a time, a nebbishy New Yorker could fall for a willowy shiksa goddess and you could call it Annie Hall. No longer. Now, the whole movie’s got to be set in Los Angeles (not just one Christmas sequence), our love object barely gets a single “la-di-da,” and forget about naming the film after her. We’ve got inner male pain to address.

That shift, though, is precisely what makes Greenberg, Noah Baumbach’s latest comedy-drama, so car-crash-arresting and emblematic of Gen X self-absorption. Baumbach, an expert at skewering urbane pretensions (The Squid and the Whale), has conceived a remarkably sour character in Ben Stiller’s furious letter writer and fortyish layabout, Roger Greenberg. Once a college-rock musician, he scotched his band’s momentum in a fit of principle and now suffers the consequences: occasional work at carpentry and pride-swallowing in the home of his much wealthier brother. A ratty Steve Winwood T-shirt speaks volumes, as does a shelf of meds and a constant stream of bile directed at partygoing kids who scare him with their potential. Roger’s just not fun to be around.

Baumbach’s idea here is to find an expiration date on boyishness—it’s tempting to compare Greenberg to the more-trenchant The Anniversary Party (2001), also a shrewd examination of the limits of youthful decadence (and partly created by the filmmaker’s wife, Jennifer Jason Leigh, as is this). This movie corrects its wobbly, negative spiral with the romantic development of Florence (Gerwig, spacey as ever), a personal assistant to Roger’s sib and perhaps a salvation. Scratch that perhaps: Greenberg only slightly misses the top flight by settling for too weak a foil. (The better option, Rhys Ifans’s bruised bandmate, is right there.) But when Stiller indulges in moments of unfulfilled rage, this has real desperation.

CineScene.com (Chris Knipp) review

Writer-director Noah Baumbach, whose best-known features are The Squid and the Whale and Margot at the Wedding, has specialized in spoiled middle-class American intellectual types. In his new film Greenberg, the title character, Roger Greenberg (Ben Stiller) is spoiled alright, and also a pretty complete loser. He was a musician, but forced his band to break up by refusing to accept a recording opportunity. Then he went east and turned to carpentry. Now about to turn forty, he comes out west to Hollywood to housesit at his rich brother's place after being hospitalized for a mental breakdown. The importance he carries around is nothing but his own self-inflicted complexity. He hasn't done anything worth doing, not for some time anyway. And that's his appeal, perhaps. He's like so many of us.

Greenberg is directionless but rich in detail. When its protagonist arrives as his brother is leaving with wife and kids for a vacation in Vietnam, there's a delicious disorder in the front hallway, with the brother and his wife shouting greetings and directions, a dog named Mahler, and the kids hanging on the stairs and chattering loudly. Later Baumbach brilliantly orchestrates a sudden big party young people put on in the house where Greenberg is the only older person. This is also an opportunity for Stiller to get physical -- something he's arguably better at as an actor than psychological portraiture -- when he does a line of coke, drinks some hard liquor, and starts jiving and hopping around like a fool.

The film, for all its keen observation, would be unwatchable were it not for the mumblecore diva Greta Gerwig, a pretty but modest-seeming blonde who's very easy in front of a camera. It's a fresh bit of business for Baumbach to put a hugely bankable star next to someone so ultra-indie. The two characters are good foils too: she's open and vulnerable; he's shut-down and negative. Gerwig plays Florence, the assistant of Phillip, Roger's brother, who wanders in and out, ostensibly to watch out for Mahler (who suddenly develops complicated and expensive health problems), but also because she finds Roger fascinating and attractive. Obviously she is a bad judge of men and a sucker for lousy relationships.

Greenberg's behavior to her is approach-avoidance. He flirts with her and then rejects her, repeatedly. But he's not sure he doesn't like-love her; he even wanders in to an open mike evening to hear Florence do a half-hearted vocal performance. He's interested, but as is his way, keeps sabotaging romance between himself and her, an idea perhaps doomed anyway. Or is it? Greenberg the film never moves toward the Hollywood denoument where the spatting couple turn out to be made for each other, or the seeming asshole morphs into a nice guy. Roger never morphs into any such thing. That's the solid appeal of Baumbach's devotion to specificity and honesty. Even if his protagonist hasn't really got much depth, he remains somehow resiliently himself, and he may turn out to be memorable.

This film has more warmth as well as more nastiness than the meandering, tiresome Margot at the Wedding, and at least tries to go into more depth on one character than the charming but slight coming-of-age prelude The Squid and the Whale. There are strong contributions from Baumbach spouse Jennifer Jason Leigh (who collaborated on the story), as a former girlfriend who firmly rejects Roger's suggestion that they might start things up again; and from Rhys Ifans as Ivan, Roger's (former) best friend and past musical associate --the sometimes rakish Ifans is very solid here as a man who's grown up.

The Wall Street Journal (Joe Morgenstern) review

One of the most touching lines in Noah Baumbach's remarkable "Greenberg" is an announcement by the wistful young heroine, Florence Marr: "I've gotta stop doing things just because they feel good."

Good? There's no evidence that Florence—a portrait of heartbreaking delicacy by Greta Gerwig—feels truly good about anything. She feels bad about herself, and properly anxious about an emerging love affair with Roger Greenberg, a middle-aging misanthrope played with intransigent brilliance by Ben Stiller. Everything's relative, of course. Florence is joyous compared to Roger, a former musician whose anger at the world is matched only by his narcissism. Yet the wonder of the film is how good it makes us feel. "Greenberg" scintillates with intelligence, razor's-edge humor and austere empathy for its struggling lovers.

This is a new departure for Mr. Baumbach, even though he might seem to be working the same territory of neurotic dysfunction and mutual need that he explored, sometimes relentlessly, in "The Squid and the Whale" and "Margot at the Wedding." What's new is the combination of warmth and reserve. The film is extremely entertaining—a real romance, however tortured it may be—yet tough-minded and confidently self-contained.

The setting is Los Angeles, whose physical and spiritual sprawl has been rendered with eerie accuracy. Fittingly, the first extended sequence takes place in a car, with Florence behind the wheel and the camera fixed on her pretty face. (Harris Savides did the fine cinematography.) "You gonna let me in?" she asks nervously. She's alone, running errands, so the question is clearly directed at another driver in another lane. But it's also the anthem of her needy psyche and her lonely life. She works as a personal assistant to Phillip Greenberg (Chris Messina), who lives with his wife and kids in the Hollywood Hills. When the family goes off on vacation to Vietnam, Florence stays behind to take care of their German shepherd, Mahler, and to provide whatever support may be needed for Phillip's brother, Roger, newly arrived from New York via a mental institution that was treating him for depression.

Of the ménage à trois that forms in the family's absence, Mahler proves to be the most stable member, and even he comes down with an autoimmune disease that lands him at the vet's. "Greenberg" is a love story, yes, but it's also a tale of two people adrift in separate currents, constantly sinking and bobbing to the surface like synchro swimmers out of sync. Florence's judgment is dreadful when it comes to men in general, and potentially disastrous when it comes to this one. She can't understand why Roger lets her into his life, then brutally ejects her, not just once but repeatedly. "You like me a lot more than you think you do," she tells him after one rebuff. Although she's right, Florence is a slow learner who takes a long time to recall a cautionary phrase—"hurt people hurt people"—that she picked up along her painful way.

Ms. Gerwig's performance is extraordinary—notably nuanced, commandingly tender. But the movie's title is "Greenberg," not "Marr," and Mr. Stiller commands a kind of awe in his refusal to clothe the naked hostility of a character who suffers from the autoimmune disease of self-loathing. ("Life is wasted on people," the hero says at one point.) An ardent arsonist, he has burned most of the bridges that once connected him to friends and a flourishing career. Much of the time Roger looks either haunted or absent, not a black hole but a gray one.

Rhys Ifans plays Ivan, a former band mate whom Roger seeks out after arriving in L.A. Ivan comes on quietly, a sweet-spirited seeker who has found his way after losing it, but he finally gets his own turn at eloquent anger and Mr. Ifans rises powerfully to the occasion. Mr. Baumbach's wife, Jennifer Jason Leigh (she collaborated with him on the story and served as producer) is attractive and understated as Beth, Roger's old flame.

A movie with an off-putting hero represents a huge risk. Messrs. Baumbach and Stiller made a bet that we would stay with Roger, and the film, until things took a turn for the better. The bet pays off beautifully—not because the hero is revealed to be nice, but because he reveals himself to be human in a series of startling rages and astonishing monologues that lead to a pleasing climax (and an inspired shot of a giant red balloon-man, arms and legs flapping wildly.) Roger delivers one monologue to Florence's phone mail, and another to a bunch of heedless twenty-something kids at a party. It's a poignant expression of mortality by a man who's finally growing into his life.

Film School Rejects [Robert Levin]

In Greenberg, Noah Baumbach uproots his caustic aesthetic from its east coast homeland to Southern California, land of warmth and happiness. It’s an intriguing albeit ultimately shortsighted transition, with director of photography Harris Savides’ lush sundrenched images of Hollywood Hills luxury clashing with protagonist Roger Greenberg’s all-encompassing misery. The movie, which turns on an offbeat halting romance between Greenberg and the pathologically sweet Florence Marr (Greta Gerwig), takes root in Greenberg’s conscience and stays planted in that all around suffocating space.

Greenberg (Ben Stiller), a forty-something New Yorker (naturally), goes west for a crucial hiatus from Gotham’s bustle. His brother (Chris Messina) and family have absconded to Vietnam for six weeks, leaving their opulent home to our hero, who recently ended a stay in a mental institution. As portrayed by Stiller, he’s quite the piece of work — depressed, prone to Tourette’s like outbursts and utterly committed to underachieving on principle. Though born and raised in Los Angeles, he’s a classic New York nebbish — imagine the young Woody Allen without the mischievous Vaudevillian bent — and it’s an understatement to say he doesn’t take to the uneasy blend of the natural and urban that defines the city’s distancing, car saturated culture.

When he’s not complaining, or dashing off angry protest letters, he’s probably badgering Florence, his brother’s personal assistant. With her steadfast patience for Greenberg’s quirks, her grace under pressure and her quiet, gentle beauty she exerts a strong gravitational pull. In the movie’s earliest scenes, in which she runs errands for her employers to the Steve Miller Band’s Jet Airliner, Gerwig effortlessly fills the frame, applying the down home, relatable style of acting she perfected in the Mumblecore world to Baumbach’s larger, more polished canvas.

Beautiful without seeming fake, with a tinge of sadness illuminating and amplifying her character’s overarching fortitude, the actress makes quite an impression. She’s so charismatic that it’s a letdown when the picture shifts perspectives, turning her story over to Greenberg’s. As their relationship stops and starts — swinging between awkward sexual encounters and Greenberg’s selfish, cutting rants — one begins to feel a powerful urge to save her from her terrible, monotonous fate.

The most frequent criticism lobbed Baumbach’s way (one made prominently, and with a lot of hyperbole, by New York Press critic Armond White) is that he indulges in cinematic misanthropy, wallowing in facile, elitist misery. There’s an element of truth to that characterization, but it’s not entirely fair. To put Greenberg in context with recent Baumbach, it occupies a middle ground between The Squid and the Whale’s authentic representation of the crushing egotism pervasive within the intelligentsia and Margot at the Wedding’s ugly self-indulgence.

The film looks great, presenting a snazzy depiction of cosmopolitan L.A. that serves as a grounded, realistic valentine. Baumbach seems refreshed by the new milieu and its foreign, alienating qualities, presenting it as an exotic amalgamation of hills and boulevards so different from the five boroughs of New York it might as well be Timbuktu. The city permeates Greenberg’s being. He’s perpetually overwhelmed by the burdens of house sitting and desperate for rides — he decides to take a swim in his brother’s idyllic enclosed pool, remembers he doesn’t know how, and finds himself paddling wildly, rattled by the sound of a rumbling jumbo jet overhead. His self-sufficiency is siphoned away, leaving him increasingly exposed. The need for a strong, durable human connection slowly dawns.

There are undoubtedly people as dreary as Greenberg, so attuned to the dark side of life that they’re beyond redemption. Stiller presents his destructive misanthropy with aplomb, but falters when it comes to drawing out the hurt, sympathetic man inside. For the picture to work, the audience must accept that Florence would see something in Greenberg that kept her returning to him, even as he used and abused her with his sharp, uncensored tongue. Baumbach and Stiller never quite get there. The character fails to transcend his abhorrent exterior, remaining ensconced in the sly jerk persona. He’s impossible to root for and such a jarring, marked contrast with the radiant Gerwig that their dalliances reek of contrivance. Florence becomes a prop, a patsy to allow the filmmaker to develop a reprehensible character wrapped up in lazy, puerile concerns. As Greenberg progresses one thought takes root at the fore of the mind: more Gerwig, less Stiller.

The Upside: Lead actress Greta Gerwig is terrific and the movie, shot by Harris Savides, offers an appealingly sunny vision of Los Angeles.

The Downside: Greenberg is a hateful character and his changes for the better and not deeply felt. The movie spends too much time with him and too little time with Gerwig’s Florence.

On the Side: The movie has caused an enormous controversy — at least within the insular film critics’ community. After the controversial New York Press critic Armond White was disinvited from a screening he RSVPd to and cried foul, declaring it a violation of his “First Amendment rights as a journalist,” accusations, analyses and bits of historical research were bandied about. Things came to a head yesterday with White’s epic response to the flurry, which is worth reading for the ease with which he hides the occasional decent point within volumes of sheer, unhinged nuttiness and ad hominem attacks on Village Voice critic J. Hoberman.

The New Yorker (David Denby) review

Many of us have known someone like Roger Greenberg (Ben Stiller), the prickly failure who is the hero of Noah Baumbach’s new movie, “Greenberg.” And many of us, with a sigh, have pulled away from him—not when he was young, perhaps, but certainly by the time he had turned thirty. The man in the movie, an intelligent neurotic, is forty. At first glance, he is too set in his ways to be anything more than a cranky cousin pepping up a family comedy, yet Baumbach and Stiller had the persistence and the imagination to find a soulful side to him, and the courage not to turn him into a lovable eccentric. Years ago, as a young musician in Los Angeles, Greenberg mysteriously blew off a recording contract for his band. He then moved to New York, where he found work as a carpenter. Having recently suffered some kind of nervous breakdown, he has returned to Los Angeles to take over the spacious Hollywood Hills home of his wealthy brother (Chris Messina), a developer who has decamped with his family on an extended trip. But Greenberg doesn’t drive, and he gets huffy at parties. He’s no more suited to life in Los Angeles than Woody Allen was, when he had that unhappy encounter with some mashed yeast in a Sunset Strip café, in “Annie Hall.” Assertive in a void, Greenberg is a control freak with nothing in his life to control. Like Saul Bellow’s Herzog, he composes indignant letters. But he doesn’t write to philosophers, professors, or friends; he writes to airlines and coffeehouse chains, complaining about one attack or another on his sacred rights as a consumer. I assume that Baumbach chose not to give Greenberg a blog—the natural home for people who burn—in order to suggest how removed he is from contemporary life. He is funny in a troubled-nut way. Absurdly self-centered, he’s obsessed with other people’s opinions of him, while never noticing that his friends have lives, too.

Baumbach writes thorny patches of satirical dialogue, and his perceptions of people can be harsh. His semi-autobiographical family drama, “The Squid and the Whale” (2005)—one of the best independent films of the past decade—flayed a selfish husband and wife and their lying, pretentious son. What followed, however, “Margot at the Wedding” (2007), was a dead end. The quarrelling sisters and their hapless men were so inept that they couldn’t run across a lawn without some calamity befalling them. Baumbach seemed to be revelling in futility; the film was grating, almost punitive. His touch, this time, is still critical, but it’s gentler, even loving. The movie opens with a charming young woman—Florence Marr (Greta Gerwig), a personal assistant to Greenberg’s brother—arriving to work at the house. Marr is also a little lost; she sleeps with men she hardly knows and feels like an idiot the next day. She starts an affair of sorts with Greenberg, which is mostly baffling to her, since he seems to need her and, at the same time, to be insulted by her existence.

This is tricky, ambiguous material, seemingly better fitted to a short literary novel than to a movie, and it could have gone wrong in a hundred ways, yet Baumbach handles it with great assurance. In long scenes between Greenberg and Marr, he says something amusing and mean, and she, because she’s either too kind or too surprised, doesn’t come back at him. The characters can’t get any kind of rhythm going, but the actors hold the bumpy conversations in tension. The scenes don’t lose their pace or their shape; they sustain a ruffled, poignant mood. And Baumbach is smart about injured pride; Greenberg looks up his old friends from the band (Rhys Ifans and Mark Duplass), and they’re glad to see him, but they also feel betrayed by him. Ifans, so often a madcap, uses his rounded baritone and a new autumnal manner to suggest a man trying to keep himself calm. His marriage is falling apart, and he wants to hang on to what he’s got. Greenberg’s arrogant luftmensch routine is infuriating—everyone but him wants to live in the here and now. And this movie, for a change, gives daily life in Los Angeles a warm, sunlit feeling. The city is a decent place to make a life, instead of a ruined paradise or a metaphor for chaos and emptiness.

Stiller makes the fragile dramatic structure work. In the past, lowering his head, puckering his mouth, and vamping for the camera with his dark, sunken eyes, he seemed (to me, at least) too obvious to be truly funny, though he was great on Oscar night as a spokesperson on Na’vi zoning issues (particularly the complicated part about water rights on floating mountains). That creature had conviction. Stiller is best when he stops mugging and lets his Jewish-caveman looks and his knifelike voice work for him. As Greenberg, he’s really blue—a frightened man who won’t relinquish his pride. Many of Stiller’s earlier characters were so desperate to get a girl that they stumbled through awesome bouts of humiliation; Greenberg is so terrified of being humiliated that he shuts out life altogether, a neat reversal of type.

Greta Gerwig has acted in mumblecore features, and she has the relaxation and the changeableness of an actress who has done improvisation on camera. Her speech is slightly slurpy, and she can look Raggedy Ann messy one moment, then radiantly beautiful the next. She’s convincing as a young woman who doesn’t quite know who she is, and as Marr her instinctive goodness slowly begins to work on Stiller’s Greenberg, whose sheer perversity has its own fascination. When his friends throw him a birthday party at a restaurant, and he loses his temper, is it because he feels that he doesn’t deserve a party, or because he can’t control it, or because cutting a cake is just too conventional a celebration? Poor Greenberg can’t accept mediocrity, but, an aesthete without an art, he doesn’t know how to get himself anywhere. Honorably, the movie is not the usual rigid-arc fable of redemption. It insists that screwed-up people have a right to their oddities, but it also holds out the hope that they will learn a little bit about life and move on.

Greenberg Scott Foundas from Film Comment, March/April 2010

Salon.com [Stephanie Zacharek]

The Village Voice [J. Hoberman]

Slate (Dana Stevens) review

PopMatters (Todd R. Ramlow) review

The Auteurs [Ignatiy Vishnevetsky]

Mark Reviews Movies (Mark Dujsik) review [3/4]

Slant Magazine [Nick Schager]

Eye for Film (Ali Hazzah) review [2.5/5]

User reviews from imdb Author: MisterWhiplash from United States

User reviews from imdb Author: Movie_Muse_Reviews from IL, USA

Eye for Film (Jennie Kermode) review [2.5/5]

Cinematical Jefferey M. Anderson, a shorter version appears here: Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson) review [2.5/4]

Monsters and Critics [Anne Brodie]

DVD Talk (Jamie S. Rich) review [5/5]

DVD Talk (Jason Bailey) review [4/5]

Monsters and Critics [Ron Wilkinson]

FilmJerk.com (Brian Orndorf) review [C+] also seen here: Briandom [Brian Orndorf]

One Guy's Opinion (Frank Swietek) review [B]

Big Picture Big Sound (Lexi Feinberg) review [2.5/4]

The Cinema Source (Dan Deevy) review [D]

RopeofSilicon (Brad Brevet) review [C-]

The Auteurs [David Hudson]

Why mumblecore nudity will never go mainstream. - By Jessica Grose ... Jessica Grose from Slate, April 1, 2010

Links on the Noah Baumbach/Armond White Controversy:

Elliptic Blog: Before Sunset & Armond White Eric holds Armond White accountable for his BEFORE SUNSET review where he calls the two leads: “Not just thirtysomethings, now they're smug thirtysomethings; other people and the outside world do not puncture their intellectual cocoon,” July 7, 2004

Smugness Armond White articulates his theory of a “critics' hypocritical confusion of bad taste” from The New York Press, November 30, 2005

Film criticism or Op-Ed piece: Armond White and the smugness of ... Filmbrain from Like Anna Karina’s Sweater, June 29, 2006

Self-Punishment Armond White review of MARGOT AT THE WEDDING, where he states: “The Squid and the Whale and Baumbach’s new Margot at the Wedding are two of the decade’s most repellent movies,” from The New York Press, November 21, 2007

"Ten Armond White quotes that shook my world," Steven Boone from The House Next Door, December 7, 2010

"In a world that has The Darjeeling Limited, Sidney Lumet should be imprisoned!": A Conversation with Armond White, Part I Part I of a 3-part interview with film critic Armond White, from Steven Boone at Big Media Vandalism, December 10, 2007

Phonies, Cronies, American Ironies, American Gangsters: Armond White Conversation, Part II Steven Boone at Big Media Vandalism, December 14, 2007

Big Media Vandalism: Sweet Lime and "Sour Grapes": Armond White ... Part III of a 3-part interview with film critic Armond White where he waxes eloquently on why Noah Baumbach is an “asshole,” and a “fortunate asshole,” following the paragraph heading Today, continuing through Grapes of Wrath, from Steven Boone at Big Media Vandalism, December 18, 2007”

this eye-popping link Wes Lawson provides Ebert the Armond White chart of the good versus the bad movies

Not in defense of Armond White - Roger Ebert's Journal Roger Ebert blog, August 14, 2009

An Angry Scream From The Land Of The Critic The Hot Blog, March 8, 2010

Jeffrey Wells Larry Kincaid Isn’t Dead, from Hollywood Elsewhere, March 8, 2010

White vs. Brown; or why Armond would be banned from reviewing "Greenberg." Vadim Rizov opens a conspiracy theory from IFC, March 9, 2010, also seen here: IFC.com

Film Critic Banned From Reviewing Greenberg? Michael Musto from The Village Voice, March 9, 2010

Relax, Everybody! Armond White Will Get to See Greenberg Lane Brown from The Vulture, at New York magazine, March 9, 2010

Armond White and Noah Baumbach: The Screening is On Jerry Portwood from The New York Press, March 9, 2010

Armond White Didn't Actually Say Noah Baumbach Should Have Been ... Armond White Didn't Actually Say Noah Baumbach Should Have Been Aborted, Guys (Or did he?), by Mark Asch from The L magazine, March 9, 2010

Some Came Running: Feeling left out Glenn Kenny from Some Came Running, March 9, 2010

Proof That Critic Armond White Did Call for Noah Baumbach's Abortion J. Hoberman goes to the library from The Village Voice, March 10, 2010

Banned from the screening room! - Andrew O'Hehir, Movie Critic ... Andrew O’Hehir from Salon, March 10, 2010

Getting to the Bottom of the Great Armond White/Greenberg Meltdown ... S.T. VanAirsdale from Movieline magazine, March 9, 2010

Is suggesting "retroactive abortion" for a director's mom a kind of ... Jim Emerson from Scanners, March 10, 2010

About That Time Armond White Brought Up Noah Baumbach's 'Retroactive Abortion'... S.T. VanAirsdale from Movieline magazine, March 10, 2010

The Abortion Debate Continues: Thank Hoberman and His Minions Jerry Portwood from The New York Press, March 11, 2010

David Edelstein Blackening White re: Brown, from The Projectionist, March 11, 2010

Exclusive: Film critic Armond White speaks out against Noah ... Robert W. Welkos from Hollywood News, March 12, 2010

Armond White is Denied Greenberg Screening | The Movie Blog Rodney from The Movie Blog, March 12, 2010

My Greenberg Problem—and Yours Armond White’s typically self-centered response from The New York Press, March 17, 2010

If Armond White Only Knew What a Monster J. Hoberman Really Is... J. Hoberman from The Village Voice, March 17, 2010

Some Came Running: "Jim" Hoberman begins his work day... Glenn Kenny from Some Came Running, March 17, 2010

Our Armond White Problem, and His Bill R. at The Kind of Face You Hate, March 17, 2010

Armond White's Greenberg Review: As Epic As You'd Hoped -- Vulture Lane Brown from The Vulture at New York magazine, March 17, 2010

Shadow And Act » Armond White's “Greenberg” Review Is Epic! Tambay from Shadow and Act, March 17, 2010

The 5 Most Purposely Outrageous Claims In Armond White's Greenberg ... S.T. VanAirsdale from Movieline magazine, March 17, 2010

Armond White Talks 'Greenberg' Snub, Attacks Village Voice Critic ... Association of Alternative Newsweeklies, March 17, 2010

White vs. Hoberman: My Take David Edelstein from The Projectionist, March 17, 2010

White v. Hoberman: A Feud Ignites! - indieWIRE Nigel M. Smith from indieWIRE, March 18, 2010

Armond White on J. Hoberman… oh and Greenberg too – Living in Cinema Craig Kennedy from Living in Cinema, March 18, 2010

Armond White's 'Greenberg' Problem (And Ours?) – The Arty Semite ... Ezra Glinte from The Arty Semite, March 18, 2010

Fourth Row Center: Film Writings by Jason Bailey: Commentary: On ... On Armand White’s “Greenberg” Problem, by Jason Bailey from Fourth Row Center, March 21, 2010

Dear Internet, I'm Sorry/You're Welcome for Armond White's ... Mark Asch from The L magazine, March 23, 2010

My Favorite Gum Commercial: Armond White and The Greenberg Problem Todd Detmold from My Favorite Gum Commercial, March 29, 2010

Screen International (Mike Goodridge) review subscription required

Greta Gerwig | Greenberg | Interview | The A.V. Club Sam Adams interview March 23, 2010

Entertainment Weekly review [B+] Lisa Schwarzbaum

The Hollywood Reporter review Kirk Honeycutt

Variety (Todd McCarthy) review

The Independent (Geoffrey Macnab) review [2/5]

The Globe and Mail review Rick Groen

The Boston Phoenix (Peter Keough) review

Austin Chronicle review [3.5/5] Kimberley Jones

Tulsa TV Memories [Gary Chew]

San Francisco Chronicle [Mick LaSalle]

Los Angeles Times (Betsy Sharkey) review

Chicago Tribune (Michael Phillips) review

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [3.5/4]

The New York Times (A.O. Scott) review which includes Stiller photos from previous movies: More Photos »

Film - Greta Gerwig's Breakthrough Performance in 'Greenberg ... A.O. Scott from The New York Times, March 24, 2010

FRANCES HA B+ 90

USA (86 mi) 2012 Official site

A smaller film from Baumbach, a drama of restless anxiety, much like the city of New York movies of Woody Allen with Diane Keaton in the 70’s like ANNIE HALL (1977) and MANHATTAN (1979), shot in the supposedly more realistic medium of Black and White by Sam Levy, where the combustible energy of the city is as much a character as any of the people living in it, a film that can briefly be described as a story that pays tribute to life in your 20’s and to New York City. While it’s true, Baumbach mostly makes films about the loathsome lives of dissatisfied middle to upper class white people, who one supposes have their own unique problems dealing with the emptiness and boredom of their lives while others struggle with the crippling effects of an actual financial crisis, his films are often difficult to sit through because of the undercurrent of unpleasantness in the bitingly sarcastic wit on display, showing us with pinpoint accuracy the face of middle class disillusionment. One of the best writers working today, he has a special ear for dialogue that gives the film a theatrical effect, like a modernist stage play, where perhaps the closest today may be Richard Linklater’s conversational romance trilogy of Before Sunrise (1995), Before Sunset (2004), and Before Midnight (2013). An interesting collaboration brought this together, as co-writers Baumbach and Gerwig have been dating since late 2011, where their differing perspectives on each other’s age group, as he’s 14 year older, only make things more interesting. Quite a contrast to Ben Stiller’s detestable lead in GREENBERG (2010), or nearly all of Baumbach’s previous self-loathing lead roles, where according to Helen Gramates, former Chicago Film Festival programmer, “Baumbach couldn't really make the character loathsome or unsympathetic if his girlfriend is portraying/writing her!”

Greta Gerwig rose to prominence through the Mumblecore movement, starring in Joe Swanberg movies, like NIGHTS AND WEEKENDS (2008), which she co-wrote, directed, and starred with Swanberg before becoming the *it* girl of indie films, similar to Chloë Sevigny in the 90’s, working with Whit Stillman in Damsels in Distress (2011), the more mainstream Lola Versus (2012), and Woody Allen in To Rome With Love (2012). In each she plays a variation on the independent woman role originated by Keaton, vibrantly energetic, intellectually curious, but always appearing neurotic, never at ease with herself, where physically she’s a bit awkward and something of a klutz, where in the storyline she’s continually challenged by the unwelcome effects of making the wrong choices. A single girl without any serious love interests, Gerwig as Frances is in nearly every scene of the film, where her life is equally consumed by her roommate and best friend Sophie (Mickey Sumner, Sting’s daughter), where they’d be lost and alone without each other, considering themselves identical twins in mind and spirit, though they’re nothing alike. While Sophie has a stable job she likes working in a publishing house, Gerwig frets about never having the kind of money her friends seem to have, supporting herself with odd jobs as an apprentice dancer and part-time choreographer, but never invited to join the dance company, simply filling in when there’s available work, usually during holiday concerts. Though she thinks of herself as poor, quickly corrected by Sophie claiming “that’s an insult to actual poor people,” she’s a college graduate whose parents live in the affluent suburbs of Sacramento, California, where at some point she has to learn to stop tapping into their resources whenever there’s a need to bail her out of financial jams. Frances is in this in-between stage of prolonged childhood and becoming a young adult.

When Sophie announces she’s moving out of the apartment to move in with a rich but relatively unlikable guy from Wall Street named Patch (Patrick Heusinger), who says things like (Frances says in a gruff monotone voice) “I gotta take a leak,” this leaves Frances without a home, going into a free-fall of one mini-disaster after another, each one more embarrassing than the last. The ability to stand on her own does not seem to be one of her many talents, but she’s never at a loss for words, or an interesting opinion, turning into something of a pathological liar creating a more interesting fake life to cover her abysmally sad real one. Stylistically, the film resembles the seemingly improvisational nature of the French New Wave, where the quirky state of mind of Frances is expressed throughout by familiar refrains of the Georges Delerue music from KING OF HEARTS (1966), adding an air of innocence and something adorably timeless about Frances, whose playful sense of humor masks her bundle of nerves and somewhat self-chosen insecurity, yet unlike Sophie, she’s not afraid to take risks and refuses to surrender her youthful ideals. One sequence in particular shows Frances twirling, dancing, and leaping through the streets of New York to the music of David Bowie’s “Modern Love,” paying homage to Denis Levant in the Léos Carax film Mauvais Sang (Bad Blood) (1986), seen here, Modern Love YouTube (2:01), although Levant sprints to the right in an endlessly long, unbroken shot while Gerwig runs to the left in much less impressive fashion with several noticeable edits. So while this smaller film may not live up to the artistic ideal of Carax or cinema greatness, Frances proves that misadventures are valuable life experiences and are part of the growing process, where in her own small way she remains true to herself. Small victories are worth savoring, where you don’t always have to risk Don Quixote disillusionment and defeat by insisting upon fighting the larger and unwinnable battles.

TIFF 2012. Correspondences #3 Fernando F. Croce from Mubi

Another Nouvelle Vague wannabe: Frances Ha, also known as the movie in which I finally came to love Greta Gerwig. Whether dashing and tripping through the streets of Brooklyn or literally honking in disapproval of a date’s unwanted advance, she has a kind of galumphing radiance that reminded me of Joan Cusack in the 80s. She also co-wrote the screenplay, which might explain why Noah Baumbach’s sprightly comedy is light on the trademark rancor of The Squid and the Whale and Margot at the Wedding. A distinctly New York film done in a very Gallic style: black-and-white cinematography unexpectedly redolent of Jean Eustache, brisk editing, little emotional arcs broken, spun, and picked up. It’s buttery-light and with one or two too many little bows of optimism tied insistently toward the end. But when Gerwig faces the camera, merriment and anxiety perpetually mingling, the enchantment is sustained.

Berlinale 2013. Impressions #2 on Notebook | MUBI Adam Cook from Mubi

Noah Baumbach continues his film-by-film evolution—Margot is the exception that proves the rule—with Frances Ha. It's not as disciplined as Greenberg, nor does it really intend to be, but Frances finds Baumbach as an assured stylist and storyteller behind the camera—and in the great Gerta Gerwig he has found himself a creative force that merges rather beautifully with his own. Gerwig co-wrote the film with Baumbach, and imbues the film with her infectious personality while intelligently alternating between wit and reflexive insight (it's difficult not to draw a direct contemporary comparison to what Lena Dunham is doing on HBO). Frances is a dancer, and Gerwig and Baumbach also engage in an intimate dance of emotions in a subjective tour of metro-middle-class pressures (more academically but also more substantially than Dunham) that organically and fluidly unspools a careful study of diverse settings and moods. Distinguishing itself from the infinitum of hip New Yorker films, Frances Ha is particularly attuned to the specific rules and dynamics of the disparate spaces that compose a city. Without undergoing changes in her character, we see Frances shifting environments, and the sometimes frictional relationship therein is what fuels both the comedy and drama. At the outset Frances is entirely comfortable in a passively destructive lifestyle, rooming with her best friend, before being forced into increasingly poor fits for her all-too-idiosyncratic behaviour. Baumbach uses this growing social dissonance to create not just a compelling character but a malleable aesthetic that follows Frances' lead, either into flights of fancy (Gerwig channels Denis Levant's running dance to Modern Romance in Mauvias sang in one instance) or chic-introspective-moving-wallpaper (an incisive choice, not a flaw). Still: Baumbach can't resist the classical character arc model present in each of his films and it feels especially forced in this case—but he is exploring new ways of expressing it.

Critical Dialogue: Frances Ha | Film Comment | Film Society of ... Max Nelson from Film Comment

The legend of the French New Wave imagines a horde of dissatisfied critics, drunk on Hollywood and pulp, taking to the streets in broad daylight to re-create, as filmmakers, their favorite romances and noirs. However accurate (or not) this picture might be, films like Breathless, Band of Outsiders, or Shoot the Piano Player did aim to rework American popular cinema in a milieu that was pointedly “real,” gritty, un-movie-like. It’s a fitting irony, then, that the films of Truffaut, Godard et al have become integrated into cinema’s collective cultural imagination: the Paris of Breathless is as much a part of our fantasy movie-verse as the New York of Pickup on South Street or the Los Angeles of In a Lonely Place, and Belmondo’s smirk as much the mark of a star as Bogart’s slouch—all of them awaiting to be re-imagined, transplanted, adapted, revised.

Enter Noah Baumbach and Greta Gerwig, whose new film Frances Ha, writes Amy Taubin in the latest issue of FILM COMMENT, “is blatantly a New Wave film, two generations removed… The editing is almost pure Truffaut in its combination of classicism in the dialogue sequences and elliptically in the montages that bridge them. The cinematography, with its myriad soft shades of gray, recalls the early black-and-white films of both Truffaut and Godard.”

For Godfrey Cheshire (writing at rogerebert.com) “the brittle self-consciousness (half boastful, half embarrassed) signified by his cinematic name-dropping has always been Baumbach’s artistic Achilles heel.” Cheshire considers Frances Ha’s New Wave citations evidence that “Baumbach’s reverential hyper-cinephilia has gotten the better of him again”—although “only to a point.” That last qualification is based largely on Baumbach’s close creative and romantic partnership with Gerwig, which, to Cheshire’s eyes, “has a freshness that may or not owe something to first-blush romance.” Here, too, Godard’s sixties work (in which Anna Karina frequently became the semi-willing object of a great deal of romantic deification and depreciation) is a close reference-point, but Taubin is quick to pinpoint where Baumbach breaks from his influences: “Gerwig’s Frances, unlike the characters Godard created for Anna Karina, is not opaque, mysterious, or victimized, almost certainly because Gerwig, who co-wrote the screenplay for Frances Ha, had a crucial role in imagining the character and translating her to the screen.”

Frances is a 27-year-old aspiring dancer stuck, in Cheshire’s words, “in that Janus-like, post-college phase where part of her seems to want to retreat to the womb, or at least Vassar, while another part wants to forge confidently into the realities of grown-up life in New York.” Gerwig plays her as a bundle of competing tendencies: playful, effervescent, fun; insecure, self-conscious, at times a little grating; sensitive, talented, unsure of herself but getting a little surer. It’s easy to see Gerwig’s performance as the animating spirit of Frances Ha—the one component of the film that feels as if it’s been torn from life, not from other movies. Its influences have little to do with the New Wave (even if Baumbach films her in the style of a consummate besotted New Wave director) and everything to do with the realities and uncertainties of young-adult experience. When Frances leaps through the streets of New York to Bowie’s “Modern Love,” you almost forget about Denis Lavant’s iconic Paris sprint to the same song in Leos Carax’s Mauvais Sang.  

But perhaps it’s not entirely fair to pit one element of the film against another like this; it is hard to see why a movie would need to be liberated from conventions that seem intended to support freedom of movement, location, and—most importantly—personal subject matter. That was Nick Pinkerton’s suggestion when he covered the film for The Village Voice during last year’s New York Film Festival (the opening reference is to Dean Wareham, who contributes to Frances Ha’s soundtrack):

It was Wareham's old band, Galaxie 500, who cadged the epochal title of an Ornette Coleman LP for their 1990 This is Our Music—and this announcement of proprietary pride in the humble property of one's life as suitable materials for art might be a subtitle for Baumbach and Gerwig's very parochial, very personal, very accessible film: This is Our Movie.

You could say the same of the New Wave directors who operated under the assumption that traditional Hollywood paradigms could be made to account for any setting, any character, any milieu; that “the humble property of one’s life” might be “suitable materials for art.” From this perspective, Baumbach’s copious New Wave citations come off as covert arguments that 21st-century New Yorkers are worth watching—and specifically this 21st-century New Yorker. Here, Gerwig’s performance and Baumbach’s meta-style are on the same wavelength: the first yells “look at me!” (even if, at the same time, Gerwig is always slightly apologizing for having us look at her); the second yells “look at her!” (with fewer apologies). As if we could look away.

Nick Pinkerton The Village Voice

Noah Baumbach's '90s films-- Kicking and Screaming and Mr. Jealousy --feature some very sharp and funny writing about the insecurities inherent to modern bachelorhood... and some very poorly-written women, depicted as checklists of adorable quirks: Olivia d'Abo fooling around with her retainer in Kicking , Annabella Sciorra whimsically traipsing around the Brooklyn Museum in Jealousy .

After a host of more complex ladies in recent work, Baumbach has returned to the post-collegiate milieu of his debut behind a female protagonist--and it looks grimly precious at first, as Frances (Greta Gerwig) is introduced doing a soft-shoe while fake-busking. To borrow from young Scott Fitzgerald at his most self-parodic, Frances is "a faded but still lovely woman of 27." A dancer employed in an apprenticeship capacity by a New York City company, Frances teaches children's classes--like Miranda July in The Future !--and lives an intermediate existence in life's waiting room. "I'm not a real person yet," she'll inform a date shortly after breaking up with a long-term boyfriend so she can keep her own apartment with Sophie, her best friend since college--who promptly ditches Frances for an opportunity to move downtown and upmarket.

Sophie is played by Mickey Sumner, Sting's daughter--and this hint of nepotism, as well as the focus on female friendship, strengthens the connection to Lena Dunham's Girls (Adam Driver, Dunham's TV fuckbuddy, also shows up as one of Frances' roommates.) Frances repeatedly describes Sophie and herself as "the same person"--Identical twins? A hidden thematic link between De Palma and Baumbach?--but a hint of desperation creeps into this chorus as it becomes increasingly obvious that Sophie is endeavoring to become a different person, as Frances clings to the liminal state of becoming to forestall having to decide on a final identity ("You seem a lot older, but less grown up," a friend of Sophie's tells Frances.)

Here the flimsy whimsy of the opening gives way to a pitch-perfect study in the solipsism of prideful self-pity. In her tenuous state, the dropping away of Frances' few stanchions of reliability are enough to start her into one of those gently floating free-falls available to middle-class kids with the parachute of a support system. A very vagabondish film about stasis, Frances tracks its heroine between NYC apartments, each new address noted with an intertitle, as she hides out from responsibility--she's always the leasee, never the lessor--then on a Christmas holiday vacation to California, an absurdly abbreviated trip to Paris (the rough draft for this bit is Baumbach's 2000 short "Conrad and Butler Take a Vacation," included on the Kicking and Screaming DVD), and a retreat to her old upstate college haunt which only serves as proof that you can't re-enroll again.

Baumbach's latest was co-written with 29-year old star Gerwig, who appeared in his 2010's Greenberg . Gerwig's sloped tallness and falling-forward trot don't inspire great hope for Frances' career as a dancer, but Gerwig rides the movie's comic tempo nicely with her clumpy elocution (editor Jennifer Lame deserves maximum credit), and working with Whit Stillman on Damsels with Distress seems to have calmed the actress' over-anxious naturalism. Like Frances, Gerwig hails from Sacramento. Her own parents appear as Frances' parents; and she is presumably drawing material from a brief parenthesis of straightened circumstances before being anointed the "It" girl of her generation, with consequent NY Times profiles and work in the Arthur remake.

Unlike that horror, Frances Ha is steeped in the economic realities of life-by-budget in NYC (there's a good bit with ATM fees) and the exigencies of real-estate, with Frances and Sophie cracking wise at the expense of another's interior décor ("This apartment is very aware of itself.") The film is structured as a chain of blackout sketches, quick-in quick-out scenes distilling social situations to their essence in a non-gag "Overheard in New York" punchline, these interpolated with longer, confessional moments. Shot in digital black-and-white by Sam Levy, the set-ups flip by like sparse comic panels--and the narrative covers the same parting ways of a platonic female couple captured so well in Terry Zwigoff/ Daniel Clowes' Ghost World.

The film's final act gathers together the various personalities whose paths Frances has crossed, petitioning the audience's indulgence in forgiving everyone their follies--a far more generous tack than the shame-based, exhibitionistic farce recently preferred by Baumbach (and Dunham).

While De Palma's black comedy re-phrases Godard's "To live in society today is like living in one enormous comic-strip" to a contemporary "To live in society today is like living in a digital hall-of-mirrors", Frances Ha is blown along by the French New Wave's gentler spirits. Baumbach described Frances Ha as a "pop song" at his press conference, and the soundtrack is a buoyant mesh of George Delarue compositions, '80s Bowie, and contributions from Britta Phillips and Dean Wareham. It was Wareham's old band, Galaxie 500, who cadged the epochal title of an Ornette Coleman LP for their 1990 This is Our Music --and this announcement of proprietary pride in the humble property of one's life as suitable materials for art might be a subtitle for Baumbach and Gerwig's very parochial, very personal, very accessible film: This is Our Movie.

Frances Ha By Fernando F. Croce - Reviews - Reverse Shot

Film Blather [E. Novikov]

Frances Ha, directed by Noah Baumbach, reviewed. - Slate Magazine Dana Stevens from Slate

Frances Ha review: Noah Baumbach and Greta Gerwig film is all ... David Haglund from Slate

The Atlantic [Jason Bailey]

Review: Endearing & Buoyant 'Frances Ha' Marks ... - Indiewire Blogs Rodrigo Perez from The Playlist

"Frances Ha" Review: Life Flows Along With A Smile and A ... - Pajiba Amanda Mae Meyncke

Movie Review - 'Frances Ha' - A Blithe Spirit At Loose Ends In ... - NPR Ella Taylor

Film Freak Central Review [Angelo Muredda]

Slant Magazine [John Semley]

The House Next Door [Jordan Cronk]

Filmleaf [Chris Knipp]

'Frances Ha:' Ha Indeed | The Blemish Robin Zlotnick

Culture Blues [Jeff Hart] which includes film critic Devin Faraci’s scathing insight into mumblecore

JamesBowman.net | Frances Ha also seen here: The American Spectator : Frances Ha

DVDTalk.com - theatrical [Jamie S. Rich]

'Frances Ha' review by Steve Pulaski • Letterboxd also seen here: The Steve Pulaski Message Board [Steve Pulaski] and in a Video Review (7:15) here: Steve Pulaski's YouTube [Steve Pulaski]

Frances Ha : DVD Talk Review of the Theatrical Jeff Nelson

Greta Gerwig Stars in Noah Baumbach's Dating ... - Village Voice Stephanie Zacharek

jdbrecords [Jeffery Berg]

Greta Gerwig's Frances Is Not a Real Person, Yet, but ... - PopMatters Chris Barsanti

EyeForFilm.co.uk [Anne-Katrin Titze]

Angeliki Coconi's Unsung Films [Zachary Wyman]

World Socialist Web Site [Joanne Laurier]]

Frances Ha - Entertainment - Time Mary Pols

Paste Magazine [Joe Peeler]

White City Cinema [Michael Smith]

Frances Ha - Film School Rejects Kate Erbland

Review: Greta Gerwig is superb on both sides of the camera in - HitFix Gregory Ellwood

Monsters and Critics [Ron Wilkinson]

FilmSchoolRejects [Daniel Walber]

Sound On Sight [Simon Howell]

Smells Like Screen Spirit [Don Simpson]

The Film Stage [Jared Mobarak]

Blu-ray.com [Brian Orndorf]

BeyondHollywood.com [Brent McKnight]

Film.com [Jordan Hoffman]

Review: Francis Ha - Community.compuserve.com Harvey Karten

Twitch [Ryland Aldrich]

Exclaim! [Robert Bell]

Reel Film Reviews [David Nusair]

Combustible Celluloid Review - Frances Ha (2013), Noah ... Jeffrey M. Anderson

Greta gerwig needed noah baumbach's validation to write ... - Jezebel Anna Breslaw

Nouvelle Vague via Baumbach and the Mumblecore Queen Cineaste De Burque from The World In Motion

'Frances Ha' Director Noah Baumbach and Star/Co-Writer Greta ... Marlow Stern talks to both Baumbach and Gerwig from The Daily Beast, May 14, 2013

Frances Ha's Noah Baumbach & Greta Gerwig Rob Feld interviews Baumbach and Gerwig from the Writers Guild of America, May 24, 2013

Hollywood Reporter [Todd McCarthy]

Frances Ha – review | Film | guardian.co.uk - The Guardian Catherine Shoard

'Frances Ha' an exercise in watching Greta Gerwig - The Boston Globe Ty Burr

'Frances Ha' movie review - Washington Post Ann Hornaday

The Cleveland Movie Blog [Bob Ignizio]

'Frances Ha' review: Life is a dance, and she knows ... - Pioneer Press Chris Hewitt

Austin Chronicle [Kimberley Jones]

Dallas Film Now [Peter Martin]

Frances Ha Movie Review & Film Summary (2013) | Roger Ebert Godfrey Cheshire

Greta Gerwig in Noah Baumbach's 'Frances Ha' - NYTimes.com A.O. Scott, May 8, 2013, also seen here: 'Frances Ha,' With Greta Gerwig - Movies - The New York Times

Greta Gerwig - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

WHILE WE’RE YOUNG B 87

USA (97 mi) 2015 Official site

He’s not evil, he’s just young.

─Josh Shrebnik (Ben Stiller)

The kids are getting older - - that feeling of the inevitability of aging seems to be on the mind of writer/director Noah Baumbach, once seen as one of the cooler heads in the business, whose ruthlessly satirical semi-autobiographical THE SQUID AND THE WHALE (2005) remains his definitive film, one of the quintessential indie films of the modern era that seems to define our place in the struggle, where his films are snapshots of distinctively uncomfortable and often sad moments in our lives, drawn from his own personal experiences growing up in Brooklyn, where his characters are often going through life-changing moments. Prone to disappointments, Baumbach’s films feature restless, anxiety-driven characters along the lines of Woody Allen, both known for their acidic wit, but are usually made for a fraction of the cost. Baumbach’s films have a fun factor associated with them, also exquisite performances, where the audience is literally sharing intimate moments with the people onscreen, much like a theatrical experience, where you hang out for a brief period with a few fictional characters of his own creation, where his films, even his failures, are always time well spent, featuring ingeniously written dialogue of characters in flux, small gems of personal life experiences that reveal our tenuous connection to the constantly changing world around us. Whatever Baumbach may be, he’s never boring, where the optimum word is usually clever. Anyone remember the animated opening prologue sequence to Orson Welles’ THE TRIAL (1962), often described as the doorkeeper myth, The Trial: Before The Law - YouTube (2:45), an existential dilemma suggesting that from the outset we cannot escape the inevitability of our fate?

“Before the Law stands a doorkeeper,” the story begins. “A man from the country comes to this doorkeeper and requests admittance to the Law.  But the doorkeeper says that he can’t grant him admittance now. The man thinks it over and then asks if he’ll be able to enter later. ‘It’s possible,’ says the doorkeeper, ‘but not now.’”

The doorkeeper warns the country man that three even more powerful (if unglimpsed) guards lie beyond him—the impenetrable layers of the bureaucracy. The man waits forever, until his death, until the gatekeeper closes the door meant only for him, but which he can never enter.

In Baumbach’s film, it opens with a few lines from Henrik Ibsen’s play The Master Builder, where Solness, an aging character, wonders aloud if he should “open the door” to the younger generation, anxious that they might “break in upon me” and seek “retribution.” By the end of the film, we hear playing over the final credits Paul McCartney’s song “Let ‘Em In,” Let 'Em In Paul McCartney And Wings Lyrics Photodex ... (5:09):

Someone’s knockin’ at the door
Somebody’s ringin’ the bell
Do me a favor, open the door and let ‘em in

An amusing stroll through a generational divide, the story concerns a couple in their forties Josh and Cornelia, Ben Stiller and Naomi Watts, seemingly at a crossroads in their life, still unsure of themselves as they’ve become creatures of routine, completely dependent upon instant access from the latest electronic gadgetry, though in denial about their approaching middle-age, where earlier dreams of success have eluded them, finding themselves at odds with most of their friends who are fast becoming parents, where the focus of their attention shifts to their children, leaving Josh and Cornelia on the outside looking in. As a result, when the opportunity comes to hang out with a younger couple in their 20’s, Jamie and Darby (Adam Driver, a revelation, and the underutilized Amanda Seyfried), both are infused with a newfound energy from the younger generation’s more carefree lifestyle, finding it invigorating, much less pressure, and somewhat liberating to be youthful again. Mirroring the director himself (who is age 45), Josh plays a 44-year old documentary filmmaker who has a strained relationship with success, having had some degree of earlier critical acclaim for his first film, but feels the daunting pressure of living under the shadow of Cornelia’s more acclaimed father (for whom she works), Leslie Breitbart (Charles Grodin), a Maysles or Wiseman style documentarian considered a legend in the field. Still struggling for the past ten years with the shape and editing of a film he can’t seem to finish about the political, historical and militaristic connections of the last 50 years, (“It’s really about America!”), including a lengthy interview of aging, leftist intellectual Ira Mandelstam (Peter Yarrow, from Peter, Paul, and Mary), mimicking Woody Allen’s CRIMES AND MISDEMEANORS (1989), which also includes an interview with an aging intellectual, yet here the audience immediately senses Mandelstam is the most boring creature on earth, yet Josh refuses to cut any of his precious footage, leaving his film in an unwieldy state of seven hours long. Making matter worse, his grant funding has run dry, leaving them precariously on the edge of financial difficulty, where he might be forced to swallow his pride and borrow money from his father-in-law, something that eats away at him, as if diminishing his own self-esteem or masculinity. When he discovers Jamie is a budding filmmaker already familiar with his work, he’s not only flattered, but thinks perhaps he might be of some help offering an objective perspective, discussing many of the ideas on his film, but instead Josh gets sucked into Jamie’s first film project about reconnecting with a long lost friend on Facebook who turns out to be a suicidal war veteran. While Josh sees himself more as a seasoned professional offering tutorial guidance and expertise, internally he wonders when he stopped being young and ambitious and instead began thinking of himself as something of a disappointment, where he’s been bogged down working on the same film for so long that he’s worried it may never get finished. Little wonder, then, that he leaves his stagnant life behind and runs off with Jamie as his newly discovered best friend.

Zany and hilariously “in-the-moment,” hanging out with the refreshingly different younger couple brings unforeseen energy into their lives. Living in a warehouse loft apartment in Harlem that is surprisingly quant and authentic, the walls filled with vinyl records and furniture they built themselves, Cornelia notices with some surprise, “It’s like their apartment is full of stuff we threw out.” Filled with the collected clutter of whatever appealed to them at the moment, Jamie seems interested in everything, always eager to try new things, where his idea of living is experiencing things as unfiltered as possible, playing board games instead of watching TV, where Darby makes organic ice cream in an assortment of specialty flavors. Wearing T-shirts that say “Some crappy band,” or “Some college I didn’t go to,” Darby’s darker impulses include exploring empty subway tunnels or taking hip-hop dance classes with Cornelia, who can’t figure out the dance moves, asking quizzically “What kind of class is this?” while Josh and Jamie ride bikes through the city streets (which Josh cuts short due to arthritic knees) or go shopping for fedora hats, where Josh confesses, “Before we met the only two feelings I had left were ‘wistful’ and ‘disdainful.’” When trying to recollect a pop reference, Josh instinctively pulls out his smartphone, but Jamie and Darby prefer the mystery of trying to remember without an electronic gadget that can find easy, readily available answers for you. And if they can’t remember, then they simply move on to something else. It’s reminiscent of an era of bringing electronic calculators into the classroom, where students were allowed to do all the calculating electronically, even on tests, where previous generations were forced to memorize all the formulas and do all their own calculations. Curiously, inverting one’s expectations, it’s the “younger” couple that prefers the “older” challenge. In a dinner scene with friends their same age, Josh and Cornelia, along with others, are all seen on their smartphones, where someone utters the rationalization, “It used to be rude, but now it’s accepted.” Similarly, when Josh hears a song he hated when it was released in the 80’s but suddenly finds inspiring when heard again, Lionel Richie’s “All Night Long,” Lionel Richie - All Night Long (All Night) - YouTube (3:48), or the dreadfully overplayed ROCKY III (1982) theme song “Eye of the Tiger,” Survivor - Eye Of The Tiger - YouTube (4:10), he instantly recalls, “I remember when this song was just bad,” now suddenly being rediscovered by those hearing it for the first time. This trip down memory lane, however, gets derailed when they decide to attend a spiritual cleansing that involves a fake shaman and hallucinogenic drugs, where the outcome grows more grotesque than absurd, where they’re obviously closing a moral line of questionable bad taste, where it also serves as a reminder of just what, exactly, have they gotten themselves into? While always maintaining he was a purist, willing to spend ten years refusing to allow any phony commercialism to taint his movies, Josh always believed filmmaking was “capturing the truth of the experience.” When he realizes Jamie’s work is an utter fraud and fabrication that conveniently accepts deceitful motives, staging events for real life and passing it off as truthful, for instance, Josh finds this an irreconcilable difference, a perversion of the truth. While the film loses some of its sanity, with Ben Stiller having a meltdown and reverting to form as one of the more contemptible characters onscreen today, for further evidence, see GREENBERG, (2010), but Baumbach wrote the film especially for him while attempting to expose how what passes for the truth today is altogether different than previous generations, having been raised in an era of instant gratification where images are captured by cellphones and posted on Twitter or YouTube, where there is no longer an editing process, per se, but an immediate flood of public opinion that determines what’s essentially the truth. This is a film that you want to like more, but it grows curiously weaker by the end, lost in its own ambiguity, where even the title feels somewhat lame, but overall it has more inventive charm and pizazz, even if it’s not altogether a success, than most other directors working today.

In Review Online [Kenji Fujishima]

While We’re Young, the latest dramedy from Noah Baumbach, isn’t entirely free from generational finger-wagging of its own, especially in a last act that bizarrely becomes a thriller of sorts, plot twists, suspense-filled cross-cutting and all. Thankfully, though, Baumbach has much more of a ken for complexity than Reitman does. Jamie (Adam Driver) may [possible spoiler alert] be revealed to be manipulative narcissist, but there's no denying his and girlfriend Darby’s (Amanda Seyfried) genuine youthful energy, which draws the central middle-aged couple, Josh (Ben Stiller) and Cornelia (Naomi Watts), in as friends their age all seem to be preoccupied with comparably dull family-related concerns. Baumbach’s filmmaking reflects this youthfulness, to some extent: Certainly compared to, say, Greenberg, there's a irresistible sense of verve to Sam Levy's camerawork and Jennifer Lame's editing that is quite enlivening.

But While We’re Young isn’t just about generational divides and middle-aged anxieties. Josh, for instance, gradually reveals himself to be another prickly Baumbach male antihero, swimming in male insecurity, as exemplified by an ambitious documentary project that remains unfinished in part because of his defensiveness toward constructive criticism and rigidity toward an arguably old-fashioned approach to documentary ethics. Non-fiction filmmaking, in fact, gets as much attention as the character dramas in this film, with Josh expressing confusion toward the newer mode of first-person, subjective documentary filmmaking that Jamie is more interested in practicing through occasionally questionable means. And yet, unlike Jason Reitman, Baumbach doesn’t necessarily prize one perspective over another. If Baumbach is ultimately more predisposed to empathizing with Josh and Cornelia, both sides of this generational gap are observed to have their positive and negative points.

Slant Magazine [Christopher Gray]

Shortly after married, childless fortysomethings Josh (Ben Stiller) and Cornelia (Naomi Watts) abandon their friends for a younger, more artisanally inclined couple, While We're Young offers a montage of how its characters occupy themselves when left to their own devices. Aspiring documentarian Jamie (Adam Driver) watches VHS cassettes and raps on one of his vintage typewriters, which are mounted like deer heads on a wall of his Harlem apartment. His girlfriend, Darby (Amanda Seyfried), reads a clothbound book. Josh and Cornelia, meanwhile, remain attached to their devices: He fiddles with his Apple TV as she dons massive headphones and cues up an episode of Radiolab. It's a quick, clever sequence that outlines familiar generational clichés: Aging yuppies embrace isolationist, on-demand technology while young hipsters cultivate a fetish for the prior generation's bygone habits and woebegone advances in consumer electronics. Such visual details, presented with minimal commentary, were a crucial part of the milieu of Noah Baumbach's Frances Ha. While We're Young mines that probing mise-en-scène for explicit commentary, but the belabored screwball comedy that results lacks the verisimilitude and acute socioeconomic awareness of its predecessor.

The problems begin with the characters, who are sketchy elaborations of artsy New York types, largely detached from financial concerns. Josh is a cerebral documentary filmmaker, foraging through the weeds of 10 years of raw footage as he tries to complete the follow-up to his breakout debut. Hopelessly ill-defined by Baumbach's script, Cornelia moonlights as a producer, but she's most notably the daughter of Leslie Breitbart (Charles Grodin), a legendary documentarian. Baumbach introduces the couple as if they were rejects from the final cut of Friends with Kids, grimacing cartoonishly as their friends embrace mommy blogs and the broader cult of active city parents. (One father, played by Adam Horowitz, sports a tattoo of his child's sonogram.) Josh and Cornelia rather eagerly ditch their social circle when Jamie and Darby sit in one of Josh's film classes and then invite the couple out for dinner. Jamie wants to start a new film. Darby—another female character we never see at work—produces almond milk ice cream. The elder couple get swept up in the micro-adventures of their beaming, charismatic new friends, joining in on "street beach" parties and voyages through the subway tunnels.

Baumbach lobs jokes with hectic editing and a Sturgesian velocity, but much of this cross-generational comedy is frantic and wearisomely superficial, its sights set on the tropes of the age of Portlandia and Broad City: hipsters with fixies raising a chicken in their living room; white people attending hip-hop dance class; middle-aged men attempting to justify their use of Facebook to disinterested younger people; a random roommate walking by in an ironic T-shirt. The director is best when he's slowly, mercilessly undermining the self-images of his characters, but While We're Young speaks in a cultural shorthand that saps its leads of both idiosyncrasy and dignity. As Josh and Cornelia, Stiller and Watts are oddly listless, trapped by the film's stale aggregation of cultural habits and rom-com clichés. They're the constructs through which Baumbach engages in a rather earnest examination of a generation reluctant to accept the routines and stodgy values of middle age, but the film's reliance on physical humiliation and bemused reaction shots is itself stuffy and retrograde.

While We're Young is most consistently amusing when it addresses issues of cultural appropriation and throwback kitsch. Jamie plays Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger" to pump Josh up before a meeting with a potential investor, and Josh quips, "I remember when this song was just bad." When Josh, enamored with Jamie's style, begins to sport a fedora, Baumbach tosses in a hilarious shot-reverse-shot exchange, where the brims of their hats dominate the frame. Eventually, the film's charming young hipsters, expertly rendered both effervescent and vapid by Driver and Seyfried, come to seem morally rudderless schemers, particularly after Jamie co-opts one of Josh's subjects for his upcoming documentary. (He also snatches his editor, and the goodwill of Josh's father-in-law.)

Baumbach tips his cap to Woody Allen's Crimes and Misdemeanors in this subplot, and does some appropriating of his home, passing off footage from the Maysles' Experiment on 114th Street as the work of his fictional Leslie Breitbart at a dinner honoring the character at Lincoln Center. The dinner, complete with a disruptive and disputed aria by Josh about ethics in documentary filmmaking, is a classically large genre finale set in the very specific world of New York film luminaries (Peter Bogdanovich makes a cameo). The disconnect here is pointed (Baumbach's bid for commercial success culminates in a scene where Josh's private neuroses become embarrassingly public in a room full of his heroes), but its success relies on a layered, inside-baseball meta-text that's wildly out of step with While We're Young's frustratingly broad observational humor.

While We're Young / The Dissolve Keith Phipps

I remember when this song was just bad,” Josh (Ben Stiller) tells Jamie (Adam Driver) when the latter plays Survivor’s Rocky III power anthem “Eye Of The Tiger” to pump the former up before a big meeting. Josh sounds relieved to discover what had once been a guilty pleasure for his generation has now been upgraded to pleasure by those coming up behind him. All the detritus of his youth—old commercial jingles, videotapes of horror movies, Lionel Richie—lives on in the strategically cluttered loft Jamie shares with his wife Darby (Amanda Seyfried), while the apartment where Josh lives with his wife Cornelia (Naomi Watts) looks like it hasn’t seen clutter since takeout menus went digital. In time, Josh will discover that their habit of appropriating whatever appeals to them isn’t always so charming, but at first it seems revivifying. Maybe those youthful enthusiasms were the real stuff of life. Maybe this grown-up period that’s been giving him so much trouble is just a passing phase.

Josh and Jamie are documentary filmmakers at different stages of their careers. Jamie’s just starting out, doing quirky projects featuring his friends. Josh has stalled. He’s labored for years over an increasingly nebulous project about power and America, most of it tied to theories of an elderly scholar (Peter Yarrow) who even Josh admits is kind of boring. Josh and Cornelia strike up a friendship with Jamie and Darby after the younger couple sits in on one of Josh’s classes, drawn by Jamie’s admiration for the last film Josh managed to finish (which Jamie had to acquire on eBay). What follows, in writer-director Noah Baumbach’s latest, is a comedy of cross-generational exchange that’s smart, lively, and beautifully observed—until it sours in a final act that undoes much of what precedes it.

It takes a while to get to that point, however, and there’s much to enjoy along the way. Childless in their 40s, Josh and Cornelia feel out of place among their friends, most of whom have kids and have drifted away to join other parents, when they socialize at all. Jamie and Darby drag them out of their cloistered world and into a wider, funkier Brooklyn, a place of “street beach” parties, urban exploration, and porkpie hats. Jamie even gets Josh working again, this time on a project with a possible end point: A documentary that follows Jamie as he reconnects with old friends who contact him on Facebook. When one turns out to be the survivor of an especially traumatic tour of duty in Afghanistan, both realize they’ve struck documentary gold.

That gives While We’re Young its plot, but it’s the many scenes of the foursome simply interacting that give it its shape and color. Baumbach has a keen eye for the effects technology has had on the unsettled edges of modern etiquette. Characters reach for their phones the first moment politeness will allow it, and rely on the omnipresence of the Internet to look up whatever their memories won’t summon up instantaneously. He’s smart, too, about the way age can narrow both experience and emotions. “Before we met the only two feelings I had left were ‘wistful’ and ‘disdainful,’” Josh tells Jamie. If While We’re Young makes him and Cornelia look ridiculous in their attempts to recapture a bit of the youth they didn’t realize had slipped away, it also makes clear why they might be desperate to do so. That Stiller and Watts never wink, even in a long scene involving a vomitous psychedelic ritual, enriches the pathos beneath it all.

Since his 1995 debut Kicking And Screaming, Baumbach has made arrested development a recurring theme. His films have never sided with those stuck in the past, and While We’re Young is ultimately no exception, even if it spends a good stretch demonstrating both the appeal and therapeutic value of the relationship between the central foursome. James Murphy provides the score—between bursts of Vivaldi and well-chosen pop songs—and the film initially plays like a cinematic version of LCD Soundsystem’s “Losing My Edge,” complete with an up-and-coming bunch of kids who are “really, really nice.” But it turns into what Bob Dylan once called a “finger-pointing song,” and while Driver and Seyfried are both quite good, there’s nothing specific enough about their characters to avoid making the film feel like a blanket condemnation of a whole generation and their new ways of doing things. Late in the movie, Josh delivers a rant with a parenthetical that he doesn’t care if what he’s saying makes him feel like an old man. It plays like a meta moment.

All of this leads to a disappointing, simplistic climax, but not a ruinous one, especially since it seems so at odds with the more complex scenes the precede it. Charles Grodin, always welcome, plays Cornelia’s father. A successful documentary filmmaker of the cinema verité generation, he and Josh have a fractious relationship that seems as rooted in a tussle between generational sensibilities as any personal disagreement. Their scenes together offer glimpses of themes While We’re Young never quite gets around to exploring, even though they still inform the best parts of the film. Each generation figures it out and tries to impose their vision of how things should be on the world, only to forget that feeling the first time they discover that those next in line are willing, even eager, to wipe it all away and start again. Those who cling too hard risk getting erased as well.

Why Noah Baumbach's Attack on “Bohemian” Brooklyn in ... Moze Halperin from Flavorwire

Youth Wasted on the Old: Legacy and Ageism for Noah ... Andy Crump from Paste magazine, April 20, 2015

While We're Old: Looking in Noah Baumbach's Mirror « Molly Lambert from Grantland, April 10, 2015

While We're Young - Reviews - Reverse Shot Michael Koresky

Noah Baumbach's New Movie “While We're Young” - The ... Richard Brody from The New Yorker, March 28, 2015

When Noah Baumbach was young: Revisiting the master of ... When Noah Baumbach was young: Revisiting the master of ironic distance’s most influential films, by Adam Lawrence from Salon, March 28, 2015

Will Noah Baumbach Ever Make a Movie Everyone Can ... Noah Baumbach’s Golden Years, by Seth Stevenson from Slate, March 27, 2015

TIFF Review: Noah Baumbach's 'While We're Young ... Kevin Jagernauth from The Playlist

Flavorwire [Jason Bailey]

Review: WHILE WE'RE YOUNG, A Couple ... - Twitch Zach Gayne

While We're Young Noah Baumbach - Vanity Fair Richard Lawson

Review: Ben Stiller and Adam Driver put a stake in ... - HitFix Drew McWeeny

Film Review: Noah Baumbach's 'While We're Young' is witty ... Leonard Quart from The Berkshire Edge

SBS Movies [Michelle Orange]

The Film Stage [Christopher Schobert]

Sound On Sight (Kyle Turner)

Sound On Sight (Ariel Fisher)

Film Racket [Chris Barsanti]

Growing Young, Waking Up: New Baumbach Film Resonates Melissa Rodman from The Harvard Crimson

'While We're Young' Reviews: Praise for Stiller, Baumbach ... Max O’Connell from indieWIRE

IONCINEMA.com [Jordan M. Smith]

Grolsch Film Works [Oliver Lunn]

Film-Forward.com [Kent Turner]

The Films of Noah Baumbach, Ranked From Worst to Best ... David Canfield from indieWIRE, March 27, 2015

Acting Their Age: Noah Baumbach on “While We're Young ... Matt Fagerholm interview from the Ebert site, March 24, 2015

Noah Baumbach Shares His Musical Obsessions -- Vulture Lauretta Charlton interview from Vulture, March 27, 2015

Noah Baumbach On "While We're Young" And The Wisdom ... Ari Karpel interview from Fast Co-Create, March 31, 2015

Director Noah Baumbach grows up on screen Adam Graham interview from The Detroit News, April 10, 2015

Noah Baumbach interview - The Telegraph Patrick Smith interview, April 22, 2015

'While We're Young': Toronto Review - The Hollywood ... Todd McCarthy from The Hollywood Reporter

Toronto Film Review: 'While We're Young' - Variety Peter Debruge

While We're Young - The Guardian Catherine Shoard

While We're Young review – a fine bromance Peter Bradshaw from The Guardian

Noah Baumbach: 'In my 20s, I felt like time was running out ... Rachel Aroesti from The Guardian, March 28, 2015

While We're Young: an 'ugly cliché' about generational conflict Raya Jalabi and Dominic Rushe from The Guardian, April 16, 2015

Noah Baumbach Is the Naked Emperor | David Fagin The Huffington Post, April 20, 2015

New Jersey Stage [Eric Hillis]

Noah Baumbach film 'While We're Young' fills generation gap Eric Althoff from The Washington Times, April 1, 2015

Life's amusing little trip-ups 'While We're Young' and ever after Kenneth Turan from The LA Times

Filmmaker Noah Baumbach is hitting that middle-age groove Mark Olsen from The LA Times, March 21, 2015

While We're Young Movie Review (2015) | Roger Ebert Christy Lemire

New York Times [A. O. Scott]

While We're Young (film) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Bava, Mario

Film Reference Steven Schneider

The day after Germany declared war on France and Russia in response to the assassination of Austria's archduke, Francis Ferdinand—July 31, 1914—Mario Bava was born in San Remo, Italy. His father, Eugenio Bava, was a sculptor turned accomplished cinematographer in the early days of the Italian silent film industry (in 1912, he photographed the epic Quo Vadis; a year later, he assisted Segundo de Chomon on Cabria, a film whose special effects are legendary). For several years Mario worked as his father's helper, subtitling films for export and animating title sequences for Italian features, until the 1930s, when he began to assist some of Italy's finest cinematographers. Mario was trained as a painter, and his artistic background encouraged in him a strong belief in the importance of visual composition in filmmaking. This led to a fast-growing reputation as a special effects wizard, one with a knack for developing new ways of using optical trickery. In 1939, Mario advanced to the level of director of photography, and besides a series of shorts which he directed in the 1940s, he remained a cinematographer until 1960. Included among the directors for whom Bava photographed films in the early part of his career are Jacques Tourneur, Raoul Walsh, G.W. Pabst, Roberto Rossellini, Paolo Heusch, and Robert Z. Leonard. Furthermore, as Tim Lucas notes, "his stylized lensing was critical in developing the screen personas of such international stars as Gina Lollobrigida and Steve Reeves."

While working with Riccardo Freda on I vampiri (The Vampires) in 1956—the first Italian horror film of the sound era—the director left the project early on after an argument with his producers. Bava stepped in and finished directing half of the twelve-day schedule in a mere two days. This would not be the last time he performed such a crucial task: in 1957, Bava directed some of Pietro Francisci's La fatiche di Ercole (Hercules), and in 1959, he was credited with "saving" Jacques Tourneur's Giant of Marathon. Legend has it that Freda then tricked Bava by hiring his friend to photograph Caltiki il mostro immortale (Caltiki, the Immortal Monster, 1959) and once again stepped down as director after just two days. Lionello Santo, the film's producer, was so impressed with Bava's efforts that he invited him to select any film he wanted for his official directorial debut, when he was already forty-six years of age.

Bava couldn't have made a better choice, basing La maschera del demonia (Black Sunday, 1960) on the Nikolai Gogol story, Vij. Black Sunday, starring Barbara Steele in dual roles as a vampire sorceress and her virginal descendant, is widely acknowledged as the last great black and white Gothic horror film. However, "Bava's tactic," according to Alain Silver and James Ursini, "was a reliance on fresh rendering or novel manipulation of traditional images." The film was an international success overnight, and the British actress Steele became an instant sensation.

Although Black Sunday was shot in black and white, Bava's subsequent reputation was in large built on his extraordinary and highly symbolic use of color. In the words of Jeff Dove, "the projects which followed [La maschera del demonia] began to develop stunning photography, making great use of lighting, set design, and camera positioning to compliment mise-en-scenes bathed in deep primaries." Ercole al centro della terra (Hercules at the Center of the Earth, 1961) shows off Bava's adeptness with Technicolor, and in films such as Sei donne per l'assassino (Blood and Black Lace, 1963) and Terrore nello spazio (Planet of the Vampires, 1965), his sets and compositions approach the look of artworks. The one exception to Bava's astounding use of color is his 1962 Hitchcock spoof La ragazza che sappeva troppo (The Girl Who Knew Too Much/Evil Eye), a black and white murder mystery that is widely acknowledged as the first of the giallos—peculiarly Italian horror-thrillers named for the yellow pages of the cheap novels upon which they were based.

Silver and Ursini argue quite persuasively that "the unusal and disquieting visuals of Bava's films seem rooted in a conception of life as an uncomfortable union of illusion and reality. The dramatic conflict for his characters lies in confronting the dilemma of distinguishing between the two perceptions." Many of his films—including Black Sunday, Gli Invasoir (Erik the Conqueror, 1961), and Operazione Paura (Kill, Baby, Kill, 1966)—make use the doppelgänger theme in order to engender confusion and uncanniness. This last film, about villagers who are compelled to commit suicide by the ghost of a young girl, was an admitted influence on works by Fellini, Martin Scorcese, and David Lynch. Other of Bava's films rely on idiosyncratic camera techniques, such as snap zooms, over-rotated pans, and unconventional point-of-view shots, as a way of conveying the emotional states of characters.

The extreme violence and downbeat endings of much of Bava's output in the 1960s eventually resulted in the dissolution of his contract with American International Pictures, which had been successfully distributing his films in English-speaking countries. After not working for two years, Bava returned with a vengeance in 1968—Diabolik (Danger: Diabolik), produced by Dino DeLaurentiis, was a comic book adapation that proved enormously popular in Europe. Three years later, Bava would break new ground once again with L'ecologia del delitto (A Bay of Blood, 1971), a gory slasher film that preceded Halloween and Friday the 13th in America by nearly a decade.

The last three films directed by Bava all met with misfortune of one sort or another. Lise e il diavolo (Lisa and the Devil, 1973) is justly proclaimed by Lucas "an extraordinary combination of horror film, art film and personal testament." Unfortunately, this creepy tale of necrophilia, evil, and murder starring Elke Sommer and Telly Savalas proved unsalable at Cannes in 1973. Cani arrabbiati (Rabid Dogs), a pet project of Bava's that he had wanted to make for years, was neither completed nor released in the director's lifetime. After producer Roberto Loyola declared bankruptcy, Rabid Dogs was impounded for twenty years, only to be acquired and finished by co-star Lea Lander. In 1996, Lander premiered the film in Brussels under the title Semaforo rosso (Red Traffic Light), to great critical acclaim. Bava's final feature, Schock (Shock, 1977), was scripted by his son Lamberto. But Lamberto had to take over at various times during production, as his father feigned illness in order to provide him with directorial experience. On April 25, 1980, just days after receiving a clean bill of health, Mario Bava died of a heart attack. Never given nearly as much credit for his many accomplishments as he deserved during his lifetime, this director of masterpieces in many different genres, who worked with low budgets under extremely stressful conditions, is only now beginning to elicit the praise and attention he so richly merits.

Mario Bava Web Page

Mario Bava: il piu grande another Bava website

All-Movie Guide bio from Jason Buchanan

Britannia Film Archives another brief bio

Mario Bava Horror Director’s Profile

Senses of Cinema: Great Directors Sam-Ishii Gonzales

Barbara Steele's Ephemeral Skin: Feminism, Fetishism and Film Patricia MacCormack from Senses of Cinema

Mario Bava's Black Sunday aka The Mask of Satan Christopher J. Jarmick from Senses of Cinema

Zooming through Space Chris Fujiwara from Hermenaut, July 22, 2000

Mario Bava Kill, Bava, kill! Mario’s haunted world, by Chris Fujiwara from the Boston Phoenix, July 25, 2002

Images Feature Alain Silver and James Ursini

A Short Biography of Mario Bava Tim Lucas from Images journal

Mario Bava: The Illusion of Reality Alain Silver and James Ursini from Images journal, GO TO PAGE TWO

Mario Bava: Master of Illusion Steve Biodrowski from Cinefantastique

Classic Horror Masters – Mario Bava

Mario Bava Sean Axmaker from GreenCine

Bava, Mario They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

BLACK SUNDAY (La maschera del demonio)

aka: The Mask of Satan

Italy (87 mi) 1960

Lessons of Darkness [Nick Schager]

A crossbreed of Universal’s 1930s scarefests and Hammer Films’ then-contemporary monster mashes, 1960’s Black Sunday (aka The Mask of Satan) introduced the world to Italian maestro Mario Bava and screen siren Barbara Steele, and remains one of the cinema’s preeminent examples of gothic horror. Bava’s first directorial effort after years working as cinematographer to, among others, Jacques Tourneur and Raoul Walsh is a sumptuous black-and-white spectacle, a moody, chilling tale of a vampire witch (Steele) who, accidentally resurrected after 200 years of forced slumber, attempts to possess the body of her identical-looking descendent. Bava’s plotting is reasonably tight but Black Sunday isn’t about narrative deftness but atmosphere – specifically, a dreamy blend of ominous terror and fiery eroticism embodied by the striking, statuesque Steele. And what lingers long after the film’s specific plot points have faded from memory are its images – a shot from Steele’s point of view as the spiked Mask of Satan descends onto her face; a glimpse of her reanimating villainess’ fleshy, meaty body; the sight of a demonic coachman lashing steeds as his carriage hurtles along against a stormy sky – which feel as if they’d been ripped straight out of a nightmare.

digitallyOBSESSED! DVD Reviews Mark Zimmer

Mario Bava was one of the first Italian practitioners of Eurohorror; indeed, as the commentary on this disc notes, horror was prohibited on film in Italy until the late 1950's. Thus Walt Disney's Snow White is one of the seminal influences in the field in Italy. However, beginning with the film Black Sunday and continuing through the infamous Video Nasties, Italy has made up for lost time with a vengeance.

While the horrors in Black Sunday may seem tame today, the famous opening scene, in which the beautiful witch Asa (Barbara Steele) has a demon mask, with spikes coating the inside, hammered onto her face, is still hard to take. Unfortunately the film is somewhat of a letdown after starting off with such a bang, but that beginning remains one of the most important in horror cinema.

The film goes on to tell of the witch's revenge, exactly 200 years later, visited upon Prince Vajna and his daughter Katia (again Barbara Steele). Two doctors on their way to a convention happen to break down on the road near the tomb, and accidentally release the powers of the witch; one of them falls completely under her spell, and Asa is free to wreak havoc through the means of the reanimated corpse of her brother Javutich (and as the commentary notes, impliedly her lover) and take vengeance on the rest of the family, who condemned them to their fates. The story is loosely based on Nikolai Gogol's story The Vij, but as Bava was fond of noting, after four rewrites there is little of Gogol remaining in the film. Steele is splendid in this role that made her a star; she can play the evil witch just as well as the innocent Katia.

Through jaded modern eyes, Black Sunday doesn't have the power that it once had; much of its suspense is created through the hoary old chestnut of doors that open and close (and lock) by themselves, with a noisy creak. The stark black and white photography helps to establish the mood, and the original music (restored here, instead of the Les Baxter music which accompanied its U.S. release) is effective if unmemorable.

The presentation is of the English version of the film, entitled The Mask of Satan. While the BBFC refused to pass the picture initially, it eventually did get released, uncut, in Britain. The film here has three minutes of material restored to it that has never been released on video in the U.S. Much of this relates to the erotic component between the possessed doctor and the dead witch; necrophilia, even if subtly implied, was too much for U.S. audiences until now. Other items added include a longer shot on Asa as the mask is pounded onto her face, with the blood spurting out from behind the mask. This actually sounds worse than it looks on the screen; the photography is dark enough that very little is really visible.

That is part of the power of Black Sunday, even now; it has the good sense to leave much unspoken and implied, without feeling compelled to have closeups of knives piercing flesh and the like, as we see in later Italian giallo bloodfests. Some would say that Mario Bava never made a film as good as Black Sunday. I would say that regardless, it is still an effective and creepy way to spend an hour and a half.

Senses of Cinema (Christopher J. Jarmick) also seen here: Chris Jarmick

Barbara Steele's Ephemeral Skin: Feminism, Fetishism and Film Patricia MacCormack from Senses of Cinema

Cinefantastique Online Steve Biodrowski, also seen here: Cinescape

And You Call Yourself a Scientist! (Liz Kingsley)

Images Movie Journal Gary Johnson, also seen here: Images Movie Journal 2

Turner Classic Movies Lang Thompson

Classic-Horror Nate Yapp

Reel.com DVD review [Robert Payne]

The Onion A.V. Club [Keith Phipps] from the Mario Bava Collection, Volume 1

Mondo Digital

The Digital Bits Tod Doogan

Horror Express (Scott W. Davis)

Eccentric Cinema

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

DVD Verdict (Mark Van Hook)

DVD Verdict - The Mario Bava Collection, Volume 1 [Paul Corupe]

The New York Times (Eugene Archer)

DVDBeaver.com [Gregory Meshman]

THE WHIP AND THE BODY (La frusta e il corpo)

aka: The Whip and the Flesh

aka: What

Italy France (91 mi) 1963

Slant Magazine Ed Gonzalez

Widely considered the father of the Italian giallo genre, Mario Bava has influenced the likes of modern-day giallo directors Dario Argento and Lucio Fulci, as well as Martin Scorsese, David Lynch, Guillermo Del Toro and, most especially, Quentin Tarantino. The Whip and the Body is a gothic horror fantasy that finds Bava at the peak of his visual prowess. Though the giallo genre is often known for its reliance on graphic violence, Bava's film is noticeably tame. What with its captivating lighting schemes, ghostly death sequences and lurid compositions (passageways are downright vaginal), it's no wonder that Bava's fetishistic film has attained cult status. Kurt Menliff (Christopher Lee) has returned to his father's castle only to find that the servant woman (Harriet Medin) has developed an inexplicable fondness for a glass container with a dagger inside. The woman's daughter died long ago and the old bitty blames Kurt for her death; she longs for him to suffer like she did. It's easy to loose sight of the film's obsessive themes of revenge and familial responsibility amidst the parade of fetishistic set pieces. While walking on the beach, Kurt pulls out a horse's whip and begins to beat Novenka (Daliah Lavi). She lies on the beach, clothes-torn and wailing with pleasure. As the couple engages in their S&M love play, their terrified steed tries to avoid the advancing tide. Kitschy and ironic, The Whip and the Body is at once frightening and hysterical, a gothic rendition of a D.H. Lawrence tale.

Whips and Bodies: The Sadean Cinema Text Lindsay Hallam from Senses of Cinema

Images Movie Journal Derek Hill

Raging Bull [Mike Lorefice]

DVD Savant Review Glenn Erickson

Classic Horror Nate Yapp

Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick)

Whip and the Body, The John White from 10kbullets

DVDBeaver.com [Gregory Meshman]

BLOOD AND BLACK LACE (Sei donne per l'assassino)

Italy Monaco France Germany (90 mi) 1964

Slant Magazine [Fernando F. Croce]

The roots of the Hollywood slasher are often traced back to Blood and Black Lace, yet Mario Bava's seminal giallo has a richness of texture and complexity of gaze that have kept its elaborate carnage scintillating even following decades of leeching from genre vultures. A blood-drenched mod-whodunit, it kicks off with a young woman ambling through the misty woods, only to be strangled by a trenchcoated, fedoraed figure—her body is dragged out of the frame just as the camera pans left to reveal statues of cherubs in the garden. Christiana is the name of the haute couture fashion house where the other characters are assembled, though spiritual salvation may be the last thing in their minds; presided over by salon owner Cameron Mitchell and recently widowed countess Eva Bartok, the place is, under its coolly elegant surface, a seething vipers' nest of greed, drugs, abortions, blackmail, and, especially, sadistic slaughter, for the killer is barely getting started. Decadent visualist as well as severe moralist, Bava locates the macabre beauty at the heart of his art in this fashion-world dollhouse, where the models, both human and inanimate, become the main canvases for the sensual lushness of the mise en scène; the witty opening credits already suggest the link by posing the cast in sinister tableau, and mannequins are trenchantly arranged throughout as mute witnesses to the spectacle of human malice.

Whereas mannequins in the later Hatchet for the Honeymoon form an indictment of idealized femininity immobilized by masculine possession, the dummies here reflect a society's ruthless commoditization of the body and flesh, a notion of morbid beauty that Bava examines by extending it to the killings themselves. Thus, Ariana Gorini's antique-shop murder is filmed as a pulsating Minnelli set piece, Mary Arden's burned face is doted over the way Barbara Steele's scarred visage was fetishized in Black Sunday, and, emblematically, blood billows ravishingly through the water as Claude Dantes sinks to the bottom of a bathtub. A magnificent eye-level tracking shot through a shadowy living room suggests the killer's POV, until we see the corpse lying on the floor being pulled in the other direction and notice the camera's orb as the director's gaze, implacably watching as the characters glide to their doom. In that sense, the grand Blood and Black Lace shares with Five Dolls for an August Moon and Bay of Blood a crystallization of the director's worldview, where the tension between opulent surfaces and moral dislocation hint at a closer affinity with Antonioni than is usually perceived. Although, unlike his brilliant disciple Dario Argento, Bava doesn't specifically equate cinema with the act of seeing, he is no less concerned with the subtle potency of the image, and the subterranean worlds cloaked by it—not for nothing is his exquisite feel for design, décor, color, and movement tied to the endless cataloging of human sin, with beauty and ugliness, like desire and dread, forever leaking into one another.

Kinoeye (Reynold Humphries)

Turner Classic Movies Gary Teetzel

Images Movie Journal Derek Hill

Reel.com DVD review [Rod Armstrong] Special Edition

Epinions [Mike Bracken]

Classic-Horror Robert Ring

Mondo Digital

VideoVista Andy Black

Euro Trash Reviews (Kristoffer Gansing)

Eccentric Cinema

Static Multimedia [Sean Axmaker]

DVD Savant Review Glenn Erickson, also THE WHIP AND THE BODY and KILL, BABY…KILL!

Austin Chronicle [Jerry Renshaw]

The New York Times (A.H. Weiler)

DVDBeaver Gregory Meshman

KILL, BABY...KILL! (Operazione paura)

Italy (96 mi) 1966

Kill, Baby, Kill! Ed Gonzalez from Slate magazine

Martin Scorsese's impassioned voyage through Italian cinema, Il Mio Viaggio in Italia (My Voyage to Italy), played major lip service to the likes of Michelangelo Antonioni, Luchino Visconti, Vittorio De Sica and Roberto Rossellini. The lack of discussion regarding the films of Mario Bava would suggest that Italy's most revered giallo director had little or no influence on Scorsese. (On the contrary, not only have people pointed out connections between Bava's Kill, Baby…Kill! and Scorsese's The Last Temptation of Christ and, more explicitly, between The Girl Who Knew Too Much and Cape Fear, but Scorsese writes the introduction to Tim Lucas's new book on Bava, All the Colors of the Dark.) But perhaps this blind spot can more accurately be blamed on the pervasive belief that horror films are inferior to most genres of film and therefore unworthy of serious critical thought.

Mario Bava was born on July 31, 1914 in San Reno, Italy. His father was Eugenio Bava, a famous sculptor, set designer and cinematographer who worked prominently in the days of Italian silent cinema. (Curiously, two of Eugenio's three credited works as photographer, Cabiria and Quo Vadis?, feature prominently in Scorsese's My Voyage to Italy.) Around the time Eugenio went to work as director of optical effects at the Istituto LUCE in 1926, Mario frequently worked as his father's assistant. Early on, the budding director made a name for himself with his collaborations as a cinematographer with Robert Z. Leonard (Beautiful But Dangerous), Roberto Rossellini, G. W. Pabst, Jacques Tourneur and Raoul Walsh. Bava directed a series of small documentaries in the late '40s and later helped save two Riccardo Freda productions, 1957's I Vampiri and 1959's Caltiki il mostro immortale (Caltiki the Immortal Monster), before directing his first film, 1960's now-classic La maschera del demonio (Black Sunday).

In 1962, Bava directed The Girl Who Knew Too Much, considered by some to be the origin of the giallo. In her book Broken Mirrors/Broken Minds: The Dark Dreams of Dario Argento, Maitland McDonagh notes that Bava's gialli all seem to lack a "peculiarity present in Argento's mature work." But this peculiarity is noticeably present in Bava's more fetish-driven masterworks (namely The Whip and the Body), which are often dismissed as campy affairs by hardcore fans of Bava's more popular gialli (in addition to The Girl Who Knew Too Much, there's Blood and Black Lace, Hatchet for a Honeymoon, Five Dolls for an August Moon, and Twitch of the Death Nerve). 1966's Kill, Baby…Kill! (also known as Operation Fear) is arguably Bava's greatest achievement, a coolly unnerving and aggressively stylized tale of ghostly obsession that appeals both to fans of Bava's whodunnit gialli and his more psycho-sexual jaunts.

In a nameless European city in the early 1900s, Dr. Paul Eswai (Giacomo Rossi-Stuart) arrives to perform an autopsy on a woman who bled to death under mysterious circumstances. With the help of the sexy Monica Schuftan (Erika Blanc), Paul stumbles across the mystery of ball-bouncing Melissa Graps, an eight-year-old girl who was trampled by horses during a festival in 1887 and now haunts the townspeople by driving them to suicide should they glance at her ghost. When Paul's scientific reasoning fails him, it's local sorceress Ruth (Fabienne Dali) to the rescue. "Why do they call you as if you are practicing medicine?" he asks her. After infiltrating the mansion of Melissa's reclusive mother, Baroness Graps (Gianna Vivaldi), Ruth inexplicably ascertains that the old woman has been killing the townspeople and merely using the memory of her daughter as a not-so-elaborate cover-up.

Paul doesn't make for a very interesting or complex protagonist per se, but his blank-faced naivete does bring to mind David Hemmings' weakling protagonist from Argento's masterpiece Deep Red. Both men scoff at the idea of woman in positions of authority: Dali's all-powerful witch and Blanc's student of medicine in Kill, Baby…Kill!, and Daria Nicolodi's overzealous reporter in Argento's film. Because both films disclose their killers as females, perhaps Bava and Argento mean for their last-act revelations to be taken as deadening blows to the male ego. Paul condescends to the superstitions of the film's townspeople and is blamed for the death of the young Nadienne (Micaela Esdra) after he scoffs at Ruth's bleeding rituals as a means of preventing the girl's death; soon after he imposes his medicine on the girl, Nadienne is seduced by Melissa's ghost into impaling herself against a deliriously portentous iron object that hangs from her bedroom wall.

This conflict between modern medicine and superstition lends Kill, Baby…Kill! a moral urgency that's noticeably absent from some other films in Bava's canon. Far more savory, though, is Bava's dizzying mise-en-scène. Some have curiously identified an underlying Oedipal trajectory in the film but there's no mistaking the Escher-like warping of time and space, none more famous than Paul's repetitive, seemingly endless trip through the same room in Baroness Graps' mansion (the scene informs a similar sequence in David Lynch's Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me). In Kill, Baby…Kill!, Bava evokes Melissa's ghost rocking back and forth on a swing inside a graveyard by allowing his camera to take on the point-of-view of the swing itself. Bava's violent use of zoom shots was often criticized but, more times than not, this technique only served to emphasize the already-disorienting nature of his films.

There's an overwhelming sense here that the horror that plagues the film's characters is a response or manifestation of their fears and deepest desires. The film's aggressively baroque exteriors are often in sharp contrast with the spare, almost Brechtian interiors. Because Bava meant to create a strange dialectic between a hallucinatory, pastoral exterior and a deceptively sterile interior, there's a heavy emphasis on doors and windows closing on their own or blocking Melissa's passage between worlds. The girl's gaze, though, is unavoidable, as is her bouncing ball, which has a way of defying space and teasing the film's characters, even in death. (Another point of reference: Guillermo Del Toro would rework the film's infamous shot of Melissa peering through a window at Nadienne for El Espinazo del Diablo.)

Equally baroque (or maybe trashily succinct?) is the film's dialogue. Anyone remotely familiar with Italian horror films has learned to accept their requisite English dubbing as part of the overall package. Erika Blanc's lines are an artifice all their own (not to mention Carlo Rustichelli's trippy, quintessentially Italian-lounge score). Who knows who dubbed her English lines, but the voice-over artist's performance is a work of tongue-in-cheek genius. "Something in this town is supernatural. Tell me, why did they abandon the church? I'm scared, I almost think the devil's here," she moans in near-rhyme as Blanc clings to Rossi-Stuart's Paul. Luchino Visconti purportedly led a standing ovation of the film at its Italian premiere. Indeed, what with all its violent explosions of colors and labyrinthine, almost-monochromatic alleyways seething with expressionistic shadow-play, Kill, Baby…Kill! often plays out like Bava's answer to Visconti's equally artificial, sensuous, and deliriously campy Senso.

The Horror Review [Egregious Gurnow]

Turner Classic Movies Pablo Kjolseth

Images Movie Journal Derek Hill

DVD Savant Glenn Erickson

Classic-Horror Nate Yapp

The Onion A.V. Club [Keith Phipps] from the Mario Bava Collection, Volume 1

Mondo Digital

Ferdy on Films [Roderick Heath]

Foster on Film - Ghost Stories

The Science Fiction, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

DVD Savant Review Glenn Erickson, also THE WHIP AND THE BODY and BLOOD AND BLACK LACE

DVDBeaver.com [Gregory Meshman]

DIABOLIK

aka: Danger: Diabolik

Italy (82 mi) 1968

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

Garishly mixing Batman (filmed in 1966) and Barbarella (1968), Bava’s comic-strip adaptation provides a fair amount of daft, decadent fun before running out of steam around the hour mark. Barbarella co-star John Phillip Law cuts a wooden figure with or without his mask as Diabolik (pronounced “dyer-bollick”), a stylish criminal mastermind tormenting the government of an unspecified, generic European country. Aided by the suitably glamorous Eva (Marisa Mell), Diabolik pulls off a series of wildly audacious raids – culminating in an explosive assault on the nation’s tax institutions. Prodded by his increasingly-embarrassed minister-of-the-interior boss (Terry-Thomas), veteran cop Inspector Ginko (Michel Piccoli, dubbed) enlists the aid of gangland bigwigs in his fight against Diabolik, and eventually tracks down the uber-thief to his opulent underground lair...

Given that Bava is renowned for his extravagant use of colour, it’s unfortunate that this review is based on the screening of an abbreviated, black-and-white print. Even so, on this unsatisfactory evidence Diabolik doesn’t seem to have dated especially well. Scriptwriters Bava and Adriano Baracco cobble together spectacular and extravagant antics into a somewhat laborious plot that lumbering alternates between the stuffy, old-fashioned forces of law and order, and the strikingly futuristic world of their seemingly unstoppable foe. While Terry-Thomas splutters and fumes in suit and tie, Law and Mell get to strut around in a series of cutting-edge outfits in a subterranean pad that’s filled with ultra-modern design and architecture.

It’s tempting to take this a step further, and interpret Diabolik in terms of 1960s Italian politics: our ‘hero’ is a swashbuckling, opportunistic individualist, staging attacks on the manifestations of ‘decent’ society. He’s the criminal as agent of iconoclastic (and anarchic?) social upheaval, railing against the staid morals of the post-war generation. But he goes too far – the climax sees him engulfed by molten gold, and transformed into a living statue. While Bava coyly implies that he will escape to fight another day, at fade-out Diabolik stands as a symbol of the rampant capitalist imprisoned by the trappings of his own vulgarity.

But while Diabolik isn’t without its intriguing subtexts, the film doesn’t hang together especially well as entertainment. Bava makes no attempt to hide Law and Mell’s acting limitations (both really are “just a pretty face”), this being presumably intended to be all part of the stylised, ironic fun. But a little of this kind of knowingly cheesy campery (“this laser gun melts everything except you, honey!”) goes rather a long way. The film is too silly for adults, but clearly not intended for children: this much is made clear by Ennio Morricone’s way-out, prog-synthy score - which is, nevertheless, the most consistently entertaining and impressive aspect of the whole overcooked affair.

Bay, Michael

THE ISLAND C- 67

USA (127 mi) 2005

Usually I avoid Bay’s movies like the plague, and this one’s really no different, reminding me of John Woo’s version of PAYCHECK, where people are trapped inside a gigantic underground compound in a sterile artificial world, in this case clones of real people, implanted with the delusional belief that they will somehow get to a fictitious germ-free “island” and live a life of bliss, also implanted with the belief that the world outside is contaminated, which explains their germ free, identical, clinically white uniforms as well as their blind obedience to a military state environment. Enter Ewan McGregor and Scarlett Johansson, two reasons to see any film, two clones with curiosity, something no one figured on, who mysteriously escape with the aide of Steve Buscemi, a real person who works on the inside, But initially, fed the same crap the clones are fed, it’s hard for us to distinguish what’s what. Eventually this turns into a SWAT team helicopter/car/motorcycle chase shoot out, complete with bullets flying and one series of accidents and explosions after another, with non-stop percussive music pounding throughout that reminds one of...victory. Obviously, even on the outside, a fascist military special operations squad answers to no one but themselves and innocent bystander bodies are routinely left for dead. The clones, who spend most of the film in hiding or on the run, so there’s lots of needless running scenes, seek out their real sponsors, those that had them cloned in the first place to be an insurance policy against sickness, to be harvested for organs anytime the sponsors may need one, and the film just gets sadder and sadder, an excuse to spend millions of dollars on giant set designs that are supposed to look futuristic, set in 2050, but really, other than how to explode the sets and shoot commercial-like close ups of our stars, the whole thing is pathetically void of talent or inspiration.

Bayona, Juan Antonio

THE ORPHANAGE (El Orfanato) B 84

Mexico Spain (110 mi) 2007 ‘Scope

A Henry James style ghost story, much of which remains ambiguous throughout, taking place almost entirely inside the mind of one woman, intensified by the creepy setting, much of which may veer between the real and the imaginary, and the eerie pace of the film, the camera (by Oscar Faura) gliding up and down the halls, in and out of secret rooms, looking behind creaking doors, down dimly lit staircases, always taking its time and allowing the story to unravel in a very deliberate manner. Opening on the lawn of an orphanage where a gothic manor looms in the background, children are at play, but what initially appears to be an innocent game grows more sinister as we simultaneously learn one of the children will soon be leaving with an adoptive family. Cut to thirty years later, Laura (Belén Rueda) was one of those children, now living in that impressive manor with her husband along with their own adopted 7-year old son, Simón (Roger Príncep), an overly sensitive child afflicted with HIV. As the home and grounds are immense, Simón has imaginary friends who he claims never age and plays imaginary games in a veritable Peter Pan Wonderland, especially one vivid Treasure Hunt game which follows a series of clues which seem to be preset by an unknown source, and if he can solve it, he can ask for anything he likes. This only becomes troubling when this imaginary world starts to become more important than the real one he’s living in, as he frequently withdraws and even disappears. When his mother throws a community party, thinking they can turn part of their estate into a home for the disabled, it turns into a surreal masked affair where everyone is not what they appear, where she is the victim of a vicious attack by a disturbing child with a burlap sack over his head, an image which recalls the opening scene, where a scarecrow figure with a sack over his head stands on a pole, also matching a drawing Simón made for his mother of his imaginary friends. This particular figure seems to hold power over her son, and when Simón disappears from the party, it begins to hold power over her as well.

Time passes and the story turns into a troubled mother’s intense growing anxiety over her lost child, that begins to resemble a descent into madness. Everyone but Laura remains convinced her son is dead, but she refuses to lose hope and believes there are strange inexplicable clues that demand answers, such as the initial presence and then disappearance of an old 70-year old woman lurking on the grounds claiming to be a social worker, but no one can explain who she was. When Laura sees her again, the results are horrifying. The police psychologist suggests Laura may be imagining all this as a sign of stress, but she holds fast to her beliefs, even when she’s the only one. Out of desperation, they bring in a psychic seer (Geraldine Chaplin), who can allegedly communicate with the spirit world, complete with cameras and sound equipment, a probing scene in near slow motion that begs to be believed, shot through a green filter where sound dramatically emphasizes the peculiar arena of her search. Afterwards, she mysteriously tells Laura, like a gypsy fortune teller: “Your pain gives you strength. It will guide you. Seeing is not believing — it's the other way around.” All that’s left is for the rest of the world to disappear altogether and for Laura to be left alone in the mansion with her thoughts and recurring memories about her childhood at the orphanage, which hover over her deteriorating spirits about to drown out all light. The film attempts to take us on a rollercoaster ride, a free fall into unexplored worlds, featuring evocative fright music by Fernando Valezquez, but by the end, it’s impossible to know what really happens, as universes intersect, becoming overly simplistic, where the mood by the end, contrary to what we’ve just experienced, feels strangely sunny.

BRAD AT TIPPING POINT Erica Abeel from Filmmaker magazine

Finally: last night I saw The Orphanage, a Spanish film so deliciously scary, the audience screamed out loud at the terrifying moments. And this being Cannes, they also applauded the terrifying moments. There's even a character who looks like Tony Perkins's stuffed mom, only this one's alive. Set in a spooky manor on a desolate coast, the film dispenses with special effects and infuses the horror genre with compelling characters, plausible motives, and themes that transcend the usual hants and creaking doors.

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

Guillermo Del Toro (Pan's Labyrinth) added his name as "presenter" of this skillful, moving Mexican horror film, proving that he has good taste. Belén Rueda (The Sea Inside) gives a terrific performance as Laura, who, with her husband and son, moves back into the now-abandoned orphanage in which she grew up. She hopes to bring in several new, troubled children of her own. During a welcome party, her own son Simón (Roger Príncep) disappears. We also learn about a horribly disfigured boy who lived there during Laura's childhood and who may or may not still be haunting the grounds. Laura begins an obsessive search for her son, and also of her own past, despite the impatience of her husband (Fernando Cayo). She even calls in a medium (Geraldine Chaplin), recalling a similarly effective sequence in Poltergeist (1982). First-time director Juan Antonio Bayona (with a series of short films and music videos under his belt) has an amazing touch for color, light and darkness, sound, space and nuance, and his presentation of horror never tricks or insults the audience. The horror is a by-product of his emotional investment in the characters. In the end, The Orphanage is far more moving than it is scary, though it's certainly scary too. Newcomer Sergio G. Sánchez wrote the screenplay.

filmcritic.com (Chris Barsanti)

In a towering and creaking old beast of a building somewhere in a gorgeous coastal part of Spain, an attractive couple on the younger slope of middle age pass the days in enjoyable semi-solitude with their adorable, seven-year-old son. The building is actually an old orphanage, where the mother, Laura (Belén Rueda), spent her formative years and which she and her husband, Carlos (Fernando Cayo), now intend to open again as a home for children with special needs. It makes sense; their boy Simón (Roger Príncep) is lonely and seems to be getting a little too involved with his two invisible friends, Watson and Pepe. One day, Laura and Simón go for a walk down by the sea cliffs and she loses him briefly in a cave. When she finds him, he appears to have made a few more imaginary friends. And things aren't quite the same after that in the orphanage.

In his stealthily creepy The Orphanage, first-time director Juan Antonio Bayona makes a decent bid for being considered one of the new wave of Spanish directors, and looks likely to be soon making the hop to Hollywood in the footsteps of the film's producer, Guillermo del Toro. He's managed a very difficult task here in taking a large batch of genre tropes, from lost children to haunted houses to buried crimes and even lonely lighthouses in the foggy night, and made them all jump out of the precisely ordered mise-en-scene like they were freshly minted. Add to this the fact that his film shares so many stylistic and thematic characteristics of del Toro's (particularly The Devil's Backbone) that he had the added pressure of not aping his producer's work. Despite all this, on almost every level that it needs to, The Orphanage succeeds.

A lot of this is due to the top-notch cast that Bayona has assembled, starting with Belén Rueda as the mother, whose sense of guilt and loss, once she starts to get an inkling of the dark world she's led her fragile family into, is achingly real. Although having Simón be played by an actor of such endearing cuteness as Roger Príncep would seem to indicate a perverse or sentimental streak in the filmmaker, such worries are quickly put to rest by the boy's consummate skill. Most of the other adults are competent but mostly beside the point -- with the grand exception of a sly and sharp Geraldine Chaplin, playing a medium whose skills are called upon later in the film -- as the film centers for the most part around Rueda. To give away much of anything else about the story would be unfair; suffice it to say that Rueda's little nuclear family is hardly alone in their once and future orphanage.

Bayona and his screenwriter (the frighteningly talented Sergio G. Sánchez) have a wealth of influences here, mostly from the classic ghost story side of the horror film vault -- not to mention the glossy, crackling darkness of del Toro's work -- and they are deployed to maximum effect. Although not trading heavily in gore or shock value, there are a good half-dozen moments here of precisely calibrated fright that will reduce a number of people in any audience to quivering jelly. Making such moments all the more effective is the fact that the filmmakers here do not seem so much interested in sheer fright but in evoking a ghostly and otherworldly feel that seeps into almost every frame. This is a ghost story, for sure, but the kind that is more truly about the terror of and acceptance of death than anything else. To paraphrase an old saying, as long as people are afraid of dying, they will be afraid of ghosts; the makers of The Orphanage know that to be true, do they ever.

The Horror Review [Steven West]

Executive produced by Guillermo Del Toro, THE ORPHANAGE (EL ORFANATO) is a beautifully crafted, frightening and ultimately moving ghost story in which restless spirits provoke fear and solace in equal measures for the grieving members of the waking world. Punctuated by some of the finest scares of the movie year - or any movie year - director Juan Antonio Bayona has made a horror film that manages to be as balls-out scary as it is heartfelt and humane.

Everything about this latest triumph for Spanish genre cinema is of a high class. It has a gorgeously atmospheric coastal backdrop, complete with intimidating lighthouses and dark secrets buried within even darker caves. The soundtrack is an assured combination of nerve-rending bouts of silence, menacing sound design and orchestral beauty. It also showcases exceptional performances. Fernando Cava has probably the least showy role but excels as an ineffectual husband, while Geraldine Chaplin makes a welcome return to the screen as a quirky medium who joins a long, distinguished screen history of such characters in supernatural horror. All eyes, however, are on Belen Rueda, who dominates the film with a tour de force of emotion : hers is a wrenching performance rich with painful honesty.

THE ORPHANAGE inevitably has echoes of past movies in this genre, notably THE OTHERS and POLTERGEIST (with which it shares a disappearing child and a wacky medium), but never feels clichéd or hackneyed. Rueda returns to the orphanage in which she grew up with the aim of reopening it as a home for special needs children. Her own adopted son (Roger Princep) has no idea that the pills he takes on a daily basis are to keep away the worst symptoms of the HIV virus he carries. The lonely boy has imaginary friends but one of them, “Tomas”, somehow seems all too real. When Princep disappears without a trace and remains missing after months have passed, Rueda unearths the orphanage’s sinister history, notably the actions of a stern governess (Monsterrat Carulla) and the tragic demise of the disfigured “Tomas”.

From the dynamic title sequence - in which unspecified juvenile hands literally tear the screen away to unveil the credits - Bayona’s film seldom hit’s a false note. The director knows how to scare an audience without relying on ghost movie clichés or Asian horror-influenced frights. He also never loses sight of the story’s strong emotional undercurrent - the wrap-up surprises by offering an emotional resolution rather than a horror-centric one. Earlier allusions to PETER PAN resurface for climactic scenes that offer a sense of hope and comfort in the knowledge of an afterlife. The last scene, in which a key character finds a quiet reassurance within overwhelming grief, is particularly poignant and well realized.

Just as impressive is the film’s scare quotient. This is the kind of movie that builds such a persuasive aura of menace that even a moment involving nothing more elaborate than a shutting door manages to be terrifying. Bayona finds as much to fear in his external daylight scenes and brightly lit sequences within the orphanage as he does in the more conventional horror realms of dimly lit basements and oppressive caves.

The first appearance of the silent Tomas, clad in a sack-mask, chills the blood. One sudden death sequence reminiscent of a classic moment in the original FINAL DESTINATION packs a powerful jolt though it’s capped by the grimmest, most startling reviving-corpse shock since the “Sloth” victim stirred in SE7EN. There are quieter moments of spine-freezing, old-fashioned terror throughout, notably a scene in which Rueda talks openly and at length to her husband in bed…only for him to suddenly emerge from the bathroom where he’s been the whole time. THE ORPHANAGE also has the finest “look behind you!” scare in recent memory : a brilliantly shot game of “knock on wood” that takes a nightmarish turn.

The film boldly tackles the theme of child death and its avoidance of overt violence makes the few brief visceral moments - including a wince inducing torn fingernail - all the more horrifying. It’s already destined for a Hollywood remake (yawn!) and should be high on the list of any horror fan’s “must - see” movies.

PopMatters (Cynthia Fuchs)

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez]

Fangoria Michael Gingold

Reverse Shot [Emily Condon]

PopMatters [Bill Gibron]

Richard and Mary Corliss at Cannes from Time magazine

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray]

Twitch [Michael Guillen]

Cinema Blend [Katey Rich]

Mike D'Angelo

Twitch [Todd Brown]

Film Threat, Hollywood's Indie Voice Pete Vonder Haar

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Screen International Peter Brunette

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Planet Sick-Boy

Bloody-Disgusting Mr. Disgusting

indieWIRE Kristi Mitsuda from Reverse Shot

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Austin Chronicle [Marc Savlov]

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Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

New York Times (registration req'd) A.O. Scott

Bazin, André – Film Critic

Required Reading: Criticism & Analysis What is Cinema? Volume I (André Bazin; edited/translated by Hugh Gray, 1967), a review by Jim Emerson

Bazin is the co-founder of the French film magazine Cahier du Cinéma, out of which grew the politique des auteurs and the French New Wave of critics-turned-filmmakers: Godard, Truffaut, Chabrol, Rohmer.  To quote Pauline Kael: "Bazin must be read for the beauty of his argument.... [These essays] raise enough critical issues about how shots should be composed and edited and the relationship of movies to theater, to the novel, to painting, to documentary footage, to keep young filmmakers exhilarated and arguing into perpetuity.... What is Cinema? joins that small company of books on movies that do not exploit an interest in movies but intensify it."  (Volume II is also worthwhile.)

allmovie ((( André Bazin > Overview ))) Sandra Brennan

André Bazin was one of the most influential film critics in post-WWI France. He originally studied to be a teacher, but a stammer prevented him from getting hired. Bazin founded a cinema club during WWII; there he frequently showed government-banned films. Following the war, he began criticizing films for Le Parisien Liberé and other prominent French journals. Bazin founded his own periodical, La Revue du Cinéma, in 1947. Four years later he and Jacques Doniol-Valcroze created Les Cahiers du Cinéma, which became one of Europe's most prominent film journals. As a critic he preferred cinematographic techniques and film genres that presented images realistically. Bazin considered documentary and scientific films as prime examples of his notion of objective reality, which he considered the fundamental element in film imagery. His theories and his support of the auteur theory had great influence upon many French New Wave filmmakers.

André Bazin profile page from Flipbook.eu, European informational website (excerpt)

Bazin was born in Angers, France, in 1918. He started to write about film in 1943 and was a co-founder of the film magazine Cahiers du cinéma in 1951, along with Jacques Doniol-Valcroze and Lo Duca. As a spiritual father of the Nouvelle Vague (French New Wave), he was also a mentor and personal friend to young film critics and filmmakers-to-be, including Jean-Luc Godard and François Truffaut. Bazin died of leukemia at the age of 40 in Nogent-sur-Marne, Île-de-France.

Bazin was a major force in post-World War II film studies and criticism. In addition to editing Cahiers until his death, a four-volume collection of his writings was published posthumously from 1958 to 1962 and titled Qu'est-ce que le cinéma? (What is Cinema?). Two of these volumes were translated into English in the late 1960s and 1970s and became mainstays of film courses in the US and England.

Bazin argued for films that depicted what he saw as "objective reality" (such as documentaries and films of the Italian neorealism school) and directors who made themselves "invisible" (such as Howard Hawks). He advocated the use of deep focus (Orson Welles), wide shots (Jean Renoir) and the "shot-in-depth", and preferred what he referred to as "true continuity" through mise en scène over experiments in editing and visual effects. This placed him in opposition to film theory of the 1920s and 1930s which emphasized how the cinema can manipulate reality.

The concentration on objective reality, deep focus, and lack of montage are linked to Bazin's belief that the interpretation of a film or scene should be left to the spectator.

Bazin believed that a film should represent a director's personal vision, which was rooted in the spiritual beliefs known as personalism. These ideas would have a pivotal importance on the development of the Auteur theory, which originated in an article by Truffaut in Cahiers.

Bazin also is known as a proponent of "appreciative criticism," wherein only critics who like a film can write a review of it, thus encouraging constructive criticism.

Andre Bazin from Art and Culture

Although it's tempting to assume that a film devoted to the representation of an objective reality would suffer stylistically, French film critic André Bazin would say otherwise. Bazin craved a cinema of truth, one whose success depended on a director's finely tuned, disinterested observation.

During World War II, the young Parisian upstart made a name for himself by organizing an underground club that screened films banned by the German Occupation. When the war was over, Bazin helped to found Les Cahiers du Cinema, a publication devoted to film. It was in this highly influential periodical that Bazin began to develop his ideas about truthful cinema and the role of the director as a responsible, stylistically forward author.

Initially the film community rebuffed Bazin's ideas. For years, filmmakers had enjoyed tremendous success by exploring and exploiting technological advances in film production: directors were editing, cutting, and pasting to their hearts' content. Montage, the technique of splicing various images together to form a story, create an effect, or present different aspects of the same situation, was popular among commercial directors. Bazin hated it. He had complete faith in the singular image, favoring a truthful, revelatory style over technological pyrotechnics. For Bazin, documentaries and scientific treatments were the purest forms of film, and the mise-en-scène, which employs long takes and favors the individual frame, was the superior technique for revealing truth.

In "Qu'est-ce que le cinema?" (1951) he argued that the mise-en-scène engages audience members by leaving them to interpret the film's content for themselves. According to Bazin, montage alienates the audience because it represents the director's intentions and taints the film's objective reality. Democratic and image-faithful, a reality film isn't stunted stylistically but rather liberated by truth. As for techniques, Bazin favored the deep-focus shot, which gained popularity after its heavy use in the classic Welles film, "Citizen Kane." By making the foreground and background of a scene readily visible, the deep-focus shot increased a film's realism because it didn't break up a take with multiple cuts.

Eventually, French filmmakers embraced Bazin's theories; New Wave directors Jean-Luc Godard and François Truffaut hit the streets with 16mm cameras. The auteur theory allowed for the veneration of Hollywood directors like Alfred Hitchcock and John Ford, whose films were not mere factory-produced star vehicles, but bore the stamp of their creators' vision. The combination of authorial imprint with respect for the audience's ability to draw its own conclusions is Bazin's legacy. His stylistic ideals still make themselves felt in the work of Scorsese and other auteur directors.

The Innovators 1950-1960: Divining the Real Peter Matthews from Sight and Sound

Film-Thought: Bazin

André Bazin An Unofficial Tribute

André Bazin: Part 1, Film Style Theory in its Historical Context Donato Totaro from Offscreen, July 31, 2003

André Bazin: Part 2, Style as a Philosophical Idea Donato Totaro from Offscreen, July 31, 2003

"André Bazin:  Re-reading Bazin's Ontological Argument" Prakash Younger from Offscreen, July 31, 2003

"Re-thinking Bazin Through Renoir's The River—Part 1: Bazin and The River as a Problem in the History of Film Theory." Prakash Younger from Offscreen, July 31, 2003

Offscreen.com :: Andre Bazin Critical Essays on Bazin from Offscreen

Andre Bazin André Bazin, by Dudley Andrew (253 pages), book review by Bill Horrigan from Jump Cut

Friedman on Bazin “Bazin at Last; or, The Style Is the Man Himself,” a book review of Bazin at Work: Major Essays and Reviews from the Forties and Fifties, edited by Bert Cardullo (256 pages) by Dan Friedman from Film-Philosophy

Realism REALISM'S DISCONTENTS Film Reference

The religion of Andre Bazin, film critic from Adherents

"The Life and Death of Superimposition" (1946) Bazin essays

Bazin, André - Cruelty and Love in Los Olvidados

Bright Lights Film Journal Fifteen Years of French Cinema by André Bazin, initially a lecture by Bazin in November 1957, published May 2009

"Cinema and Theology: The Case of Heaven Over the Marshes" Translated 1951 Bazin essay from The Journal of Religion and Film, October 2002

Radio-Cinéma review of Carl Dreyer's The Passion of Joan of Arc Bazin's 1952 essay, also seen here: EuroScreenwriters - Interviews with European Film Directors - Carl ...

"Will CinemaScope Save the Film Industry?" (1953)

Andre Bazin on Rene Clement and literary adaptation: Two original reviews

Andre Bazin on Claude Autant-Lara and literary adaptation: Four original reviews

"Cinema and Theology: The Case of Heaven Over the Marshes"Bazin Translated 1951 Bazin essay from The Journal of Religion and Film, October 2002

Interview with Orson Welles by André Bazin and Charles Bitsch at Cannes, originally published in Cahiers du Cinéma, June 1958, from Senses of Cinema

Orson Welles: A Critical View - BOOKS Walter Chaw from Film Freak Central reviews Bazin’s book (138 pages)

THE ALTERING EYE, PREFACE & INTRODUCTION The Altering Eye: Contemporary International Cinema, by Robert Phillip Kolker, online edition

"Reflecting on the Image: Sartrean Emotions in the Writings of André Bazin" 132 page essay by Greg M Smith (pdf)

tribute to Bazin A Tribute to Andrè Bazin, 4 page essay from Carlos A. Valle (pdf)

The Dryden Theatre -- The Red Balloon and White Mane Bazin’s views from the program notes

beginning Bazinian Realism, Slide show introduction to Bazin

Outline on Bazinian Realism

Lecture Outline: Bazin & Social Realism

4. Andre Bazin and the Tradition of Realism - Understanding Film A film studies outline offering interesting examples

French New Wave Anonymous essay

Film Comment Cahiers Back in the Day, by Dave Kehr, September/October 2001

Why Cahiers Still Matters Chris Darke from Film Comment, September/October 2001

Long Pauses: Waking Life (2001) Darren Hughes from Long Pauses discussing the impassioned defense of Bazin in the middle of the film, October 22, 2002

The Film Journal...Passionate and informed film criticism from an ... Anatomy of a Murder: Bazin, Barthes, Blow-Up, by Asbjørn Grønstad from The Film Journal (2004)

Comics to Film and Andre Bazin’s Theory of Mixed Cinema Drew Morton from Dr. Mabuse’s Kaleido-Scope, February 12, 2007

The Cine File: Andre Bazin in the 21st Century Andrew Schenker, May 25, 2007

The Hefty Section: The Moving Image of Skepticism (Part I) August 7, 2007

WORD AND IMAGE Essay #1 in honor of André Bazin from mardecortesbaja, Word and Image, March 1, 2008

mardecortesbaja.com :: CINEMA AND BELIEF Essay #2, Cinema and Belief, March 11, 2008

mardecortesbaja.com :: ESSAY IN HONOR OF ANDRE BAZIN: THE ... Essay #3, The Enchantment of Dreams, April 15, 2008

mardecortesbaja.com :: ESSAY IN HONOR OF ANDRÉ BAZIN: MONTAGE AND ... Essay #4, Montage and Space, May 5, 2008

THE PSYCHOLOGY OF THE CINEMATIC IMAGE Essay #5 from mardecortesbaja, The Psychology of the Cinematic Image, May 18, 2008

girish: André Bazin's Writings June 29, 2008

mardecortesbaja.com :: ESSAY IN HONOR OF ANDRÉ BAZIN: COHERENT ... Essay #6, Coherent Spaces, Seductive Spaces, July 1, 2008

The Evening Class: THE RECEIVED WISDOM OF ANDRÉ BAZIN—J. Hoberman ... Michael Guillen, July 7, 2008

The Evening Class: THE RECEIVED WISDOM OF ANDRÉ BAZIN—Online Resources Michael Guillen, July 8, 2008

mardecortesbaja.com :: ESSAY IN HONOR OF ANDRÉ BAZIN: FRAMES Essay #7, Frames, July 20, 2008

Viewing Degree Zero « Thinking Screens Anindya Sengupta, July 31, 2008

orsonwelles.co.uk - greatest critics The Ten Greatest Film Critics of All Time

André Bazin - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Bean, Henry

THE BELIEVER B+ 92

USA (102 mi) 2001

I hate and I love. Who can tell me why? —Albert Camus

Well with you, there’s a tragic dimension. —Carla Moebius (Summer Phoenix)

This is a film that begins with an incendiary outburst that literally rocks the screen, that features an equally ferocious performance by Ryan Gosling whose all-consuming fictional character of Daniel is inspired by the real life story of Daniel Burros, an American orthodox Jew who in the mid 60’s later joined the Nazi party before leaving them for the Ku Klux Klan, eventually killing himself when a New York Times journalist John McCandlish Phillips published the truth about his Jewish heritage. The film also brings to mind the story of Frank Collin, the Chicago leader of the American Nazi party that gained notoriety by trying to hold a march through the streets of Skokie, Illinois, which had at the time the largest Jewish population per-capita of anywhere in the United States, many of whom were Holocaust survivors, but this story and its ensuing legal battles also brought to light Collin’s Jewish heritage, eventually serving prison time for child molestation. Rather than exploit the subject, both incidents occurring during the dawn of the Civil Rights movement, the film couldn’t be more compelling as it tracks many of the arguments of his outrageous convictions, using black and white flashbacks from his early years in an orthodox Jewish yeshiva, where Danny is known for challenging the views of the Rabbi, even going so far as proclaiming God the ultimate bully. Without showing the point of departure from Judaism, these flashbacks serve to illustrate that he was a kid that stood up for what he believed. At some point he annihilated his past completely, becoming an ardent anti-Semitic spokesperson, where he better than anyone felt he knew why people hated Jews so much and openly discussed the need for killing more Jews. He became the face of the Nazi party, wearing a giant swastika on his tee-shirt, ingrained in Hitler’s Mein Kampf, where he associated Nazi’s with power, becoming obsessed with the means of their systematic oppression as compared to the horror of the Jewish submission, where he became intent on reinventing his own Jewishness with a different outcome.

What is appealing here is the extent of Daniel’s bold assertions, which blow up into delusional self-hate revenge fantasies accompanied by large doses of denial, which are replaced by a dominating ultra aggressive tone of machismo, where he’s routinely called upon to defend himself and prove himself worthy, fighting thugs much bigger than he is while also having to convince marginal racists in the worthiness of their hatred of Jews. This kind of spewed demonic race hatred is rarely uttered with such conviction as seen here, where without the explosiveness of Gosling’s performance, this film about a skinhead would not carry the same impact. Leaders of the far right movement love to put Daniel in front of their base, as his capacity to move audiences is like a young Mussolini, where he becomes an instant moneymaker for their cause. Billy Zane leads one such fringe group, alongside Theresa Russell as his Lady Macbeth partner in crime, both of whom are counting the dollar signs well off in the background as their young protégé is quickly urging people to kill Jews. Daniel takes comfort in their daughter Carla, in a startlingly sensuous performance by Summer Phoenix, who sees through Danny instantly, telling him only a Jew would be so obsessed with talking about other Jews, while her deep, dark secret is having incestual relations with her own father. Danny’s own past is equally troublesome, though mysteriously vague, perceived as a point of weakness in his life and a place that he can never return.

There are a series of incidents where Danny attempts to take matters into his own hand, which include joining a Nazi training camp, an attempted murder plot, the almost amusing (if it were not so serious) disruption of a kosher deli, and joining a group of Nazi thugs in trashing a local synagogue, which leads to one of the more intriguing elements of the film, as Danny draws the line in desecrating the Torah, meticulously repairing the damage afterwards, even requiring Carla to put clothes on in front of it, as he obviously respects the legitimacy of its sacred holiness. There’s an intriguing scene where his criminal sentence requires sensitivity training with Auschwitz survivors, where his Nazi crew ridicules them for their passivity, but rarely do we see Holocaust survivors do battle with a couple of idiot punks. What doesn’t work as well is the finale, much like Edward Norton’s equally riveting performance in Tony Kaye’s AMERICAN HISTORY X (1999), as both films falter a bit towards the end, changing the tone, actually losing some of the dramatic power that was created by building such an unsympathetic and uncompromising character.  Carla’s improbable interest in learning Hebrew and a chance meeting of people from Danny’s past, Jewish acquaintances whose orthodox practices remind him that Judaism still holds a sacred place in people’s lives, seems to send an unexpected jolt of reality through his veins, as if it suddenly dawns on him that people are human and that the grotesque beast is inside of him. This transcendent moment likely never happened with the real Danny Burros, probably a much more pathetic character who put a bullet in his head just hours after the newspaper announced his Jewish roots, apparently a truth he was too ashamed to admit, after which two Times reporters, Abe Rosenthal and Arthur Gelb, wrote a summarizing article suggesting that Burros had been another victim of the Nazis. “Do I look Jewish to you?” he berated the reporter at one point before threatening him with a gun. The film is a hostile, belligerent, and endlessly fascinating journey filled with any number of human contradictions, but with a bold screenplay and astonishing performances from Gosling and Phoenix, we’re never sure what to expect.

Time Out review

Danny Balint (Gosling) is a skinhead. He'll cross the street to shout abuse in the face of a Jew, hit him and kick him when he's down. But he's articulate, too, more than capable of holding his own in theological debate - so much so that he comes to the attention of American fascist organisers Curtis Zampf (Zane) and Lina Moebius (Russell). They want to groom him for a political role, but Danny impatiently advocates direct action: terror and assassination. Hard to believe Danny is a Jew born and bred. Screenwriter Bean's first film as writer/director is defiantly personal and provocative. Inspired by a news story about a Jewish anti-Semite, it takes this hard kernel of unpalatable truth as licence to pick over the elusive threads separating devotion from zealotry, love from hate, the sacred from the profane. Visually undistinguished, and marred by over-literal flashback and fantasy sequences, the film is driven by Gosling's revelatory performance. No polemic, the movie puts our own religious sensibilities and prejudices to the test. The result is arresting, prickly, vaguely funny, even - 'difficult' in the best sense.

BBC Films review Jamie Russell

Danny Balint (Gosling) leads a double life. By day he is a neo-Nazi skinhead, complete with braces, combat boots, and a thirst for anti-Semitic violence. By night he reads the Torah and teaches Hebrew. His Jewish friends think that his fashion choices are simply part of some wayward street style, while his neo-Nazi collaborators have no inkling that one of their must trusted young leaders is actually Jewish. Is he a spy, is he schizophrenic, or is it really possible to be two opposites at once?

Director Henry Bean's first feature is an awe-inspiring film. From its violent opening, in which Danny harasses and beats a Jewish student, to its dramatic conclusion, it's the kind of ferociously committed film that leaves you with more questions than answers. Is Danny trying to provoke God? Does he need to be hated? Or does he truly believe (and want to act out) his statement that "the worse the Jews are treated, the stronger they become".

The acting is superb, with the little-known Ryan Gosling taking on a complex and difficult role with ease. But the real plaudits belong to Bean's script, which trawls through philosophical questions about the nature of binary oppositions - good and evil, love and hate, Semitic and anti-Semitic - without once losing its dynamic momentum.

Making "American History X" look like a shallow MTV commercial, "The Believer" is first class film-making. Deconstructing the politics of hate, the neo-Nazi movement's obsession with racial purity and the soil, and brave enough even to confront the issue of the Holocaust survivors, Bean's film is a late contender for one of the best films of the year - an intellectually breathtaking, profoundly moving film.

Slate [David Edelstein]

I would hate to have to diagram the emotional trajectory of Danny (Ryan Gosling), the prodigiously conflicted protagonist of Henry Bean's The Believer (Fireworks Pictures). He's a Jew who becomes a Jew-stomping Nazi skinhead and then drifts, in spite of himself, back to Jewish ritual—desperately trying to rationalize his attraction to Torah and tefillin from a Nazi perspective. First he tells his fellow skinheads (who have no idea he's actually an ex-yeshiva boy) that one has to understand Jews to be able to destroy them; then he decides that the easiest way to destroy them would be to embrace and assimilate them—thus robbing them of their traditional outsider/victim roles. Confused? Not as much as Danny. By the end he has abstracted himself into oblivion.

Finally showing up in theaters after a short run on Showtime, The Believer was inspired by a real Ku Klux Klansman who, when exposed by a reporter as a Jew, committed suicide. But the movie leaves the realm of docudrama in the first second and rarely looks back. It's clear, early on, that Danny is so obsessed with his victimization that he has chosen to identify with the anti-Semitic aggressor. What is less clear—but remains tantalizing—is why Danny is also obsessed with the Genesis tale of God forcing Abraham to sacrifice his son, Isaac, and its connection to the story of a Holocaust survivor who watched with horrified passivity as his young boy was murdered by the Nazis. My guess is Danny has some Daddy issues that Bean doesn't fully explore; instead, he concentrates on the uneasy relationship between the young Nazi and a group of soft-spoken fascists (led by Billy Zane and Theresa Russell) who have mainstream political ambitions. Somewhere in all this confusion are a bunch of FBI informers and the daughter (Summer Phoenix) of a likely ex-Nazi who sleeps with Danny and is in no time reading Hebrew and lighting Shabbos candles.

I confess I don't fully understand Danny's (or the movie's) zigs and zags, but I was glued to the thing anyway—it has an inexplicable inner logic—and I admire Bean for refusing to settle into any easy groove. There's an angry, searching spirit behind The Believer that transcends its particulars: It might be the most honest attempt I've seen in a movie to explore the sadomasochistic impulses that attach themselves to victimhood. And Ryan Gosling is enthrallingly good. Unlike the skinhead played by Edward Norton in American History X (1998), who was alternately a ropy, sneering sociopath and a conscience-riddled do-gooder, there are no seams in Gosling's Danny. His fantasies of murdering and being murdered are all part of the same unholy roller coaster—and you see the terror in his eyes on the big dips.

Jon Popick review

Henry Bean's impressive directorial debut The Believer opens with a scene showing its conflicted central character trailing a Hasidic Jew and then pummeling the snot out of him simply because of his beliefs. The protagonist, if you feel comfortable calling him that, is 26-year-old Danny Balint (Ryan Gosling, Remember the Titans), an extremely well-spoken and seemingly well-educated skinhead extremist who appears much brighter than the goofy Nazis he chooses to call friends. Danny, who says the things that he believes everyone else is secretly thinking, hates Jews for very specific reasons, while his cohorts furrow their inbred brows when asked who Eichmann was.

Hating Jews is all Danny ever thinks about, which must be kind of like a latent homosexual yammering non-stop about hating queers (a frat-house epidemic, it seems), because, as it turns out, Danny is (or was) an Orthodox Jew. We see, through flashbacks, a young, exceedingly nerdy Danny being tossed out of Hebrew school thanks to his constant questioning of God's authority (calling the Big G a "power-drunk madman" and a "conceited bully"). His unanswered queries have evolved into rage and hatred toward this particular organized religion, and the only lesson he seems to have culled from years of yeshiva studies is that Jews are inherently weak. After all, who else would blindly agree to sacrifice their son, like Abraham did to Isaac, or stand by meekly while Nazis execute the person standing next to them?

When Danny falls in with Lina Moebius (Theresa Russell, Glory Days) and Curtis Zampf (Billy Zane, Titanic), the leaders of an upstart underground fascist movement with big plans, he finds himself drawn closer and closer to his religious roots, kicking off an intense inner battle that grows more intense as his anti-Semitic activities become increasingly militant. Of course, nobody understands why Danny knows so much about the enemy. They just assume he's really smart and hope to exploit his knowledge to raise money on the Nazi lecture circuit.

In addition to the inner turmoil, Danny also begins a bizarre masochistic relationship (read: mad Aryan love) with Lina's daughter Carla (Summer Phoenix, Dinner Rush), re-connects with one of his former yeshiva classmates, and becomes the interview subject of a newspaper reporter who has somehow pieced together Danny's religious background and may potentially expose it in a piece he's writing. The Believer, co-scripted by Bean (who has penned shlock like Deep Cover and Internal Affairs) and Mark Jacobson, was partly inspired by the story of Daniel Burros, a Nazi and self-hating Jew who ran into trouble when the New York Times outed him back in the '60s.

Plenty of folks are going to compare The Believer to American History X. It's not quite as good, though Gosling (a former Mickey Mouse Club brat along with Britney and Justin) nearly matches the frightening fury of Ed Norton's eerie performance in that film. There is also likely to be a big chunk of people who dug X but will dislike this picture because there is no final-reel redemption to tie everything up into a neat little package that makes you feel better on the way home from the theatre. In addition to Gosling's mesmerizing performance, which won't be eligible for the Academy Awards because The Believer is debuting on pay cable before beginning its theatrical run, Jim Denault's (Our Song) handheld camera work is quite impressive.

The Believer won the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance 2001 and was pegged for a cable premiere on September 30, 2001, but was subsequently pushed back after the 9/11 attacks (I saw it at the Toronto International Film Festival on September 10, and it did seem a bit less upsetting back then). Since then, the film has snagged a European Film Award nomination and four Independent Spirit Awards - two for Bean (Best Screenplay and Best First Feature) and one each for Gosling and Phoenix. Without question, The Believer is a thought-provoking film that will spur discussion and, in some cases, argument. But it's a film that shouldn't be missed, whatever your religious beliefs may be.

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [3/4]

Censors feel they are safe with objectionable material but must protect others who are not as smart or moral. The same impulse tempts the reviewer of "The Believer." Here is a fiercely controversial film about a Jew who becomes an anti-Semite. When I saw it at Sundance 2001, where it won the Grand Jury Prize, I wrote "some feared the film could do more harm than good." I shared those fears. The film's hero is so articulate in his retailing of anti-Semitic beliefs that his words, I thought, might find the wrong ears. I understand the film, I was saying--but are you to be trusted with it? Certainly the movie has been a hot potato. After a screening at the Simon Wiesenthal Center inspired audience members to protest it, no major distributor would pick it up. Showtime scheduled it for a cable showing, which was canceled in the aftermath of 9/11. Then it was finally shown in the spring and now has theatrical distribution from small Fireworks Pictures. In the meantime, to its Sundance awards it has added Independent Spirit Awards for best screenplay and best first feature (both to director Henry Bean), best actor (Ryan Gosling) and best supporting actress (Summer Phoenix). Few doubt it is a good film. But do we really need a movie, right now, about a Jewish neo-Nazi? I am not the person to answer that question for you. You have to answer it for yourself. The film's anti-Semitism is articulate but wrong, and the conflict between what the hero says and what he believes (or does not want to believe) is at the very center of the story.

Gosling's character, named Danny Balint, is based on a real person. The Jerusalem Report writes: "The film has its roots in a true story. Daniel Burros was a nice Jewish boy from Queens who somehow went from being his rabbi's star pupil to a hotheaded proponent of the long-defunct Third Reich. After a stint in the Army, he became involved with the American Nazi Party and the Ku Klux Klan. In 1965, following Burros' arrest at a KKK event in New York City, the New York Times disclosed that he was Jewish. Hours after the paper hit the stands, Burros took his own life." In the film, Danny is seen as a bright young yeshiva student who gets into impassioned arguments with his teachers. Why must Abraham sacrifice his son Isaac? What kind of a God would require such an act? "A conceited bully," Danny decides. As a young man, Danny rejects his Orthodox upbringing, confronts Jews on the street and in subway cars, beats and kicks one, and expresses contempt for a race which, as he sees it, did not fight back during the Holocaust. Eventually, he falls into the orbit of a neo-Nazi organization run by Theresa Russell and Billy Zane, who are impressed by his rhetoric but want him to dial down on the subject of Judaism: "It doesn't play anymore." For Danny, anti-Semitism and the self-hate it implies is the whole point; he is uninterested in the politics of fascism. For Danny, the weakness of Jews is what he sees as their willingness to be victims, and after a court assigns him to an encounter group with Holocaust survivors, he bluntly asks one why he didn't fight back. Israelis, he believes, are not Jews because they own their own land and defend it, and therefore have transcended their Jewishness. You can see this reasoning twisting back into his own unhappy soul; he objects to Abraham taking instructions from God, and he objects to taking instructions from his church. His values involve his muscles, his fighting ability (both physical and rhetorical), his willingness to confront. In some kind of sick way, he attacks Jews hoping to inspire one to beat him up.

Ryan Gosling (who, incredibly, was a Mouseketeer contemporary of Brittney Spears), is at 22 a powerful young actor. He recently starred in "Murder by Numbers" as one of two young killers resembling Leopold and Loeb in their desire to demonstrate their superiority by committing a perfect crime. In "The Believer," he reminds us of Edward Norton in "American History X," another movie about a bright, twisted kid who is attracted to the transgressive sickness of racism. The movie is not very convincing in its portrayal of the fascist group (Zane and Russell seem less like zealots than hobbyists), but his personal quest is real enough.

When he involves himself in a raid on a temple, there is a revealing paradox: He resents the skinheads who come along with him because they don't understand the traditions they are attacking. What good is it to desecrate the Torah if you don't know what it is? He knows, and we begin to understand that he cares. That he accepts Judaism in the very core of his soul, and that his fight is against himself.

The ending of "The Believer," if not exactly open, is inconclusive, and this is the kind of movie where you need to go budget in time afterwards for a cup of coffee and some conversation. The movie is better at portraying Danny's daily reality than at making sense of his rebellion (if sense can be made), but perhaps the movie plus the discussion can add up to a useful experience. Although his film needs more clarity and focus, Henry Bean has obviously taken a big chance because of his own sincere concerns. And if the wrong people get the wrong message--well, there has never been any shortage of wrong messages. Or wrong people.

Village Voice (J. Hoberman) review

Writer-director Henry Bean opens The Believer with a classy Latin quote: "I hate and I love and who can tell me why?" As its title suggests, The Believer is steeped in irrationality, but pace Catullus, it's the Yiddish expression "hard to be a Jew" that permeates this taboo-breaking movie—a Sundance prizewinner too hot for any established distributor to touch.

Inspired by the story of a young American Nazi from Ozone Park, Queens, who committed suicide in 1965 after being outed as a Jew by The New York Times, The Believer is passionately intelligent pulp. Bean punches his lurid tale across while probing the psychology of anti-Semitism, internalized and otherwise. This is a case of "mirroring evil" that truly manages to go through the looking glass, beginning with a flashback to the young Danny Balint providing a heretical midrash on the biblical account of Isaac and Abraham. God, he maintains, demanded that Abraham sacrifice his son to demonstrate that "I'm everything and you're nothing."

Grown from a skinny yeshiva student into an angry skinhead in a red swastika T-shirt, Danny (Ryan Gosling) puts the "Jewish question" at the center of his politics. Attending a meeting at the home of glam fascists Curtis Zampf (Billy Zane) and Lina Moebius (Theresa Russell), he derails their mainstream agenda by suggesting they begin killing Jews. "Which ones?" someone asks. That another's automatic response of "Barbra Streisand" works as a laugh line for both characters and spectators demonstrates Bean's Hitchcockian knack for implicating the audience.

Still, The Believer is more two-fisted case study than suspense thriller. Danny's background is almost immediately revealed to the viewer and is crucial for an appreciation of the movie's strongest scenes—many of which have to do with his articulate expression of a visceral anti-Semitism. Zampf and Moebius initially suspect him of being an FBI provocateur, as well they might. Consciously or not, Danny's mission is to precipitate, and hence expose, the hatred of Jews that he believes is already present in society—like his biblical namesake, he's only reading the writing on the wall. On the other hand, Danny is figuratively blind. His arrogant conviction is complicated by massive denial.

The Believer would scarcely work without Gosling's fierce performance—one requiring him both to brawl with beefy thugs at a Nazi training camp and then debate kashrut with the waiter in a dairy restaurant. Even more remarkably, Gosling imbues his odious character with a degree of pathos. In one blatantly sensationalist scene, Danny and his cohort are sentenced to sensitivity training with a group of elderly Holocaust survivors. This meeting throws the Jewish Nazi back into childhood—no less than the old Jews he is baiting, he begins to twitch and shake, condemning them for not attacking their enemies. One organizer of the infamous neo-Nazi march on Skokie, Illinois, in 1978 was the child of Auschwitz survivors. Danny's family history is vague in the film, but his pathology is also a reaction-formation to perceived Jewish weakness.

Indeed, Danny's critique has a long currency among Jewish ideologues, Zionist and Communist—namely the desire to re-educate, if not liquidate, the rootless diaspora Jew. (Hence his assertion that Israelis are no longer Jews because "they have soil.") You might wonder why this self-sculpted skinhead didn't find his reinvention with the Jewish Defense League. One answer could be that his is the most extreme possible identification with the aggressor; another is his inability to see himself in other Jews, even as remade healthy and strong.

This "muscle Jew" with a vengeance is a loner nursing a neurotic I/Thou relationship with the Author of the Universe, whom he memorably calls "a power-drunk madman" and a "conceited bully." Danny's übermensch fantasy, predicated on fear and rejection, is not so different from that of another son of Queens—the world-dominating Spider-Man. But then nearly everyone in The Believer is playing some sort of role up to a point. Lina Moebius's sultry, thrill-seeking daughter Carla (the estimable Summer Phoenix) gets the movie's key lines. "Hurt me," she brazenly demands after luring Danny to her bedroom, and then, "Ow, not that hard!"

Danny's personality is the most extreme characterization of this particular dynamic. He incites a group of skinheads to desecrate a synagogue but panics when they actually do so without understanding, as he does, just what it is they are desecrating. (In a later outburst, he refuses to let Carla stand naked before the Torah scroll.) This craziness saves The Believer from seeming overly schematic. Danny achieves his essential being in the grotesque scene wherein he wraps his torso with a tallis, samurai style, and begins to daven his sieg heils.

Danny imagines his reinvention complete. "Do I look Jewish to you?!!" he explodes when interviewed by the tweedy New York Times reporter (well played by A.D. Miles) who has gleaned his story. (Actually, with his long cranium and death's-head 'do, Danny could double for Timothy McVeigh.) As Bean audaciously insists on Danny as a Jewish type—the tormented apikoris—the movie's more astute characters don't need the Times to give them the scoop. As Carla observes, only a Jew would be so obsessed with Jewishness. This cultural narcissism hardly makes anti-Semitism any less real—although the film does run the risk of suggesting that Jews are to blame for anti-Semitism, a formulation Bean attributes to Lina Moebius. Even before anyone suspects Danny might be Jewish, the fascists recognize him as an intellectual. (Why waste time with street brawls when he could be fundraising?) What they don't understand is that, closet Nietzschean that he is, Danny is casting himself as another Samson.

Developed by Bean over a period of decades with former Voice writer Mark Jacobson, The Believer has a script and a theme worthy of Sam Fuller. (The bravura opening in which Danny spots, stalks, and smashes a Jewish schoolboy seems a tribute to the subway scenes that bracket Pickup on South Street.) Bean, however, lacks Fuller's economical tabloid expressionism. The Believer's scenario carries the viewer with the rattling velocity of the Queens el, but Bean's direction is more pedestrian than his writing. The nervous, handheld camera seldom alights to strong effect; the flashbacks and fantasies are awkwardly inserted; uncertain readings undercut the movie's considerable dark humor.

Nevertheless, Fuller would surely have called this gutsy and at times exhilarating movie a great yarn. Like his best movies, it's also a statement. Bean has built a bonfire of contradictions and the ensuing conflagration illuminates a bit of the world.

Chicago Reader (Jonathan Rosenbaum) review [3/4]

World Socialist Web Site review Joanne Laurier

DVD Talk (Jason Janis) dvd review [3/5]

CultureCartel.com (John Nesbit) review [4/5]

PopMatters (Jennifer D. Wesley) dvd review

The Believer : A Man Divided - Daily Nexus Erin James talks with the director from The Daily Nexus

DVD Talk (Phil Bacharach) dvd review [4/5]

SPLICEDwire (Rob Blackwelder) review [3/4]

Salon (Charles Taylor) review

CineScene.com (Howard Schumann) review

Xiibaro Productions (David Perry) review [3/4]

Epinions.com [Patti Aliventi]

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

DVD Times Mark Boydell

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Jon Danziger) dvd review

Film Freak Central review Walter Chaw

Slant Magazine review Ed Gonzalez

The UK Critic (Ian Waldron-Mantgani) review [3/4]

Harvey S. Karten review [3.5/4]

Steve Rhodes review [3.5/4]

One Guy's Opinion (Frank Swietek) review [B-]

Christian Science Monitor (David Sterritt) review [4/4]

hybridmagazine.com review Red Rholes

The Flick Filosopher (MaryAnn Johanson) review

Edinburgh U Film Society (Keith Hennessey Brown) review

Film Journal International (Daniel Steinhart) review

The Land of Eric (Eric D. Snider) review [A-]

Eye for Film (Angus Wolfe Murray) review [3.5/5]

TNMC (Andy "Dogburt" Burt) review

VideoVista review Christopher Geary

filmcritic.com (Rachel Gordon) review [2/5]

Cinepinion [Henry Stewart]

Entertainment Weekly review [A-] Lisa Schwarzbaum

TV Guide Entertainment Network, Movie Guide review [3/4]

Variety (Todd McCarthy) review

Guardian/Observer review

The Boston Phoenix review Peter Keough

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Austin Chronicle (Steve Davis) review [3.5/5]

Seattle Post-Intelligencer review Paula Nechak

San Francisco Chronicle (Carla Meyer) review

Los Angeles Times (Kevin Thomas) review

Movie review, 'The Believer' Michael Wilmington from The Chicago Tribune

"Hate and Hypocrisy" Intelligence Report Daniel Levitas, Southern Poverty Law Center, Winter 2002

"From Jew to Jew-hater: the curious life (and death) of Daniel Burros" William Bryk from New York Press, February 25, 2003, also seen here: Old Smoke: The Death of Daniel Burros: A Jewish Klansman who did ...

The Believer (film) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Annals of Communications: THE MAN WHO DISAPPEARED : The New Yorker brief accounting of NY Times reporter John McCandlish Phillips

Dan Burros - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Daniel Burros - Metapedia

Frank Collin - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

"Frank Collin: From neo-Nazi to Hyper-Diffusionist and Witch" The Many Faces of Frank Collin, by R.D. Flavin from The Greenwich Gazette, February 21, 1997

Beatt, Cynthia

THE INVISIBLE FRAME B- 82

Germany (60 mi) 2009

The mechanism of this repeated journey afforded us the opportunity to meditate freely on the whole concept of borders, history, adaptation, natural cycles of development and a host of other conceptual and existential territories.

—Tilda Swinton

Cynthia Beatt is considered a British director, as she studied there, but was born and raised in both Jamaica and the Fiji Islands, residing in Berlin since 1975. She collaborated earlier with actress Tilda Swinton on an experimental documentary photo journalistic essay called CYCLING THE FRAME (1988) where Beatt followed Swinton with a hand held camera while traveling the entire length of the Berlin wall, which was just under 100 miles, as they were only allowed to observe East Germany by photographing what they could see by peeking over the wall. The actual border between East and West Germany, which was covered in minefields, was closer to 860 miles. Today, this rarely screened document would be viewed as a historic time capsule. Having grown up in a former British colony, Beatt was particularly sensitive to the annexation of East Berlin, as the view of East Germans became that of an inferior second class people, whereas before the wall, they were all Germans. Beatt got the idea after living in Berlin for 12 years above an old factory near the Potsdamer Platz where she could view soldiers in the guard watchtower from her window. The Wall was her neighbor, not just an inconvenience, but a restrictive spiritual entity, a constant reminder of a divided city where anyone wishing to get to the other side would be shot on sight. Built in 1961, visited by President Kennedy, after more than 2 and a half million citizens fled from East Germany to the West, eventually losing too many of their skilled workers, so they closed down the borders and constructed a restricted area military wall overnight. No official figures were kept, but it’s estimated that more than 1200 East German citizens were killed attempting to escape after the wall was built, where Chris Guefrrey was the last official casualty who died in a hail of bullets while trying to flee. Afterwards it was learned he was under the impression the shoot-to-kill order had been revoked. He was not the last East German killed however, as a victim known only as Frank M. was found in the Oder River near the German-Polish border just two days before the Berlin Wall fell.

Marking the twentieth anniversary of both the original film and the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, this largely wordless 60-minute film was shot in June, 2009 using Hi-8 film while the director rode her bike with one hand and carried the camera in the other, attempting to follow the route of where the wall used to be, which was obviously difficult at times, as Swinton likely took a few wrong turns, often standing at a crossroads staring at a map while no one stops to offer any assistance. At times she ran into dead ends, where locked gates or fences had been constructed, and she often ended up in the middle of a heavily wooded forest area, where at one point standing next to a lakeside retreat, a bystander points out that West Germans were only allowed to swim halfway across the lake. Since no wall exists, there are double brick cobblestones that remain visible on official asphalt roads, but she spent a good deal of time on German bike paths, which are away from German roads and thoroughfares, leaving her out in open countryside regions for a good deal of her journey, where at one point she rides past an inexplicably gorgeous poppy field. Still, there was evidence of guard watchtowers along her path, as she did visit the memoriam built at the suite of Chris Gueffrey’s death. The film is mostly a free standing visual essay of Berlin today, where Swinton rides by immaculate flower draped houses built in high rent districts, but also passes by graffiti laden factory districts and remnants of former tenement buildings, eyesores that are now dilapidated and boarded up with plenty of broken windows. Often, where the wall used to be has been replaced with newly constructed housing developments, where it’s easy to get confused, wondering what used to be there.

Swinton adds her own spare, personally written inner narration which has poetic overtones, offering views on borders, walls, and freedom, often lapsing into an existential reverie, pondering to herself, “East, West, does it matter where I am anymore?” Oftentimes she weaves back and forth straddling what used to be the border, while also stopping along the way at pastoral sites, where we see her reading Hans Fallada’s book Alone in Berlin or checking out the street signs for Karl Marx Straße while occasionally electronic music from Derek Jarman collaborator Simon Fisher-Turner adds a quiet poignancy to her otherwise wordless ride that at times resembles a ghost trip, as she’s conjuring up thoughts and images from a world that no longer exists, still haunted by fragments of memory. Perhaps a fault of the film is relying too exclusively on the viewer’s historical recollections, as the film offers little help. Thinking about it afterwards, this is really a cyclist's film, perhaps incomplete unless seen from a cyclist’s perspective, like over here: Bicycle Film Festival at this site: George the Cyclist, as they're the ones who would truly appreciate a film that is exclusively shot from the perspective of a rider on a bicycle. As this film suggests repeatedly, cyclists have no narrations or things explained to them when they’re on their bikes, and oftentimes outdated maps are of no use either. This film replicates the sightline and the virtually-always-alone mentality of a cyclist, where their chosen interactions with strangers are completely random. There were many walkouts, but they were strictly people who aren't used to seeing a near wordless film, who need an explanation to what they're watching, but that's actually one of the features of riding a bike, in addition to being one of the true pleasures of this film.  That’s the real freedom.

• View topic - The Invisible Frame (Cynthia Beatt, 2009) Criterion Forum, October 31, 2009

This is a rather interesting novelty, I guess. 20 years ago, Cynthia Beatt made a 25-minute film called "Cycling the Frame" in which she sent a tremendously young-looking Tilda Swinton cycling on a 160km-tour around the Berlin Wall, documenting the landscape, people and Swinton's thoughts and reflections. A truly wonderful film the VHS recording of which I treasure since its first and probably only broadcast on German TV way back in the late 80s.

Now, 20 years later, Beatt directed a 60-minute follow-up entitled "The Invisible Frame", again starring Swinton cycling. This new film is supposed to reflect on the very visible changes, compared to the time when the first film was made, with the Wall no longer standing. The new film will have special sound design by long-time Derek Jarman-collaborator Simon Fisher-Turner.

The Invisible Frame , playing at Cornell Cinema

"In 1988 the British director Cynthia Beatt, who is based in Berlin, embarked on a journey into little-known territory. She filmed Tilda Swinton as they followed the Berlin Wall, capturing the inward-looking West Berlin and the over-the-Wall views of East Berlin. Today Cycling the Frame is a rare historic document and Tilda Swinton, who was honoured with the Oscar [in 2008], is one of the world's most admired performers. In June 2009, Cynthia Beatt and Tilda Swinton re-traced the line of the Wall that once isolated Berlin from East and West Germany." (Filmgalerie 451) "The Invisible Frame depicts this poetic passage through varied landscapes, this time on both sides of the former Wall. Complemented by recitations of works by writers Robert Louis Stevenson, William Butler Yeats and Anna Akhmatova and a soundscape by musician Simon Fisher Turner who collaborated with director Derek Jarman and Tilda Swinton in the 1980's, The Invisible Frame brings a meditative and philosophical approach to tracing a Wall which once divided people, families and a nation and now lingers as an invisible 'ghost wall.'"

Visit our Blog for reviews of individual films Doug McLaren from Cine-File, March 18, 2011

“What if this wall goes on and on forever?” asks Tilda Swinton in CYCLING THE FRAME, a 1988 video made for West German television. It was a binary question, referring not only to her circumnavigating all 160km of the Berlin Wall by bicycle but also to the indefinite future of the wall: it certainly couldn’t stay up forever, could it? Twenty years later we find Tilda again riding her bike, but now along the line where that wall once stood. Crossing freely from East to West, her tires dance over the cobblestone marker that runs like an archeological scar across Berlin. Swinton’s idle thoughts pass by in voice-over, stones skipping across an immense subject: “East, West, does it matter where I am anymore?”; “One wall comes down and there’s all these other little ones that pop up”; “I wish they’d put trees and hedges and birds’ nests on maps. It’d be easier to find your way.” These are sketches of ideas, each one a kernel for its own analytical essay, and each would appear to be a flippant rejoinder were it not for the fact that here we are, riding our bicycle along Karl Marx Straße, gazing at the bilious McMansions constructed in the former East. (2009, 60 min, video)

The Invisible Frame - Filmgalerie 451 including an interview with the director (excerpt)

In 1988 the British director Cynthia Beatt, who is based in Berlin, embarked on a journey into little-known territory. She filmed Tilda Swinton as they followed the Berlin Wall, capturing the inward-looking West Berlin and the over-the-Wall views of East Berlin.Today “Cycling the Frame“ is a rare historic document and Tilda Swinton, who was honoured with the Oscar last year, is one of the world’s most admired performers.In June 2009, Cynthia Beatt and Tilda Swinton re-traced the line of the Wall that once isolated Berlin from East and West Germany. “The Invisible Frame“ describes this journey, the print of a second foot, a Wall’s fall and 21 years later, through varied landscapes, this time on both sides of the former Wall. The stagnation of organic growth that characterized the areas separated by the Wall, is now replaced by unchecked nature and building development. The rhythmic interaction of fixed camera and tracking shots combine in a vibrant orbiting of Berlin, visually intertwining west and east. Tilda Swinton’s personal reflections are integrated as inner monologues and complete the film’s soundscape composed by Simon Fisher Turner, who collaborated with Derek Jarman and Tilda Swinton in the 80’s.

User reviews from imdb Author: peter-schramm from United Kingdom

The Invisible Frame unfolds as a cycle journey along the line of the former Berlin Wall but this film is artful and philosophical rather than nostalgic. It's a stream of images meandering through that "end of the day" atmosphere – dreamy, contemplative, a touch wistful, occasionally soliloquised into prose, emotion turned into words - at other times it swirls along with ethereal sounds which echo around inside you, sounds turned into emotion. And yet half submerged within its flowing imagery resides a poignant philosophical question.

Berlin with its absurd wall, its Nazi past, its ideological split into east and west is an example par excellence of that existential stumbling block upon which some of the best existential thinkers have founded:- what can we do to make life endurable if the universe has neither god, purpose, values or meaning ? Heidegger chose Nazi-ism and Sartre Marxism but both they and Berlin now lie testament to the failure of those answers. However this film's interplay of art and philosophy really does produce some quite interesting propositions. The hallmark of a good film is its capacity to trigger an encounter with your own soul and the Invisible Frame does just that.

The street musician at the beginning is a "Pied Piper" motif, heralding the passage from our everyday standpoint to an inner or psychic standpoint. The enigmatic and beguiling cyclist, Tilda Swinton, transforms every scene into a tantalising question. She meditates on life, reads a book called "Alone in Berlin" and never asks for directions underlining that this is an inner journey from collective opinions towards individual insight. The person with whom she has most contact, is a child with a bow and arrow. This lost son of Hamelin represents our original, curious, joyful, open and spontaneous nature which conventionality inhibits – here is our answer. It rubs off on the cyclist because later she etches an arrow, rune-like, into the dirt. The arrow is a very old symbol whose meaning has survived through to our day in its use to depict North on maps – it points to the North star which never sets but remains above the horizon for travellers to orientate themselves – it is our guiding star. Like the picture of Vitruvian Man by Leonardo da Vinci, which she stops by, she has squared the circle and found a new psychological orientation. Her closing words "open sesame" bring her back into our everyday world where she began, just like the circuit of the wall has brought her back to her starting point.

You may frown at my interpretation and the film's texts do literally speak for themselves but the film scores in its ability to coax you to turn inward and retrieve from the depths of your own being a reply to the absurdity of existence.

The Invisible Frame (2009) Mubi

THE INVISIBLE FRAME | siskelfilmcenter.org

Death Strip: Berlin Pays Tribute to Last Person Shot Crossing Wall ... Spiegel Online, also seen here: Berlin Pays Tribute to Last Person Shot Crossing Wall

Beatty, Warren

Who2 Profile: Warren Beatty Biographical info

Salon: Warren Beatty Stephanie Zacharek

Warren and Julie Forever

The day I jumped into Warren Beatty's arms | Life and style | The ... Shirley Barrett from The Guardian, February 7, 2016

HEAVEN CAN WAIT

USA (101 mi) 1978

Time Out

Beatty's directing debut is a perverse remake of the 1941 Here Comes Mr Jordan, a whimsical tale of a dead boxer returning to earth in another chap's body through a celestial mix-up. What mordant wits like Elaine May (who co-scripted with Beatty) and Buck Henry saw in this is another heavenly mystery: the script provides only the thinnest of lunatic fringes to decorate the soggy comic material. Beatty ambles nicely enough through the hero's part (remodelled as a quarterback), and Charles Grodin turns up trumps playing another of his chinless, spineless wonders. But Christie's comedy gifts are as minuscule as ever, and the film drags its feet uncertainly from beginning to end.

Qwipster's Movie Reviews [Vince Leo]

Harry Segall's play became the basis for a popular film way back in 1941 with Here Comes Mr. Jordan, and while Heaven Can Wait may not quite live up to the classic status of that film, it stands up quite well on its own as a light romantic fantasy.  Co-written, co-directed and starring Warren Beatty (Bonnie and Clyde, Bulworth), the film would be a big hit with critics and audiences alike, earning nine Oscar nominations, including Best Picture.  It's as charming and genial as you're ever likely to find in a movie, with a smart premise, very good locale work, and an ensemble of talented comedic actors who are cast perfectly.  Not a religious film by any means, it isn't concerned so much with Heaven or the afterlife so much as exploring the comic possibilities of a man transported from one life to another, trying to inject his own personality into the body of another.

The film starts off with Warren Beatty playing Joe Pendleton, the backup quarterback for the Los Angeles Rams, although his amazing talent has earned him the starting job in the upcoming game.  Superbowl aspirations are thwarted when Joe is killed in an accident, sending him to the afterlife, where he is to await his final destination.  It turns out that Joe's soul was pulled too soon from his body and he wasn't supposed to die in the accident, but now that his body has been cremated, there is no hope of gaining it back.  Led by Mr. Jordan (James Mason, Journey to the Center of the Earth), Joe shops around for a new body, eventually opting for a temporary one as the wealthy magnate, Leo Farnsworth.  As Leo, Joe tries to clean up his slimy image, while also having to deal with his adulterous wife (Dyan Cannon, Kangaroo Jack) and her lover (Charles Grodin, King Kong), who have been trying to kill him.  Joe has two goals in mind: to find a way back to his rightful place as the Rams starting QB and to win the heart of the lovely Betty Logan (Julie Christie, Finding Neverland), the schoolteacher who has been pleading with him not to build a refinery in her town.

Heaven Can Wait marked the first film directed by Warren Beatty, working closely with comedian co-star Buck Henry in order to keep the timing and momentum just right.  By all accounts, it is a successful debut.  Although it is originally based on a play, Beatty and co-screenwriter Elaine May do a terrific job imbuing the film with a wider cinematic feel, especially in the several football scenes sprinkled throughout the movie.  The original revolved around boxing, but Beatty didn't think he could pull off a successful boxing film, so he changed it to football, a sport he knew how to play well enough. 

While the writing and directing are both well handled, it is in the cast chemistry that the film gains its charm.  Beatty plays his part as a lovable dolt, whose lack of sophistication completely bewilders the servants around the mansion, setting up the film's bigger jokes.  Julie Christie has a less flashy role, but she adds class, as does James Mason in his role as the agent of Heaven out to set things right.  As good as they are, the character actors steal the show, with a memorably energetic performance by Jack Warden (All the President's Men, While You Were Sleeping) as the football coach and Dyan Cannon as Leo's shrill wife, Julia.  Charles Grodin also steals some scenes of his own as the film's lecher.

Heaven Can Wait did achieve great critical and commercial success, but it isn't likely to be perceived as anything great by those who don't like sentimental movies, or those expecting something more substantive.  Taking the film on its own terms, as a light romantic fantasy, it is an excellent example of how to make a movie like this, capturing a spirit of life, romance, and good natured cheer.  A true delight from start to finish.

-- Made previously as Here Comes Mr. Jordan (1941).  Remade as Down to Earth (2001). 

Turner Classic Movies Margarita Landazuri

DVD Times [Raphael Pour-Hashemi]

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Heaven Can Wait Artificial and other natural ingredients, by Lynette Carpenter from Jump Cut

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

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REDS

USA (194 mi) 1981

Reds Dave Kehr from the Reader

Warren Beatty's shapely 1981 epic, based on the life of radical journalist John Reed, is a stunningly successful application of a novelistic aesthetic--a film that makes full and thoughtful use of its three-and-a-half-hour length to develop characters, ideas, and motifs with a depth seldom seen in movies. Though it deals with historical events--World War I, the growth of the workers' movement in America, the Russian Revolution--history is not used simply as a backdrop; rather, Beatty focuses on the interdependence of personal choices and historical developments, mingling ideology and emotion in a very human whole. The cast is extraordinary, with Diane Keaton in particular achieving a weight and authority she hadn't shown before. With Beatty, Edward Herrmann, Jerzy Kosinski, Jack Nicholson, Paul Sorvino, Maureen Stapleton, and a good many real-life "witnesses" of the periods and events covered, including Henry Miller and George Jessel. PG, 200 min.

Time Out

Maybe not three hours to shake the world, but mightily impressive in its creative grasp of the inbuilt contradictions of 'epic' political cinema and historical representation, Reds intriguingly yokes romance and revolution to produce a timely monument to dissent. While veteran witnesses to the lives and impact of activist journalists John Reed and Louise Bryant offer conflicting memories in documentary inserts, Beatty and co-writer Trevor Griffiths construct a heroic love story textured as a dialectical biopic. The Russian October stands as an emotively agitational centrepiece, but the film's focus remains on the American socialist heritage and radical tradition: a deliberately patterned weave that acknowledges provocative contrasts - between Greenwich Village intellectualism and the rank-and-file labour struggles of the Wobblies, between organisation and 'culture', between vying CP factions, between enlightened patriarchy and early feminism. Beatty's Reed and Keaton's Bryant observe, criticise, swim against and participate in their times, maintaining a steady fascination through the plausibility of their erratically developing relationship, emphasising that history begins at home, in every sense.

filmcritic.com (Chris Cabin)

Audacious and ambitious even by today's standards, Warren Beatty's Reds still retains a certain humble nature to its sprawling, ambidextrous narrative. Just shy of 200 minutes and one of the last films by an American director to feature an intermission, Beatty's sickle-and-hammer romance seems even more sweeping when one consider what passes for "epic" these days (All the King's Men?).

A lecture in 1912 brought together Jack Reed (Warren Beatty) and Louise Bryant (Diane Keaton) and that was beginning of a beau… well, actually, the relationship was more turbulent than beautiful. Though Bryant was married and Reed was a full-time politico, their relationship grew through ebb-and-flow from the days after their meeting till the Red Scare of the late 1910s and early 1920s. The relationship even survives Louise's romance with famed playwright Eugene O'Neill (Jack Nicholson) and Reed's rigorous commitment to the Communist revolution in Russia and in America.

As a director, Beatty has always been a tough cookie. His style, nothing if not rampantly malleable, goes from the colorful blasts of cartoon freakishness of Dick Tracy to the hyper-satirical bombast of Bulworth (we can leave Heaven Can Wait out of this). But Reds has a decidedly more recognizable tone in its country-hopping visual diatribes. The dust-blown tones of America and the small scenes in Germany give way to the darker, shadowy atmospheres of Russia and its subsequent uprisings with a seamless sense of pacing. These images are given expansive depth under the eye of cinematographer Vittorio Storaro, the brilliant eye behind Apocalypse Now and The Conformist.

Much more than a labor-party Gone with the Wind, Beatty's film also cuts to the problem of Communism, in America or anywhere else. Where it could have easily gone to the left and only looked at the positives of the Communist party, Beatty's script, which he wrote with playwright Trevor Griffiths, shows the perils of the collective mindset vs. independent ideology, which comes to a head in the film's most cathartic scene on a train trip back from a pro-Communist rally. Also, this conflict gives deeper shades to the relationship between Reed and Bryant when they are left alone, away from each other.

Bryant and Reed would also be left to the cliché chopping block if it wasn't for deeply understood, nuanced performances by Keaton and Beatty. Keaton, who had just wrapped a trio of Woody Allen films, breaks away from the quirkiness of Annie Hall and slowly shows the gentle maturing of Louise from a self-congratulatory writer to an independent woman with deep love for her cause and her husband. Then there's Beatty, a full, rollicking storm of political ambition and passionate ardor who can't even slow down to accept that Louise has feelings that go on beyond her love for him. However, the real surprise is Nicholson, cutting into a calm, subtle character with restraint and a grand sense of self-loathing. Those who thought Nicholson only settled down in About Schmidt will be in for a rude awakening when he professes his love for Bryant and forces her to find a glass for his whiskey; a cup just won't do. Truth be told, a film as emotionally complex and thick with ideas as Reds could have gone for another 30 minutes, easy, but Beatty knows how to cut the fat off the issues and get down to the nitty-gritty. It's tragic that more American filmmakers aren't taking risks like this at a time like this.

The new DVD (which spans two discs) adds an extensive set of documentaries about the film and the Communist movement.

Turner Classic Movies Jay S. Steinberg

Timing, as they say, is everything. In 1981, with the Reagan Era dawning, the American movie-going public might have been by and large disinclined to embrace an epic-length historical romance centered on two prominent radical socialists of the 1910s. The timing ultimately proved less than precipitous for Warren Beatty, who had nurtured the concept since the early 1970s, and whose belief in the project was sufficient to get the green light from the powers that be at Paramount. Ultimately, Reds (1981) would struggle to recoup its staggering production costs (an estimated $45 million) in theaters. The critical praise garnered by the film was considerable, however, and it stands as a work of considerable sweep and scope with a realistic and, at times, painfully honest love story at its core.

In the figure of John Reed (1887-1920), Beatty found a compelling paradox. Born to privilege and educated at Harvard, the experiences of his journalism career led him to leftist thought. Reporting from Russia as the Bolsheviks rose to power, he authored his best-known work Ten Days That Shook the World in 1919. The year after its publication, Reed, then in the employ of the Soviet propaganda ministry, took ill and died, becoming the only American laid to rest in the Kremlin. In a 1976 collaboration with British playwright Trevor Griffiths, Beatty fashioned a script that juxtaposed Reed's notorious public life with his ongoing affair with Louise Bryant, the Oregon housewife and amateur journalist who left her world behind to travel in Reed's circle of Greenwich Village intellectuals.

The screenplay would subsequently undergo tweaking by Elaine May and Robert Towne, and Beatty assembled a distinguished cast and crew, including his off-screen leading lady of the moment, Diane Keaton, to play Bryant to his Reed. The film's opening sequence establishes Reed's thirst to be on the cutting edge of history, depicting his reckless pursuit of frontline action during the Mexican Revolution. The following year finds Reed at home in his native Portland, flirting with Bryant as she tries to wrest an interview from him. His charisma leads her to follow him east, where she uncomfortably tries to hold her own with his formidable cronies such as Emma Goldman (Maureen Stapleton), Max Eastman (Edward Herrmann) and Eugene O'Neill (Jack Nicholson).

To salvage the relationship, the couple set up housekeeping in Provincetown. It doesn't take long for the restless Reed to chafe under those circumstances, however, and he heads for Chicago, against Bryant's wishes, to cover the 1916 Democratic Convention. In his absence, she falls into an affair with O'Neill; the returning Reed owns up to his own infidelities once he learns of the truth. Bryant takes flight to Europe to work as a war correspondent; Reed, after a flare-up of the kidney disorder that eventually killed him, opts to take the same path. Reluctantly reunited as professionals, the two find their passion rekindled as they are swept up in the fall of Russia's czarist regime.

All these events merely take Reds up to the intermission. The second act follows Reed's short life in the wake of Ten Days' publication, and the growing disillusionment he suffered with both the American socialist movement and the bureaucracy that the Bolsheviks imposed on Moscow that he experienced firsthand when he accepted his political appointment.

In Reds, Beatty used an intriguing device to effectively lend his narrative a sense of time and place. Interspersed throughout the film is interview footage, shot against a simple black background, featuring the recollections of over two dozen of Reed and Bryant's contemporaries. Beatty opted against the use of superimposed graphics to identify his "witnesses"-- including Henry Miller, Adela Rogers St. John, Rebecca West, George Jessel, Will Durant and George Seldes-- in order to avoid giving the film an overly documentary feel.

The shoot for Reds spanned a grueling 240 days from August 1979 to July 1980. Beatty's request to the Soviet government to film in Leningrad was rejected, so he turned to Helsinki for its architectural similarities. The film would ultimately be primarily shot in England, with more location work in New York, Washington, and the Seville region in Spain, which was utilized to double for Baku in Russia. (In a famous incident, director Beatty sought to explain to his Spanish extras their motivation by playing out Reed's beliefs. They responded by holding out for a $20-a-day pay hike.)

Between Beatty's creative demands on his cast and crew, and the front office pressure he was feeling as the cost overruns continued to mount, tensions ran high on the set. The strains would ultimately take a toll on Beatty's relationship with Keaton. In Jonathan Moor's Diane Keaton: The Story of the Real Annie Hall mention was made of a photo journal from the set kept by the novelist Jerzy Kosinski, whom Beatty had very effectively cast as the martinet functionary Zinoviev. "[I]n many, many of these photographs a very angry Keaton is captured arguing with a scowling Beatty in front of the camera," Moor observed.

Whether the blame rests with prevalent political sentiment or an ill-conceived and executed marketing campaign, Reds struggled to find a popular audience. It was a tide that the film's considerable Oscar buzz-- 12 nominations overall, with three prizes going to Stapleton, Beatty's direction, and Vittorio Storaro's cinematography-- did little to stem. It's unfortunate, as the film plays far less like an endorsement of communist thought than as an indictment of Reed's shortcomings. At its core is a story of a man willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for principle, told in a fashion that transcends its political and historical context.

Slant Magazine [Dan Callahan]

DVD Talk [Jamie S. Rich]

Reel.com DVD review [Tim Knight]

Edward Copeland on Film

InsidePulse.com [Robert Sutton]

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Jon Danziger)

eFilmCritic.com Slyder

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray]

Encyclopaedia Britannica on Reds Gregory McNamee

Reds on Reds John Hess and Chuck Kleinhans from Jump Cut

DVD Verdict - 25th Anniversary Edition [Mike Pinsky]

The QNetwork Film Desk [James Kendrick]

DVD Talk (John Sinnott)

Movie House Commentary Johnny Web

Bina007 Movie Reviews

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

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DVDBeaver.com [Yunda Eddie Feng]

RULES DON’T APPLY C 75

USA (126 mi) 2016 Official Site

A lighthearted Hollywood romance that aspires to be more, where Warren Beatty comes out of a 15-year absence to play the part of a doddering Howard Hughes near the twilight of his career, as he was making the transition from a semi-recluse in Los Angeles to a total recluse in Las Vegas.

Writing, directing, acting, and producing the film himself, after languishing on the shelf for a few years, you’d think there might be some new revelations about the character, but Beatty goes all ISHTAR (1987) on us, resorting to the same comic absurdity with which we are already quite familiar, where his stumbling eccentricities are key to understanding his overly flawed character, where you wonder how this guy could ever have earned a single dollar, much less a million and/or billion dollar empire, depending upon how much his wealth fluctuated. The narcissistic view of himself is so over the top that you wonder if Beatty is making a comment on the Hollywood industry itself, where it thinks of itself exclusively at the expense of all other interests, remaining so out of touch with the real world that it’s only real invention is pure fantasy. Since Hughes is known to us today as someone who went into hiding, where few ever had the chance to actually see him in his final days, it’s only natural that he remains hidden in the opening 30-minutes of the picture, where we hear about him, but never see him. Instead the story revolves around one of the many rising starlets discovered by Hughes, flying them out to Hollywood, providing beautiful individual homes, maid service, and a private chauffeur taking them to a neverending litany of acting, singing, and dancing lessons, where all were steered into the dream of one day having the chance to appear in one of his RKO Studios motion pictures. What they all had in common was a full-figured beauty on display, the supposed female desire of all American men, where Hughes was the original Hugh Hefner, displaying the 50’s Playboy magazine mentality even before Hefner started his enterprise. As described in Charles Higham’s 1993 biography, Howard Hughes: The Secret Life, at least partially used in Scorsese’s depiction of Hughes in THE AVIATOR (2004):

The appropriate actress would be given the use of an elegant house in Beverly Hills or Bel-Air, with a maid. At exactly 7 a.m., she must rise and take a shower and make up. At seven-thirty, the maid would serve her breakfast. At eight, a driver would take her to acting, dancing, and singing lessons. In the afternoon, she must rest or watch TV. Shopping was permitted once a week. In the evening she would go to one of six restaurants Hughes specified. She was forbidden to date. A driver would be her companion for dinner. … The drivers were told never to negotiate bumps in a road at more than two miles an hour as the jolt to the automobile might cause the girls’ breasts to sag.

While this reflected the Hughes rule, anyone failing to adhere to the strict protocol was fired on the spot, including the chauffeurs, who were instructed to have no intimate contact with the girls, with Hughes hiring private detectives to guarantee compliance. In this restrictive, puritanical atmosphere of the Eisenhower era of the 50’s, a love story develops between an aspiring young actress, Marla Mabrey (Lily Collins), and her assigned chauffeur Frank Forbes, Alden Ahrenreich from Hail, Caesar! (2016), something that is strictly forbidden, but they sneak around corners and learn to live by their own titular mantra. But initially it’s all eye contact, as Frank is assigned to pick up Marla and her overly possessive mother (Annette Bening) at the airport, learning Marla was crowned the Apple Blossom Queen back in Virginia, as he drives them to a gorgeous mansion overlooking the Hollywood Bowl. It doesn’t take long before she realizes she’s just one of dozens of girls all striving for the same thing, each one promised a screen test by Hughes. While they all come from a strict religious background, with Frank already engaged to a high school sweetheart back home in Fresno, not much happens under the watchful eye of her mother, yet Marla, the only vulnerable character in the film, has the kind of dreamy, wild-eyed enthusiasm and innocence that other star-struck actors wish they possessed, where her real intent is not acting, but writing songs. Part of the comic absurdity is her mother sensing what’s really going on, indignant that no one has actually met Mr. Hughes, or had a screen test, believing it’s all a sham of some kind, as these girls are being exploited without actually having a chance to appear in pictures. Defiantly, she heads back to Virginia in a huff, leaving Marla on her own, still tapping into her own personal dreams and ambitions, not yet ready to call it quits and head back to the University of Virginia as her fallback plan. In this opening, Frank steps out of the shadows, another small-town kid with his own dreams, where he’s got his eyes set on some property on Mullholland Drive, but he needs an investor, hoping he can entice Mr. Hughes, if he ever meets him. In his eyes (and the audience), Marla is perceived as an ideal, a paragon of virtue, expressing exactly the same kind of illusion Hollywood personified back in the 50’s, a good Baptist girl who doesn't drink, smoke, or “go all the way,” informing her she’s not like the others, who are overtly sexual, accentuating their buxom physiques, telling her she’s an exception, that “the rules don’t apply to you.” Spontaneously writing a song for the occasion, the romantic overtones are inevitable.

What holds the viewer’s attention early on is the complete absence of Howard Hughes, yet Marla has lofty thoughts of the kind of man he must be, extravagantly rich, everyone at his beck and call, so important and all, where she even dreams of him making a good President. By the time she actually meets him, he appears out of the dark, tongue-tied, not even sure who she is, where they sit and eat Stouffer’s TV dinners on folding trays, peeling back the aluminum foil while Hughes awkwardly tries to think of something to say, invariably excusing himself as he attends to other pressing business, where he’s seen as a man stymied by his own changeable moods, often to the point of paralysis, where he rambles incoherently, repeats himself, and has a pathological fear that TWA executives attempting to purchase his aviation company are secretly trying to find him legally insane so they can take over the company, so he refuses to meet with them, or even reveal where he is. In this hidden and secretive manner, he continues to conduct his company’s business, growing increasingly erratic. Beatty seems to relish the idea of playing Hughes for laughs and comic amusement, often seen where he’s crazy as a loon, but watching a feeble old man whose best years are behind him isn’t really funny, especially when he’s obsessed by watching old movie footage of himself when he was an aviator and still a virile young man, continually reliving his youth, playing it out in his head so often he could almost believe it was still real. This kind of pathetic display is more tragic than anything else, but the film reveals no backstory about Hughes, where we’re not given any details about what led him to this pitiful state. The film really dovetails in exposing the mad eccentricities of the man, as it’s just not that interesting seeing someone so out of touch with himself gradually losing focus. If he were a sympathetic figure, it might be different, but Hughes is larger than life, a demanding egomaniac obsessed only with himself, going on an outrageous binge where all he wants is Baskin Robbins banana nut ice cream, where his underlings are forced to buy all the remaining reserves as the company doesn’t make it any more, then just as quickly he changes his mind and wants something else. The man is an infuriating business partner, where working for him is something of a nightmare. While there are attempts to show a more intimate side of Hughes, quieter, perhaps more self-possessed, where incredibly he has romantic aspirations with Marla as well, who has grown so frustrated at the lack of progress in her career, overconsuming champagne, drinking alcohol for the first time in her life, allowing her to speak bluntly when she’s finally in the presence of the elusive one, singing a drunken arrangement of her song which plays with archival Hughes footage playing behind her, leaving the man in a trance of sensory overkill. Out of control passions between the two lead to sex as a comical slapstick routine, becoming one of the true ick factors of the film, where he’s 79 and she looks considerably younger than 27, with more than a 50 year difference between them, where it’s hard not to see Beatty transforming into the aging Maurice Chevalier from GIGI (1958) singing “Thank Heaven for Little Girls” Thank Heaven for Little Girls from Gigi - YouTube (2:36). While there are a few entertaining moments, mostly this is a coming out party for Lily Collins who dominates the film with her zest for life and youthful Audrey Hepburn appeal, literally stealing the film from a man who was once himself a youthful wonder and the talk of the town, rumored to have slept with nearly every female star in Hollywood, where according to Cher, “Warren has probably been with everybody I know.” One popular theory on why Beatty turned down so many roles (prior to his marriage to Bening in 1992) was that he didn’t like interrupting his prolific love life to go to work.

RULES DON'T APPLY Ken Rudolph Movie Site

I get the feeling that Warren Beatty has been waiting all his life to play Howard Hughes in his late years. Acting the part in his own script cobbled from rumors and gossip that he'd heard through his years as a Hollywood A-lister, he is magnificently erratic and eccentric in the role. He's gathered a fine supporting cast, including relative newcomers Alden Ehrenreich and Lily Collines as youthful, innocent Hollywood wannabes drawn into the Hughes circle. The film seamlessly combines genres: biopic, romantic comedy, historical saga, Hollywood tell-all. And does so with rare faithfulness to the glamour and mystery of its era and milieu.

Warren Beatty's Rules Don't Apply is as eccentric as its subject ... - Vox Alissa Wilkinson

For the first time in 18 years, Hollywood legend Warren Beatty has directed a feature film. His last was Bulworth (1998), and before that, Dick Tracy (1990) — and, as in those, he stars in his latest, too.

Well, it might be more accurate to say Beatty sort of stars in Rules Don’t Apply, his long-anticipated movie about Howard Hughes, the eccentric, obsessive billionaire who, among other things, was a big-budget Hollywood tycoon in the 1920s, while also making history for his investments into aviation. Playing Hughes, Beatty is by turns charming and unhinged.

But the story’s main arc is of love and loss, and the couple at its center are starlet and songwriter Marla Mabrey and aspiring real-estate mogul Frank Forbes. The pair are played by Lily Collins and Alden Ehrenreich (Hail, Caesar!), both of whom, as far as I can tell, were transported into 2016 as a gift to us from Hollywood’s Golden Age. Hughes comes into the movie when their lives intersect with him, and then he takes over the whole thing, which seems in keeping with his narcissistic character.

It all sounds interesting, and Rules Don’t Apply is often fun: light on its feet, not concerned with making any real points, more of a romantic caper than anything else for most of its runtime.

But it’s also a sincerely strange movie, to the point where most critics — including me and the people I was seated near — left the theater scratching their heads. Was it a screwball comedy? A tragedy? A tale of old Hollywood? Something else? Were we to leave laughing, or carrying away some warning about the dangers of misogynistic, controlling, narcissistic billionaires working for the government? (Too soon?)

"What a strange movie!" a prominent critic seated near me declared afterward, echoing my own thoughts. "It was such a strange movie!" someone said to me the next morning.

I don’t mean this as disparagement, necessarily; sometimes the strangest movies are the ones most worth seeing. Rules Don’t Apply is a strange bird, but it’s not a bad one, if you’re up for four or five movies crammed into one, coupled with an earwormy musical number and some senseless wandering around. But it’s not really a good movie, either.

An epigraph before the movie warns us not to take anything we’re about to see too seriously — probably because, while Hughes was a real figure, the movie compresses various events of his life and inserts fictional characters, eventually taking on the cast of an old, fictional Hollywood narrative closer to Sunset Boulevard than a biopic.

Marla, a bright-eyed aspiring starlet and devout young Baptist from Virginia, has been invited to join Hughes’s de facto harem of other starlets who may or may not be cast in one of his big studio projects. (They’re all under contract to Hughes’s projects, but spend their days listlessly taking "classes" and hoping Mr. Hughes calls.) The harem is de facto mostly because nobody ever sees Hughes, who’s by now displaying reclusive tendencies so marked that even his assistants don’t always get to meet him.

Those assistants include Frank, a young man with aspirations to buy up property in a nearby valley and start a suburb into which he can eventually move his fiancée and start a family. But he’s assigned to drive Marla and her mother (Annette Bening) around, and starts to wonder if his fiancée is for him after all.

Meanwhile, both Frank and Marla are pining to meet Mr. Hughes — Frank for the business proposition, and Marla because she’s supposed to be doing a screen test for one of his films. It comes slowly, and when it happens for both of them, it’s extremely weird.

The strangest thing about Rules Don’t Apply is its editing, which is always either a beat too slow or way too fast. The thing about editing is most people don’t really notice it unless it’s either innovative (in a way that enhances the story) or totally off (in a way that distracts from the story). The latter is true here: Scenes are constantly much shorter or way longer than they ought to be, cutting off right after someone finishes a line without a beat to comprehend, or lingering way after their effect is exhausted. It sounds like a little thing, but it makes the film feel like it’s made by an amateur — which Beatty is decidedly not — and doesn’t seem to have a precedent in the older films it wants to emulate.

Luckily, Rules Don’t Apply’s best reason for existing is Ehrenreich (your young Han Solo, by the way) and Collins, a pair with delightful chemistry who channel the smoldering lead men and bright-eyed ingenues of old. Collins, in particular, can pull off everything from bright-eyed pious naïf to delightfully innocent drunk to, eventually, self-assured woman.

But this is also star-studded cast — here are a few of the minor and even bit players: Matthew Broderick, Candice Bergen, Annette Bening (who is married to Beatty), Martin Sheen, Haley Bennett, Paul Schneider, Taissa Farmiga, Ed Harris, Oliver Platt, Alec Baldwin, and Steve Coogan. Strings got pulled to make this movie, and it’s fun to see who shows up on screen.

Still, most of the movie’s dramatic tension draws on the fact that you have basically no idea what is going to happen — not because of great writing, but because Hughes is a really unpredictable, inscrutable guy. He eats burgers at 3 am on stretches of concrete positioned front of his planes; he later flies them around in circles, terrorizing passengers and crew while chattering maniacally; he hires body doubles who look like only a kooky heir’s doubles can look (which is to say, nothing like him); eventually he maroons himself on a bed surrounded by a curtain. He likes to play with journalists. He has major daddy issues.

If this sounds familiar, it is: Rules Don’t Apply, through no particular fault of Beatty’s, has been released at potentially the worst time in decades in terms of piquing interest in its peculiar historical center point. Hughes holds sway over young women and men, because they are in his employ. Middle-aged women and men — who maybe ought to know better — scurry around at his beck and call mostly because he’s rich and powerful. The US government calls him on the regular for help, since he owns some prominent companies. He talks about his father’s company a lot.

I don’t need to tell you why that’s disconcerting, but it also means maybe the best reason to see Rules Don’t Apply is that it is the very definition of escapist cinema: It will make you feel as if everything could be all right. I don’t know. Maybe crackpot rich guys are just really lonely. Maybe a song written by a starlet can make the world make sense. The rules don’t apply anymore.

Deep Focus: Rules Don't Apply - Film Comment Michael Sragow, November 23, 2016

Warren Beatty’s witty, frisky ramble through 1950s Los Angeles, Rules Don’t Apply, maneuvers Howard Hughes (Beatty) and two young Hughes employees, chauffeur and would-be real estate mogul Frank Forbes (Alden Ehrenreich) and contract starlet Marla Mabrey (Lily Collins), into an unlikely triangle. Beatty has set the film in 1958, the year the writer-director himself, like his fictional fellow Virginian, Marla, settled in Hollywood. Beatty has been promoting this picture as a comedic attack on Eisenhower-era Puritanism: Marla, “a Baptist nun” (as Hughes derisively calls her), thinks Frank is a married man in the eyes of God because he slept with his hometown Fresno fiancée. (His betrothed feels that way, too.) For Marla, to pursue a romance with Frank would be to “steal” another woman’s husband.

The movie is more seductive and expansive than a satire of 1950s mores. It’s about how the Hollywood Dream became the American Dream, and why that was a good thing—partly because movies did undercut American Puritanism, but also because they epitomized the glory of self-creation, of choosing who you get to be in the big wide world rather than falling into your parents’ rut. Rules Don’t Apply conveys this reality-based fantasy, this wish fulfillment with a kick, in the form of a blithe, unruly entertainment. This isn’t the full-scale portrait of Hughes that fans have been expecting from Beatty for roughly four decades, yet he packs unexpected poignancy and laughs into his sideways portrait of the billionaire. Hughes dips in and out of the other characters’ lives like a haywire deus ex machina, creating as many problems as he solves. The film’s appeal comes from Beatty’s ability to see the slapstick tragicomedy in the figure of this cock-eyed visionary—codeine-addicted, narcissistic, self-destructive and destructive. The antihero functions for the hero and heroine as a catalyst and an obstacle. He’s both an inspiration and a one-man cautionary tale.

Everything about the film is lightly ironic, from the title down. Hughes operates like a pre-Internet disrupter and an anti-Establishment maverick, whether as a moviemaker (addicted to watching his action milestone Hell’s Angels), an aviation pioneer, an industrialist with sensitive government contracts, or the founder of Trans World Airlines, which he tries to bring into the jet age. (His lack of corporate support stems partly from his refusal to appear before the board of directors, communicating with them only by telephone.)

When it comes to managing his stable of 26 aspiring actresses, though, this rule-breaker is all about rules designed to keep them toned and healthy, ready to do his bidding and nobody else’s. The movie scrambles together incidents from every part of Hughes’s life, including the flight of his fabled giant wooden transport plane, the Hercules H-4, or “the Spruce Goose,” and his fight to retain ownership of TWA. Rules Don’t Apply starts with a quote from Hughes, “Never check an interesting fact,” along with the admission that names and dates have been changed. Still, the biography that served as a basis for Martin Scorsese’s The Aviator (Howard Hughes: The Secret Life) contains a description of the starlets’ protocols that Beatty follows to a T:

The appropriate actress would be given the use of an elegant house in Beverly Hills or Bel-Air, with a maid. At exactly 7 a.m., she must rise and take a shower and make up. At seven-thirty, the maid would serve her breakfast. At eight, a driver would take her to acting, dancing, and singing lessons. In the afternoon, she must rest or watch TV. Shopping was permitted once a week. In the evening she would go to one of six restaurants Hughes specified. She was forbidden to date. A driver would be her companion for dinner. … The drivers were told never to negotiate bumps in a road at more than two miles an hour as the jolt to the automobile might cause the girls’ breasts to sag.

Working from a script with a story by Beatty and Bo Goldman (Melvin and Howard, Shoot the Moon), Beatty illustrates these rules as if thumbing the pages of a deluxe flipbook. Credit his master cinematographer, Caleb Deschanel, whose images are nimble and airy and also deeply evocative. The daylight colors boast a rare soft gloss, as if the smog has tenderized the spectrum. Early on, this film’s visual impact is the screwball equivalent of hearing Pat Boone sing “April Love.” It’s low-key fun to get acquainted with the earnest, ardent Frank, who peruses books on economics partly to keep his mind off Marla. But Ehrenreich’s intensity would be tiresome and his resemblance to a young Leonardo DiCaprio too jarring were he not palpably responsive to Collins’s Marla, who manages to be fresh-faced and fascinating, resembling Elizabeth Taylor one moment, Audrey Hepburn the next. Collins conveys a buoyant naivete; Marla is unworldly but not dumb. She may have been crowned the Apple Blossom Queen back in Virginia, but she says it’s a talent contest, not a beauty pageant, and what she really wants to do is write songs. When she tells Frank she knows she’s not buxom or overtly sexual like most other aspiring Hollywood starlets, he tells her she’s “an exception—the rules don’t apply to you.” And she turns that sentiment into a sweet, conversational song that she sings once quietly and authentically to Frank and once drunkenly and emphatically to his boss.

In her gumption, Marla takes after her electrically wary mother Lucy, who keeps the movie’s comic engine running with her keen matriarchal intuition and with Annette Bening’s crackling timing in the role. Bening gets a huge laugh simply by saying “I forgive you” when Frank says that he’s a Methodist. (The Mabreys are Baptists.) Lucy senses that Marla might never meet the elusive Hughes and that he might not be the answer to either her or Frank’s dreams. Luckily, when Bening leaves the picture, her real-life husband enters it and picks up the slack.

Beatty has not been this intensely entertaining and focused (even when his character is out of focus) since Bugsy (91), and he’s learned from Barry Levinson’s direction and James Toback’s script for that film how to imbue a functioning psychopath with demented intrigue, even charm. Hughes is as incongruously and humorously childlike as he indulges his yen for Baskin-Robbins’s banana nut ice cream as Beatty’s Bugsy Siegel was while questing for self-improvement by reciting tongue twisters to improve enunciation. Hughes and the gangster Bugsy Siegel are similar mostly in their determination to see their fantasies ripen, whether it’s Hughes proving his Spruce Goose can fly or Bugsy fulfilling his vision of the Flamingo Hotel as a glittering American monument to gambling of every kind. They both want to hang on to what they build.

Hughes’s illusions and desires are more open-ended than Bugsy’s crusade for “class” and self-improvement. For Hughes, not even the sky is the limit, as he takes the wheel of a DC-3 and cuts off its propellers for a proper glide. At times, Beatty plays Hughes like a mischievous vampire, always veering into the shadows, and Deschanel partners him beautifully, lighting his night-time meetings with Marla so that we, like them, must strain to make out how he looks and what he’s thinking. At other times Hughes is just an aging man with fading faculties. He knows that he’s prone to repeating himself, and he’s worried that others will find him insane—he even fears that he actually is.

Rules Don’t Apply has the satisfactions and the limitations of old-fashioned cinematic engineering. Every little incident or prop clicks together, like Marla’s song or the emerald ring that Hughes puts on her finger. But the narrative machinery chugs on after the comic possibilities have been exhausted and some dramatic depths have been ignored. It takes too much locomotion to bring Frank and Marla into more intimate relations with Hughes. Still, the movie displays an unexpected lyricism, both in some daring oddball moments—like Frank and Hughes taking a long walk down a pier that ends with them sharing burgers on a bench and staring at the Hercules H-4—and even more in the climactic encounter of the two men and Marla, which causes a bed-bound Hughes to reckon silently with what went wrong in his life.

As Hughes, Beatty alters his moods like a quick-change artist. His superb changeability elicits some jolting surprises from Collins. She’s hilarious and touching when Marla decides to take her first drink while alone with Hughes, then sings “Rules Don’t Apply” to him. Cast members in roles large and small respond with jolts of energy to Beatty’s provocations, including Alec Baldwin and Oliver Platt as increasingly infuriated businessmen, and Steve Coogan as a pilot panicked by Hughes’s rusty daredevil aviation. No one gains more from Beatty’s attention than Matthew Broderick, who is uncannily good as a senior driver who wears himself out anticipating Hughes’s every wish. He and Beatty turn the two words “is” and “was” into a comic-opera duet.

Beatty frames the movie with a fictionalization of the telephone press conference Hughes held to discredit Clifford Irving’s fabricated Hughes autobiography. In the movie Hughes keeps the journalists waiting in a Los Angeles conference room while he lies in bed behind a curtain in an Acapulco hotel room. It’s a perfect pop-poetic touch. “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” said that old trickster, the Wizard of Oz. As Beatty plays him In Rules Don’t Apply, even when we can’t see Hughes, we must pay attention to the man behind the curtain.

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Rules Don't Apply - Wikipedia

Beauvois, Xavier

Don't underestimate Xavier Beauvois, a French filmmaker who makes few films, but makes meticulously detailed films with a large streak of social realism, usually acccompanied by huge acting performances (he's an actor himself) and a completely unpretentious and powerful script that he writes himself.  I can certainly see why a prediction for winning best screenplay, but perhaps even more.  Without an ounce of artificiality, or even a musical score, his films play out like documentaries.  Urgency and a sense of underlying control might best describe his working method. 

NORTH (NORD)

France (99 mi) 1991

Time Out review Geoff Andrew

Despite an (acknowledged) debt to the films of Maurice Pialat, this feature debut by Xavier Beauvois is a pretty distinctive achievement, not only for the authenticity of its observations (it's set in Calais, where the writer/director/ lead actor grew up), but for the raw honesty of its emotional content. At first you think it's Beauvois, as the teenager bored out his box by provincial life, who's on the slippery slope; then it transpires it's his pharmacist dad (Verley) who's into substance abuse; then mum (Ogier), hitherto apparently the voice of reason, gets in on the dysfunctional act. Aided by superb performances, Beauvois shows us the potential (and all too common) horrors of everyday family life without moralising or sensationalism; as in his even more ambitious follow-up (Don't Forget You're Going to Die), there's real depth, insight and truth here.

DON’T FORGET YOU’RE GOING TO DIE (N'oublie pas que tu vas mourir)

France (118 mi) 1995

Time Out review Geoff Andrew

Xavier Beauvois won admirers for Nord, his memorable debut; here, in his even better and more unsettling follow-up, he plays an art student whose desperate attempts to avoid military service reveal that he's HIV positive, whereupon he begins systematically to immerse himself in the realm of the senses. Despite a finished technique, there's a rawness here - evident not only in the explicit scenes of sex and drugs, but in the dark, edgy humour that repeatedly and unexpectedly bubbles to the surface - that lends the film an emotional punch. Great performances and a strong John Cale score.

Film Society of Lincoln Center Amy Taubin

MoMA’s “Prix Jean Vigo” series traffics in the some of the biggest names in foreign-film history. So who is Xavier Beauvois?

With foreign theatrical film distribution in the U.S. on its way to oblivion (the dismemberment of Wellspring by the Weinstein Company, which kept the DVD distribution division for its own tawdry product and tossed the theatrical division in the trash, is the latest small but lethal cut), almost all foreign-language art-film exhibition is in the hands of festivals, mini-festivals, and various series devised or sponsored by museums and repertory theaters. J. Hoberman has a rule that only films screened at least three times in New York are eligible for his best-of-the-year list in The Village Voice. Pretty soon he won’t have any films to choose from, or for that matter, a paper to write for (the Voice is going down the tubes as fast as the culture it once supported). Thus, the only thing for a dedicated art-film lover to do these days is peruse monthly film calendars and obsessively make schedules, because most of the great contemporary foreign-language films will turn up on big screens only once or twice, if that. The other route is to pool resources with friends and shop online for foreign DVDs. (Multi-region DVD players sell for less than $100.)

One series well worth following is MoMA’s “Prix Jean Vigo,” which began in February and continues through December 2006. A project of MoMA’s Jytte Jensen and Prix Jean Vigo jury member Véronique Godard, the series comprises a selection of about 40 French features and shorts that have won the Vigo prize since its inception in 1951. The prize is usually given early in a filmmaker’s career and is awarded to “filmmakers whose work demonstrates an intuitive comprehension and mastery of the cinematic medium,” criteria very different from those that inform the French Cesars or the U.S. Independent Spirit Awards. In any event, the Vigo prizewinners are a remarkably eclectic bunch. Many have gone on to make brilliant careers: Godard, Chabrol, Sembène, Marker, Resnais, Pialat, Desplechin, Assayas, and Garrel, whose ethereal, perverse love story L’Enfant Secret (82) led off the MOMA series last month, along with Xavier Beauvois’s even more remarkable Don’t Forget You’re Going to Die (95). Some, such as Laurent Cantet, Alain Guiraudie, Cédric Kahn, and Noémie Lvovsky, are off to promising starts, and some simply have not had the recognition in the U.S. that they deserve. Among this last group is William Klein—still best known for his fashion photography, although his filmmaking spans three decades. Among his strongest films are the documentary Muhammad Ali, the Greatest and the surrealist fashion industry send-up Who Are You, Polly Maggoo? (65), which screens on March 9 and 11. If you didn’t catch it at the Klein retro a few years ago, and you have a taste for wacky Sixties time capsules, seize this opportunity. You’re unlikely to get another.

Just as unlikely to be seen on this side of the Atlantic again is Beauvois’s Don’t Forget You’re Going to Die, which for this writer was a revelation since I’d never been more than lukewarm on any of his other films. But his new Le Petit Lieutenant, showing March 17, 18, and 19 in the “Rendezvous with French Cinema” series at the Walter Reade, is a tough, spare policier with a great performance by Nathalie Baye, but its narrative structure doesn’t have the amazing narrative turns of the earlier film.

Don’t Forget You’re Going to Die concerns an art-history graduate student (played by Beauvois himself) who freaks out when he receives his army draft notice. His attempts to win a medical discharge by pretending to be a gay drug addict are laughable, and finding himself condemned to spending 10 months in a barracks with men whose lives could not be further from the sheltered middle-class existence of his friends and family, he slits his wrists. This failed suicide attempt sends him to an army hospital where routine blood tests reveal that he is HIV-positive. Discharged and even more freaked out (the film is set in 1992, before cocktail medications made living decades with HIV possible) he tries to steal his own car from the garage where it’s impounded and lands in a jail cell with an Algerian drug dealer, who becomes his new best friend when he introduces him to “Helene and Catherine” (heroin and coke to you). Using his middle-class veneer and the cool that comes to some who live with the knowledge of their own mortality, our protagonist does a big drug deal and takes off for Italy where he finds Baudelairian beauty (“luxe, calme, et volupté”) in the Umbrian landscape, Piero della Francesca’s paintings, and Chiara Mastroianni. But with a not-so-chance visit to the local train station, he’s drawn back to drugs and taking a darker route to fulfillment, winds up in the former Yugoslavia where he enlists with a militia, and dies in battle. Thus, in the space of a few months, this young man lives out everything he feared and desired in fantasy. Beauvois pulls off something more difficult than an existential fable. He gives every frame of Don’t Forget You’re Going to Die the sensory immediacy and ambivalence of real life.

SELON MATTHIEU (To Mathieu)

France (105 mi) 2000

Time Out review

This modern day parable marries the edgy naturalistic style of Beauvois' first two films (Nord and Don't Forget You're Going to Die) to a more overt narrative framework. Set in a vividly rendered Normandy community, the story focuses on Magimel's anguish when his father is sacked from the factory. The workforce is too cowed to respond to the young man's agitation, so he plots a more intimate revenge, seducing the factory owner's wife (Baye). Inevitably, things get messy. Beauvois seems unsure how far he wants to pitch into melodrama - or tragedy: he opts for Bach on the soundtrack. And if the film doesn't really hold any surprises, it nevertheless creates a compelling aura of political and emotional estrangement.

FrenchFilms James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

With this, his third film, Xavier Beauvois amply demonstrates that he is one of most promising directors of his generation, a worthy successor to the likes of Renoir, Bresson and Truffaut.  A near-flawless piece of cinema, Selon Matthieu combines social realism and sentimental drama, the result being a sublime film d’auteur which is both socially relevant and brimming with humanity.

In some ways this is a deeply pessimistic work, suggesting that the divide between the working classes and the managerial elite is somehow engrained deep in the psyche of the individual – if you are born working class, you will remain so, and so will all your descendents.  In that respect, the film has some similarity with Laurent Cantet’s excellent Ressources humaines (1999).   Selon Matthieu goes one step further and implies that the working classes are singularly incapable of taking control of their destiny – perhaps a variant on the poetic realism favoured by French filmmakers of the 1930s.  Whereas those who belong to the management caste have the privilege of intelligence, money, status and power to improve their fortunes, those at the lower end of the social spectrum are held in check by the lack of these things.  Whilst he may rebel against his social position and his intelligence may be higher than average, the hot-headed Matthieu remains fundamentally a working class man.   His loyalty to his father reveals a humanity which causes him to seek revenge, but the same humanity prevents him from carrying though that same revenge.  He may not realise it, but he is just as much fettered to his social position as his apathetic brother Eric – he merely happens to have a slightly longer chain. 

Selon Matthieu is a film with great social relevance, including judicious (and highly topical) references to the harmful effect on society of the latest business ethic – such as the transfer of business from France to the Far East to reduce labour costs.  Yet, more significantly, the film is a powerful study of the human condition – indeed it is arguably one of the most humanist films to have been made in France for some years.  The moody photography brilliantly underscores the film’s sombre note, providing a visible reflection of the central character’s troubled state of mind whilst reflecting the wider social context. 

The main character Matthieu is played by Benoît Magimel, who has in recent years established himself as one of France’s leading actors.  Here, as the repressed, angry, emotionally flawed Matthieu, Magimel is a revelation.  His intense, brooding performance is the thing which contributes most to the sombre mood of the film, giving it its haunting, spiritual quality.  His pairing with Nathalie Baye is not only effective, it is a piece of genius.  Baye, equally one of France’s most highly rated actresses, doesn’t disappoint – her portrayal of Claire is senstitive and intelligent, and subtly illustrates both the similarities and the differences of the two worlds inhabited by the classes who work and the classes who manage.  Claire is a character who is every bit as complex and tragic as Matthieu – perhaps more so, since her position in society requires her to subjugate her basic emotional needs to the obligations of her position.  A less complex individual is Matthieu’s brother, Eric, who epitomises the working class mindset against which Matthieu tries to rebel.  Eric is played by Antoine Chappey, an actor with evident talent who, having played this kind of supporting role with distinction in a number of films, looks destined for bigger and better things.

It is not difficult to read some symbolism into the story (Matthieu’s failure to avenge his father’s death echoing futile attempts since time immemorial for workers to stand up to their employers), yet it is essentially a film about one man’s fight – not against some faceless corporation, but against his own personal situation.   The fallacy of what Matthieu is trying to do is only brought home in the final scene, which is played out with a devastating intensity – and quite harrowing naked humanity.  With its dark poetic vision and uncompromising social realism, Selon Matthieu is a profound and poignant piece of cinema, which (thanks to Beauvois’ shameless choice of music) evokes the works of Pasolini and Robert Bresson. 

LE PETIT LIEUTENANT B+ 91

France (110 mi) 2005

A film that took the thrill out of cop thriller, featuring a completely unpretentious methodical, deliberately paced police procedural film, de-emphasizing the exploitive action imagery in favor of small psychological moments that breathe naturalness. Following the exploits of a young rookie cop Antoine (Jalil Lespert), fresh out of the police academy, he chooses a Paris detective assignment far from his home on the Atlantic coast in Le Havre, Brittany, regrettably leaving his school teacher wife behind. As we are introduced to each of the players on his team, they form a tight-knit unit that spends the majority of their time together, including off hours, lead by Nathalie Baye as the “super cop” police inspector who is returning to the force after a long personal leave due to alcoholism, claiming she is now two years sober. Interestingly, the film interweaves snippets of AA meetings, where weary souls make their attempt at being honest, usually showing disappointment in themselves before they ever utter a word. This parallels how time spent in the police department also takes its toll, as over time you come face to face not only with your own demons, but a restless world outside that is never still, that could take your life in an instant. In this police squad, we’re witness to stoic faces that have seen plenty of anxious moments, and the kid’s youthful enthusiasm stands out in a crowd.

Not really accepted at first, as no one wants to work with him, he is slowly integrated into the group, which runs with a great deal of precision, with the inspector giving out multiple assignments so all have their individual responsibilities, and she has a tendency to bring the “young lieutenant” along with her, feeling out his motives, his personal background, offering bits of advice here and there, but showing him a good deal of respect in front of the others, which leads to his ultimate acceptance. There is nothing flashy here. Instead there is a meticulous working method that piece by piece attempts to follow up on leads, the questioning of witnesses, the gathering of evidence, in an attempt to solve crimes. They are truly tested when a body is found in the canal just around the corner from their station, which leads them into a murky underworld of undocumented foreign workers. The closer we get to each clue, the closer we get to the investigators themselves, as their lives materialize before us through private confessions over beer or coffee. We learn the inspector feels a special affection for the young lieutenant, as her own son who died years ago would be about his age, while also meeting a former lover who is a presiding judge, someone who remains a lifelong friend, perhaps the only one in the world she trusts.

The young lieutenant himself faces a rocky road with his wife, as despite the fact she’s all he thinks about, she’s surprised and disappointed that he chose his assignment so far away without discussing it with her, and now he insists that she drop her job to come live with him, more than she is prepared to decide on the spur of the moment. Without an ounce of artificiality, or even a musical score, the film provides the authenticity of a documentary, like we’re caught up in the middle of a closely observed work of Raymond Depardon, where the director’s not afraid to act in his own films, and where the intimate unraveling of the police inspector reveal a smart, complicated leader who feels close to her men while always maintaining a professional distance. All that changes when one ends up fighting for his life. Everything is set up through repeated images of the routine, where nothing seems out of the ordinary, as procedural police routine define what this unit does, following up on every lead, so when in a flash something out of the ordinary happens, it’s over before we really notice what happened, which is likely how it feels to a police officer. There’s an expressive use of a Russian Orthodox baptism, revealing how easily we are each replaced in this world, where the unique personal characteristics of each of us become especially intense at the hour of our peril. The finality of the film bears a resemblance to the end of Moretti’s THE SON’S ROOM, as etched into Baye’s face is the accumulation of a life where each day she faces her own mortality, and that of others in her command, a weight that only grows heavier with each additional loss.

Le Petit Lieutenant JR Jones from the Reader

Like the TV cop shows The Wire and Homicide: Life on the Street, this French police drama focuses not on shoot-outs and car chases, but on the methodical, soul-killing business of running down leads. Nathalie Baye won a Cesar for her performance as a reformed alcoholic returning to the force as a chief inspector, and Jalil Lespert plays the young rookie she mentors as they try to figure out who tossed a Polish immigrant into a canal. The movie's realism is unimpeachable, though American cops might be stunned by the idea of a half-dozen detectives being assigned to the murder of an anonymous floater. Xavier Beauvois directed. In French with subtitles. 114 min.

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson) review

This police procedural from director Xavier Beauvois (Ponette, Arsène Lupin) has a clipped, Bressonian quality that makes it frustrating but also increasingly fascinating. The story has a middle-aged lady detective, and recovering alcoholic, Caroline Vaudieu (Natalie Baye) rejoining the Paris police and teaming with a fresh-faced rookie Antoine (Jalil Lespert). The film smacks a bit of the BBC's "Prime Suspect," but while that mini-series delves into the murky psychological depths of Helen Mirren's character, Le Petit Lieutenant stays steadfastly on the surface. Caroline and her younger cohort begin to investigate the murder of a homeless man, dumped in the Siene, and discover two large Russians as their most likely suspects. But while tramping through the numbing routine of investigative work, Antoine lets his guard down at just the wrong time. The second half of the movie picks up as Caroline continues the case, this time with a personal slant. Baye (Venus Beauty Institute, The Flower of Evil) is the real reason to see this film; she embodies sexiness, strength and vulnerability with a minimum of fussiness.

LE PETIT LIEUTENANT Steve Erickson from Chronicle of a Passion

The Wire or The Shield would be wise to hire French director Xavier Beauvois to helm an episode. His film feels like a cross between a documentary and a pilot for a TV cop show. Avoiding flash, Beauvois and cinematographer Caroline Champetier adopt a raw, even deliberately drab naturalism that would probably translate well to the small screen. The title character, Antoine (Jalil Lespert), is a new graduate from the police academy. Living in Le Havre with his wife, he dreams of working in Paris. Eventually, he joins a squad investigating the murder of a homeless man.

Beauvois' approach is far more original. He is more interested in character than blood and guts or even tracking down criminals. (Seventy minutes pass before the first bit of on-screen violence.) In some respects, even the plot is a red herring. The film's real agenda concerns a workplace's shifting friendships and rivalries, especially the relationship between Antoine and a recovering alcoholic 'supercop' (Nathalie Baye). Le Petit Lieutenant is sly: it starts out like a solid, unspectacular B-movie and gradually shifts perspective from a young man's optimism to the point-of-view of a middle-aged woman who's seen more than her share of tragedy. The final scene, which focuses on Baye's eloquent face, is one of the most quietly moving moments you'll see this year.

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson]

Xavier Beauvois's new French policier Le Petit Lieutenant conscientiously eschews virtually everything we've come to expect from the genre: high-concept crimes, formidable villains, bitter Bogart-ian heroes, action, intricacy, ethical crisis. Beauvois, who co-wrote, seems hellbent on making the most realistic cop film of all time, shruggingly consumed with downtime, small talk, minor incident, and dead ends, and he's succeeded—the narrative wouldn't have cut it in a Kojak story meeting. Strangely, this workaday glimpse of cop work-life, in which transferred young detective Jalil Lespert joins the Paris crime unit, along with recovering-alcoholic division vet Nathalie Baye, isn't even a character study—Beauvois's people largely keep to themselves, and drama is fastidiously avoided. Rather, as the small team of cops searches for a few Russian emigrés who may or may not have tossed a homeless man into a canal, it's a window on an ordinary experience. Tragedy, when it comes, does not involve us—we're kept at arm's length through to the final retribution, when we assume we have a bead on Baye's mournful frame of mind but actually know very little. That's realism.

Slate (Dana Stevens) review

Le Petit Lieutenant (Cinema Guild), takes place in Paris, but a Paris quite unlike the sparkling, romantic city you're used to seeing on film. Le Petit Lieutenant is what the French call un policier, a procedural thriller, complete with cops, bad guys, chases, and clues. But if you go in expecting an episode of CSI: Paris, with a spectacularly gruesome crime, wisecracking detectives, and a tight, suspenseful resolution, you'll not only be grimly disappointed, you'll miss what's best about this quietly affecting film. Le Petit Lieutenant, directed by Xavier Beauvois (Nord, Don't Forget You're Going To Die) focuses on the day-to-day drudgery of work, this time in the homicide division of a Paris police department.

New chief inspector Caroline Vaudieu (Nathalie Baye, who won a best actress Cesar Award for the role) is a reformed alcoholic just back on the job after a long stint in recovery. She finds herself partnered with the "little lieutenant" of the title, a fresh-from-the-academy recruit named Antoine (Jalil Lespert). We learn much later that Antoine is exactly the age that Vaudieu's son, who died as a child, would be if he had lived. But Vaudieu never tells her young partner this fact—she's far too cagey to share that kind of intimacy. Instead, she communicates her affection in subtler ways, watching Antoine's back as he's hazed by his fellow officers, even sharing a joint with him by the banks of the canal where they're investigating the death of a homeless man.

What looks like an accidental drowning turns out to be one in a string of serial murders, having to do with a convoluted (and, frankly, somewhat incomprehensible) quarrel among Polish and Russian immigrants. But the crime plot feels all but incidental to Le Petit Lieutenant, which is as much about workplace politics and personal redemption as it is about solving a murder case. As Antoine's idealism clashes with the go-along-to-get-along ethics of the other squad members, he endangers both his standing at work and his own safety; and as Vaudieu's personal investment in Antoine grows, she veers ever closer to losing her hard-won sobriety. I won't give away the plot twist that brings both these stories together, except to say that the final minute of the movie is one of the most bleak, and moving, endings I've seen in years.

Slant Magazine review Ed Gonzalez

Pajiba (Jeremy C. Fox) review

not coming to a theater near you (Jenny Jediny) review

stylusmagazine.com (Sky Hirschkron) review

Le Petit Lieutenant Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

James Bowman review also seen here: The New York Sun (James Bowman) review

Le Petit lieutenant (2005) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

filmcritic.com (Chris Cabin) review [4/5]

www.european-films.net (Boyd van Hoeij) review

PopMatters (Erik Hinton) review

The Onion A.V. Club review Scott Tobias

d+kaz. Intelligent Movie Reviews (Daniel Kasman) review [C+]

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson) dvd review

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Jeff Wilson) dvd review

DVD Talk (Svet Atanasov) dvd review [3/5]

Reel.com dvd review [3.5/4] Tim Knight

Salon.com [Andrew O'Hehir]

Filmleaf [Chris Knipp]

Strictly Film School review Acquarello

Exclaim! [Travis Mackenzie Hoover]

Boston Globe review [2.5/4] Leighton Klein

Washington Post (Stephen Hunter) review

San Francisco Chronicle (Mick LaSalle) review [4/4]

Los Angeles Times (Kenneth Turan) review

Chicago Tribune (Michael Wilmington) review

The New York Times (Manohla Dargis) review

OF GODS AND MEN (Des Hommes et Des Dieux) B+ 91

France (120 mi) 2010 ‘Scope

I have said, Ye are gods; and all of you are children of the most High. But ye shall die like men, and fall like one of the princes.

—Psalm 82:6-7

Despite its heralded success at Cannes, taking the second prize or Grand Prix award, this is a surprisingly formulaic film, much more so than his earlier works which play out in a more gritty and realistic manner. Based on a real life incident of nine French Trappist monks that took place at a Trappist monastery in Algeria in 1996, this also has a near documentary approach, but the somber and grave undertones depicted throughout the picture foreshadow the outcome, significantly altering the overall impact, very much like Gus Van Sant’s ELEPHANT (2003), as what happens feels inevitable and preordained instead of the spontaneous actions of free men. Not the towering work it might otherwise have been, there is also an opening Biblical quote from Psalm 82 that undercuts the dramatic impact, as the finale is anything but a surprise and has been anticipated all along, as the narrative itself has removed any sense of suspense. Be that as it may, the film is beautifully poetic with a meticulous precision for the rhythm and manner of actual Trappist monks. My guess is that the individual appreciation of the film may increase depending upon the devoutness of one’s religious convictions, as there is a religious sweep to what happens, much of which is layered in actual scripture. Since Jesus himself is viewed in Christianity as a martyr whose ultimate sacrifice for mankind defines the essence of being human, he is the model used by the monks themselves in demonstrating their own humanity.

Based on actual historical circumstances, thirty years after their independence as a French colony, Algeria was caught up in a bloody civil war where a corrupt government annulled unfavorable election results and declared martial law while a ruthless Islamic insurgency was attempting to eradicate the nation from foreigners and infidels with what seemed like daily occurrences of beheadings and throat slashings. Within this context, the original government representative asks the monks to return to France, as he can no longer vouch for their safety. The situation had become too volatile. Initially the leader of the monks, Brother Christian (Lambert Wilson), scoffs at the idea as they are committed to peace, but over time, growing fears lead many of his fellow monks to raise objections about staying, thinking it would be suicidal. Based on their conflicting views, they decide to pray and ask for God’s guidance in the matter. While this is not a historical account, rather a poetic rendering of their search for faith during a time of deepening crisis, each is perceived in the most human sense reacting to their own fears and flaws, where some have difficulty sleeping at night, others find God silently absent, and all struggle with their ongoing doubts about the conflict. What the movie does portray well is an interesting harmony that exists with the local Muslim community, as part of the monk’s vows include poverty and charitable work, providing free medicine and health care to the poor while also intermingling with traditional Islamic religious events, where they are regarded as friends and as welcome as any Muslim. Early in the film before the eruption of violence, local Algerian men freely offer assistance in needed help around the monastery as well. But soon, bloodshed and fear are everywhere, where the local police still harbor resentment and blame leftover from the French colonial era.

Shown as a repeated motif are the continuing images of the daily rituals within the monastery, dressing in robes and hoods, reading and writing letters by hand, attending group meetings and sharing meals where their personal thoughts are conveyed, but especially the communal songs and solemn prayers that the monks sing in unison which act as the film’s spiritual narration. What’s likely to appeal to viewers is the collective portrait of human decency and personal intimacy reflected during such barren and hostile conditions, where men lead starkly austere and unadorned lives, where they spend their lives in a state of perpetual reflection seeking nothing more than the grace of God. Simplicity is the key, as these are men who do not concern themselves with anything except what’s essential, reflected so eloquently by the sect’s physician Brother Luc (Michael Lonsdale) as he offers his most heartfelt thoughts to a young Muslim girl about the essence of true love, while in another scene he literally immerses himself into the interior realm of a religious painting, placing his cheek directly onto Christ’s chest, as if listening for his heartbeat. Perhaps the most controversial sequence is the blatant tribute to Carl Dreyer and his silent film era use of painterly close ups in THE PASSION OF JOAN OF ARC (1928), so modernist at its inception, but easily attributed here in a signature Last Supper shot set to the music of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, a scene Beauvois brilliantly makes his own as there’s a timeless poetry reflected by the sheer joy of communal love. The use of snow at the end is especially haunting, reminiscent of Kurosawa’s DREAMS (1990), where reality becomes coated with a dreamlike fog that closes the film with a hushed whisper.

Cinepassion.org [Fernando F. Croce]

When does martyrdom slide into martyrbation? The nobility of committed faith stands side by side with its folly in Xavier Beauvois’ earnest account of the 1996 massacre of a group of French monks in Algeria, a ponderous crowd-pleaser with stray moments of grave beauty. The setting, a Trappist monastery on the outskirts of a small Arab village, is a modest idyll where "the principle of community" seems to trump thorny colonial history and the Bible and the Qur’an tolerate each other. It’s not long until fundamentalist Islamic rebels enter the scene and the abbey is reduced to a rarefied, endangered crumb of order in the middle of the chaos of a warzone. Should the monks get out while the getting’s good, or stay and face the danger (and the limits of their commitment)? The best passages come early on, a lightly formalist observation of quotidian activities (praying, chanting, gardening) composed of faces and silences sometimes worthy of Philip Gröning’s truly inspired documentary Into Great Silence. Lambert Wilson effaces his innate slyness credibly as the pensive abbot, and the redoubtable Michael Lonsdale radiates bottomless wry tenderness as the group’s resident doctor. And I cried, even while deep down wishing for a tougher, less insistently uplifting look at the story’s clashing forms of radicalism, perhaps one directed by Bruno Dumont.

Time Out New York [Keith Uhlich]

French director Xavier Beauvois begins his heartbreaking Cannes prizewinner simply and beautifully: Eight Gallic monks sing songs in the chapel of their provincial Algerian monastery. They’re photographed from behind in a single, extended long shot; they are, first and foremost, a harmonious body. We quickly come to know them as individuals, and two in particular, Christian (Wilson) and Luc (Lonsdale), emerge as the closest things to onscreen audience surrogates. But Beauvois never loses sight of the monks’ interconnectedness—what affects one inevitably affects the others.

That’s the essential quandary the group grapples with after Islamic fundamentalists lay waste to neighboring locales. It’s only a matter of time before the monks and the Arab villagers whom they assist are caught up in the whirlwind of violence (in a particularly striking scene, the brothers chant a psalm against the drone of a helicopter, as if defiantly trying to preserve routine). The question remains: Do they stay or do they go?

There are no easy answers, and even when decisions are made, Beauvois takes pains to counteract any overbearing sense of righteousness. The most mundane actions are charged with tension (while washing dishes, one of the brothers inexplicably curses at Luc), and when the inevitable happens, the reactions run the gamut (cowardice, aggressiveness, confusion, acquiescence—no one is united). Godly as the monks are, they are still human—which makes their ultimate sacrifice all the more devastating.

Of Gods and Men Michael Sicinski from The Academic Hack

Unlike Skolimowski's nonsense, Beauvois’s deeply humanistic and highly intelligent film truly captures “the essential,” and it has a great deal more to tell us about our present conflicts between Christendom and the Islamic world. Of Gods and Men is a classically constructed film, organized according to familiar narrative beats (the cute old monk, the man with the crisis of faith, the “good thief,” etc), and for this reason it could be called middlebrow. But it actually withholds many conventional signposts that signal audience response, instead providing a patient examination of the daily circumstances of people of faith, and asking us to evaluate those circumstances and the choices we would take were we to find ourselves in similar circumstances. The film presents the true story of eight monks living in the Atlas Monastery in Algeria who were murdered in 1996. The brothers lived in harmony with their Muslim community; they provided free health care, sold honey at the local market and were often honored guests and family celebrations. Beauvois presents a picture of two faiths living side by side in total mutual respect. However, this isn’t a rosy, pie-in-the-sky ecumenical vision. What he demonstrates is that the community shares a mutual distrust of their government, the army, the Muslim extremists, and the French colonizers of the past. That is, their bond has been sealed not through ideology but through laboring side by side, as well as each group studying the tenets of the others’ faith. That is, Beauvois shows that true religious belief requires effort, not ignorant sloganeering. And so, when the Islamist fundamentalists finally arrive in the end, Of Gods and Men has already built a nearly airtight argument that, regardless of what these men with guns might believe, they do not represent Islam. They are not men of God. Particularly when writing for Cargo, I try not to be USA-centric, but it is difficult to watch a film like Beauvois’s and clear my mind of the fact that, back home, bigots are burning Korans in order to protest the construction of an Islamic cultural center in lower Manhattan, which right-wing extremists have dubbed “the ground zero mosque.” I hope that everyone in the U.S. has the chance to see this film.

Of Gods and Men: movie review - CSMonitor.com Peter Rainer

"Of Gods and Men" is one of the most austerely beautiful movies about the monastic life that I've ever seen. Based on true events, it's about eight Cistercian monks from France who lived in the Algerian mountains in the 1990s before being kidnapped in 1996 by Islamist terrorists.

The director Xavier Beauvois and his coscreenwriter Etienne Comar set up a duality between the meditative life of the monks, with their interspersed silences and their four daily hours of chanting, and the outside world, with its violent incursions and threats. And yet the film-makers never seek to define either of these worlds as more "real" than the other.

The monks are, in essence, spiritual vessels, but no more so than the Algerian villagers with whom they live peaceably (and whom they make no attempt to convert). The film's thesis is expressed by the order's ostensible leader, Brother Christian (Lambert Wilson), whose testament, set down when death is imminent, blames no one. "I know which caricatures of Islam a certain Islamism encourages," he writes. "This country and Islam, for me, are something else. They are a body and a soul." The monks refuse military protection not because they are willing to die – many of them, in fact, are initially in favor of fleeing to France – but because to do so would place them above the station of all those villagers who are equally terrorized.

The monks are rebuked by the local police chief for being remnants of French colonialism. (The military mind cannot, almost by definition, comprehend their devotionalism.) They are castigated for being naifs, but Christian and the others do not disagree that evil must be destroyed – they just do not want to be the destroyers. They trust in Providence. "Help will come from the Lord," says Christian, knowing full well, as do the others, that they will be martyred.

One of the most strangely moving sequences in the film occurs near the end, when Luc (Michael Lonsdale), who also serves as a doctor to the villagers, puts on a recording of Tchaikovsky's Grand Theme from "Swan Lake" as the monks assemble themselves for a makeshift Last Supper. The camera slowly pans across the assemblage, giving each face the full weight of its wonderment, stopping especially to rest on Christophe (Olivier Rabourdin), who earlier had repeatedly cried out to God, "Don't abandon me," and on Amédée (Jacques Herlin), whose 80-year-old eyes sparkle through his fear.

In this scene, which comes after much soul-wrenching about the proper course of action, the prayerful contemplation of the monks' lives reaches its greatest resonance. It has a serene peacefulness – a finality. The power of such a sequence is enhanced rather than diminished by the film's embrace of the world outside the monastery walls – the world the monks are soon to leave.

Early in the film a pretty village girl asks Luc, her confidant, to explain how one knows when one is in love, and, surprisingly, his response – which talks about a quickening of the heart, an intensification of existence itself – refers back to his secular life before he found God. Without moments like these, "Of Gods and Men" might have seemed too rarefied. It is only by allowing the monks their full measure of humanity that we are also able to perceive the wholeness of their spirituality.

Although it would be wrenchingly wrong to describe "Of Gods and Men" as a political movie for our times, it expresses, with implicit force, more about the communion and disharmony of faiths than just about any other contemporary movie I know. The proper response to this film is, I think, a kind of exhilarated bewilderment. It's a transcendently uplifting tragedy. Grade: A (Rated PG-13 for a momentary scene of startling wartime violence, some disturbing images, and brief language.)

Of Gods and Men – review | Film | The Guardian Peter Bradshaw, December 2, 2010

"Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do it from a religious conviction." The speaker is Luc, an elderly Catholic monk played by 79-year-old Michael Lonsdale, quoting a pensée of Pascal. He does it at a moment of crisis and ambiguity: does this thought apply to the Islamist mujahideen who are threatening to kill him and his brothers? Or should it rather apply to these future victims, secretly infatuated with the idea of a martyrdom that will fan the flames of violence for generations to come?

That reference is the sole, perhaps pre-emptive, concession to secularism in this stunningly passionate and deeply moving film by the French director Xavier Beauvois, based on the kidnapping and murder of monks in Algeria by fundamentalists in 1996. The movie is in fact saturated with faith and belief, and part of its power is the absolute conviction of its cinematic language, an idiom of severity, austerity and high seriousness, imitating the spacious silences to which the monks have devoted themselves, and boldly supporting the validity and meaning of their dilemma. Of Gods and Men is a modern tragedy that doesn't require the audience to share its belief any more than something by Aeschylus. It climaxes in a quite incredible "Last Supper" sequence, in which the monks share red wine to the accompaniment of Tchaikovsky's Grand Theme from Swan Lake, playing on an old tape machine in the corner.

Beauvois's camera does nothing but pan slowly around the table while this happens, minutely watching these men's careworn faces as they absorb the mystery of their own deaths. It is an overwhelming fusion of portraiture and drama, and perhaps one of the most sensational things I have seen on the big screen. Many who have watched this scene find it overwrought, overdone, and the Tchaikovsky unsubtle. Well, maybe. But each time I have watched it, frankly, I have become overwhelmed with an emotion I can't possibly describe. A friend told me that my face looked like Henry Thomas's when he sees ET come back to life. I am almost tempted to say that cinema audiences should be required to stand during this sequence, like concertgoers during the Hallelujah chorus in Handel's Messiah.

Lambert Wilson plays Christian, the head of a Cistercian monastery in Algeria: a spartan order devoted to contemplation and prayer. Their community has developed a happy relationship with the local Muslim villagers, based partly on the free outpatient clinic they provide. They have a quiet, supportive respect for each other's traditions. But dark forces are gathering: intolerant jihadist forces have already murdered Croatian construction workers, and are rumoured to have the Catholic monks in their sights as the ultimate prize. Theirs is a regressive, brutal worldview – and a cynical police chief, irritably preparing to wash his hands of the imminent bloodbath, tells Christian: "I blame French colonisation for not letting Algeria grow up." The monks must now decide: should they stay or should they go? Is going cowardice? Is staying arrogance? Is martyrdom their destiny?

The monks themselves are permitted little or no backstory. Their lives in France are hardly touched on. Some are very old, especially Amédée, heartbreakingly played by 83-year-old Jacques Herlin, whose face is set in an unreadable expression, perhaps a gentle smile of acceptance and grandfatherly tolerance, or a rictus of suppressed pain. Perhaps he has been here all his life, perhaps not. When Luc is asked by a local young woman – for whom he is a confidant – what love is like, he replies that it is an attraction, a desire, a quickening of the spirits, an intensification of life itself. Beauvois allows us to believe that this chaste monk must, poignantly, be speaking about his love for God, and that his advice is at once truthful and naive. But no. He confesses that he had been in love a number of times before he found his truest love, and so we are shown that Luc had known and lived in the secular world – presumably as a doctor, for he runs the clinic – before he joined the order.

Of Gods and Men strives for simplicity; cinema is usually about dynamism, attraction, ego, but this movie concerns the renunciation of these things, in art and life. But it is also about the question of how to act when this life is violently challenged. The one visual flourish Beauvois permits himself is a shot of a dead jihadist, murdered by his comrades; the foreshortened image is held on screen just long enough for the audience to register its resemblance to Mantegna's Christ. Of course, this is a fictional account of a real life event; audiences are entitled to wonder if Beauvois is too respectful of the Monks and their lives, and further wonder if this account is tendentious or even propagandist. I can only say I found it thrillingly audacious, moving and real. See it for yourself; see if you can withstand the Swan Lake sequence. I couldn't.

The Wall Street Journal (Joe Morgenstern)

'Of Gods and Men," in French and Arabic, is one of the most beautiful movies I know, even though its subject matter and otherwordly pace set it apart from mainstream entertainment.

They set it so far apart that the film made me recall, of all things, the most beautiful rendition I know of "I Got Rhythm." In an old recording by the Mitchell-Ruff Duo, the upbeat Gershwin classic is played as a ballad, slowly and meditatively. It's exasperating at first—you want the jazzmen to get on with it, to lift your spirits by breaking into a familiar tempo. But then, spellbound, you start hearing the single notes, the chord progressions and the lovely melody as never before. The same sort of spell is woven by this story, loosely based on real events, of eight Christian monks menaced by Islamic terrorists in the Algeria of the 1990s. The narrative takes its rhythm from the brothers' unhurried lives. In doing so, it finds new meaning in their rituals, and lifts your spirits with their fervent questioning of faith in the face of remorseless brutality.

The director was Xavier Beauvois; he wrote the screenplay with Etienne Comar. The cast is headed by Lambert Wilson and Michael Lonsdale, two French stars who are well known to American audiences—the former for his villainy as the Merovingian in the "Matrix" series, the latter for his perspicacity as the police inspector in "The Day of the Jackal," as well as for scores of distinctive roles in such films as "Munich," "Ronin" and "Moonraker."

These are worldly actors playing men at home in two worlds—their Cistercian-Trappist monastery, which, with its working farm, stands on rocky soil in the Atlas mountains; and the tranquil Muslim village they serve. Mr. Wilson's Father Christian, the monastery's prior, studies the Quran along with the Bible. Mr. Lonsdale's aged and asthmatic Father Luc, the village's only physician, not only ministers to the sick but dispenses sage advice to a local girl who wants to know about love. ("It's lots of things," he says, "but you're in turmoil, great turmoil, especially when it's the first time.")

Mr. Beauvois structures his film, like a liturgy, around music—the monks' chants, whose beauty is allowed to sing for itself; no fancy reverb effects, no ethereal voices. When the brothers aren't chanting they are farming, exchanging ideas or attending the prior's teachings, and when they aren't doing any of that, Christian or Luc may be out in the town mingling with their Muslim friends. Until, that is, bloodthirsty fanatics sweep into the region and local authorities urge the monks to return to France for their own safety. Then the issue becomes one of survival versus faith, and the questions deepen as the danger grows. At what point may the shepherd leave the flock? Of what avail is unsung martyrdom?

These are not rhetorical questions for the frightened monks; they must make fateful decisions. The decision-making process, in which paternalism gradually gives way to democracy, provides part of the film's appeal. Each of the eight men has his own reasons for staying or going, and each case is stirring, since the acting is uniformly superb. This is, among other things, a drama of ideas. For Father Christian, Muslims and Christians are inextricably bound by spiritual brotherhood. If that seems impossibly utopian at the moment, it helps explain the film's big win at last year's Cannes Film Festival, and its subsequent popularity in Europe. We want to believe that such comity remains possible, and there's no arguing against the film in rational terms, since its position, like that of Father Christian, amounts to an expression of faith.

Caroline Champetier's cinematography, austere but never somber, works in concert with the tempo to study details big and small: the monks' traditional postures, indeed their choreography, as they pray and chant; the glow of bottled honey from the monastery's hives; an army helicopter announcing the imminence of chaos as it lumbers over the village; one brother's proud display of a wheel of cheese, together with medical supplies, on his return from a trip to Europe; a terrorist's face, at first cruel and impassive but then softening ever so slightly as he requests help for wounded comrades. (He and his heavily armed brothers in thuggery have burst into the monastery on Christmas eve, demanding to see the pope.)

More than anything, "Of Gods and Men" is a drama of character, and warm humanity. The terrorists are brutes, but recognizably human brutes. Father Christian is admirable, but not always accessible. (Or even comprehensible: after one of Christian's teachings, Luc asks a brother, with sly humor, if he understood any of it.) Father Amédée has little to say—he may lack the clarity to say it—but his wide eyes and wizened face bespeak a lifetime of devotion. The most vivid character is Father Luc, and not only because Mr. Lonsdale is one of the great actors of our time. Luc personifies love. He loved women, he tells the village girl, until he found a greater love and responded to it. That response resonates, without a sound, in an exquisite moment that finds the weary old man touching—almost snuggling with—the figure of an anguished Christ on a monastery wall.

Luc also personifies love of life. He sets in motion the movie's key scene, one that can only be described as sublime. I avoided describing the scene in detail when I wrote about it from a film festival six months ago, and I won't spoil its impact now, except to say that it involves French wine and Russian music—the lush strains of Tchaikovsky's "Swan Lake"—and that those pleasures, both worldly and spiritual, serve to refresh the monks' remembrance of the life they loved, and renounced, and still can savor, and soon may lose.

Dom Donald's Blog: Cistercian Trappists Tibhirine Priory Atlas ... March 11, 2011

The Monks of Tibhirine - America Magazine John Anderson from America magazine

SDG Reviews 'Of Gods and Men' | Daily News | NCRegister.com Steven D. Greydanus from The National Catholic Register, March 9, 2011, also at Decent Films Guide: Of Gods and Men (2010)

How Catholic is Of Gods and Men? | Blogs | NCRegister.com Steven D. Greydanus from The National Catholic Register, March 18, 2011

How Catholic is Of Gods and Men? Part 2 Steven D. Greydanus from The National Catholic Register, March 22, 2011

Salon.com [Andrew O'Hehir]

The American Spectator : Of Gods and Men James Bowman, March 17, 2011

Slant Magazine [Andrew Schenker]

Keeping the Faith in Of Gods and Men and Diary of a Country Priest J. Hoberman from The Village Voice, also here: The Village Voice [J. Hoberman]

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

Hollywood Jesus [Darrel Manson]

Ciné-vu Noel Megahey

Digital Fix Noel Megahey

SBS Film [Lisa Nesselson]

Edward Champion

A Profound Work of Art James Martin from America magazine, February 27, 2011

New York Cool - Film Harvey S. Karten (scroll a little more than halfway down)

Filmcritic.com Chris Barsanti

Of Gods and Men (2010) - CineScene Chris Knipp

Film-Forward.com [Kevin Filipski]

The House Next Door [Aaron Cutler] September 25, 2010

Cannes 2010 Review: Xavier Beauvois' 'Of Gods And Men' Is An Insightful, Intriguing But Heavy-Handed Look At Faith Kevin Jaggernauth at Cannes from the Playlist Nation, May 19, 2010

Of Gods and Men (Des Hommes et des Dieux) Aaron Hillis at Cannes from Moving Pictures magazine, May 18, 2010

Cannes '10: Day Seven Mike D’Angelo at Cannes from The Onion A.V. Club, May 19, 2010

EyeForFilm.co.uk [Jennie Kermode]

Avuncular American [Gerald Loftus]

Cinespect [Ryan Wells]

Screenjabber.com [Doug Cooper]

Plume-Noire.com [Moland Fengkov]

Monsters and Critics [Ron Wilkinson]

Of Gods And Men (Des Hommes Et Des Dieux) Jonathan Romney at Cannes from Screendaily

Talking Pictures [Howard Schumann]

Little White Lies Magazine [Adam Woodward]

Adviser helped shape film about French monks Catholic News Service, March 2, 2011

'Of Gods and Men': Amid horrors, regular monks move to peace and joy Ed Langlois from Catholic News Service, March 8, 2011

REVIEW: Faith, Terror Collide in Stirring Of Gods and Men | Movieline Elvis Mitchell

Vancouver Voice [D. K. Holm]

The Onion A.V. Club [Sam Adams]

Cineuropa.org [Fabien Lemercier]

Box Office Magazine [Ed Scheid]

Georgia Straight [Mark Harris]

This film leaves ego behind - Catholic Sentinel - Portland, OR Catholic News Service, March 11, 2011

Screen Comment [Saïdeh Pakravan]

Of Gods and Men Review :: Movies :: Reviews :: Paste Sean Gandert

Phil on Film [Philip Concannon]

Film-Forward.com [Kent Turner]

exclaim! [Robert Bell]

Of Gods and Men : The New Yorker Anthony Lane (capsule)

Cannes Film Festival 2010: Day Seven Matt Noller at Cannes from The House Next Door, May 19, 2010

Fabien Lemercier at Cannes from Cineuropa, May 18, 2010

movie review: Of Gods And Men > Leonard Maltin's Movie Crazy Leonard Maltin

Dave's Film & DVD Reviews [David Brook]

Guy Lodge announces FIPRESCI winners at Cannes from In Contention, May 22, 2010

Cannes 2010. Xavier Beauvois's "Of Gods and Men" David Hudson at Cannes from The Auteurs, May 19, 2010

Entertainment Weekly [Lisa Schwarzbaum]

Kirk Honeycutt at Cannes from The Hollywood Reporter, May 18, 2010, also here: The Hollywood Reporter [Kirk Honeycutt]

Variety.com [Jordan Mintzer]

Of Gods and Men Review. Movie Reviews - Film - Time Out London Dave Calhoun

BBC News - Monk tragedy Of Gods and Men proves surprise hit Emma Jones, December 3, 2010

Terror thrives in Algeria's climate of bloody conflict Giles Tremlett from The Guardian, January 17, 2003

A convenient untruth George Joffe from The Guardian, April 12, 2007

Of Gods and Men – review | Film | The Observer Philip French, December 5, 201

Judge calls for 'Gods and Men' killings case to be reopened ... Kim Willsher from The Observer, December 19, 2010

Albert Camus, the outsider, is still dividing opinion in Algeria 50 years after his death Peter Beaumont from The Observer, February 28, 2010

Of Gods and Men: A testament to courage and freedom - The Globe ... Rick Groen from The Globe and the Mail

Monks and Muslims - and then terror | Philadelphia Inquirer | 03 ... Steven Rea from The Philadelphia Inquirer

Washington Post [Ann Hornaday]

Devoted to god, imperiled by war Colin Covert from The St. Paul Pioneer Press

San Francisco Chronicle [Mick LaSalle]

Movie review: 'Of Gods and Men' - Los Angeles Times Kenneth Turan

Chicago Sun-Times [Roger Ebert]

New York Times (registration req'd) A.O. Scott, February 25, 2011

France’s Pain Over Algeria Reawakens With 2 New Films Steve Erlanger from The New York Times, January 3, 2011

World Events Rumble at Cannes Manohla Dargis at Cannes from The New York Times, May 21, 2010

Worldly Actor Finds Method in a Monastery Sylviane Gold talks with the director and actor Lambert Wilson from The New York Times, February 20, 2011

Assassination of the monks of Tibhirine - Wikipedia, the free ...

The Monks of Tibhirine. website for book by John W. Kiser

The Atlas Martyrs Dom Donald McGlynn

Faith Terror and Martyrdom in Algeria - The Monks of Tibhirine, by ... Robert Royal from Old Arvhive, March 17, 2004, also seen here at the Theology Web, March 29, 2004: Faith, Terror And Martyrdom In Algeria: The Monks Of Tibhirine

open book: The Monks of Tibhirine March 28, 2006

French Monks to return to Algeria a decade after slaying ... Catholic News Registery, February 27, 2007

Trappists want to restore Algerian martyrs' monastery - CathNews Catholic News Registery, March 5, 2007

Abbey-Roads: Trappist Martyrs of Atlas Terry Nelson from Abbey-Roads, July 7, 2009

Who murdered the beheaded French monks of Tibhirine? | Mediapart Fabrice Arfi from Media Part, October 24, 2010

Of Men and Gods … Des Hommes et Des Dieux … - The Website Of ... Marilyn Z. Tomlins, October 28, 2010

Tibhirine monk murders and 'bitter' reports of a super-spy Fabrice Arfi from Media Part, November 5, 2010

Dom Christian de Chergé O.C.S.O. (1937 - 1996) - Find A Grave Memorial

Bechis, Marco

GARAGE OLIMPO

Italy Argentina France (98 mi) 1999

User comments from imdb Author: ouiliam from Italy

Bechis masters both camera and music to create an unbearable atmosphere of repression. Rarely have I seen such overpowering scenes deftly juxtaposed with banal shots of everyday city streets, effectively highlighting the urgent, yet hidden nature of political dissent. Not for the lighthearted, but for those willing to endure a gut-wrenching film for the sake of experiencing the tragic reality of what actually happened in Argentina, Chile and, more disturbingly, what probably is going on right now in places like Iraq and Guantanamo Bay, even as you read this. I definitely think films like this should be shown as a counterweight to the current sanitized version mainstream media feeds us, after being put through the hell of the concentration camp style 'garage olimpo', I doubt anyone would believe much in the hollow promises of militaristic presidents ever again.

Time Out review

Maria (Costa) teaches literacy to the Buenos Aires poor, belongs to an anti-junta political cell, and lives with her Italian immigrant mother in a grand old house with a shy lodger, Felix (Echeverría), whose tentative advances faintly tickle her. One day the goon squad abducts her to the Garage Olimpo, an anonymous metal shuttered workshop which contains a hive of concrete torture chambers; it'll be several long weeks in hell before Maria sees daylight again. Felix is employed here. He's good at his job, too, and works over Maria, but afterwards, and around the edges of her torment, a bond is forged between them. This dramatisation of the mass 'disappearances' under the military dictatorship of the late '70s induces appropriate queasiness. The psychological dynamic between torturer and victim isn't as strongly realised as that in Death and the Maiden, but the power of deceptive appearances and unthinkable realities - authoritarianism underground - certainly leaves its mark.

BBC Films review Michael Thomson

As this documentary-style fiction ends with the bald fact that, during the savage Argentinian dictatorship of the 70s, several thousand tortured prisoners were dropped, while still alive, into the sea, you have already been confronted by scene after scene of low-key horror. No actual rape or torture, you understand, just heavy suggestions thereof as a door shuts on an alarmed face, a woman prisoner mops up blood in a cell, and the atmosphere of death is pierced by the occasional scream. Because you are left to fill in the gaps, you find yourself imagining what grim thoughts seize these political prisoners, what motivates their brutal captors, as you follow the progress of Maria, a young Italian-Argentinian teacher who is politically active and is thus seized in front of her mother and taken to the Garage Olimpo, a decrepit garage beneath which lie the torture cells.

It is director Marco Bechis' softly-softly approach which fills each frame with real power and leaves you in no doubt as to his commitment and passion. It is indeed no surprise to learn that this Italian-Chilean was himself snatched by the military in Buenos Aires and tortured. Yet, despite his admirable insistence on moving us with the truth (helped by his grainy camerawork), Bechis can also tell a tale and he gradually incorporates a race-against-time element. Will Maria escape, especially when she is taken out on the town by her captor? Let's just say that the answer would be alien to Hollywood.

User comments from imdb Author: karmabuona from London, UK

This is a powerful, hard-hitting film, depicting the experience of a 'desaparecida' in Argentina at the end of the 1970s. Garage Olimpo examines how 18-year-old Maria copes with a sustained period of imprisonment and torture. One of the most disturbing elements of the film is its exploration of the bond and unexpected power plays that develop between Maria and one of her captors, Felix. Director Marco Bechis deals with the complexity of human relations unflinchingly - asking the viewer to consider the real nature of a range of human responses and experiences: love, hate, attraction, power, sex, sadism, kindness and the almost visceral need for basic physical and emotional contact. He typically heightens the impact of his subject matter through understatement and contrast. This can be seen in his use of sound for example, in which he sets up a ping-pong game or relentlessly upbeat song on the radio as a backdrop to scenes of implied violence. Bechis similarly avoids any direct shots of violence, using the captors' chillingly matter-of-fact attitude or the painstakingly slow build-up to the door closing on a torture room to let the viewers' imagination run riot. This approach is echoed by the cinematography, which after Maria's arrest is largely confined to the undergound network of cells and torture rooms where the prisoners are kept. Bechis uses this framework of restricted vision and heightened sound to reflect and convey the prisoners' experience. This is an unforgettable, disturbing and beautiful film, that sticks with the viewer long after the credits have rolled.

Marco Bechis’ Garage Olimpo: Cinema of witness Amy Kaminsky from Jump Cut, Winter 2006

User comments from imdb Author: Cristian from Colombia

Variety (Emanuel Levy) review

The New York Times (Stephen Holden) review

BIRDWATCHERS (La terra degli uomini rossi) B 88

Brazil Italy (108 mi) 2008 ‘Scope Official site

It would be easy to see this movie as pure documentary, as it’s a portrait of the indigenous Amazonian Guarani-Kaiowà Indians trying to make a living on what’s left of their all but disappearing reservation land, which no longer has wild game to hunt or food to eat, so they can live there and starve or they can move off the land and go elsewhere where no one wants them. Using non-professional Indians and locals from the region, we soon discover a vast divide between the two cultures living next to one another, where Brazil’s federally imposed land limitations for Indians and the disappearance of the rainforest in order to allow access for loggers and local farmers leaves them nowhere to live, with no hope for the future, so several adolescent girls commit suicide, which is a glaring image of the tribe’s failure. Making matters worse, the local farmers are belligerent and show no racial tolerance for the Indians, even when their own children have Indian blood, but instead thrive on violence and hatred, leaving a stain on the land that resembles the Ku Klux Klan, as it’s unclear whether some of those suicides might actually be murder, as even in broad daylight Indians are threatened with rifle shots just for crossing a farmer’s land on their way to gather river water, a daily necessity. The farmers carry guns and rifles at all times, while the Indians use primitive arrows to hunt and knives to carve, but carry no other weapons, so the threat of violence against them is constant.

Opening with an aerial shot over the Amazon, the rainforest looks endless, as this appears to be an unspoiled region. But a tourist boat on a birdwatching excursion points out a small band of semi-clothed Indians in war paint carrying homemade bows and arrows, but when the boat gets too close, arrows are fired in the boat’s direction, causing it to motor away at high speeds. In a bit of ironic humor, the next shot shows the Indians getting paid off by tour promoters as they put on jeans and T-shirts and are driven back to their dilapidated homes. Welcome to the present. Within the tribe itself, we see childhood friendships and tribal decisionmaking among the adults, usually due to the fact that they’ve run out of food. When two kids set out to hunt, we hear them chided by others, “You’re hopeless.” If anyone actually finds an animal in the forest, it’s likely to be a farmer’s cow that has wandered astray. Otherwise only birds seem catchable, but we never see anyone actually shoot one. In the only nearby food market, Indians are treated like second class citizens, as they are routinely harassed about accumulating credit for food they can’t pay for, and are then later rounded up in their homes like indentured servants whenever the owners need to cut sugar cane as the only means to pay off their food debt, which continually grows faster than their ability to pay it off. So there is obvious resentment among the Indians by the way they are treated, and some want nothing to do with the whites, while the farmers would just as soon eliminate the Indians once and for all, and it’s entirely possible that’s exactly what they’re doing by picking them off one by one.

The authenticity of the film is somewhat reminiscent of a Mika Kaurismäki documentary called TIGRERO (1994) where Sam Fuller and Jim Jarmusch visit a band of indiginous Amazonian Indians in the same Mato Grosso region of Brazil that Fuller visited 40 years earlier in 1955 when Hollywood sent him ahead for location scouting for a movie that was supposed to be shot on location that was never made called TIGRERO starring John Wayne and Ava Gardner.  Fuller actually recognized some of the original people he visited and was treated like royalty.  Even after Fuller returned to the USA, Jarmusch (in his Ramone’s T-shirt) hung around for a week or so afterwards because the opportunity, even in a raw, primitive environment, was unparalleled. The titles at the end of this film mentioned there were once 1.5 million Indians in the region, which have now been reduced to 30,000, where one tribe dies off every two years and there have been over 500 reported suicides in the past twenty years. While the struggle appears much the same as it must have been hundreds of years ago, the film simply sets the stage for a better understanding of the conflict by offering authentic images from the region, becoming a time capsule of the here and now. The stately orchestral music used in the film was composed by Domenico Zipoli, an Italian Baroque composer who was a Jesuit missionary who lived among this same indigenous tribe in the early 18^th century, but they resisted all attempts at conversion. Zipoli would have been ordained as a priest but for lack of an available bishop, eventually dying of tuburculosis in nearby Argentina in 1726.

"Sacris solemnis"
Composed by Domenico Zipoli
Performed by Coro de niños cantores de Córdoba, Affetti Musicali (Buenos Aires) and Ensemble Elyma
Conducted by Gabriel Garrido
Published by K617

"O gloriosa virginum"
Composed by Domenico Zipoli
Performed by Coro de niños cantores de Córdoba, Affetti Musicali (Buenos Aires) and Ensemble Elyma
Conducted by Gabriel Garrido
Published by K617

NewCity Chicago Ray Pride

(La terra degli uomini rossi, 2008)  Chilean-Italian director Marcho Bechis’ modern-day drama “Birdwatchers” harks back to politically aware 1960s Brazilian cinema in its piercing slant on that country’s history of colonialism and exploitation of its indigenous peoples. The Guarani-Kaiowá have had their land taken by European colonists for generations; “Birdwatchers” opens with members of the tribe performing a version of their rituals on the river banks for passing tourist boats. The twist that comes almost immediately is delicious, while the rest of the drama’s points about globalization, dramatized by a standoff between the plantation owners of Mato Grosso do Sul and the Guarani, lack definition as parable. Still, “Birdwatchers” has an ending to match its beginning, a rare enough structural feat. 108m. 35mm.

BIRDWATCHERS Facets Multi Media

In Mato Grosso do Sul, in the midwest of Brazil, the farmers who lead a wealthy and leisurely existence have huge fields, as well as hordes of tourists who come for bird watching. The Guarani-Kaiowá, the indigenous people who really own the land, are now confined to a nearby reservation and are paid to stand naked along the shores of the river in face paint to provide thrills for the visitors. Fed up with their officially-imposed financial and spiritual impoverishment, which has led to a wave of suicides, tribal leader Nadio and a local shaman organize a protest on former Guarani property that is now occupied by the deeply unsympathetic farmer Moreira and his cruel wife. As the two opposing worlds meet in an uneasy confrontation, a deep bond develops between the shaman's young apprentice, Osvaldo, and the farmer's bikini-clad daughter. Casting local non- professionals, director Marco Bechis draws out performances that effectively highlight the sharp clash between tyranny and a profoundly spiritual and ancient culture connected to nature. As the myths and realities of daily life are highlighted by striking visual contrasts of vast cultivated fields and lush forests and riverbeds, the two irreconcilable sides engage in metaphorical and actual war fueled by poverty and fear. Directed by Marcho Bechis, Italy/Brazil, 2008, 35mm, 108 mins.

Eye for Film ("Chris") review [4/5] Chris Docker

The closest I’ve got to the rainforest was earlier this year. I fell into the Amazon climbing a tree to get a photo. My guide had just scaled it with ease, whereas I was unfamiliar with the slippery bark. It is an alien and challenging environment, mostly cut off from the rest of Brazil and the civilised world.

Director Marco Bechis penetrates further. Much further. Further than tourist-explorers who trek far into the depths. Further than the Bafta-winning TV series of Bruce Parry which charted people living deep along the Amazon. Further than Martin Strel of Big River Man, who swam across Brazil to become one with the denizens of the rivers. And arguably much further than filmmakers such as the excellent Elite Squad director José Padhila, who finds commercially viable subject matter in the favelas of Rio or the starving thousands of his native Brazil.

Compared to the Indians of Mato Grosso, who play the leading parts in the gripping drama Birdwatchers, the rest of the world is just that. Looking at birds from the outside in. A pretty species here. A rare tribe in warpaint there. A fascinating social problem to look at. We see it from the point of view of our own world. But here is a story that evokes Brazil from the inside out. The people connected with its land from the start. We see the world through their struggle for existence. Their loves. Their lives. Their suicides.

Says Bechis, “All Guarani share a religion that attributes supreme importance to the earth, the origin and source of life. The Guarani experience the invasion of their land not only as theft, but also as a serious assault on their very identity.” Set within the creeping genocide and loss of the rainforest that sustains them, Nadio leads a rebellion to try and reclaim a small part of their homeland. The place where their forefathers are buried. It happens to be a farm. They set up a makeshift camp, and the farmers try to interact constructively. Up to a point. They try to offer them work. Or sleep with the women. Or arrange for them to perform ‘authentic’ displays for visitors in this deep interior. Ultimately, they terrorise them.

Osvaldo is learning to be a shaman. Following a strict lifestyle that includes not eating beef even when the tribe is starving, the handsome youth forms a liaison with a farmer’s daughter as they swim in the same lake together. Their sexual and emotional awakening coincides with the increasing irritation of the farmers with Osvaldo’s tribe. The lyrical beauty of the rain forest’s deep south is paired with a story of increasing violence and hopelessness.

In the last 20 years, over 517 of the few remaining Guarani-Kaiowá Indians have committed suicide. Many were young people. The youngest was nine years old. Brazil prides itself on being an indivisible mixture of three races – Europeans, Africans and Indians. But the mix is not as equitable as we are led to believe. Deforestation – ironically driven in part by demand for ‘green’ ethanol fuel – has reduced the Guarani Indians to an endangered ‘species’ that does not even have the right to own land. Eliane Juca da Silva, a Guarani who stars in the film (playing Mami, who sleeps with a farm hand to steal his gun) was taken to its premiere at the Venice Film Festival. She broke down in tears after journalists applauded. “We just want a chance to survive,” she said.

Bechis had first to introduce them to the concept of cinema, over a period of months, before interviewing would-be actors. With Osvaldo, he hit gold. As a trainee shaman, his ritualistic life is already one of performance, and he understands instinctively what it means to act. Bechis used a theatre trainer to develop acting technique in the selected players based on their existing cultural mannerisms, movement and way of talking. He worked with the charity Survival International to check facts are accurately portrayed in the story. But the whites are not thrown into any cultural cliché either. In a confrontation where Nadio rages about the theft of the earth they walk on, the farmer angrily retorts that three generations of his people have worked the land, successfully producing food for many people. His jet-setting modern friends, and the iPod-groovy teenage daughter who takes up with Osvaldo, are also representative of an established part of Brazilian life and are accurately depicted.

It is a situation where there are no ethical absolutes. We have the privilege of trying to understand. Even help. But the charity (http://www.guarani-survival.org) whose website address flashes on the screen all too briefly among end credits and the parting facts and figures – how many will contact it? How many will go and see the film? For most of the western world, Brazil, a country the size of the USA, is barely on the map of consciousness. Sadly, ‘coloniser-friendly’ films, like City Of God or The Motorcycle Diaries, are the only ones likely to get much airtime.

Remarkably, Birdwatchers is no bleeding-heart polemic: these lost people’s way of handling things will make you laugh as well as keeping you glued to the screen wanting to see how their impossible but real life situation unfolds.

Sight & Sound Sophie Mayer, October, 2009, also seen here: Sight & Sound [Sophie Mayer]

Slant Magazine review Ed Gonzalez

Movie Magazine International review Jonathan W. Wind

Screen International [Lee Marshall]

theartsdesk.com [Sheila Johnston]

Dandyspoke [Mike Hawkins]

Movie Vortex Michael Edwards

Spirituality and Practice [Frederic and Mary Ann Brussat]

Moving Pictures magazine [Mike D'Angelo]

Plume Noire review Fred Thom

The Hollywood Reporter review Deborah Young

Channel 4 Film

Variety (Jay Weissberg) review

Time Out Chicago (Hank Sartin) review [3/6]

Time Out London (Wally Hammond) review [4/6]

The Guardian UK   Andrew Pulver from The Guardian, September 18, 2009

The Irish Times (Donald Clarke) review [3/5]

The Daily Telegraph review [4/5]

The Independent (Robert Hanks) review [3/5]

San Francisco Chronicle (Justin Berton) review

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [3/4]

Domenico Zipoli Institute

Domenico Zipoli - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

HOASM: Domenico Zipoli

Becker, Jacques

All-Movie Guide

An assistant to Jean Renoir in the 1930s, Becker co-directed the short Le Commissaire Est Bon Enfant with Pierre Prevert in 1934. The following year he helmed the five-reel Tete De Turc, which he later disowned, and in 1939 began L'Or De Cristobal, which was completed and signed by Jean Stelli. Thus, Becker's career officially begins in 1942 with Dernier Atout. Over the next two decades he directed and co-scripted a dozen more films, most notably the classic Casque D'Or, as well as the romantic dramas Antoine Et Antoinette and Edouard Et Caroline, the crime film Touchez Pas Au Grisbi (aka Grisbi), and the prisonbreak tale Le Trou (The Hole).

Becker, Jacques from World Cinema

His interest in films was stimulated by a meeting with King Vidor, who offered him employment in the US as actor and assistant director. However, he remained in France and became assistant to Jean Renoir, a friend of the family, during that director's peak period (1932-39). In 1934 he ventured briefly into independent production, co-directing with Pierre Prévert a short film, Le Commissaire est Bon Enfant. In 1935 he turned out a five-reeler, Tête de Turc, which he later refused to acknowledge as his. In 1939 he began shooting a feature film, L'Or du Cristobal, but walked out after three weeks, leaving the film to be finished by Jean Stelli. In 1942, after a year in a German prisoner-of-war camp, he began his career as director. His entire output consisted of only 13 films, but they include some of the most artistically and technically substantial in French cinema. He is one of the few Old Guard directors done honour by the New Wave, which reveres him for his masterpiece, the atmospheric period love story Casque d'Or, and also for his lesser films, such charming love tales as Antoine et Antoinette and Edouard et Caroline, in which he vividly depicts French social milieus through careful attention to background. His Touchez Pas au Grisbi, a gangster film distinguished for its detailed action and penetration of character, exerted considerable influence on subsequent série noire French films. He was less successful with such commercial ventures as Ali Baba, which was dominated by Fernandel, and Montparnasse 19, a biographical sketch of the last years in the life of Modigliani. — Ephraim Katz, The Film Encylopedia

Film Reference Dudley Andrew

Senses of Cinema: Great Directors James Sepsey from Senses of Cinema

Jacques Becker Michael Grost from Classic Film and Television

vol.1 "It Takes a Thief to Catch a Thief, " a lengthy conversation on Film Noir──Interview with Chris Fujiwara & Mark Roberts from Flowerwild [vol.2] [vol.3]

Pop Matters Article Transcendent Realism, by Kate Johnson

kamera Article by Alex King

Becker, Jacques They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

Strictly Film School Article Acquarello

GOLDEN MARIE (Casque D’or)

France (94 mi) 1952

Chicago Reader (capsule) Dave Kehr from the Reader

A radiant Simone Signoret dominates Jacques Becker's 1952 film, which is based on a Paris underworld incident of 1898 that is, in some ways, the French parallel to the legend of Frankie and Johnny. Becker emphasized atmospherics at the expense of psychology, which outraged the literary critics of the time and impressed the young Turks who later made up the New Wave. A turning point for French cinema, although it must be understood in context. With Serge Reggiani and Claude Dauphin. In French with subtitles. 95 min.

Time Out review Tom Milne

There is a deceptive simplicity to Becker's work which may explain why, alone among the major film-makers, he has never quite achieved due recognition. This elegant masterwork is a glowingly nostalgic evocation of the Paris of the Impressionists, focusing on the apache underworld and an ill-starred romance that ends on the scaffold, with an elusive density, a probing awareness of emotional complexities, which reminds one that Becker was once Renoir's assistant. Not his equal, perhaps, but the relationship is inescapable in the texture of the movies themselves. Signoret, as voluptuously sensual as a Rubens painting, has never been more stunning than as the Golden Marie of the English title; and she is perfectly partnered by Reggiani, seemingly carved out of mahogany yet revealing an ineffable grace in movement, as the honest carpenter who defies the malevolent apache leader (Dauphin) to claim her. Along with Letter from an Unknown Woman, one of the great movie romances.

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson) review

Director Jacques Becker's trademark was his lack of sensation. He generally filmed in a straightforward manner, focused on details and momentary concerns and ignored the big "money" shots and payoff scenes.

One of the central moments in his masterpiece Casque d'or is a murder. In the back alley of a bistro, two men fight over a girl. One has a knife and the other doesn't. Rather than a choreographed smackdown, the two men grunt, struggle, push and roll around. Becker doesn't even give them any dramatic music. When the fight finally ends, it's with a sad sigh and a moment of reflection.

Yet the very thing that made Becker great has also kept him under the radar. Until 2005, only one of his films had been released on DVD. Now the Criterion Collection adds two more, Touchez pas au grisbi (1954) and Casque d'or. Becker (1906-60) led a short life and only completed some dozen films, not counting the work he did as an assistant director for Jean Renoir. Some of Renoir's relaxed humanity can be glimpsed in Becker's films, but Becker eventually developed a style of his own.

Casque d'or was a job for hire that several other directors had turned down. It's Becker's only period piece, and yet it slips effortlessly into the rest of his filmography. Simone Signoret became a star with her role as Marie, a gangster's moll whose cascading golden hair inspires the title.

While out with the gang of thugs, she meets an ex-con gone straight, a small, mustachioed carpenter, Manda (Serge Reggiani). I can't describe the two lovers any better than Francois Truffaut did in his 1965 essay on the film: "a little man and a large woman -- the little alley cat who is made of nothing but nerves, and the gorgeous carnivorous plant who doesn't turn her nose up at any morsel." Becker had seen the two leads together in Max Ophuls' La Ronde and was impressed by their odd chemistry.

Of course, their story is a doomed one. Manda can only rescue Marie from the gang by killing Marie's boyfriend. Then the wrong man is blamed for the crime: a former cellmate of Manda's and a trusted friend. Manda must decide whether to sacrifice himself to save his friend, or to stay with his new love.

Before tragedy strikes, Becker allows his lovers to have one wonderful day together. He shows them waking up late in the morning on rumpled sheets. It's a beautiful morning and Manda brings hot coffee to his sleepy lover through a big open window. The scene just makes you breathe easy, while tingling with fresh excitement.

Most movies would ramp up the adrenaline to show the suspense-oriented ending, but Becker would rather emphasize the feelings behind these events. He shows Marie's face for long, potent moments, and that's all the drama he needs.

CINE-FILE: Cine-List - CINE-FILE Chicago Kat Keish

It is not uncommon to read a piece of film criticism that compares the work in question to another type of art. When realistic, a film might be compared to a photograph. When long, an epic novel. When short, a literary work of similar structure. When lyrical, a song, and when languid, a ballet. Such analogies are rarely literal and are typically intended to provide a familiar standard against which a reader might better relate to a film's technical or narrative idiosyncrasies. So to say that Jacques Becker's CASQUE D'OR is like an impressionist painting might be to suggest that it merely resembles a style of art which originated in 19th-century France while remaining at its core a film with only suggestions as to another medium's influence, rather than a painting itself come to life and on its own borrowed journey. The latter, however, is true of CASQUE D'OR, a painting-as-film that takes the visible brushstrokes of the Belle Epoque off the canvas and onto the big screen. Made in 1952 and set fifty years beforehand, CASQUE D'OR is about the gloriously understated love between a beautiful gangster's moll and a reformed prisoner, and the inherent self-determination that brings them together and tears them apart. Initially disparaged as a humdrum period piece, the film has gone on to be lauded as Becker's magnum opus and credited as inspiration for generations of young filmmakers following suit. Its deceptive banality is the impetus for its staggering genius, further framing the series of paradoxes that linger below the surface of seemingly commonplace genre trope. A painting could be viewed in much the same way as Becker's film was originally received, with its rigid two-dimensional limitations leaving only the smallest amount of room for artistic nuance and viewer interpretation. Working with a story that was based on real events, it's no surprise that Becker would choose to utilize characteristics from one of the period's defining artistic movements, but the extent to which he does so beyond the obligatory aesthetic adherence is a testament to Becker as a sort of painter in addition to his title of director. As critic Philip Kemp noted in his essay for the Criterion Collection DVD release of the film, "It's a world seen whole, neither romanticized nor sensationalized, but presented as a complex, living community in its own right." Inspired by the advent of photography, impressionist artists aimed to capture the capricious nature of reality while maintaining the distinct aesthetic that would set them apart from their more literal peers. In Becker's case, it is a similar paradox that would both confuse and inspire young filmmakers; though cloaked in classicism, its devastating earnestness remains distinct from the self-consciousness of the New Wave which it helped to inspire. Even the black and white photography, a significant mainstay of Becker's predecessors, sets him apart. It serves to illuminate the rich narrative duality, while suppressing the technical possibilities in earnest- some of the scenes that take place within nature are so beautiful that it's almost a favor to the viewer for them to be shown in black and white, so as not to distract them from the wonderfully doomed romance taking place within the thick. But even without the impressionist color palette, the absence of which is the film's greatest irony, Becker uses his skills as a filmmaker to paint an impressionistic picture rather than to just project it.  Every aspect of the film, from the necessity of the actors for their specific roles to the subtext hidden behind their character's dress, is a perfectly applied brushstroke on the canvas that is Becker's great artistic vision.

Turner Classic Movies James Steffen

When Georges Manda and Marie meet at an outdoor tavern in the countryside near Paris, they are immediately drawn to each other. He is a reformed criminal now working as a carpenter; she is currently the moll of Roland, a member of Felix Leca's criminal gang. Manda and Roland stage a knife fight over her, resulting in Roland's death. Manda and Marie flee to the countryside, where they spend an all-too-brief night of bliss. However, Leca himself has designs on Marie and contrives to have Manda's old friend Raymond framed for the murder. Manda turns himself in to save Raymond from the guillotine, but later escapes to exact revenge against Leca.

In the US, the French director Jacques Becker (1906-1960) never gained the recognition of his contemporaries Henri-Georges Clouzot or Marcel Carne, but his films display a finely honed sensibility that plays well to contemporary tastes. His masterpiece is undoubtedly Casque d'or (1952), a completely realized vision on all levels. Based on a real-life incident, the film works as a study of the manners and mores of the Parisian underworld during the Belle Epoque, as a tragic love story, and as a tale of friendship and loyalty. Thanks to sumptuous production design and cinematography, the film often recalls a Renoir painting or a Toulouse-Lautrec poster, though not in the usual sense of static, "painterly" images. On the contrary, Becker frequently likes to use camera movements and rapid cutting within scenes for dramatic emphasis. Everyone speaks in an amusing Parisian argot which adds to the sense that we're seeing not just another costume spectacle, but rather a privileged view into the past. The story flows so beautifully and there are so many details to admire that Becker's film never wears out its welcome, even after repeat viewings.

Although Casque d'Or was not a success during its initial release in France, it was received warmly in England and the US when it was released shortly thereafter under the title Golden Marie. It did, however, cement Simone Signoret's image as a star. Signoret subsequently gave many great performances - in Clouzot's Diabolique and Jack Clayton's A Room at the Top - but this is really her signature role. Unforgettable images of her in the film include when she sits on Leca's desk and eats a slice of cheese off his pocketknife with saucy insolence, her loving gaze over Manda while he sleeps by the riverbank, and her trudge up the stairs to witness Manda's pending execution, which seems to have aged her ten years overnight. While Signoret dominates the film as Marie, the other actors are also superb. Reggiani, who can elsewhere be seen as the prince's hunting companion in Visconti's The Leopard, brings an appealing frankness and dignity to the character of Manda. Claude Dauphin clearly relishes his turn as the vain and treacherous Leca, and the popular character actor Raymond Bussieres is likewise memorable as Manda's friend Raymond. There are too many other supporting roles to list here, but they all leave vivid impressions. Indeed, one of Becker's hallmarks as a director is his generosity towards even minor characters, how he gives them at least one moment in the film where they can express something significant about themselves.

I would venture to say that this is among the most beautifully photographed black-and-white French films I have seen. Criterion's new high-definition transfer is appropriately luminous, with a rich range of tones and sharply rendered detail. The disc includes the French soundtrack in clearly recorded mono, as well as the English-language version. Signoret, Reggiani and Dauphin all spoke English so their own voices were used on the English-language dub, but on that version much of the film's magic is lost because their line delivery is not nearly as sharp and confident as it is in French. Still, the dub was worth including as a curiosity.

Special features on the disc include: an audio commentary track by Peter Cowie, who speaks engagingly (as usual) about Becker as a director and the period in which the film is set; video interviews with Serge Reggiani and Simone Signoret; an episode from the French television series Cineastes de notre temps devoted to Becker; behind-the-scenes footage of the film in production; and a fine essay by Philip Kemp in the liner notes. Criterion's DVD edition of Casque d'Or is, simply put, indispensable

DVD Talk (Bill Gibron) dvd review [4/5] [Criterion Collection]

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Epinions [Stephen O. Murray]

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Matt Peterson)

Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick) dvd review [3.5/5]

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

Talking Pictures (UK) review Howard Schumann

Electric Sheep Magazine Peter Momtchiloff also reviewing TOUCHEZ PAS AU GRISBI

Bright Lights [Matthew Kennedy] also reviewing TOUCHEZ PAS AU GRISBI

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias] also reviewing TOUCHEZ PAS AU GRISBI

DVD Verdict Barrie Maxwell also reviewing TOUCHEZ PAS AU GRISBI

The New York Times H.H. T

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

HANDS OFF THE LOOT (Toucher Pas Au Grisbi)

France (96 mi) 1954

Time Out review

This model French gangster picture set the rules for the great sequence of underworld movies from Jean-Pierre Melville that followed. An ageing and weary Gabin attempts to retire after one last robbery. Instead he finds himself in a world of moody double-crosses. Becker's film, full of neat angles and delightful little bits of business, is laconic and admirably methodical. If its code of honour and its world of safe houses (and the absence of any police) make it seem like a wartime resistance film, it does also show what other gangster movies often ignore: that the reason for earning money dishonestly is to be able to live in style. And this film takes as much pleasure in watching Gabin open a bottle of wine as it does observing him in action. A fine supporting cast includes a young Lino Ventura and an even younger Jeanne Moreau.

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson]

Among its more predictable achievements, the Criterion Collection has taken upon itself the task of correcting the virtually nonexistent American reputation of pre-new-wave journeyman-auteur Jacques Becker. In a sense the Raoul Walsh of post-war French cinema, Becker shot tough genre movies with rueful sensitivity, and his subtle and despairing films were overlooked by the public but adored by cineastes and critics. This 1954 noir centers on Jean Gabin, laconic like an elderly zoo lion, as a menopausal gangster living comfortably after a big heist but sucked into the underworld again thanks to his devoted partner (René Dary) and a goldbricking chorus girl (a positively dewy Jeanne Moreau). Forty years before Tarantino's crooks-have-kitchens-too reawakening, Becker's suave scofflaws wear pajamas, brush their teeth, and go to bed early. Fate, nevertheless, deals them the paradigmatic bad hand; no one can keep their mitts off the grisbi. Also released is Becker's Casque d'Or (1952), a belle epoque period romance (with Simone Signoret) that is also, it turns out, a mobster morality tale rife with taciturn violence. Interviews, commentary, outtakes, and French TV profiles of Becker round out the supps.

Mike D’Angelo from Time Out New York (link lost):

Dispensing with its daring heist via a briefly glimpsed newspaper headline, then lingering over the sight of the culprits buttering their biscuits and performing their nightly ablutions, Jacques Becker's lovingly methodical Touchez Pas Au Grisbi (rough translation: Hands Off the Loot) was the first French movie to impose a rueful, existential undercurrent upon that brashest of American genres, the gangster film. Its influence permeates the more famous films that followed in its wake: Gabin's Max Le Menteur—wry, urbane, world-weary—shares numerous chromosomes with Roger Duchesne's Bob Le Flambeur (a character recently reinterpreted by Nick Nolte in The Good Thief), while Rififi takes its temperamental cue from Becker's emphasis on process over flash. Everybody took a piece of Grisbi's grisbi.

More novel, at least from today's perspective, is the way that the film upends the usual relationship between big cheese and right-hand man. The classic gangster film depicts the latter as obsessively protective of the former, to the point where one begins to wonder whether an emotion more potent than mere loyalty may be at work. (Miller's Crossing is the postmodern apotheosis of this idea.) Here, by contrast, it's Max who risks everything for the sake of his weak-willed partner, Riton (René Dary), who scarcely seems able to carry the weight of his pencil-thin mustache. Targeted by a younger rival, Max and Riton wind up hiding out together in a safe house, where they share a meal with a rhythm that suggests foreplay between an old married couple before slipping into silk pajamas and separate beds. Listen hard and you can almost hear Max sighing.

Senses of Cinema (David Boxwell)

moviediva

Film Noir of the Week Guy Savage

DVD Talk (Bill Gibron) dvd review [4/5] [Criterion Collection]

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson) dvd review

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Jon Danziger) dvd review

Jonathan F. Richards

eFilmCritic.com (Elaine Perrone) review [5/5]

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson) review

Electric Sheep Magazine Peter Momtchiloff, also reviewing CASQUE D’OR

Bright Lights Film Journal review Matthew Kennedy also reviewing CASQUE D’OR

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias] also reviewing CASQUE D’OR

DVD Verdict Barrie Maxwell, also reviewing CASQUE D’OR

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) recommendation [Great Movies]

The New York Times (Howard Thompson)

DVDBeaver.com [Joshua Riehl]

ALI BABA AND THE FORTY THIEVES (Ali-Baba et les quarante voleurs)

France (92 mi) 1954

User comments from imdb Author: Cristiano-A from Lisbon, Portugal

Ali Baba is the servant of a rich merchant. One day, his master send him to the market to buy a woman slave. There, he find Morgiane, a beautiful dancer who is being sold by her own father. And he instantly become passionate for her. In the next day, he finds the cave where 40 thieves keep their stolen treasures. As he heard the magic words that open the cave's door, he can enter and steel some of the money kept there. So, Ali Baba becomes rich and buy Morgiane from his master. All seemed to be OK but the chief of the gang of thieves is pursuing Ali. After some laughable situations, Ali Baba, in the end, marry with Morgiane and give the money in the cave to the poor and the needed of the city. This is a funny version of the famous tale of Ali Baba and the 40 Thieves. In the leading role, we have Fernandel, a french comedian of the 40's and 50's, who was very popular here in my country, Portugal. Of course, it's not a movie in which the director wanted to make a masterpiece, but I think it's a good comedy about exotic people and landscapes. It was filmed on Taroudant, at 80 km from Agadir, on the south of Morocco. And it was the work of Georges Wakhevitch, who designed the memorable cave who opens with the command "Sesame, Open". In reality, it was a mobile door arranged against a true cave on the valley of Sous, the region from where are the 4000 Berbers who figure on the film. The feminine star on the movie, the Morgiane character, is played by a Egyptian dancer and actress, Samia Gamal, who became a star of the Egyptian cinema and who married a Texan oil magnate, overwhelmed by her womb dances.

Ali-Baba et les quarante voleurs Michael Grost from Classic Film and Television

Ali-Baba et les quarante voleurs (known as Ali Baba in English)(1954) is an engaging film version of the folk tale "Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves" in The Arabian Nights. Unlike many such works, neither the original story nor the film has any fantastic elements. Both take place in a highly stylized, mythologized world, but one without any jinn or magic.

Ali Baba has some elements in common with Becker's later prison escape film, Le Trou (1960). Both films are highly architectural. Most shots firmly anchor us within large, complex buildings, and show much of the architecture around the characters. Becker seems as architectural a director in these films as Fritz Lang. The director favors long corridors, down which his heroes wander, alternating with large open rooms. In both films, the characters are often exploring buildings for the first time and experience a sense of wonder. These areas include the underground corridors in the prison in Le Trou, and the treasure caverns of the Forty Thieves in Ali Baba. Both of these regions are deep underground. Both grant the heroes deep desires: a promise of freedom for the prisoners in Le Trou, wealth for the poor Ali Baba and heroine Morgiane. Both areas seem magical, a combination of awesome architecture, underground locations, and an ability to grant human happiness.

The crack in the cavern that serves as a door to the chamber reminds one of the hole in the concrete that eventually lets the prisoners out in Le Trou. Both have an irregular quality that contrasts with the pure geometry of the architecture in the films.

While Ali Baba is nominally free, his life has much in common with the prisoners of Le Trou. The building in which he is Cassim's servant is full of guards, who control the lives of the people there. Morgiane is actually a slave, and a literal prisoner in the building. The rooms in which she and the other slave women are forced to live actually have bars on the windows, just like the cells of a prison. Becker frequently shoots conversations through these barred windows. Both Ali-Baba and the prisoners have to work around the guards, doing activities at times in which they are not vigilant, or moved elsewhere. This battle of wits is a central plot device in both films. Ali Baba and the prisoners are also always coming up with ingenious schemes, that advance their cause. Both have a tireless energy, and an idealism that tries to make their world a better place.

The treatment of rich and poor in the films also has much in common. Both films portray rich people as sneaky, corrupt and no good. By contrast, both films express a moving solidarity among the poor. Ali Baba is virtually a hymn to the virtue of sharing. This is an important dimension of both films, and quite emotionally involving. In both films the poor welcome the rich into their midst, only to have rich people turn on them. These scenes directly symbolize the director's political views. In real life Becker, like another left wing director, Robert Aldrich, came from a wealthy, upper class family. Both directors had a deep skepticism about the morality of their own social class, which often behaves quite viciously in their films.

Becker was also notable for being fashionably and exceptionally stylishly dressed, and his heroes do the same in his films. They might be from a poor background, but they are always elegant and handsomely dressed. This after all is the movies! Ali Baba celebrates his beautiful new robes in the latter sections of the film. And the prisoners in Le Trou are the best dressed convicts in the history of film, being allowed to wear civilian clothes inside their cells. All of these men really know how to dress, a gift Becker had in real life.

In both films, food is a big issue. There are many shots of people eating, and much discussion of food. Becker's characters love sweets and deserts. This is consistent with Becker's sense of delight in the world around him, and his desire to please and entertain.

Both films alternate between scenes of purposeful activity in the architectural locales, and scenes advancing the characters' personal lives. When Ali Baba is in the treasure cave, he makes a repeated effort to scoop up money from the cave. Such repetitive actions anticipate those of the prisoners in Le Trou, as they dig out of their prison.

A huge hidden treasure amassed by thieves also recalls Becker's earlier film, Touchez pas au grisbi (1953). However, the hero here is a vastly nicer and more decent person than those in grisbi. He is also much more honest. The thieves in Ali-Baba are actually bad guys, who get little sympathy from the director, unlike those in the earlier movie.

Ali-Baba is full of gracefully executed pans. These occur in both the indoor and outdoor scenes. The pans sometimes reverse themselves: Becker might pan from left to right, following a character, then track back from right to left when one character or another returns along the original route. The panning shots often follow a character in motion. They can also be used to reveal scenery to the audience, before picking up on a character mid-way or at their end. The pans also help Becker's exposition: the viewer always has a very clear idea of the over-all geographic layout of the scene, because Becker's camera has panned over it. The exceptional clarity of Becker's exposition is a major asset here and in Le Trou. The audience always has a complete understanding of everything that is going on.

Virtually every shot in Ali-Baba is beautiful. Becker knows how to pick out and compose graceful images. The stately pans tend to move fairly slowly, designed to make a beautiful sense of motion on the screen. They are often combined with the equally pleasing motion of the characters. This is hardly an avant-garde use of pans; this is a standard approach to panning in the classical cinema, both Hollywood and European. But Becker executes this strategy with grace and visual beauty.

The two ends of the pans often reveal vistas. This is a fairly common approach to panning in the cinema. Becker will start out with one long vista, then pan till another deep view is revealed. Becker seems to pan more often from right to left, if my memory serves me. His scenes are often set up so that the characters and camera start on the right, then move toward the left as the pan progresses. Some film scholars state that right to left motion on screen suggests "effort" and "difficulty". Certainly, Becker's characters are often making a big effort, struggling against hard circumstances.

Towards the end of the film, there is a two-story palace room with a mezzanine. Becker includes a number of delightful panning shots that make a full circuit of the mezzanine. These combine Becker's interest in architecture with his pans.

There are also a few tracking shots in the film. Becker tracks along with Ali Baba as he tries to keep up with the bird-seller's moving caravan. Such an approach is more or less mandatory if the camera is to follow the action; it is as if Becker could not stage this scene any other way. When Morgiane is dancing in Cassim's palace towards the beginning, Becker sometimes tracks in a little on her, or tracks out. These tend to emphasize moments when he feelings are becoming a bit intense. These motions are small and graceful, and not as underscored as the sometimes intense track-ins found in Hitchcock, and frequently employed in modern films. In one pan in the garden, Becker seems to move his camera back in the middle of the pan, as the character moves from one path to another at a right angle. The short retreat of the camera helps establish a clearer view of the second path.

Both Ali-Baba and Le Trou take place in worlds far removed from daily reality. Becker gives his audience much pleasure in showing them unusual features of this world. The giant coffee pot in Ali-Baba is an example of the sort of visually unusual prop found in this world. It is unexpected and fun to look at, full of complex curves. Becker includes a whole panning shot following a servant from right to left as he brings the coffee over, then pans back from left to right as the servant returns, carrying the pot both ways. It completes a whole motion and activity on screen: the pouring of a cup of coffee. Such a complete motion recalls the films of Louis Feuillade, who also liked to show a complete activity within a single shot. Such simple delight in the beauty of the world, combined with graceful camera movement, is a pleasure of the classical cinema.

Becker often shoots his scenes frontally and from eye level. This shows both his characters and the architecture behind them, in a direct straightforward way. There is something friendly about this angle. The viewer feels that they are taking part in the action, and seeing everything that are participant would.

Becker also sometimes employs an elevated angle. This can show the floor plan of a large room in a building. It can also be used to show many individual characters in a crowd of people. Whatever his choice of camera angle, it always: 1) makes a pleasing composition on the screen; 2) helps give a clear exposition of both the architecture and the characters on the screen.

One of the most beautiful scenes in the film is the finale, showing the great masses of people following Ali Baba. Becker first shoots them from elevated angles; then he gives a frontal, eye-level view.

MONTPARNASSE 19

aka: Les amants de Montparnasse (Montparnasse 19)

France Italy (108 mi) 1958 co-director: Max Ophüls, originally started by Ophüls who fell ill and could not continue

Time Out review

The last year (1919-20) in the life of tubercular, alcoholic artist Amedeo Modigliani. Visually it's surprisingly bland - and what's the sense of making a film about a painter in b/w? - but Becker's humanism is unwavering, even when confronting such stereotypes as the rich American philistine or the uncomprehending working man. Creativity is viewed matter of factly, as an affair of sheer hard work. And while the scenes to do with Modigliani's string of selfless, supportive women tend to be repetitive and slightly irritating, they are redeemed by Lilli Palmer's performance as Manchester poet Beatrice Hastings and by the casting of the elegantly elongated Anouk Aimée, the perfect bride for a Modigliani. The project was initiated by Max Ophuls, then taken over by Becker when Ophuls died. The film was attacked by Ophuls' collaborator Henri Jeanson for its alterations to the original scenario, hence the absence of a writing credit.

Chicago Reader (Jonathan Rosenbaum) capsule review

A transitional film (1958, 108 min.) between the French “tradition of quality” and the New Wave, this slick biopic about the last year or so in the life of the painter Amedeo Modigliani (the title alludes to the bohemian quarter and the year, 1919) is a highly personal effort by one of the idols of the New Wave generation, the neglected Jacques Becker (Casque d'or, Le trou). At once clunky, overproduced, and naive, it's also sincere and moving, in spite of its faults as a statement about the gulf between serious artists and marketers. It's both helped and hindered by its glamorous cast: Gerard Philipe, Anouk Aimee, and Lilli Palmer. Jean-Luc Godard memorably defended this film when it came out by writing, “Everything rings true in this totally false film. Everything is illuminated in this obscure film. For he who leaps into the void owes no explanations to those who watch.” In French with subtitles.

User comments from imdb Author: hasosch from United States

I am convinced that only those people can really appreciate this movie whose title is either "Modigliani", "Les Amants De Montparnasse" or "Montparnasse 19", who are aware that the last year of life of the Italian-French painter Amedeo Modigliani (1884-1920) who died with 36 years, was played by Gérard Philipe, who was lethally sick during the shooting of this movie and died shortly after its release, 1959, with 36 years - on one of the two diseases that Modigliano had himself and exactly in his age. Further, this movie was directed by Jacques Becker - after the sudden death of Max Ophüls. Becker, too, died only 2 years after this movie. Since it is clear that Philipe knew that his days were counted and since one can assume that also Becker knew about his own few remaining months, this movie, suddenly, does not look like kitsch anymore. I just would like to mention that famous scene, where "Modi" says: "Jeanne, on the other side, there will be eternal joy, isn't that so, Jeanne?". Philipe's tears are probably real. In another famous scene, where Modi is going to be humiliated by an American billionaire, he quotes Van Gogh: "I have to drink a lot to get that splendid yellow back that I found last summer". These words could be Philipe's own words. Fassbinder who dedicated his movie "Despair" amongst two others to Van Gogh called this phenomenon "A Trip Into The Light".

It is a famous as well as sad fact that his contemporaries put as many obstacles as they could in the way of Jacques Becker, so that he was able to realize only a good dozen of movies. Today, half a century after Becker's death, "Modigliani" is still not available. The only American VHS edition is long out of print, and one pays horrendous prices for a copy. And the worst: not even in France, this film is available, neither as VHS nor DVD. So you must go through a lot pain, if you want to watch this masterpiece. But it is worth it, I assure you.

Montparnasse 19 (1958) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

Cinematic biographies of famous artists are not a rare phenomenon, but few such films manage to evoke the acute sense of despair and injustice that Montparnasse 19 does.  In his last film but one, Jacques Becker paints a poignant and engaging tale of an artist struggling to achieve both perfection in his work and public recognition.

It is a deeply pessimistic but honest film.   You can think of so many artists who have suffered a similar fate to Modigliani.  His work was shunned and ridiculed during his lifetime, but within hours of his death, the art-dealers were out in force, crawling all over his works.   The final scene of this film makes the point very effectively – it is a painfully tragic ending, and one which makes you feel both sad and angry.

The film itself had something of an eventful journey in production.  It was originally to have been directed by the legendary director Max Ophüls, but he fell seriously ill and could not continue the project.  He suggested that Jacques Becker, another great director, should direct the film in his place. Ophüls himself died just a few days before the film was released.

This is easily one of Becker’s better films.  As in his earlier film, Casque d’or , he manages to recreate the Paris in the early years of the 20th century – a curious melange of the gaiety and bustle of street cafés and the sinister shadowed back streets.   This schizophrenic atmosphere works to great effect, reflecting the changing mood of the film’s central character.  When Modigliani’s fate is finally sealed, the atmosphere becomes almost stifling – cold, dark, overwhelming.  And, in the shadows, lurks evil, in the shape of a wicked art-dealer (brilliantly played by Lino Ventura).

And who better to play Modigliani than Gérard Philipe?  An acting legend in his own lifetime, Philipe was the archetypal modern romantic hero – not the dashing, suave hero in the mould of Jean Marais, but a more human, slightly cynical kind of romantic hero.  Watching his performance in this film you might think he was made for the role of Modigliani – it is certainly one of his best screen performances.  Christian Matras’ masterful photography captures a real feeling of torment and despair in Philipe’s face – you can tell that the actor had a profound understanding of the artist’s psychology.  But what makes his performance so memorable – and so moving – is the knowledge that Gérard Philipe himself died within just a few years of making this film – aged just 37 (in fact, the same age as Modigliani).  This gives a disturbing tragic resonance to what is in any event a stirring film.

Strictly Film School review Acquarello

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

The New York Times (Bosley Crowther) review

THE HOLE (LE TROU)

France (131 mi) 1960

Time Out review Tom Milne

A secular response to Bresson's A Man Escaped. No question of grace here, simply of grind and grime as four prisoners - joined and eventually betrayed by a fifth - laboriously tunnel their way to a derisory glimpse of freedom. Telling a true story, Becker maintains a low-key approach, courting reality, avoiding music in favour of natural sound, constantly stressing the sheer physicality (warders' hands laconically slicing foodstuffs in search of hidden files, prisoners' hands feverishly hacking at the unrelenting stone). Yet there is more than a touch of Bresson (even more, however, of Becker's mentor Renoir) to the close-ups which punctuate the evolving relationship between the escapees and their final discovery of a sort of forgiveness for their betrayer. Classical in its intense simplicity, this is certainly Becker's most perfectly crafted film.

Le Trou Michael Grost from Classic Film and Television

Le Trou (1960) is Becker's final film. It is one of his finest works.

The scenes in which the lights move along the underground corridors remind on of the finale of Anthony Mann's He Walked By Night (1948), in which spectacular light patterns emerge along Los Angeles' underground storm drains.

Many of the scenes involve small geometric objects: the cylindrical containers used by the inmates for food; the cardboard boxes they assemble; the rectilinear pieces of food they eat. These objects, along with the prison walls and fixtures, help create a purely geometrical universe for the characters to inhabit. Becker often arranges these objects to give a 3D emphasis to the staging. The objects will be jutting out, at different angles from most of the people or walls in the shot. This makes them look like 3D projections or protuberances, away from the main planes and surfaces of the shot.

Becker also gets much mileage out of geometric patterns on the floor. The wood paneling of the floor is arranged in a complex cross hatch pattern. In addition, there is a contrasting set of tiles around the bathroom fixtures, which are at a roughly 45 degree angle to the floor. This helps Becker create complex compositions with them. The different angles of the floor coverings, like the jutting objects in other scenes, helps give a vibrant sense of contrast to the directions of different objects and regions within the shot. The scene in which the mirror is shattered adds a third set of directions, by placing the small mirror at an different angle from the tile or wood paneling on the floor.

Le Trou is full of Becker's trademark panning shots. The pans here tend to be quicker, sometimes smaller in angle, and less conspicuous than those in Ali Baba. But they are regularly used to add motion to the composition.

The Time It Takes: Le Trou and Jacques Becker Criterion essay by Chris Fujiwara, October 15, 2001

Images Movie Journal David Ng

DVD Times [Jon Robertson]

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson)

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Dan Lopez)

Noir of the Week Steve-O

Epinions [Stephen O. Murray]

DVD Town (Yunda Eddie Feng)

CineScene.com (Chris Dashiell)

Ruthless Reviews Erich Shulte

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson)

The New York Times (Bosley Crowther)

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

Becker, Mark

ROMÁNTICO

Mexico (80 mi) 2005

Romántico Ed Gonzalez from Slant magazine

Mark Becker's Romántico may be the documentary of the year. This sensitively detailed surveillance of one man's personal misfortune illuminates a national crisis, complementing Carlos Reygadas's Battle in Heaven; though both films share the same social setting, it's their vigilant aesthetic that most unites them. The film begins in San Francisco as an elegy to the departed, where Mexican immigrants Carmelo Muñiz Sánchez and his friend Arturo Arias strum their guitars for gringos in the city's restaurant rows. A couple asks that they play music that is "happy, romántico"—a request that comes easy for Carmelo given his poet's heart. The man's past, like his responsibility to his wife and children, weighs on his soul, and this pressure is evident in his songs, the tenor of his voice, and a face that has been pummeled by years of disappointment. Becker's subtle visual touches, like a close-up on a pay phone's buttons, casually stress Carmelo's distance from his family, just as a series of slo-mo footage is meant to convey the slog of having to work in order to live. (The film, interestingly, ends with a funeral procession.) Back in Mexico, Carmelo struggles with God, asking him to spare his mother any more pain. Carmelo's visit to the woman, who is now legless and hard of hearing, is a painful thing to watch, but what is most remarkable about this moment is Becker's reserve behind the camera. The filmmaker is sensitive but never gushing, smart but never aloof, and his use of montage suggests, like the music of his subject, a poet's imagination. (Note the scene where the camera pans to the left of Carmelo in order to reveal Arturo walking by his side, just as the former reveals the pleasure of having his friend return to Mexico.) Implicit in Carmelo's struggles, like selling nieves—a local ice cream—around town (in part to raise enough money for his older daughter's quinceañera), is a critique of the powers that burden people like Carmelo. But the film is, above all, a portrait of an artist as an old man—a good man who reveals, through tears that run along the deep lines in his face, how he gives free nieves to children who remind him of himself as a child, with tattered clothes and no money in their pockets. Would that capitalism were as kind and forgiving.

Becker, Wolfgang

GOOD BYE, LENIN! B+ 92

Germany (118 mi) 2003

From Tom Tykwer’s RUN LOLA RUN production company, wonderfully interspersed with archival footage, this is a terrific stab at hilarious political satire, something along the lines of Billy Wilder’s ONE, TWO, THREE, which ends up being whole-heartedly and unabashedly a love tribute to the director’s mother, sort of a fairy tale under the guise of dark political humor. Before the fall of the wall, when the country was fervently socialist, a politically active East German mother of two whose husband has abandoned the family for the West, suffers a heart attack on the street witnessing her son, Daniel Brühl, get arrested in a political demonstration. While she’s in a coma, the Communist government resigns, the wall comes tumbling down, the borders are opened, the currency changes denominations, and East and West Germany unite. When she miraculously comes out of the coma seven months later, the doctors are afraid she may take another turn for the worse with any unexpected surprises. So her son, who remained at her bedside throughout her ordeal, actually falling in love with one of the treating nurses, the lovely Chulpan Kamatova, decides to conceal all current events from his mother so as not to upset her, creating an illusionary safe place where nothing has changed, a veritable time capsule of a lost world that has evaporated into thin air, involving fake television recordings and collusion from the neighbors, all keeping her in the dark about what’s happening outside. The wild East-West humor is sedated somewhat by the son’s emotionally understated narration, with dialogue like “Mother slept through the relentless triumph of capitalism.” The extravagance of the lie reveals the extent to which the son is willing to go, to the ends of the earth so-to-speak, to express his love for his mother. To that extent, the film is wonderfully quirky and original, as that’s not where the story seems to be going until the end of the film, which I found to be gangbusters.

Good Bye, Lenin! Richard Falcon from Sight and Sound

East Of Eden Dina Iordanova from Sight and Sound

Beeson, Coni

HOLDING

USA (13 mi) 1971

Women and Pornography Julia Lesaqe from Jump Cut

Begic, Aida

SNOW (Snijeg) B 88

Bosnia Herzegovina Germany France (99 mi) 2008

This quiet and largely introspective film offers a unique perspective on war, where the power of the subject is clearly accentuated by the characters’ refusal to even speak about it, yet it pervades every frame of this film, where nationalities alone are a distinct reminder of what has happened in the region. Set in the isolated mountainside village of Slavno in Bosnia, the film focuses almost exclusively on a group of Muslim women over the course of a week in 1997, where, peculiarly, all the men have disappeared except for an elderly holy man and a traumatized young boy who hasn’t spoken in years. We are in the heart of ethnic cleansing territory where for 3 years the Serbs rounded up and exterminated Muslims in former Yugoslavia until halted by the 1995 Dayton Agreement, a practice which began again in Kosovo in 1998. There is evidence of United Nations intervention as some of the ramshackle homes have a tarp spread across their roofs with a UN insignia. Other than that, life in this remote farming village resembles ancient times.

Using a realist style very much in synch with Iranian films, the story is told in utmost simplicity, where the colors and rhythms of life are accentuated, making jams and jarring fruits, hand washing, rug weaving, or the preparation of food, which appears to be little more than jam, bread, and coffee. In particular, the camera follows Alma (Zana Marjanovic) as she performs her daily routine of walking down the hill to a water pump where she washes her face, loosens and then refastens her shawl before setting up a roadside stand futilely attempting to sell her jarred fruits. Nearly run over one day by a truck driver transporting various food goods, the driver, who can’t take his eyes off Alma, promises to return later in the week and sell all her fruit jars. The driver explains he survived the war by hiding under dead bodies for days on end. Alma is chastised by the women elders for accepting a ride from a stranger back into her village, as they remind her of the potential dangers, but Alma is caught up in the idea of using her village to “feed half of Bosnia.”

The women are visited by a strange Serbian man who makes them a business proposition, the company he represents would buy up all their land and homes, offering them cash money where they could start new lives. Initially met with disinterest, where just the mention of his nationality piques an underlying distrust that veers towards hatred, several of the women start playing around with the idea as the promises made sound better than what little that they currently have. But even more interesting, this man is asked about the missing men from town, if he has any knowledge about them. Several of the women reveal their pent up anxieties hoping against hope that they will return, knowing their fathers, husbands or brothers would never allow them to sell their lifelong homes. Days later, the man is joined by a senior employee who arrives to finalize the deal, to get signatures on contracts, even if he has to lie to get them. This sets in motion the various points of view of all the characters, including the young boy, the truck driver who never showed up as promised, as inner lives mysteriously unravel. Gorgeously shot by Erol Zubcevic, there’s an element of magical realism used, but just a touch, as the wordless finale beautifully brings all the forces together through an unspoken, poetic clarity.

George Christensen at Cannes:

“Snow” explored Kusturica's home region, the breakup of Yugoslavia. Taking place in Bosnia in 1997 it focused on a handful of woman in a rural area that has lost all its men to the war.  The women are struggling to survive and live not knowing the fate of their husbands and fathers and brothers.  It very well depicts their life and region and adds the drama of developers wanting their land.

I wasn't so lucky with what I saw at the Critic's Weekly.  I went to see the 10:30 pm screening of its award winner.  I'd only seen two of the seven films in this sidebar, so had my fingers crossed that the odds were with me that the winner would be something I hadn't seen.   Unfortunately it was the Bosnian film “Snow.”  I had seen it, though with just French subtitles.   With nothing else available to see, I sat through it a second time, the English subtitles giving a little extra illumination into the very slight story.  It was one of quite a few films I've seen whose locations were more interesting than the story.

eye WEEKLY capsule review [4/5] Jason Anderson

The grand prize winner of the International Critics Week at Cannes, Aida Begic’s debut feature is set in 1997 in a small Bosnian village that the war has almost completely robbed of its men. The surviving women must decide whether to keep their homes or sell them off to developers. Humanely wrought and sensitively rendered by Begic and her excellent cast, Snow is a work of rare modesty and poignance.

User comments from imdb Author: crimson_sakura from Canada

Wonderfully acted, beautifully filmed, and well written story. Very real depiction of village life in Bosnia, and the impacts of war that these people experienced only a short while ago. This film was very touching and didn't need to rely on huge action scenes - even in its simplest moments it was very powerful. The symbolism is also very interesting(the young boy's hair, the snow) and may take some contemplating to understand, but overall this was film wasn't trying to be complex or confusing like some films on this subject can be. The characters are wonderful and it was very touching to see their personal struggles with their loss, and their strength in carrying on with life. All actors were wonderful, especially the the main actress who played Alma. I hope to see more from this director. Highly recommended!

Boyd van Hoeij at Cannes from Cineuropa

Aida Begic’ debut feature Snow had its world premiere as part of the Critics’ Week at the Cannes Film Festival. Like her Sarajevo Film School classmate Jasmila Zbanic, who won the Berlin Golden Bear in 2006 for her debut feature Grbavica (Esma's Secret), it looks at the plight of women in a country still trying to come to terms with its recent, violent past.

t is 1997 and in the largely destroyed Bosnian village of Slavno, six women, four girls, and old man and a mute boy try to eke out a living by selling jam. All their family members have been wiped out by the war, and its wounds are still fresh and deep. When two strangers arrive at the isolated village with a proposal for its last inhabitants and an autumn storm traps them all inside the village, an unexpected showdown occurs between the strangers and the villagers.

Using a cast and crew of mainly first-timers like herself (with the notable exception of an aged Emir Hadzihafizbegovic as the old man), Begic has made a feature that looks at a familiar theme in Balkan cinema from a fresh point of view and with a raw energy that is especially noteworthy in the work of cinematographer Erol Zubcevic and actress Zana Marjanovic.

“During the war, when you don’t even have the basic elements of life like fresh water of food, you start to think about things differently,” explained Begic, who herself was in film school during the war. “It may sound overly romantic to insist that the struggle for truth and freedom is worthwhile, but if art is not there to remind us, what is?”

The film was produced by Sarajevo-based Mamafilm in co-production with Germany’s Rohfilm, French production outfit Les Films de l'Après-midi and an Iranian partner. The film will be distributed in France by Pyramide, who also handle international sales.

Snow (Snijeg) Howard Feinstein at Cannes from Screendaily

A fictionalized account of the plight of Muslim women in a mountain village two years after the 1995 Dayton Accords ended the ethnic cleansing of Muslims (and Croats) by their Bosnian Serb neighbours, Snow is a step up from director Aida Begic's experimental 2001 film First Death Experience. Unobtrusively directed, this ensemble film successfully captures the special camaraderie among the survivors of such horror and the emotional and psychological toll it takes on the individuals.

Although a nightmare such as the Bosnian genocide might appear to have no commercial potential and critical appeal, two films about the war – Jasmila Zbanic's Golden Bear winning Grbavica and Danis Tanovic's Oscar-winner No Man's Land - have won plaudits. That they both received distribution in the UK and the US indicates some willingness by audiences to engage with what many consider depressing subject matter. It is not impossible that Snow could find some small niche market.

With almost all of the community's males killed during the war (the only remaining men are an old religious man and an emotionally stunted little boy), the women must live and work together in order to survive and, together, deal with fathomless grief. They do not even have the luxury of closure: the location of the remains of their fathers, sons and husbands is a mystery.

Most of the film's action takes place over one week. Begic highlights the news monotony of the women's lives by amping up domestic activities through rapid montage, a ploy that feels more calculated than intuitive. The drama suddenly picks up when men re-enter their lives. That Begic and co-writer Elma Tataratic concentrate on their varied reactions - there is strong generational conflict - is a brilliant idea.

One is a virile young man who elicits desire from some of the women, especially the most central character, Alma (Marjanovic), in spite of their consciences. Another is a Serb, a former neighbour who arrives as if on an empathetic mission, but in fact represents a European company that wants to capitalize on the town's misfortune and buy the land their families have lived on for generation; he also knows where the bodies are buried. The third is the businessman himself, an amoral opportunist who couldn't care less about what they have gone through.

Some of the woman do want to sell; they do not know how they will be able to continue (the title refers to the harsh Bosnian winter). Others are too emotionally attached not only to the locale but to their personal memories to consider the proposition - especially since they so strongly feel the need to know where to find the dead.

Ultimately the women, resourceful in spite of their ordeal, outsmart the male interlopers. Unlike the conventional Hollywood film, its optimistic note is earned.

Daily Plastic - Festival Report [J. Robert Parks]

Exclaim! [Erene Stergiopoulos]

Variety at Cannes

Behrendt, Hans

DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT (La fille du regiment)

Germany Great Britain (57 mi) 1929

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young] British Silent Film Festival, Nottingham

STORY : Based (fairly loosely) on G.Donizetti's Tyrol-set opera La fille du regiment, here transplanted to on the French/Spanish border. It's the location of a garrison whose "mascot" is the delectable Marie (Betty Balfour), who arrived as a foundling and was brought up by the soldiers. It emerges that she is in fact the daughter of local nobility, and must reluctantly leave 'home' to be educated in the ways of the debutante. But nurture proves rather stronger than nature, and it isn't long before Marie heads back to the action...

PLUSSES : Undemanding, amiable romantic fluff - a pleasant diversion within its limited ambitions. Nice external shooting in the dusty, sunny countryside: Paris is all shadows and gloom in comparison. Balfour lively and engaging, and has a convincingly warm 'father-daughter' relationship with garrison commander Quippo (Kurt Gerron). Pleasing (if plausibility-straining) finale ties everything up in a shimmering bow.

MINUSES : Story is fairly silly morality-tale melodrama: our heroine has an unlikely operetta-style romance with dashing local bandit-chief Tonio (Alexander D'Arcy), and it turns out that neither party is quite what they seem. But it seems churlish to object to such genial, unpretentious, eager-to-please fare.

NOTES : In contrast to Downhill (see above), the version shown at Nottingham was projected a fraction too quick, resulting in some jerkiness of image and the picture clocking in at less than an hour. Kurt Gerron's tragic later life (he was gassed at Auschwitz) was the subject of acclaimed Holocaust documentary Prisoner of Paradise (2002).

Beineix, Jean-Jacques

All-Movie Guide Rebecca Flint Marx

French director Jean-Jacques Beineix is best-known for making two of the most provocative films of the 1980s, Diva (1982) and 37.2 le matin (Betty Blue, 1986). Dark, haunting, and filled with substantial helpings of violence and/or sex, both films were great successes in France, winning a number of awards and a degree of cinematic immortality for their director.

Born in Paris' 17th arrondissement on October 8, 1946, Beineix took an interest in cinema at a young age. After discovering the medium through repeated viewings of old 16mm films at a local cinema club, he began making 8mm shorts with his friends when he was 16. In 1970, Beineix began his career as an assistant director for Jean-Louis Trintignant and Claude Berri; a few years later, he started writing scripts, and in 1977 he made his directorial debut with Le Chien De Monsieur Michel, a well-received short.

Four years later, Beineix directed his first feature-length film, Diva. A heavily-stylized, labyrinthine thriller revolving around the relationship between a famous opera singer and a young mail carrier, the film won international critical acclaim and a number of Césars, including a Best First Film prize for Beineix.

After making the less celebrated La Lune Dans le Caniveau, a moody romantic drama starring Gérard Depardieu and Natassja Kinski, Beineix scored again with 37.2 le matin, or Betty Blue, as it was known in the U.S. A stylish erotic drama centering on the destructive, obsessive relationship between a handyman (Jean-Hugues Anglade) and a wild and almost constantly naked young woman (Beatrice Dalle), it was one of the most talked-about films of 1986. It earned a number of international accolades, including an Oscar nomination for Best Foreign Film.

None of Beineix's subsequent work has come close to approximating the critical and popular success of Diva and 37.2 le matin. One of his films, the adventure drama IP5: L'Île aux Pachydermes (1991), had the distinction of being Yves Montand's last project, while Otaku (1994), was an interesting documentary about young Japanese men who prefer the "reality" of cyberspace to that of the outside world. The director's screen work during the 1990s was sporadic, and he concentrated much of his energy on such offscreen projects as his presidency of the ARP (an association for writers, directors, and producers) and his efforts to protect European film from North American cultural hegemony.

Film Reference Chris Routledge

After a long apprenticeship as assistant to directors as diverse as Jerry Lewis, on the unreleased The Day the Clown Cried, and Claude Berri on Le male du siècle, Jean-Jacques Beineix emerged as a director in his own right with the intelligent thriller, Diva. Beineix's talents also extend to screenwriting and producing, and in the 1980s, along with directors Luc Besson and Leos Carax, he helped establish a category of French films sometimes known as "Cinema du Look." Defined by its slogan "the image is the message," the Cinema du Look consists of films in which appearances are more important than reality, and in which style is more important than plot or content.

Sometimes considered to be the inaugural film of this new style, Beineix's first solo project is one of the most influential French films of the 1980s. Diva self-consciously addresses what have become known as postmodern themes: it is full of images of reflective glass buildings, and its plot centres on the relative value of recorded music and information. The diva of the film's title is an American opera star who refuses to be recorded but finds that this only increases the value of bootleg recordings of her performances. It is when one of these bootleg tapes is confused with a tape that incriminates a politician that the plot takes off. As Jill Forbes points out, however, the central figure of the drama is not the diva herself, but the mail courier who makes the bootleg recording. The film's point, argues Forbes, is that the circulation of information is more important than production.

The glossy style of the "Cinema du Look" transferred easily to TV advertising, and Beineix became involved in making commercials after the success of Diva. Like TV commercials, which he has claimed "capture youth," his films tend to employ intense colours and lighting effects, as well as stylized or strange locations. It is thought, for example, that most of the 7.5 million Franc budget for Diva went on sound and vision rather than high-profile actors.

His next film, La Lune dans le caniveau, is, if anything, still more a triumph of style over substance than Diva. It tells the story of a stevedore who searches the docks for his sister's rapist, and raises more questions than it answers. La Lune dans le caniveau is far less convincing than the director's debut, and confirmed, for French critics at least, that Beineix had been polluted as a filmmaker by his contact with the advertising industry.

More successful is 37°2 le matin, which tells the story of a doomed love affair between a disturbed young woman, Betty (Beatrice Dalle), and an aspiring writer. Their turbulent relationship makes for a bleak film, but it is attractively directed and photographed and has achieved cult status and some notoriety for the explicit sex scene with which it begins. Perhaps as a result of Beineix's involvement in advertising, 37°2 le matin is structured in short set pieces that are separate episodes in themselves. As if to emphasise this connection, one such scene from 37°2 le matin, where Betty angrily throws her lover's possessions over the balcony of their house, has been remade and used in Europe to advertise a small Japanese car.

Despite his influence on the direction of French cinema since the 1980s, Beineix's later films have failed to live up to the early promise of Diva and 37°2 le matin. Unlike his contemporary, Luc Besson, Beineix could be said to have stuck closely to the spirit of "Cinema du Look," but he seems also to have gone on ignoring its limitations. His most recent feature film, IP5: L'île aux pachyderms, is a pensive, good-looking road movie, but in the end it will be remembered for the way its male lead, Yves Montand, died from a heart-attack on the last day of filming, just as his character does in the film. The controversy centered on the way Beineix had made the ageing star spend the whole day immersed in a freezing lake, but the French public was also scandalized that so iconic an actor should end his days working on a Beineix project.

Beineix works hard to protect his privacy, and few details of his life outside filmmaking are available. In a sense this parallels the aims of "Cinema du Look": Beineix allows his images to speak for themselves. Some insight into his working methods may be gleaned from Denis Parent's Jean-Jacques Beineix: Version Originale, available only in French, which is the journalist's diary of the making of Rosalyne et les Lions.

Film Festivals.com: Portrait of an "Accursed" Filmmaker biography by Michel Pascal

TCMDB Turner Classic Movies bio

Beineix, Jean-Jacques They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

Nitrate Online Interview (2001) by Paula Nechak, June 22, 2001

DIVA

France (117 mi) 1981

Time Out

Marvellous amalgam of sadistic thriller and fairytale romance, drawing on a wild diversity of genres from film noir to Feuillade serial. The deliriously offhand plot, cheekily parodying Watergates and French Connections, has switched tapes setting a pair of psychopathic hoods on the trail of a young postal messenger, turning his obsessive dream - of romance with a beautiful black opera singer whose performance on stage he has secretly recorded - into a nightmare from which he is rescued by a timely deus-ex-machina (clearly a descendant of the great Judex). The most exciting debut in years, it is unified by the extraordinary decor - colour supplement chic meets pop art surrealism - which creates a world of totally fantastic reality situated four-square in contemporary Paris.

New York Magazine (David Edelstein)

When Jean-Jacques Beineix’s thriller Diva opened in this country in the unstylish year of 1982, MTV hadn’t yet become a cultural force and films in which style could be justified for its own sake were the province of the avant-garde. Diva was like something beamed down from the Planet of Cool. Restored by Rialto Pictures in a print that colloquializes the clunkier subtitles, the film seems more grounded than it did 25 years ago—but only because, thanks to music videos and computer-generated imagery, the inorganic is now the rule, not the exception. Diva seems organic through and through. What could be more natural than the juxtaposition of the industrial and the New Wave—the hero’s crumbling concrete walls and the bright-pink vinyl coat of Thuy An Luu as a pubescent Vietnamese shoplifter. (The superrealist auto-wreck paintings against those walls conjure up J. G. Ballard and the world as a simulacrum.) The aquarium that seesaws—fluorescent blue water sloshing—in the middle of the loft of the Zen avatar (Richard Bohringer) is like the film frame itself, off-balance in the most balanced way imaginable. Best of all is when the bicycle-messenger hero (Frédéric Andréi) listens to Wilhelmenia Wiggins Fernandez sing the aria from La Wally, and at that first sublime high note, the camera lifts off and begins to sway. Every time the aria is replayed, the camera moves at the same instant. It has to. This is style as a force of nature.

Raging Bull [Mike Lorefice]

One of the most popular foreign films (though losing ground due to its director falling off the distribution radar) because it's remarkably energetic and has something for everyone willing to watch it. A commercial thriller of the Alfred Hitchcock (mostly) innocent man roped in variety by an artist who employs art film style, cult film themes, off beat humor, a diverse set of cool characters, a plethora of popular twists, and so much more. It delves into just about every genre imaginable, blowing them up to epic proportions with a great deal of flair and verve, but does so with an understanding of how to effectively contrast and juxtapose them. Everything from the disparate sets to the pastiche of classical opera, techno, and New Age music works for the atmosphere, mood, and coolness rather than creating a muddled battle. Though wholly implausible right from the outset it's clever enough to work on it's own terms provided the audience pay full attention (which isn't hard since there isn't a dull scene). It might not be anyone's favorite film, but it's a rare gem, entertainment you aren't embarrassed to be entertained by. Action film fans will be excited by the underground chase in the Pans Metro, one of the best in cinema history, which includes a moped whizzing down several cases of stairs and even a moving escalator. There are several other impressive set pieces as well, though this is more or less a stylistic exercise, so the characters are never developed beyond machinations. Beineix, who made his feature debut here, turned out to be one of the best at using color. He utilizes back lighting to under light scenes, making certain areas with primary colors (particularly blue, which if only for the international title was the signature of his better third feature Betty Blue) stand out through carefully placed intense lighting. A wild, fun, and unpredictable film.

The Village Voice [Nathan Lee]

In the spring of 1981, Jean-Jacques Beineix unveiled his debut film in Paris: a brash, snazzy thriller about the infatuation of a sullen young deliveryman (Frédéric Andrei) with a reclusive opera diva (Wilhelmenia Wiggins Fernandez), the high-quality bootleg he makes at one of her performances, and the dizzy dilemmas that ensue. Conspicuously clever and shamelessly glam, Diva contrived a neo-new-wave sensibility with a post-Pop gloss that came to be known as "cinéma du look," a Franglais label for the micro-movement of super-stylish, unabashedly romantic pictures made throughout the '80s by a clique of bright young things including Beineix, Luc Besson, and Leos Carax.

"The reviews were horrible," Beineix recalls in the press notes for the 25th- anniversary re-release, which opens at Film Forum in a fresh, newly subtitled print. Lingering in theaters a full year after its premiere, Diva gradually became a hometown hit; by the time it opened in New York, it was a critical and popular phenomenon. If Beineix's garish pop aesthetic was ahead of its time, it wasn't by much. Five months after the Paris release, the small-screen equivalent of "cinéma du look" began broadcasting on the newfangled cable network MTV.

Half a century later, a glut of über-groovy meta-thrillers has blunted the novelty of Diva, but its gamboling flair is still a kick. The breezy, harebrained plot spins out from a mix-up over a pair of audio tapes: the opera bootleg made by Jules (Andrei) to be savored in the privacy of his impeccably disheveled loft, and the one he discovers in a side pocket of his scooter, stashed there by a prostitute before she was killed for its contents—testimony that implicates police chief Saporta (Jacques Fabbri) in a white-slavery ring.

Beineix arranges his characters into teams and patterns the action of Diva from their overlapping agendas. Saporta dispatches a pair of ineffectual cops to investigate the dead hooker, and a goofy thug duo to retrieve the incriminating tape. On the run, Jules falls in with a benevolent eccentric named Gorodish and his sassy companion Alba, a prepubescent gamine fond of roller-skating around their modernist mansion in transparent ponchos. Meanwhile, two shady Taiwanese music pirates lurk outside scheming for the bootleg, a cat named Ayatollah pads her way through the footloose funhouse, and Beineix keeps going, fearless and foolish, piling extravagance on extravagance.

DVD Times Noel Megahey

Filmbrain Like Anna Karina’s Sweater

Epinions [metalluk]

Diva High-Tech Sexual Politics, by Ernece B. Kelly from Jump Cut

New York Sun [Nicolas Rapold]

Reel.com DVD review [Pam Grady]

not coming to a theater near you Victoria Large

eFilmCritic.com (Jay Seaver)

Monsters and Critics Ron Wilkinson

Philadelphia Weekly [Matt Prigge]

DVD Authority Fusion 3600

Edinburgh U Film Society [Mark Radice]

Salon.com [Andrew O'Hehir]

San Francisco Chronicle Leba Hertz

Chicago Tribune (Sid Smith)

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times in 1982

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times in 2008

Read the New York Times Review » Vincent Canby

BETTY BLUE A- 94

aka: 37°2 Le Matin

France (120 mi) 1986 Director’s Cut: (185 mi)

I had known Betty for a week ... The forecast was for storms

Roger Ebert and his ilk dismiss this as nothing more than soft-core porn disguised as an art film, listed at one time as one of his most hated films, but viewers should look further. First and foremost, this is Béatrice Dalle’s first film, an incendiary French actress who always pushes her characters to the edge and sometimes beyond, and this is no exception. She rivals Isabelle Huppert not in the quality of films she’s made, but in finding roles that are unusually “out there” and in her devastatingly unique performances of damaged souls. Her relationship with Jean-Hughes Anglade, as Betty and Zorg, is idealistically intense. And as they both prance around the set naked for a good portion of the film, drinking, having sex, eating, laughing, arguing, or just enjoying one another’s company, they certainly come across as a free-spirited couple, which is telegraphed right from the outset. Some may remember the graphic eye-opening sex scene, but what I remember is the gorgeous setting on a beach in a run down, yet idyllic beach house perfectly captured in sumptuous photography by Jean-Francois Robin. It is a perfect sunny day where the colors couldn’t be more captivating, the tone is utterly clear and bright, and this is the setting where the audience is drawn into the lives of Betty and Zorg, a young couple that believe they were made for each other. Also of unusual interest is the hauntingly beautiful musical theme that Zorg introduces on the piano, a simple melody that feels like it’s floating on air and recurs throughout the rest of the film, utterly gorgeous, a lilting melody we can’t seem to get out of our heads. As it turns out, it bears a striking similarity to a similar theme used in Abderrahmane Sissako’s WAITING FOR HAPPINESS (2002), which is among the most beautiful songs I’ve ever heard, “Djôrôlen” by Oumou Sangare oumou sangare djorolen (worry anxiety) YouTube (6:43) from Mali on her 1996 album “Worotan” which was released ten years after this film. On the film soundtrack, written by Gabriel Yared, the song is listed twice in different versions under the song names “C’est le vent, Betty” and “Bungalow Zen.” But the simple piano melody without any elaborate orchestration expresses it best, Betty Blue (37°2 Le Matin) YouTube (2:36).

The film is based on the Phillipe Dijan novel 37 Degrees 2 Le Matin, a writer whose every novel according to Amazon sells a million copies in France alone, also popular in both Germany and Great Britain, but is utterly overlooked in the United States. This is essentially a love story told in two film versions, where the shorter version accentuates Betty while the longer Director’s Cut more prominently features Zorg, a strategy also utilized in Fassbinder’s BOLWEISER (The Stationmaster’s Wife) in 1977, which similarly features a longer three hour film version of a dissolution of a marriage in two parts that accentuates the cuckolded husband (Kurt Raab in his final Fassbinder performance), eventually revised to a shorter two hour TV version that accentuates the cheating wife (Elisabeth Trissenaar). In each case I prefer the longer versions, as the style of filmmaking is exceptionally high quality and the devastation at the end of each is ultimately more powerful with the longer, slower build up which accentuates character and mood. The two hour version of BETTY BLUE feels like it’s rushing to its ominous conclusion, feeling somehow overwhelmed, while the director’s cut emphasizes the slowness of the recurring musical refrain alongside unbearably long silences. No explanation is given for Betty’s sudden retreat from reality, but the audience is able to share in Zorg’s own equally bizarre mood swings which border on the surreal.

Beineix has a painterly eye for composition, freely moving his camera around to match the mood and energy of this breezy young couple barely in their twenties, intermixing solitary houses and landscapes with populated urban street scenes along with the more intimate intermingling of faces and bodies. Dalle and Anglade are both terrific at making their relationship feel effortless and natural with simple gestures like eye contact, embraces, body language, their shared appreciation for food and incessant humor with one another, where they are clearly inordinately close and genuinely captivated by being in love, even as Betty exhibits a volatile temper prone to acts of violence. From the outset on the beach, remembering how Betty sauntered into that door with breathtaking sexuality and allure, one would think this had the makings of an idyllic relationship, but far from it, the film turns the tables and really features in intimate detail one of the more dysfunctional couples ever captured onscreen, as Betty’s happiness turned tortuous behavior defies comprehension, especially for the man who loves her, who’s twisted all out of sorts himself trying to cope with her outrageously difficult demands, confounded by her irrepressible beauty and childlike vulnerability. Dalle’s Betty is the kind of woman who completely embraces life to the fullest, whose effervescent spirit and boundless energy make her the object of every man’s desire, the center of attention, a woman impossible to resist, and God created woman, leaving Zorg no choice in the matter except to love her whole-heartedly every second of every day. It’s a mad world where nothing makes sense except being in the throes of love. Very few films capture that “need to love” quite like this one, especially that soaring elevation where we’re suddenly left flying without a net wondering how in the world we ever got up there, completely clueless how to get back down.

DVD Savant [Glenn Erickson] also seen here: Turner Classic Movies

This beautifully-photographed softcore love story must have seemed long at its original two-hour release length, but although the extra hour of material broadens the film, it still plays like an overwrought excuse for steamy sex scenes. The two attractive leads are fully-frontal nude on camera for at least thirty minutes, and the sex contact is real even if the copulating is simulated ... I stress the "if." Otherwise it's a standard failed relationship film with two or three extremely awkward passages.

Beachfront handyman Zorg (Jean-Hugues Anglade) is happy living in a shack with his extremely sex-minded girlfriend Betty (Béatrice Dalle), but she's a capricious and unstable nut just as likely to fly into a rage as give him a kiss. After outraging Zorg's boss, Betty sets the shack ablaze, forcing the two of them to flee to Paris and the house of Betty's friend Lisa (Consuelo De Haviland). When Lisa finds a wildly funny boyfriend of her own, restaurant owner Eddy (Gérard Darmon), the foursome has a fun time partying, even though Betty's behavior continues to be a problem. She types up the manuscript of Zorg's novel and distributes it to publishers, whose negative responses make her even more volatile. When Eddy's mother dies, Zorg and Betty take over her country piano store. But no calm comes to the relationship. Betty shows signs of dementia when her hoped-for pregnancy turns out to be a false alarm; Zorg robs a bank for money to make her happy but it's already too late.

Betty Blue starts out almost as a lark, a dreamy idyll of youth and sex. Zorg has found the girl of his dreams, a sexy she-cat who seemingly wants to do little more than jump in the sack 24-7. But there's a hitch; Betty is impossible to live with and quickly ruins their simple beach situation through unpredictably hostile behavior like hurling a bucket of house paint onto the car of Zorg's boss.

Betty loves Zorg in her own way, even if she expresses that dedication by destroying his possessions and making him into a fugitive. Enamored of the idea that he's a writer, she types his manuscript and sends it off expecting a miracle sale in the return mail. When that doesn't happen Betty goes from delightfully appealing to dangerously violent. She pushes a man off a stairway, slashes a publisher on the face, and later stabs a restaurant patron with a fork. Zorg is philosophical about it all: "Betty's okay. She just has problems when things don't turn out the way she wants. She lives in a different world." At one point he absently chalks her erratic behavior up to menstrual hysteria.

But it's really mental illness, and Betty goes off the deep end during a long process that lets our ever-loving couple get starkers at a minimum of once a reel. In the tradition of l'amour fou, they remain committed to one another beyond normal reason, but Betty Blue fumbles its final hour with an out-of-left-field armored car robbery. Zorg dresses up as a woman, making nonsense of the realism of what's come before. The loot doesn't shake Betty from her increasing catatonia, but she never bugged him for a lot of money in the first place so why he thought it would help is a mystery. The ending is downbeat but daring, marred only by the expected scene where Zorg sits down to write his next novel, which (surprise) is this very same story of Betty Blue ...

The two leads are very convincing in the sweaty and loud lovemaking scenes, and handle the dramatics well enough. Director Beineix is good at everything except his pacing and that unwelcome bank robbery scene. I never saw the short version, but it looks as though some of the new material shows Zorg covering up for Betty's crimes with the local constable, and dealing with his eccentric neighbors.

Columbia TriStar's Betty Blue looks lovely, with great detail in the, uh, flesh tones. The enhanced image has beautiful color and the track highlights Gabriel Yared's sparse, airy score. There aren't any extras.

DVD Times [Noel Megahey]

The full director’s cut of Betty Blue (37°2 Le Matin) has to date only been available France without English subtitles, so it’s very pleasing to see Australian company Madman releasing a reasonably good region 0 encoded disk of the version intégrale of the film.

Handyman Zorg (Jean-Hugues Anglade) has his life turned around when he meets wild and impulsive Betty (Béatrice Dalle). She finds a manuscript for a novel he has written and is convinced he is too talented to be wasting his life painting holiday shacks for a sleazy and manipulative boss. She torches the shack they live in and they drive off to live a life on their own terms waiting for Zorg’s writing talent to be recognised. Betty, however, seems to become more and more prone to bouts of deep depression as things don’t go as planned, manifesting itself in increasingly violent outbursts.

Jean Jacques Beineix’s earlier success Diva, with its unusual mix of larger than life characters and an unconventional plot (the lead character makes bootleg recordings of a famous unrecorded opera singer and becomes mixed up with a couple of gangsters) became a cult classic. Betty Blue had even more unusual characters and a plot with even more sex and violence, and unsurprisingly was very successful indeed. It received an Academy Award nomination in 1987 and has been one of the most successful and well-known of French language films enjoying a cult status in countries not normally receptive to subtitled foreign-language films. It is not hard to see why. A well-paced plot full of action, drama, humour and romance, two young beautiful lead actors who rarely have their clothes on and a supporting cast full of memorable characters and performances.

Béatrice Dalle is incandescent as Betty and looks absolutely stunning as she walks around naked or scantily clad for most of the film with a carefree insouciance. Her sudden violent outbursts are alternately amusing and shocking, but utterly convincing. Jean-Hugues Anglade is superb, struggling to control the whirlwind that is Betty, who has enlivened and enriched his life but also threatens to destroy it. The supporting cast are without exception wonderful and hilarious. Even the smallest of roles are brilliantly delineated and characterised. The publisher who has rubbished Zorg’s manuscript, the sympathetic cop who is also a struggling writer of detective novels, the over-zealous cop with a love of fatherhood, Eddy Stromboli (Gérard Darmon) the pizza parlour owner, the guard who eagerly ties himself up when Zorg, dressed in drag attempts to rob the security company, and there is a lovely cameo from Dominique Pinon (Diva, Delicatessen, City Of Lost Children) as a surf loving drug dealer. The list goes on and on...

Watching it again on DVD, Betty Blue looks wonderful. The film is very well-paced despite its length. It also seems to have aged better than Diva, which I thought looked a little dated when I watched it again earlier this year. Only some of the clothes in the scenes in Paris give any indication of the mid-eighties when this was filmed. The film is 16:9 anamorphically enhanced and appears to be presented in the correct ratio of 1.66:1. Generally, the picture looks terrific with colours balanced and unsaturated, and sunsets glow a beautiful golden colour which predominates the summer settings of the film. The print is not perfect, however – dust spots and marks are frequently visible, but never to an extent where they become irritating or intrusive and the picture on the whole remains free from grain.

The soundtrack is straightforward Dolby Digital 2.0 and it performs very well. Subtitles are clear and removable and I only noticed a few curiosities in the translation. Occasionally lines are not translated, and although I understand that it is not desirable to subtitle every line of dialogue otherwise you end up reading the film instead of watching it, there were some odd omissions from the French script.

Unlike the French special edition which contained a commentary and a making of feature, there are not a great deal of extras on the Australian edition. The trailer is presented non-anamorphically without subtitles, there are profiles of Beineix, Dalle and Anglade and a short 6 page text interview with Beineix speaking about the film. Trailers are included for other Madman releases. The menus are very nice, showing variations on the poster design with moving images of the main characters and playing the moody saxophone theme from the film.

It’s not a perfect release. Extras are few and a re-mastering of the picture and sound would be nice, but you get the full three hour running time of the version intégrale and it is available for not much more than a tenner from several Australian dealers, so overall it’s quite a satisfying package.

Raging Bull [Mike Lorefice]

“Life’s got it in for me. As soon as I want something, I realize I can’t have it.” – Betty

Perhaps the key to Jean-Jacques Beineix’s work lies in the fact he’s also a painter. Beineix shapes reality to his liking, making it grander, more bizarre and symbolic. His feature films tend to be purposely overblown, melding thriller, comedy, eroticism, farce, irony, surrealism, and meditation all artistically stylized into a series of wacky, and in this case tragic, episodes that are highly accessible.

Beineix isn’t too interested in logic or reality. He’s original for reshaping things in an entertaining way. He inserts Godardian asides, Woody Allen sketches, whatever his imagination cooks up for the fun of it. In the case of Diva and Betty Blue, many people around the world enthusiastically joined in.

Everything is left open for interpretation. Betty may be nothing more than a figment of Zorg’s imaginative mind, a character in the novel he’s writing. This isn’t really a film to ponder though. You get swept away by the mood, Gabriel Yared’s catchy carnival theme, the palpable heat, and the painterly framing and use of color to illuminate and contrast. Love it or hate it, it’s an experience, and that alone puts it above the predictable standardized assaults that fill the screens at the box office near you, and those near everyone else.

Zorg (Jean Hugues Anglade) is an easy-going ennui ridden handyman who probably wrote a novel to attain or regain some sense of being alive. We suspect the publishers may well be right about him being a lousy writer because he shows no great intelligence or gift for language and description, but to naive Betty he’s surely the greatest living author, and she loves him that much more for it. High-strung fiercely independent Betty (Beatrice Dalle) completes Zorg in every way, but as is always the case some of what Zorg was missing he was better off without.

Anything or anyone who tries to reign in freedom loving Betty in any way is liable to set her off. The 20-year-old is passionate about everything, which makes her a great lover, but she’s still in child in many ways, throwing tantrums when things don’t go her way. When Betty’s intense, often violent rage against those who offend her doesn’t achieve the desired results, she increasingly battles herself with self-destruction graduating to self-mutilation.

From the outset, their personalities almost dictate that Zorg cannot win. But when you in love, or perhaps in need, you are willing to lose because at least you are still playing the game. Betty is a dominant unstable force who won’t be changed, so Zorg doesn’t even try. He initially sits by and watches, but eventually winds up coddling her deficiencies and taking on some of her traits unstable traits. Zorg constantly struggles to keep things afloat, as Betty is such a high maintenance bridge burner they can rarely stay in any area long enough for him to settle into a job, much less establish himself.

The 2-hour version with all the dreamy artistic scenes focuses more on Betty’s descent into madness, while the 3-hour version adds scenes of day to day life and shifts the focus to Zorg’s desperate attempts to protect his fragile love. He loves her unconditionally, and as such will do anything to keep them together. It’s through the dull monotony of daily rituals that we understand why he doesn’t dump the nutcase and return to his empty solitary life. Not only is she the only one that believes in him, her presence brightens and enlivens his life in so many ways. They have really good times together, but unfortunately they too often go remarkably bad.

Few films match the passion of Betty Blue in any regard. 37°2 le matin is actually a love story, and that’s a key to it being so hot. I think one reason few erotic films are respected is they are rarely about people who are together for any length of time. Sex and nudity are more or less eliminated from cinematic depictions of those relationships; it’s like taking a dump, you hopefully do it regularly enough there’s no point in showing it. And there’s certainly a puritanical faction that doesn’t want to promote what keeps partners as partners (unless it’s all about the beloved children). A war movie and an action movie can both be about violence, but it’s like a romance must be about love and thus can’t have too much sex and erotica must be about sex and thus can’t have too much sex. I realize this sounds stupid, but how many nudity filled movies have you seen that weren’t either the Last Tango in Paris anonymous screwing until it gets old or the Basic Instinct sex equals violence and death? Yet if you think about it, a lot of the sexiest movies don’t have any nudity (for reasons other than the performers wouldn’t do any or the producers knew it needed to be a PG-13) and there’s nothing less erotic than porn. The point is whether you express something through it, which Beineix does through his color coding and the actors do in every way. The fiery romantic passion is the highlight for their slow days, and we sense Zorg knows he couldn’t get that from a woman as laid back as himself, but in a sense Betty’s problem is she cannot choose where to channel her passion. The slowness and dullness of the long hot days leads to it being directed elsewhere, against others and ultimately herself.

The chemistry between the leads is superb. They are so comfortable with themselves and each other, we believe this is a truly deep bond. No matter how private the moment, they are so relaxed (maybe not the best description of Dalle, but she displays no tension beyond that which her character is supposed to). It never seems like Anglade and Dalle are being filmed; they are not the least bit self-conscious. Natural beauty Dalle goes around half-naked like someone who, having grown up on a tropical deserted island, had no reason to dress, and isn’t in a Hollywood movie where no frame of nipple can be left uncovered by the hair extensions. Considering her passionate protests and run ins with the law, perhaps this is Dalle’s best performance because it isn’t as far from the truth as we’d hope. In any case, it’s one of the great debut performances. Anglade is sensitive and caring enough to keep fighting for the woman who fights for him and his novel whether he wants her to or not. It’s through his mix of confidence and desire that we don’t laugh him off the screen when we know he’s acting as crazy as Betty to try to save her, and them.

An insanely independent spirit losing her mind and eventually leading to a mercy killing when she’ll never be Betty again, never be free, is far more credible than exhausting every sports movie and sexist overcoming cliche for the vast majority of the film then, with a sudden highly contrived turn, allowing Clint Eastwood to make his calculated highly manipulative and incredibly cheap political points. I don’t have any issue with assisted suicide, I balk at the shadiness of the incorporation. I can make this review have as much to do with mercy killing as Million Dollar Baby simply by ending with the statement that my coach is going to put me out of my misery now.

DVD Talk [John Wallis]

DVD Verdict [Dan Mancini]

Reel.com DVD review [Sarah Chauncey]

filmcritic.com Christopher Null

Movie House Commentary Johnny Web

Edinburgh U Film Society [Stephen Cox]

Mondo Digital

Washington Post [Paul Attanasio]

Washington Post [Rita Kempley]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

Bêka, Ila and Louise Lemoine

THE INFINITE HAPPINESS B 85

aka: The Infinite Contentment

France Denmark (85 mi) 2015 Official Website

While this is an architecture documentary on Copenhagen's “8 House,” a sleek, ultramodern design by Danish architect Bjarke Ingels of an eight-shaped house filled with glass windowed apartments for 500 residents that is as notable for the unique look and shape of the building, but the Danish and French filmmakers spent 21 days living on the premises to get a better feel of the effect it has on the residents living there. Rather than focus on explaining the structure of the building and its technical details, instead the filmmakers offer us a glimpse inside, creating a more intimate experience of how it is viewed as “home.” Going through a series of short vignettes, the film offers portraits of some of the many residents (and their pets) living there, each introduced by title, with colored highlights clearly indicating what portion of the building is being featured. While one resident can’t speak glowingly enough about the “mad genius” that created this living experience, cocktail in hand, suggesting there is nowhere else like it in the world. As if to prove it, we witness one man traverse the connected loop of all nine floors on a unicycle, where his skill at making some especially sharp turns is impressive, suggesting there is a certain joy and unique freedom simply by moving about the structure itself, while in another incident, we watch a mailman attempt to deliver a package, quickly getting lost, having to return to the spot of origin and trying again, scrutinizing a map on the ground level. It’s almost as if the address numbers are in a code that needs to be broken, as they are not simply listed by floor. Later we see a local deli make these gigantic bacon cheeseburgers with the works, where a kid is seen making an immediate delivery, but he’s even more confounded than the mailman, literally getting lost in a labyrinthian maze of wrong turns and blocked exits, becoming an absurd expression of utter futility. As we watch a Pilate’s class in session, where the natural daylight brightness adds something cheerful to the workout experience, everyone has an open view of the outdoors, where you almost don’t feel like you’re “inside.” The building is surrounded by a flat expanse, where there is a fenced-in herd of sheep nearby, also a small lake next to the building, offering fabulous views for fortunate residents, where we see a stream of perfectly decorated, Architecture Digest style rooms, both living rooms and bedrooms, whose main feature is the extraordinary view overlooking the lake, once again accentuating the natural splendor of the outdoors as seen from the inside.

Perhaps the most impressive aspect of this film is the witty choices of music, where there’s a clever, tongue-in-cheek irony associated with nearly every one, a touch of whimsy, where music plays a humorous counterpoint, where we listen to the familiar refrains from Carmen as we’re being introduced to a playful dog with a toy in his mouth, continually dropping it at the feet of the cameraman, then making a mad dash after it, happily retreating with the toy in his mouth, faithfully dropping it each time, and as the cameraman moves back, the dog scoops up the toy and brings it back to his feet, becoming a ritualized dance between man and animal that has cuteness written all over it. Serving coffee on a patio outdoors, we are introduced to a successful middle-aged career woman who travels frequently, indicating she has a home in Juvet (home of the Juvet Landscape Hotel, The Hotel - Juvet, an utterly spectacular Norwegian hotel that is one of the architectural wonders of the world, featured as the Alaskan home in the recent film Ex Machina), but needed another home close to the Copenhagen airport that she could use primarily as an office. Over time, however, she found herself spending more of her time here, which she attributes to the social architecture aspects of the building, which encourages communal living, greeting neighbors regularly, as you can’t leave your home without at least recognizing them. Residents don’t even lock their doors, as they trust everyone, feeling no fear of break-ins, as crime is apparently not a factor in their lives. We see a piano tuner, a man that restores old pianos by rebuilding them literally one key at a time, where we only learn afterwards that he’s blind. There’s an amusing sequence showing the arrival of a handyman, one of the retired residents in the building who is always on call, offering his services (for free) in the spirit of being helpful, as he has the tools and wherewithal to fix things that are broken, while also feeling generous with his time. We see him easily drill a hole in a cement wall in order to hang a picture, but the homeowner is such a klutz he can’t figure out how to hang the picture, fumbling around for a minute or two before he finally gets it.

Of course animals are always popular, where we see a gorgeous white furry cat that seems to have the run of the place, as there are easily accessible gardens leading to an open field, so there are plenty of grounds to explore. This particular cat eyes an easy target hiding in the shrubs and darts after it, returning back to the sidewalk, bird in mouth, and promptly gulps the whole thing down right on camera, leaving only a feather hanging out of its mouth before scurrying back to the apartment complex, running up and down stairs, turning corners, seemingly wandering endlessly before finally entering a little cat door of his home. While the residents are obviously financially successful, there is a mix of older and younger, where one of the best features in the film is capturing the joyous lives of children (as perhaps only the French can do so well). We see them in class painting pictures, following several as they are just developing some ideas before then seeing the final product on display, a bright and colorful array of youthful optimism. Next they all gather together, faces painted and decorated, for a Halloween-style scavenger hunt, following clues provided of an escaped mad goblin on the loose, but is still lurking nearby, so their goal is to find him. It’s a sight to behold to see them scampering around the premises, running with a reckless abandon, screaming at the top of their lungs, where they are clearly excited by this game. But just a few moments later, one of the adult leaders of the hunt has to reassure them that the ghosts and goblins aren’t real, that she made them up for this game to play, as they were petrified they were going to be eaten, or something terrible was going to happen to them. The children are delightful and they are beautifully captured by the filmmakers. In contrast, we visit a couple living in a penthouse suite at the top, offering supreme views of the vast expanse. But he’s troubled, on the verge of a heart attack, claiming he has to deal with the rudeness of tourists who routinely break into his private outdoor deck to take photos, arriving in tour buses, ignoring the keep out signs (written in three languages), stepping over the locked chain to invade his privacy, claiming his security camera has captured over 1400 invaders in just two months. So apparently all is not bliss and infinite happiness remains a dream as yet unrealized by those at the top.

What to see at the 51st Chicago International Film Festival ... Ben Sachs from the Chicago Reader

Documentary makers Ila Bêka and Louise Lemoine explore the 8 House in suburban Copenhagen, a large mixed-use development built in the shape of a figure eight. The building contains residences, storefronts, a kindergarten, and public gardens, all connected by bike lanes and mazelike stairwells; the film's structure consists of short segments that jump from one spot to another and evoke the feeling of getting blissfully lost. The filmmakers address some of the fundamental questions of social architecture—How do architects achieve a balance between form and function? How do they work with the landscapes surrounding their creations?—while offering pleasant thumbnail portraits of many residents. In English and subtitled Danish.

THE INFINITE HAPPINESS | Metalocus

Since the couple Ila Bêka and Louise Lemoine gained to fame with their documentary film, "Koolhaas House Life" everybody wants to have a film made by these directors. Bjarke Ingels not want to be less and produced "The Infinitie Happiness".

Living Architectures note presents the film in the following terms. - “Inhabiting for about a month the ‘8 House,’ by Bjarke Ingels Group, Ila Bêka and Louise Lemoine recount in a diary style their subjective experience of living inside this experiment of ‘vertical village.’ As a Lego game, the film builds up a collection of life stories all interconnected by their personal relation to the building. The film draws the lines of a human map which allows the viewer to discover the building through an inner and intimate point of view.”

The Infinite Happiness | Docaviv 2015

Is it an awesome piece of art conceived in madness? A social experiment? An attempt to introduce a southern lifestyle to the frigid north? Regardless of what it actually is, most people who live in the “8 House” are infatuated with their home. Some 500 people inhabit this unusual building – a loop of apartments, built by architect Bjarke Ingels in Copenhagen. They can go up and down all nine floors by riding their bikes, coming face to face with cows and sheep, and go for a hike on the lush green roof, getting lost among its paths. The directors of this film spent 21 days in the building, getting to know the local community. They met the resident who writes love poems to the building, the man who became so upset by the tourists coming in to photograph his balcony that he had a heart attack, the children convinced that they live in a magical kingdom somewhere in outer space, and the delivery boy who gets lost in the corridors for hours, while he tries to figure out who ordered a hamburger.

Architecture Criticism By the People, For the ... - ArchDaily Architecture Criticism By the People, For the People: The Films of Ila Bêka and Louise Lemoine, by Veronique Vienne, also seen at Metropolis magazine here: Game Changers 2015: Ila Bêka and Louise Lemoine

Selected as one of Metropolis Magazine's Game Changers for 2015, Ila Bêka and Louise Lemoine are altering the face of architectural criticism thanks to one simple premise: you don't need to be an expert to have an opinion on the buildings you live with every day. In the following profile, originally published by Metropolis as “Game Changers 2015: Ila Bêka and Louise Lemoine,” Veronique Vienne uncovers what it takes to instil such a simple idea with both subtle poignancy and razor-sharp wit.

If walls could talk, what stories would they tell, not only about our intimate selves but also about our cultural assumptions, our social interactions, and the values we cherish most? Short of getting the inside story directly from walls, filmmakers Ila Bêka, 45, and Louise Lemoine, 33, strike up conversations with that other silent cast: the people who sweep the rooms, wash the windows, fix the leaks, and change the light bulbs.

“Our goal is to democratize the highbrow language of architectural criticism,” says Bêka, an architect and filmmaker trained in Italy and France. “Free speech on the topic of architecture is not the exclusive property of experts.”

For the last five years, the pair has interviewed countless individuals in charge of maintaining a number of landmark buildings designed by renowned architects, from Auguste Perret to Frank Gehry.

They’ve talked to employees such as concierges, cleaning ladies, repairmen, security-system installers, and house painters, but also residents, neighbors, dog walkers, and occasional tourists eager to get a tour of the premises. The result is Living Architectures, a series of documentaries on important buildings as seen through the eyes of everyday people. No talking heads, no voice-over, no off-camera commentaries—just the raw stuff of lives whose relationship to the built environment is as much part of the architecture as the walls, the windows, or the roofs.

The first film, Koolhaas Houselife, was shown at the Venice Architecture Biennial in 2008. Having now earned cult status, it features Guadalupe Acedo, the formidable housekeeper who cares for a villa near Bordeaux, France. A masterpiece of contemporary architecture designed by Rem Koolhaas’ OMA in 1998, the structure is beginning to show some wear and tear and requires significant upkeep. Fifty years after Mon Oncle, the documentary has been described as an accidental remake of Jacques Tati's iconic comedy. But far from being candid, the humoristic tone of the film is mired in ambiguity. “There are many funny sequences in it,” says Bêka, “but our intent is serious. We are exploring the impact of architecture on people’s daily existence, as well as their sense of self.”

This first foray into cinéma vérité was not meant to be a critique of contemporary architecture, but rather of the kind of architectural criticism that prevails today. Instead of reflecting on the discourses of the architects and how they meet their objectives, the filmmakers assessed the results from the point of view of the users— people who, for the most part, have no grasp of the theoretical issues at stake.

Lemoine, a French filmmaker who also studied philosophy, knows how difficult it is to do fieldwork. “Our challenge, when we approach strangers in the streets, is to earn their trust,” she says. “But people relax as soon as they understand that we are artists, not journalists.” Self-financing, a deliberate choice, assured creative freedom, but getting access to the architectural projects was never easy. The filmmakers turned their reduced budget and low profile into a signature style—tightly edited sequences of short epigrammatic scenes that never belabor the point, exquisitely understated interior shots, and unexpected soundtracks that contribute to the spatial illusion.

After the initial success of Koolhaas Houselife, Bêka and Lemoine were able to shoot four more independent films, arrange for their limited distribution in festivals, and produce a handsome box set along with a book. Pomerol, Herzog & de Meuron is a documentary about a dining hall built for party-loving grape pickers in the Bordeaux region. Xmas Meier explores the life of the working-class neighborhood that thrives around Richard Meier’s Jubilee Church in Rome. Gehry’s Vertigo is a cliffhanger, with the camera following a trio of acrobatic window washers working at the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Spain. Inside Piano investigates three of Renzo Piano’s smaller masterpieces: the B&B Italia Offices, the underground IRCAM center in Paris, and the Fondation Beyeler in Basel.

Some scenes are precious ontological moments. The carefree concierge of the Auguste Perret apartment building runs up and down the stairs all day long, like a good-natured hamster in a cage. A maid, during a break sweeping the floor of the Giacometti gallery at the Fondation Beyeler, sings a doleful ballad. The animated conversation of the three Bilbao window washers is completely blocked out by a racket of pneumatic drills. And the priest of the Jubilee Church, in the middle of an eloquent speech, inadvertently knocks down the broom and the dustpan that one of the volunteer cleaners forgot to put away.

Today, Bêka and Lemoine are accepting commissions from architects, museums, and art institutions. The scale of their projects has changed—they now can tackle larger architectural complexes and spend more time doing research. A recent film is Barbicania, a collage of 30 video portraits shot during a month-long exploration of the Brutalist Barbican Estate in London. In the works is an assignment from Bjarke Ingels Group (BIG) for the mixed-use development 8 House in Copenhagen—a lively self-contained neighborhood built in horizontal layers. “Likewise, we will structure our film as a layering of micro cells,” says Lemoine.

But with success, will they still be able to deliver those fragile magic moments? And as they gather accolades, will their unencumbered vision of architecture still offer an antidote to academic jargon? “Regardless of the size of the project, we spend a lot of time listening to what people have to say,” says Bêka. The quality of the images in their films, he contends, is the reflection of the quality of their listening. “We are all ears when they talk, and they feel it.”

Beka & Lemoine

Living Architectures - Facebook

Ila Bêka - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Bjarke Ingels Group - Official Site

Bekmambetov, Timur

NIGHT WATCH (Nochnoy dozor)

Russia (114 mi) 2004

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson) review

This Russian film, with elements of sci-fi, horror and fantasy, became the top-grossing movie in its home country, defeating even the mighty Lord of the Rings trilogy. Director Timur Bekmambetov has already completed a sequel, and Part 3 is soon to follow.

Night Watch begins with a flashback, explaining that, after a great battle, the forces of darkness and light came to an uneasy truce. Night Watchers would keep an eye on the forces of darkness, and Day Watchers would do the same for the forces of light. This has continued throughout history until Anton (Konstantin Khabensky) steps into the picture. Before he realizes his destiny as a Night Watcher, he pays for a magical spell to get his wife back. Years later, he accidentally kills a vampire in a battle. Those two incidents are somehow connected, plus the Apocalypse is coming and an ancient prophecy is about to come true. Additionally, Anton partners up with a woman who, as a form of punishment, was turned into an owl.

Bekmambetov photographs everything in great swirls of blue-gray; his camera jumps and soars during fight scenes, and when a car engine starts, we see all the pistons and turbines firing and spinning (shades of The Fast and the Furious). Even the animated subtitles appear to bow to the commands of the characters' wills. Indeed, Night Watch has a great deal going on, and it's all an attempt to cover up the fact that, underneath all the sound and fury, there's very little to care about. We've seen many stories about prophecies and apocalypses (Ghostbusters is one very similar example), and Night Watch doesn't try anything new.

However, the extreme hype is partly to blame for this disappointment, and if an evening of mindless entertainment is all that's required, viewers could do a lot worse.

by Eric Hynes Night Watch from Cinema Scope

Pajiba (Daniel Carlson) review

Slant Magazine review Nick Schager

filmcritic.com (Chris Barsanti) review [3.5/5]

SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review review [4/5] Richard Scheib

filmcritic.com (Don Willmott) review [3/5]

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Dan Heaton) dvd review

Slate (Stephen Metcalf) review

Movie-Vault.com (Avril Carruthers) review

www.european-films.net (Boyd van Hoeij) review

Film Freak Central review Walter Chaw

ReelViews (James Berardinelli) review [2.5/4]

Twitch review Canfield

Reel.com review [2.5/4] James Emanuel Shapiro

Bright Lights Film Journal review Gary Morris

Austin Chronicle (Marjorie Baumgarten) review [2.5/5]

Los Angeles Times (Kenneth Turan) review

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [2/4]

The New York Times (Stephen Holden) review

DVDBeaver dvd review [Blu-Ray Version]

Bekolo, Jean-Pierre

ARISTOTLE’S PLOT (Le complot d'Aristote) F 25

France Zimbabwe (72 mi) 1996

Truly laughable, uninteresting, and uninspiring film that has an interesting guitar riff at the beginning with some novel use of in-your-face profanity, but beyond that, this is a real dud about an African filmmaker, a cineaste, who has to fight the gangsters in his town who prefer to watch American films, complete with all the American movie cliché’s, featuring the memorable lyrics: “You’re scripting your life like a cineaste, while you’re nothing but a silly ass.”

Bell, Lake

IN A WORLD… C+ 77

USA (93 mi) 2013 Official site

A somewhat offbeat, thoroughly likeable, but inordinately generic indie film about the competitive world of trailer voiceovers, a traditionally male-oriented business in Hollywood apparently owned by Don LaFontaine, an American voice actor famous for making over 5000 trailers along with hundreds of thousands of television commercials before his death in 2008, opening the door for new talent that includes women, generating a crack in the glass ceiling, a premise that should work a lot better than it does. While Bell’s ability to do voices is hilariously goofy, especially when she’s seen with her hand recorder tracking down the sounds of people on the street speaking in different accents, literally mesmerized by the diverse inflections of the human voice. Writer, director, producer, and lead actress Lake Bell suggest a major investment into what must be a highly personalized project. Often feeling like it wants to be a Miranda July movie, but the plain truth is it’s not nearly as quirky or inventive, feeling more drawn by the numbers despite winning the Sundance Waldo Salt Screenwriting Award, supposedly “For its laugh out loud comedic moments, its memorably drawn characters and its shrewd social commentary.” Outside of the obvious message that women can do equally well what men do in the voiceover business, the material is surprisingly thin, taking a cynically self-centered, dysfunctional family drama and turning it into a gooey and marshmellowy feelgood moment by the end that is the equivalent of a group hug. Based on everything that comes before, nothing changes, as it takes more than a public thank you to repair a lifetime of permanently undercutting generations of broken dreams.

Fred Melamed is excellent as the self righteously overbearing but continually deluded father Sam, the man that got his daughter Carol (Lake Bell) interested in doing movie voiceovers in the first place, where she’s following in her father’s footsteps, but he constantly reminds her the industry isn’t ready yet for a woman’s voice. Yet the film is shown through the eyes of his daughter, who has a ridiculously expressive range of voices, some laugh out loud funny while others express the dulcet tones of a professional announcer. While her voice range is the most appealing aspect of the film, accentuated in the trailer 'In a World...' Trailer - YouTube (2:27), Bell also tries to write a meaningful drama about people too nervously self-absorbed to connect with one another. While Sam is about to receive a lifetime achievement award by the trailer voiceover industry, he’s still fuming about being overshadowed by Don LaFontaine throughout his entire career. And while he’s attempting to pass the mantle of his own success to his filthy rich protégée Gustav (Ken Marino), there remain unresolved family issues in his own life, as he’s got a groupie girlfriend Jamie (Alexandra Holden) who’s twenty years younger than he is, something that makes his daughters gag with disgust, still resentful about the way he abandoned their dead mother years ago. After kicking his own daughter out of the house to make room for Jamie, she has nowhere else to turn but to her sister Dani (Michaela Watkins), who’s in the midst of a marital crisis with her husband Moe (Rod Corddry). Everyone’s life seems to be in constant turmoil, all having their own personal issues to deal with.

Despite Carol’s obvious talent, she’s relegated to the role of a speech coach, amusingly seen helping Eva Longoria learn a Cockney accent for a movie scene while also recording her own trailer, aided by her trusted confidant Louis (Demetri Martin), from Ang Lee’s TAKING WOODSTOCK (2009), who is the recording engineer with a secret crush on Carol, but she is too oblivious to see. Carol’s sister Dani works as a hotel concierge, where the Irish brogue of Jason O’Mara, one of the guests at the hotel, inflames the desires of each sister, one for the voice inflection, the other for the constant barrage of flirtatious flattery. When Moe finds out she’s been returning the attention, their marriage is suddenly on fragile grounds. And when Carol lands a prestigious job, the first women to do so, her father nearly chokes on his food, as this does not conform to his view of the universe. Being the competitive bastard that he is, he sets his own ambitions over his daughters and attempts to undermine her success by scoring the job through back door contacts. Little of this is pretty, or funny, but is a scrambled mess of foul intentions and misread motives where the overriding desire to succeed at work clouds their judgment in personal relationships, all of which feeds into an overly somber feeling of gloom hovering over the lighter, more comedic moments. The feelgood superficiality of the finale will be more than some can bear, where Geena Davis, of all people, rarely seen in movies anymore, offers the cliché’d moment of female empowerment where women’s voiceovers in trailers will make a world of difference in the next generation. Not sure this repairs the damage of a lifetime of tarnished ambitions, both personally and professionally, but to the confidently assured sound of Tears for Fears Tears For Fears - "Everybody Wants To Rule The World" - ORIGINAL .. (3:11), not to mention an absurdly comic trailer for the futuristic mega million blockbuster The Amazon Games that features an uncredited Cameron Diaz as the masked Amazon leader, rest assured the future is a much better place.

The House Next Door [Oscar Moralde]

Lake Bell, described by R. Kurt Osenlund as "the knockout who'll yell louder than you at the screen in a sports bar, not to mention drink you under the table," makes her auteur turn in In a World... It's a lovingly crafted character piece in the Hollywood-on-Hollywood mold, set in the apparently cutthroat trailer-voiceover world. Bell, who also writes and directs, plays Carol, a vocal coach who wants to break into the trailer game, now an open field after the death of real-life voiceover king Don LaFontaine. However, she finds that it's a boys' club where she has to contend with the eccentric golden man-child Gustav (Ken Marino) and the patriarchal pomp of her own father, Sam (Fred Melamed).

We spend roughly equal time with Carol's career woes in an industry populated entirely by misfit toys and lost souls, and with her family and relationship troubles; some of those conflicts push the film toward a dramatic register before being yanked back by a goofy character beat. That juggling of moods and tonalities lends the film a lumpiness that wavers between rough-hewn charm and the production of an uncomfortable tension. Overall, the film's flow displays a sketch-and-vignette sensibility working its way through the vastly different demands of a feature. In terms of plotting, the script also leans a bit too heavily on the standard beats of love triangles and struggling artists and family melodrama. There are gestures toward messing around with those conventions that never really come to fruition and are played rather straight instead.

However, as a showcase for Lake Bell and her performative chops, the film certainly succeeds. With able assistance from her Childrens Hospital cohorts and a strong supporting cast, Bell holds the thing together through sheer charisma, and in fact the foibles of the movie only start to show when she absents herself for extended stretches of time. When she's on screen, all the pieces just seem to work; she handles subtle bits of business and the broader strokes of farce with equal aplomb. And in a film so concerned with vocal presence and the rhythm of language, she displays a knack for both snappy one-liners and the give-and-take of sustained banter; her sisterly rapport with Dani (Michaela Watkins) and the extent of their "sister code" are the soul of the film. In a World... is a clear example of talented performers more than making up for thin material; it bears all the marks of a scattershot first feature while revealing the depth of Bell's cinematic talent and potential.

Exclaim! [Daniel Pratt]

With a cute tip of the hat, indie comedy In a World… takes its title from the infamous catch line of voice actor Don LaFontaine, a man whose deep baritone delivery became synonymous with thousands of movie trailers and advertisements.

Known for her role on How to Make It in America and Adult Swim's Children's Hospital, Lake Bell takes charge here, not only writing and directing, but also starring in In a World…. She assumes the role of Carol Solomon, a struggling vocal coach scrambling to establish a career in a male-dominated industry while similarly attempting to step out from the shadow of her father, Sam Sotto (Fred Melamed), the current, reigning "king of the voiceover" since LaFontaine's passing.

When a production company recruits Carol to record a vocal track for an upcoming quadrilogy of films called The Amazon Games (an obvious nod to The Hunger Games, only with Amazonians battling it out to the death), she suddenly finds herself in high demand. She also finds herself in uncharted territory, being legitimate competition for her father and his chauvinistic, upstart protégé, Gustav Warner (Ken Marino).

Initially, the topic of voiceover acting as a template for comedy seems unlikely to drum up many laughs. But Bell's intimate knowledge of the industry and knowing nods to the situations and personalities involved with this world, even exaggerated, prove effective, making for charming hilarity amidst the formulaic predictability.

One such scene has Carol working as a vocal coach for Eva Longoria, attempting to teach her how to do a Cockney British accent. As one might expect, Longoria's faking of such an accent is comedic gold. There are also running gags about a variety of accents and intonations, most hilariously, about women who do the "sexy baby" affectation, which succinctly sums up modern, regressive, inverse gender politics.

Helping drive the main story, giving it a bit of human complexity and thematic connectivity, is a clever subplot involving Carol's older sister, Dani (Michaela Watkins), whose attraction to an Irishman (Jason O'Mara) proves to be a bit of a hurdle in her marriage. It's sort of a contrary wink at the discomfort she and Carol have with their father's sexy young girlfriend, Jamie (Alexandra Holden), a "voiceover groupie."

What helps sell Bell's cute, magnetic comedy is an incredible supporting cast portraying an assortment of largely likeable characters, which, despite being an array of cameos (keep an eye out for Geena Davis), defies the showy gimmickry of that tendency, working well for the in-joke, industry template of it all.

In a World… toes the line with a cliché triumph of the well-worn underdog story while at the same time breathing new life into the formula with its unique spin of genre tropes and uncanny industry insight. It's by no means a life-changing experience, but it is quite well made for what it is.

I think it's a fair to assume that we can expect great things from Lake Bell in the future.

EyeForFilm.co.uk [Owen Van Spall]

Actress Lake Bell's debut feature, which she a wrote and directed and stars in, mines one of Hollywood's many curious niches for its source material - the unseen profession of trailer voice-over stars. The title itself is an homage to the iconic opening line heard on innumerable trailers that actor Don LaFontaine made infamous in his booming tones.

Bell plays Carol Solomon, a struggling vocal coach in contemporary LA who subsists in the shadow of her larger than life (with voice to match) voice actor father Sam Sotto (Fred Melamed). So dominant is Sam in the industry, the reigning king of movie trailer voice-over artists, that few actually know that he and Carol are related. Not even industry up and comer, general slimeball and secret protege of Sam Gustav Warner (Ken Marino) knows who Carol is... until the day comes when she gets offered a voice-over job that he had his eye on.

Having spent most of her time, when not scraping teaching jobs, wandering the city stalking passers by to secretly record their accented voices for inspiration, the neurotic and erratic Carol is not well prepared for the hotbed of sexism and ego that taking on the champions of voice over stirs up. With sound tech Louis (Demetri Martin) and sister Dani (Michaela Watkins) in her corner, Carol has to face-off against the boys brigade of Sam and Gustav when the chance comes to audition for the chance of uttering the legendary 'In a world...' opening line for an upcoming tween market epic's trailer. What shoud have been a breakthrough job ends up exposing familial competition and tensions, dirty tricks, cheating hearts, and general mayhem.

Bell certainly knows how to stuff a movie with film and TV comedy talent. In addition to the main stars, comedy veterans Rob Corddry (The Daily Show), Tig Notaro (The Office, Community) and Nick Offerman (21 Jump Street, Parks and Recreation) also make appearances, as do Eva Longoria and Cameron Diaz, who gamely send themselves up.

So why doesn't the film ever feel like its moving faster than cruise control? Maybe it's because, despite the idiosyncratic characters, smart insider observations and interesting setting - built around the absurd idea that even in this tiny incestuous industry there can only be one king at the top of the heap - there are also too many laugh moments relying on off-the-shelf stereotypes, such as egomaniacal actors who take phone calls in the hottub and rant around the shop in dressing gowns. There are plenty of reheated gags, too - this reviewer personally switches off any time an American actor mocks a british accent with Dick Van Dyke-isms like 'Chim-chim cheree”. The conclusion is also predictable - wounds are healed, career ambitions achieved, glass ceilings broken and such.

Bell has said the work is semi-autobiographic, having been interested in recording accents and doing voice impersonations since childhood (she apparently still today has boxes of tapes of random Russians in supermarkets, lonely Irish exchange students, and a Turkish woman yelling at her son in a subway). Nevertheless, Bell doesn't quite make the most of the comic and dramatic potential of pushing the curtain aside on this hotbed of vanity and ambition in tinseltown.

Lake Bell's In a World... Asks: Why Aren't Women ... - Village Voice Amy Nicholson

Film Freak Central Review [Angelo Muredda]

1NFLUX Magazine [Steve Pulaski]

Film.com [Amanda Mae Meyncke]

In A World… / The Dissolve Scott Tobias

notcoming.com | In a World... Victoria Large

The Digital Fix [Nick Chen]

The Film Stage [Jordan Raup]

Blu-ray.com [Brian Orndorf]

Film-Forward.com [Jack Gattanella]

ScreenDaily [Tim Grierson]

Shared Darkness: In a World... Brent Simon

Georgia Straight [Ken Eisner]

Digital Spy [Stella Papamichael]

Movie Mezzanine [Dan Schindel]

Smells Like Screen Spirit [Don Simpson]

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

In a World... Mike D’Angelo from The Onion A.V. Club

Qwipster.net [Vince Leo]

theartsdesk.com [Demetrios Matheou]

ArtsScene [Talia]

In A World (2013) LAFF Movie Review - Film School Rejects Allison Loring

EFilmCritic [Jay Seaver]

The Reel Critic.com [Lisa Minzey]

KPBS Cinema Junkie [Beth Accomando]

Movie Mezzanine [Sam Fragoso]

Reel Film Reviews [David Nusair]

Body of Work: Lake Bell R. Kurt Osenlund profile of Lake Bell from Slant magazine, May 15, 2013

Lake Bell on directing In A World…, a film about ... - The Dissolve Scott Tobias interview, August 6, 2013

In a World... Review - Hollywood Reporter Todd McCarthy

In a World… – review | Film | The Observer Mark Kermode

In a World … – review | Film | The Guardian Peter Bradshaw

In a World...: A pitch-perfect comedy about the cutthroat world of ... Adam Nayman from The Globe and the Mail

Austin Chronicle [Kimberley Jones]

RogerEbert.com [Odie Henderson]

Lake Bell Stars in Her Directing Debut, 'In a World' - NYTimes.com A.O. Scott

Bell, Otto

THE EAGLE HUNTRESS B 83

Great Britain USA Mongolia (87 mi) 2016 Official Website

If one purpose of a documentary film is to take viewers to a time and place that is completely foreign to them, then this film succeeds beyond belief, a film that takes us to the desolate landscape of the Mongolian mountains and plains through some treacherous wintry conditions, including limited sunlight, reduced to just two hours each day in the harshest conditions when temperatures reach 50 degrees below zero, with utterly spectacular aerial photography by Simon Niblett. Capturing the magnificent vantage point of eagles in flight, shooting from hundreds of yards away, the cameras capture the aerial sweep of the birds in flight, flying at speeds of 180 miles per hour, yet they remain in sharp focus throughout. In keeping with customs handed down by Kazakh families for centuries, the film’s storyline follows the exploits of Aisholpan Nurgaiv, a 13-year-old girl, as her father trains her to become the first woman in her family’s twelve generations of eagle hunters. When the Soviet Union ruled Kazakhstan, many families fled to Mongolia, where Bayan-Ölgii is the westernmost Mongolian province containing the country's only Muslim and Kazakh majority, with Kazakhs comprising 93% of the population, where many families continue to hunt with golden eagles, targeting foxes and hare in the cold winter months when they are more easily seen against the white snowy backdrop, where the eagle’s acute eyesight, sharp talons, predatory instincts, and ability to navigate vast distances make them ideal hunters. There are an estimated 250 eagle hunters in Western Mongolia. Every year in the first week in October, the Kazakhs hold the annual Golden Eagle Festival of Mongolia, where 70 eagle hunters vie for the top prize, mounted on groomed and decorated horses, wearing traditional Kazakh hunting attire, where prizes are awarded for speed, agility and accuracy, as well as for the best traditional Kazakh dress. In addition, there is a smaller festival held in the last week of September called the Altai Kazakh Eagle Festival with about forty eagle hunters participating. Although the Kazakh government has made efforts to lure the practitioners of these Kazakh traditions back to Kazakhstan, most Kazakhs have remained in Mongolia.

In 2013, Israeli photographer Asher Svidensky spent 40 days photographing Kazakh families in Mongolia, where he sought out a girl to round out his personal vision of “the future of eagle hunting.” With the help of his guide Dauit Daukysh Ryskhan, Svidensky discovered Aisholpan Nurgaiv, the 13-year-old daughter of the eagle hunter Agalai Nurgaiv, with the BBC publishing a photo-essay in 2014 that captured the attention of the filmmaker, who flew to Mongolia to secure the rights to Aisholpan’s story. As fate would have it, her father welcomed the idea, as we learn that Aisholpan’s older brother joined the army in 2011, so his daughter was next in line to pass down the ancient tradition, showing outward enthusiasm about the idea, inviting the film crew to accompany them that afternoon when he and his daughter were planning a trip to the Altai mountains to capture a young eaglet of her own to train. One of the extraordinary sequences of the film has Aisholpan being lowered by a rope from a steep rocky cliff in temperatures hovering around zero as she drops in on an eagle nest as she attempts to snare a female eaglet (larger, fiercer, and more powerful than males) that is continuously evading her grasp while the mother eagle circles overhead. There’s a short window to perform this nifty trick, as the idea is to arrive just a day or two before the young 3-month old eagle is ready to fly. It’s a heart-stopping sequence, similar to that filmed by Guðmundur Arnar Guðmundsson’s Icelandic film Heartstone (Hjartasteinn) (2016), where a young boy is lowered over a cliff edge to pick wild bird eggs from their nests. Interesting that the scene is associated with machismo and masculinity in the Icelandic film, while the dare-devil maneuver seems effortless by this brave young girl, capturing a healthy young eagle named Ak Kanat, “White Wings.” Eventually making seven trips to Mongolia, the filmmakers capture months of training where according to her father, Aisholpan displays a natural ease when handling the animal, weighing up to 12 pounds, where a baldak, or Y-shaped wooden rest, is attached to the saddle to carry the eagle on horseback, as the eagle learns to fly great distances from her father’s arm to her own, each wearing a heavy protective glove, coming when called, recognizing Aisholpan’s distinct voice, Clip: The Eagle Huntress (1:31). According to tradition, after seven years, the eagles are released back into the wild where they are free to mate and raise their young.

The film actually opens with a ceremonial release of a prized eagle, leaving it a newly slaughtered sheep initially to feed on, where the viewer is drawn into the customary tradition of eagle hunters in the region. Mostly handed down from father to son, this one offers a unique twist, becoming a father and daughter story that breaks with male tradition. Aisholpan spends the week attending school in town, living in a dormitory with her two siblings, where she is a straight-A student with aspirations to become a doctor, returning home on the weekends to train her animal. She has six weeks of training before the Golden Eagle Festival, where her father is one of the notorious figures and personalities associated with the festival, having already won twice, where he is one of the most respected elders. In his eyes, girls can do anything boys can do, as long as they remain determined, “There is no gender discrimination when it comes to hunting with eagles…Aisholpan is a very brave girl.” But other elderly eagle hunters are more doubtful, claiming “women are weaker and more fragile,” where they’ll get “too cold” on the hunt, or “she’ll have to get married soon anyway!” These chauvinistic scoffs only make Aisholpan more determined to prove herself at the festival, where she is not only the lone female among the 70 participants, but also the youngest entrant, with both her father and grandfather supporting her. Her mother laments the fact she doesn’t get to spend enough time with her daughter, but realizes the significance of her daughter’s ambitions and supports her whole-heartedly. Evaluated for their hunting attire and the quality of their horses, the eagles are timed for their speed in swooping down from mountain tops to their handlers calling out for them below with their arms upraised, or their ability to catch prey using a dead rabbit tied to a fast-moving rope. It’s an extraordinary event, where footage of the eagles in flight offer awe-inspiring cinematography, much of it filmed in slow motion, with Aisholpan having to prove herself in each competition, with grumbling male onlookers having to eat their words. Even as she surpasses all expectations, they still believe a true test of skill comes with the bone-chilling hunts of winter where the girl has yet to prove herself by catching a fox. The final trek into the snowy mountains in the 50-degree below zero winter chill is a brutal test, not just for Aisholpan but for her eagle, who has never killed a live animal before, especially one that fights back with deadly force. In a 20-day hunt, with only two-hours of sunlight every day, where at times the snow is too deep for the horses, it’s an astonishing feat, where the eagle fails in its first attempts, outfoxed by a fox, but they persevere until they are eventually successful, where the degree of difficulty is truly the ultimate test of stamina and skill.

So there are two diametrically opposing forces at work here, a revelation about a unique Mongolian tradition that is cinematically spectacular, and a willfully exploitive depiction of a young girl from the outer edges of the world whose ambitions are blatantly manipulated to serve the director’s single-minded purpose, becoming a manifesto on girlpower, where the filmmakers resort to a bit of contrived overkill in the trite narration and commercial musical refrain “You can do anything” from Sia’s “Angel by the Wings” that plays over the closing credits. While Aisholpan’s infectious smile and fearless approach make her an ideal subject, she is not, as the film erroneously suggests, the first female eagle huntress, and to suggest so is to express a knowingly inaccurate narrative. According to Adrienne Mayor’s extensive historical overview, May 1, 2016 (pdf format), The Eagle Huntress Ancient Traditions and New Generations, “eagle huntresses were probably more common in ancient times…Archaeological discoveries of graves (ca 700 BC to AD 300) across ancient Scythia, from Ukraine to China, reveals that steppe nomad females engaged in the same riding and hunting activities as the men, and about one third of the women were active warriors in battle.” Unfortunately, the director is well aware of previous female eagle hunters, but intentionally left them out of the narrative and instead created a feel-good story of a young girl breaking the mold and overcoming all odds, becoming a heartwarming tale that is primarily suited to appeal to Western audiences, but is blatantly untrue. Consider this article written by Shamil Zhumatov from March 6, 2012, Kazakhstan's lone female eagle hunter - Reuters, profiling another eagle huntress, Makpal Abdrazakova, who was first seen competing in 2009 and is now a lawyer and continues to enter eagle contests, encouraging other young women, while her father, Murat Abdrazakov, also continues to train new young girls. According to Mayor, the director refused to meet Makpal when making his film, and when asked why he indicated “it is not his responsibility to tell an ethnologically comprehensive story,” while co-producer Asher Svidensky informed her in early 2016, “Entertainment isn’t anthropology.” Instead the filmmakers intentionally misrepresent Kazakh and Mongolian culture, showcasing well-decked out elders in animal furs from the Kazakh community who refuse to acknowledge a woman’s place in their hunting customs and traditions, claiming women belong in the kitchen (male views like this exist in every society), all belittling and undermining Aisholpan’s accomplishments, yet Mongolia is far from the backwards or misogynistic culture presented, as women have voted and held office since 1924, more than 80 percent of women have secondary education, and 70 percent of college students are women, where the historical independence of women since ancient times is worthy of note. Strong women have always been part of the nomad heritage and girls have never been forbidden to train eagles. Girls and boys start riding horses at age five and help with herds, as the challenging conditions of the brutally harsh landscape has always meant that men and women engage in strenuous riding activities together. From the days of Robert Flaherty to Werner Herzog, documentary films are expected to be culturally honest and historically factual, even if some obvious staging exists in the film. Unfortunately, this film skews the facts to create an overly determined film, whose goal is known before the film even starts, becoming one of those films that makes the subject matter fit the theme, regardless of contradictory evidence, only including what meets the predetermined criteria and leaving out the rest.

The Eagle Huntress (2016) | Film review - Time Out Cath Clarke

A Mongolian girl breaks with tradition and trains to become an eagle hunter in this inspiring doc

‘You are awesome.’ These are words that every 13-year-old girl needs to hear from her dad. They’re much more helpful than ‘You are pretty’ or ‘You are nice.’ The dad doing the verbal high-fiving in this inspiring doc is Agalai, a Mongolian eagle hunter. Eagle hunting is a tribal tradition that goes back 2,000 years among Kazakh nomadic men, who ride out on horseback with an eagle across the frozen Central Asian steppes to catch foxes and rabbits. It’s a father-and-son thing. But enlightened Agalai understands that his pigtailed teenage daughter Aisholpan has the grit and talent to be a hunter.

Aisholpan is one of life’s trailblazers – a feminist pioneer who would never in a million years think about herself in those terms. But hardwired inside her is the belief that girls can do anything boys can; and she’s got the iron will to prove it. Eagle hunting essentially involves riding a horse like the clappers holding a piece of raw meat while a golden eagle flies at you at 30 miles an hour, knife-sharp talons poised. It’s thrilling, and you can see why actress Daisy Ridley – tough heroine Rey in ‘Star Wars: A Force Awakens’ – signed up to narrate the film.

After her training, Aisholpan’s dad takes her to the national championships, where she’s the first ever female competitor. What’s interesting is how standard sexism is across cultures. A bunch of miserable male eagle hunters dismiss Aisholpan: ‘Women are supposed to stay indoors’ and ‘They get cold.’ Then, when she starts winning, they switch tactic, the hypocrites:‘It helps that she’s a girl’ – as if somehow that explains her skills. You want to know more about what Aisholpan is thinking behind that shy determined smile. But that’s not her way. You can imagine her as the gutsy heroine of a Disney animation.

CutPrintFilm [Lane Scarberry]

Otto Bell’s The Eagle Huntress sweeps you up in the rapturous beauty of the untamed wilderness of western Mongolia. Tracing the unbeatable spirit of a girl who wants to commune with the land and honor the skills of her ancestry, the documentary expertly builds upon her determination and warmth. Aisholpan is a bright, confident and eager young woman who wants to follow in the footsteps of her father, an eagle hunter. Held back only by the cultural expectation of her sex, she charges into training with an infectious enthusiasm.

The film embraces the 13-year-old Aisholpan as an inspiration. She serves as a conduit for how modern thinking can be successfully integrated into tradition. She’s a friendly disrupter- working hard and seemingly without complaint. Twelve generations of her family’s men have been eagle hunters and taking on the art is a significant feat. It’s an uplifting doc that keeps its content firmly in a family friendly realm even as she encounters the culture’s disgruntled elders who hold fast to the belief that men are the sole inheritors of eagle hunting. The deeply embedded notion that women and men have distinct roles and attributes is pervasive throughout the movie but never once do we see it dishearten Aisholpan. The elders have severe doubts as to whether a girl can pass the ultimate test of being able to hunt foxes with a Golden Eagle in the unforgiving wild. In one breathtaking scene, Aisholpan hand picks her Golden eaglet straight from the nest. Her fearlessness is a delightful insertion into the stark landscape. Still a kid but armed with knowledge and dexterity, she faces competition between eagle hunters with proficient savvy. It’s important to note that Aisholpan’s father is her tireless supporter and teacher- encouraging her lofty ambitions without hesitation. His faith in her aptitude is as heart-warming as her accomplishments.

Drones and Go-Pro cameras attached to the Golden Eagles highlight gorgeous vistas and the breadth of the action. The Eagle Huntress silently honors the western Mongolian culture by letting them speak for themselves even when it comes to the dicey issue of Aisholpan bucking tradition. Daisy Ridley (the exalted Rey from Star Wars: The Force Awakens) provides narration, further pushing the sense that the filmmakers are on board with Aisholpan’s forward thinking about what girls can accomplish if given the opportunity. Aisholpan is seen emboldening other girls at her school to become eagle huntresses and do other things that have previously been forbidden because of their sex. The positivity of the movie can feel overwhelming but the straightforwardness of the subjects leave nothing to be downtrodden about nor elude to any hints that there may be a reason to question their motives. At times The Eagle Huntress has the sentimental hallmarks of a children’s documentary in the vein of The March of the Penguins but it tackles gender discrimination with a hard-headed conviction of re-writing a more prominent place in the public sphere for women across the world.

Beyond her interest in hunting, education factors heavily into the young girl’s life as she wants to become a doctor. Her admirable ambitions quickly crush any cynical feeling when approaching this movie when one witnesses her incredible dedication to following through on each plan she makes. The gory deaths of foxes by way of eagle talons during the hunting is cringe-worthy (to those who have a hard time with the brutality of nature) but doesn’t shy away from the reality of the sport. The Eagle Huntress is a rare breed of documentary- a feel good film about perseverance and reverence that doesn’t lecture its audience about an issue they can do little to help so much as it presents them with celebratory hope for girls that’s grounded in hard work.

"The Incredible Story Behind the Film "The Eagle Huntress"" Stephanie Eckardt from W Magazine, October 25, 2016

Otto Bell was having an ordinary day perusing the BBC in his “cube” at an ad agency when he came across a series of photos so striking he actually stood up from his desk. “I thought, ‘Gosh, there’s got to be a film behind those photographs,’” he recalled of the images, which featured a girl, her father, and an eagle against the desolate landscape of Mongolia.

So, like any aspiring documentary filmmaker would do, he Facebook-stalked the photographer, Asher Svidensky, and soon learned that the girl in question was named Aisholpan Nurgaiv. At just 13, she was already determined to become the first woman in her family’s 12 generations of eagle hunters — an aspiration that was not only ruffling feathers in her community, but outright offending its most prominent members, as Bell quickly discovered on his impromptu trip to the Altai mountains to meet her face-to-face.

As it turned out, he’d arrived just in the nick of time: Visitors aren’t exactly common in the most remote part of the least populated country in the world, and Aisholpan’s father welcomed Bell and his tiny crew with open arms — starting with inviting them along on his and Aisholpan’s trip to nab an eaglet of her own that very afternoon, a risky occasion for which there’s only a tiny window every year. Before he knew it, Bell was shooting footage for what would be his first feature film, while scaling a steep rocky cliff in nearly subzero temperatures, even if Aisholpan, with a rope tied around her waist and an eye on the massive mother bird circling above, somehow seemed to navigate with ease.

Bell and his three-member crew had a little more notice with their next seven trips to Mongolia, meaning they could bring along equipment that would do justice to the landscape, like drones to capture a bird’s-eye view. There were months of training, plus the Gold Eagle Festival, the Kazakh eagle-hunting contest which Aisholpan was the first-ever woman to enter, and there was the matter of finding gear that had the best chance of surviving the minus 50-degree weather up in the mountains where Aisholpan roamed for over 20 days to prove herself by capturing a fox. (They never exactly cracked that one, instead shooting only during the strongest two hours of sun every day.)

Some of the film's most striking scenes, though, are the least high tech: Bell’s interviews with elders in the Kazakh community whose blood seems to boil at the very mention of Aisholpan’s ambitions — and women’s place in anything other than the home, especially when it comes to centuries-long traditions — leave just as lasting an impression as the film’s breathtaking views. Each is decked out in the furs they’ve amassed from their various hunts, which serve as far more than armor against the bitter winters: “The more elaborate your furs are, the greater an eagle hunter you are perceived to be,” Bell explained. “So costumes have a societal importance and are very much intertwined with their machismo and masculinity.”

Those scenes are just one aspect of what makes the film, and Aisholpan’s mission, so empowering. It’s a message that Bell is especially eager to get out now “with all this poisonous locker room talk,” but which of course has resonated long before the election, too. Even someone as familiar with epics as Daisy Ridley, who narrated the film, was so moved by an earlier version of it that she called Bell the night before it premiered at Sundance to ask how she could help. The documentary filmmaker Morgan Spurlock, who came on as a producer, had the same reaction, and he soon brought Sia onboard to put together a theme song “so pitch perfect for the film” that the first time Spurlock played it for him, Bell recalled, they both sat in his office and cried their eyes out.

The film hits theaters November 2, though it’s already seeing real implications back home in the steppe: three other girls signed up to compete in this year’s festival, and Aisholpan, now 15, has since won a scholarship to one of the country’s best schools, where she’s gearing up to be a surgeon (with funds raised from the film). That’s on the weekdays, though. The weekends are still reserved for spending time with her bird.

'The Eagle Huntress' Review: Crowd-Pleasing Documentary Soars ... Kate Erbland from indeWIRE

Chances are strong that the vast majority of viewers who take in Otto Bell’s crowd-pleasing documentary “The Eagle Huntress” will approach the material with little, if any, knowledge of its subject: the time-honored Eurasian falconry tradition of eagle-hunting. That’s about to change in a big way. Featuring a story so readymade for the big screen — and, yes, Fox has already optioned the film for an animated version — that it feels almost unbelievable, Bell’s feature directorial debut is bolstered immeasurably by a captivating leading (little) lady and a story that transcends time and location. Aided by smart and simple narration from Daisy Ridley, the result is an all-ages outing about tradition, respect, family and, yes, the power of feminism to positively change lives.

Bell’s film follows 13-year-old Aisholpan, a Kazakh kid with one main aspiration — to be an eagle huntress. It may sound like a simple enough request, but Aisholpan’s big dream (alongside another desire to become a doctor) isn’t a common one. In fact, she’d be the very first of her kind, at least in her eagle-hunting-crazed region. Aisholpan comes from a well-regarded and deeply respected line of eagle hunters — all men, naturally — and has spent her entire life aspiring to join their ranks, fueled primarily by her glowing respect for the birds and her obvious admiration for her accomplished hunter father. Luckily for Aisholpan, her immediate family is very supportive of her choice, though they may be the only ones.

The film treats viewers to the full scope of a hunter’s relationship with their feathered partners it opens with an older hunter engaging in a ceremony that delivers his eagle back to the wild after seven years together, a tradition of the culture, and the film eventually shows scenes of training, bonding and even baby eaglet capturing — and it also pays close attention to the sexism that has long dominated the sport. Although Aisholpan’s family are strong supporters of her dreams in particular and feminism and equality at large, Bell makes it plain that they are outliers in the culture, at least as it applies to eagle hunting. Utilizing a coterie of elder eagle hunters to provide commentary that essentially boils down to “this sport is not for girls, they are weak,” Bell frequently cuts back to them to weigh in on the tremendous strides the young huntress is making. They’re not having it.

“It is not a choice, it is a calling,” one of the film’s subjects tells us early on, and Aisholpan’s steely determination prove that to be true at every turn. Mostly unbothered by the naysayers — at least until she meets them face to face — Aisholpan goes about her work diligently and with nothing short of pluck. “The Eagle Huntress” could happily operate as some kind of superhero origin story, though it would be one marked a series of essential lessons, rather than high-octane action sequences or some kind of storyline involving radioactive spiders or strong men from space.

Aisholpan is a heroine — a real one — because she engages in hard work in order to accomplish her goals, typically without anything even remotely resembling a complaint. It’s that kind of can-do spirit that often robs the film of big drama, making her quest look a touch too easy, until of course she does something like retrieve her frozen-stiff laundry from a snowy stone wall or get perfect grades while far from home at boarding school or catch a nearly full-grown eaglet (a girl, too, of course) on her own after shimmying down a cliff to do, suddenly reminding her audience just how extraordinary she is. She’s smart and she’s strong, and that’s actually enough for her to overcome tremendous odds. We should be so lucky to have more films with such a message.

Bell backloads his film with the cinematic drama, including a long-teased eagle hunting festival whose existence and import are literally televised over the radio. It’s there that Aisholpan meets her foes, in the form of a laughing, leering crowd that only sees her as a “little girl,” hardly a competitor worth noticing. But Aisholpan, as is her wont, is noticed, and for all the right reasons. Later, Bell turns his eye — and cinematographer Simon Niblett’s camera, often bolstered by stunning drone-captured footage — on a harder challenge: Hunting in the wild. It’s there that Aisholpan’s mettle is really tested, and she and her flourishing eaglet take flight in ways that are emotionally and visually rewarding in equal measure.

A soaring, sweet documentary that welcomes its audience into an unexpected new arena, “The Eagle Huntress” offers up a movie-perfect story with a leading lady who has something to share with everyone. And its central message — that, in the words of the “Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt” theme song, females are strong as hell — is one that should be carried on wings around the world. Grade: B+

'The Eagle Huntress' Flies in the Face of Adversity | PopMatters Bernard Boo

Aisle Seat [Mike McGranaghan]

Slant Magazine [Oleg Ivanov]

Film-Forward.com [Kent Turner]

Movie Review: 'The Eagle Huntress' | Field & Stream Phil Bourjaily

World Socialist Web Site [Joanne Laurier]

theartsdesk.com [David Kettle]

The Critical Critics [Frank Ochieng]

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Independent Ethos [Ana Morgenstern]

The Eagle Huntress review - Little White Lies Rebecca Speare-Cole

Review: The Eagle Huntress – Trespass Magazine Alex Doenau

The Eagle Huntress · Film Review Daisy Ridley ... - The AV Club Esther Zuckerman

'The Eagle Huntress' Review: Soaring Documentary - WSJ Joe Morgenstern

The Film Stage [Jordan Raup]

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Blu-ray.com [Martin Liebman]

DVDizzy.com - Blu-ray [Luke Bonanno]

Real Movie News - Blu-ray [Ryan Russell Izay]

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The Upcoming [Lucas Cumiskey]

The Eagle Huntress | Chicago Reader Leah Pickett

'The Eagle Huntress' Is So Charming a Girls-Can-Do ... - Village Voice Abbey Bender

AwardsCircuit.com [Clayton Davis]

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'Eagle Huntress' Director on 13-Year-Old Mongolian Who Broke ... Brent Lang interview from Variety, November 3, 2016

'The Eagle Huntress': Sundance Review | Hollywood Reporter Boyd van Hoeij

'The Eagle Huntress' Review: Otto Bell's Entertaining ... - Variety Dennis Harvey

Oscars: 'Eagle Huntress' and Other Documentaries Merit Artisan Attention Tim Gray from Variety

The Eagle Huntress review – Kazakh falconry was never so family ... Jordan Hoffman from The Guardian

The Eagle Huntress: the teenage Mongolian nomad who's preparing to swoop on the Oscars Homa Khaleeli from The Guardian, December 11, 2016

The Eagle Huntress review – suspiciously uplifting | Film | The Guardian Wendy Ide, December 18, 2016

Princess Moana, the Rogue One rebel, the Eagle Huntress: meet film's female heroes Sara Hughes from The Guardian, December 10, 2016

Film reviews round-up: The Eagle Huntress, Through the Wall ... Geoiffrey Macnab from The Independent

The Eagle Huntress review: bird-brained documentary soars thanks to ... Tim Robey from The Telegraph

The Eagle Huntress: a documentary too good to be true? Nigel Andrews from The Financial Times, February 3, 2017

The Eagle Huntress review: Gonna fly now - The Irish Times Tara Brady

The Eagle Huntress review: A problematic documentary Paul Byrnes from The Sydney Morning Herald

Metro US [Matt Prigge]

The Eagle Huntress - Film Calendar - The Austin Chronicle Steve Davis

The soaring documentary 'The Eagle Huntress' tells a heartwarming ... Kenneth Turan from The LA Times

L.A. Biz [Annlee Ellingson]

Pasadena Art Beat [Jana J. Monji] also seen here: Pasadena Weekly [Jana J. Monji] here: Dragon Lady Files and here: Age of the Geek [Jana J. Monji]

The Eagle Huntress Movie Review (2016) | Roger Ebert Susan Wloszczyna

'The Eagle Huntress' review: A young woman rises above tradition Michael Phillips from The Chicago Tribune

Review: In 'The Eagle Huntress,' a Girl From Mongolia Soars - The ... A.O. Scott from The New York Times

The Eagle Huntress Ancient Traditions and New Generations Adrienne Mayor, May 1, 2016 (pdf file)

The Eagle Huntress: Ancient Traditions, and Evidence for Women as ... Adrienne Mayor from Ancient Origins, Part 1, April 5, 2016

Click here for Part 2, The Eagle Huntress: New Generations Adrienne Mayor from Ancient Origins, Part 2, April 6, 2016

Home Nena Atkinson from Women of Mongolia, New Media Research Exhibition Summer 2015

Beller, Hava Kohav

THE BURNING WALL B+ 91

USA (115 mi) 2002 Official site

A Requiem to a lost freedom movement, one that has largely been usurped by President Reagan and the Republican right who claim to have won the Cold War. This film offers a different perspective without ever mentioning Reagan or the USA, instead it is filled with archival footage that was ten years in the making, a view of the East German Communist party, the GDR, examined from the liberation from the Nazi’s in 1945 by Stalin’s military forces, who released the German Communists from the jails, to the division of Berlin into two sectors East and West, to the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989. This film plays like a college lecture, as it is densely filled with so much information, but it reveals an organized resistance movement that sprung out of a vision of hope after WWII, believing in a freer and more just society, but ended up being attacked by their own government, one of the more renowned police-state dictatorships, where much of the country was spying on their neighbors working for the secret police. What this film does do is begin by closely scrutinizing several key players, humanizing them instantly before the screen, then follow their role in history, from several Party intellectuals and leaders, who withstood the Nazi imprisonment, whose fall from grace within the Party included more prison and torture, to other social activists including writers and singers and pastors who became subjects for huge volumes of secret files by the secret police. It was the Soviet Union that intervened earlier, Khrushchev with tanks in Hungary in 1956, or Brezhnev in Czechoslovakia in 1968, but by the time Gorbachov gave his Glasnost speech on the 40^th anniversary of the Russian liberation of Berlin, he all but told the East German Communist leadership that they were on their own, causing the Party leader to resign two days later. Despite extraordinary measures to intimidate an entire population using brutal police techniques, there was a solid resistance movement that was impressed by what they witnessed initially in Czechoslovakia before the Prague Spring, or with the freedoms won by the Solidarity movement in Poland, before both movements were crushed. Ultimately, it was peaceful mass disobedience, an ability to stand up to police in riot gear threatening to shoot to kill, which won a country’s freedoms, and then, in an eyelash, it all disappeared as their country, their party, their movement, simply vanished into thin air, as one united Germany could not incorporate any of East Germany’s political ideology. Ironically, part of the cost of freedom was losing their freedom.

Bellocchio, Marco

All-Movie Guide

fter making short films and documentaries in the early 1960s, Bellocchio won international fame with his first feature, the powerful incest drama I Pugni In Tasca (aka Fist in His Pocket). Other stylish and provocative political dramas followed, most notably La Cina E Vicina (China is Near) and Nel Nome Del Padre (In the Name of the Father). Bellocchio lost none of his rebel status in the ensuing years, and most recently has assaulted bourgeois sensibilites with Salto Nel Vuoto (Leap Into The Void); Gli Occhi, La Bocca (The Eyes, The Mouth), his follow-up to I Pugni In Tasca; and the controversial Diavolo In Corpo (Devil In The Flesh), his X-rated updating of Raymond Radiguet's novel.

Bellocchio, Marco from World Cinema

The son of a lawyer and a schoolteacher, he had a strict Catholic upbringing in a bourgeois home. Having trained briefly as an actor, he interrupted his philosophy studies at Milan's University of the Sacred Heart to study directing at Rome's Centro Sperimentale film school and London's Slade School of Art. He directed several shorts and documentaries before making an auspicious debut as a feature director in 1965 with I Pugni in Tasca / Fist in His Pocket, an award winner at the Locarno Film Festival. The film, a powerful comment on social decadence symbolized through a sordid tale of incestuous relations among a family of epileptics, was made with a tiny budget, much of it borrowed from Bellocchio's own family. It immediately established Bellocchio as a major new talent in the Italian cinema. Bellocchio used his favourite dramatic device—a bourgeois family as a microcosm of society and its ills—once more in his second feature, La Cina e vicina / China is Near, winner of both the Special Jury Prize (shared) and the International Critics Prize at the 1967 Venice Festival. The following year, however, he joined the extreme-left Communist Union and renounced fictional films for politically militant cinema. He became involved in the co-operative production of propaganda shorts and seemed lost to mainstream cinema. But he returned to features and his favourite anti-establishment allegorical themes with Nel Nome del Padre / In the Name of the Father (1971). His handling of Salto nel Vuoto / Leap Into Void resulted in the awarding of both the best actor and best actress prizes to the film's stars, Michel Piccoli and Anouk Aimée, at the 1980 Cannes Festival. — Ephraim Katz, The Film Encylopedia

Film Reference Richard Peña

One of the healthiest aspects of the ever-more impressive cinematic output of the 1960s was the greater respect accorded to different, even opposing, approaches to political filmmaking. Thus, a Godard or a Straub could comfortably accept being called a political filmmaker while their work analyzed the process of creating meaning in cinema. One of Italy's most gifted directors to have emerged since the war, Marco Bellocchio chose to delve into his own roots and scrutinize those primary agents of socialization—the classroom, the church, and, most crucially for him, the family. Besides serving to reproduce selected values and ideas about the world, these structures are depicted by Bellocchio to be perfect, if microcosmic, reflections of society at large.

Bellocchio's films are black comedies centered around the threat of impending chaos. Typically, Bellocchio's protagonists are outsiders who, after learning the rules by which social structures remain intact, set about circumventing or ignoring them. Through their actions they expose the fragility of the social order by exposing the fragility of all presumed truths. The judge in Leap into the Void, for example, devises a bizarre plot to have his sister killed in order to avoid suffering the embarrassment of sending her to a mental institution.

The nuclear family, as an incarnation of the social order, represents a system of clearly understood, if unexpressed, power relationships within a fixed hierarchy. These power relationships are expressed in familial terms: Bellocchio's women, for example, are usually defined as mothers or sisters. Even the radical political beliefs that some of his characters profess must be judged with regard to their application in the family sphere: shocked to discover that his sister is no longer a virgin, Vittorio in China Is Near admits, "You can be a Marxist-Leninist but still insist that your sister doesn't screw around."

Along with his countryman Bernardo Bertolucci, Bellocchio is a primary example of the first European generation of film-schooleducated directors. Often, these directors—perhaps under the influence of la politique des auteurs—tended to exhibit an extreme self-conciousness in their films. While watching a Bellocchio film, one is struck at how little or nothing is left open to interpretation—everything seems achingly precise and intentional. Yet what saves his films from seeming airless or hopelessly "arty" is that they're often outrageously funny. The havoc his characters wreak on all those around them is ironically counterpointed to the controlled precision of the direction. There is a kind of mordant delight in discovering just how far Bellocchio's characters will go in carrying out their eerie intrigues. The sense of shrewd critical intelligence orchestrating comic pandemonium into lucid political analyses is one of the most pleasurable aspects of his cinema.

Bellocchio Marco: Biography Italica

Marco BELLOCCHIO - Festival de Cannes - From 11 to 22 may 2011 Cannes Film fest biography

Facets Multimedia: Cinémathèque: Marco Bellocchio filmmaker comments

Marco Bellocchio Mubi

Italian Directors - Marco Bellocchio available film listings with brief comments

marco-bellocchio-collection.htm available film listings with brief comments

Strictly Film School Acquarello film reviews

A FRESH CINEMATIC VOICE FROM ITALY Margaret Croyden from The New York Times, December 11, 1983

Italian Master Marco Bellocchio Raises His Fists to the System ... Jessica Winter from The Village Voice, March 9, 2004, also seen here: Village Voice Article (2004)

Acclaimed Director Marco Bellocchio to Be Honored at New Italian ... Rod Armstrong from SF Film Society, November 2006 (pdf format)

Marco Bellocchio - Marco Bellocchio, perennial provocateur - Los ... Saul Austerlitz from The LA Times, March 21, 2010

Boston Review — Alan A. Stone: Curtain Call July/August, 2010

Tribute to Marco Bellocchio - Page 1 - Calendar - Houston ... Olivia Flores Alvarez from The Houston Press, October 7, 2010

MFAH Films - Tribute to Marco Bellocchio | Museum of Fine Arts ... Museum of Fine Arts in Houston, October 8 – 10, 2010

Bellocchio, Marco They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

Marco Bellocchio / Good Morning, Night Michael Guillen interview from The Evening Class, November 21, 2006

Marco Bellocchio By Scott Foundas Cinema Scope interview, May 2009

Vincere Director Marco Bellocchio on His Powerful Biopic on ... Bilge Ebiri interview from The Vulture, March 19, 2010

Fabio Periera: Ten Minutes with: Vincere director Marco Bellocchio Fabio Periera interview from The Huffington Post, April 5, 2010

Master Class with Marco Bellocchio – Taormina Film Festival | cafe ... Dan Fainaru interview from Café Pellicola, June 14, 2010

Marco Bellocchio - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Images for Marco Bellocchio

FISTS IN THE POCKET (I pugni in tasca) A 95

aka: Fist in His Pocket

Italy (108 mi) 1965

The great advantage of first films is that you're nobody and you have no history, so you have the freedom to risk everything, you have nothing to lose. My name may remain linked to this film above all. The anger that turns into the murder of a mother and a brother was very much in sync with the times and with the things that were exploding and about to explode. The film is actually about the nihilistic fervor of a youth, while the early phase of the post-'68 movement, the one I liked, was libertarian: empowering the imagination, the non-violent challenging of fathers and professors, and so on. Then things changed.

—Marco Bellocchio, Film Comment, January/February 2005, seen here: Film Comment: Art and Industry

A remarkably strident film that interestingly bears similarities with Bellocchio’s more recent VINCERE (2009), a damning exposé on fascism and the hypocrisy shown by Italian strongman Benito Mussolini towards his neglected first wife, locking her and their mutual son in a mental hospital after his rise to power, disavowing all knowledge of their existence. Bookends in his career, both remain Bellocchio’s best efforts, largely due to the starkly unique subject matter and the extraordinary way the director allows each story to unravel. This is a chamber drama of family dysfunction that could easily be seen as a metaphor for the dsyfunction of a paralyzed fascist nation, but takes no steps to develop any political dimension, confining the material to the unusual characters who inhabit this story that at times resembles a bizarre coming of age drama, a bleak satire on Catholicism and the Italian middle class, and a gothic horror story. Much like French director Bruno Dumont who shot his first movies in his home town of Bailleul, Bellocchio shoots this film in his home town of Bobbio, a small town in the northern province of Piacenza, actually using his family’s villa as the family home in the film, where there are no neighbors or buildings in view, just a deck with an extraordinary view of the distant mountains. The remote isolation of the home plays a major part of the story, as the family feels cut off from the city and the world around them, confined to a morose life of boredom and despair.

The unhinged family member is Alessandro (Lou Castel as Sandro), a psychotic, self-centered brooder with nothing to do but spend his days bragging openly about his love for his sister and his violent schemes to murder his own family members, to put them out of their misery, who is himself plagued by severe epileptic seizures, popping pills to help alleviate the regularity, who is joined at the hip with his inseparable, near incestuous sister, the drop dead gorgeous Giulia (Paola Pitagora) who is perfectly willing to plot behind the scenes with her brother. Only the mother (Liliana Grace), who is blind and can’t see the family cat eating out of her bowl of soup, or the somewhat successful older brother Augusto (Marino Masé), who spends much of his time in town with successful business interests and a girlfriend Lucia (Jeannie McNeil) have anything resembling a normal life. The youngest, and most ignored, is the developmentally disabled Leone (Pierluigi Troglio). Both Sandro and Giulia know they are different and don’t fit in, outcasts confined to their claustrophobic, prison-like villa outside of town filled with antiques and family portraits on the walls, away from public scrutiny and any sense of morality. Neither feels close to anyone else, and it’s this sense of severe disconnection leading to depravity that pervades every aspect of this film.

Castel is extraordinary as a loose cannon whose constant mood changes become reflective of his demented personality, where his oddness becomes acceptable behavior within his family, as that’s what they’re accustomed to seeing, like inventing newspaper headlines when reading the paper for his mother, so to them he never stands out as being anything other than peculiar, where his vain acts of selfishness are to be expected. However it’s his slow descent into madness that sets the tone for the film. Augusto appears to have his faculties intact, yet there’s a wonderful scene illuminated only by car headlights where we see him avidly shooting at scurrying rats. Bellocchio uses quick cuts to demonstrate an anxious state of mind, where Alberto Marrama’s Black and White cinematography, by contrast, feels energetically liberated, reflected by his constantly moving camerawork along with the jarring operatic score by Ennio Morricone, creating a disturbingly harsh, unsettling atmosphere reminiscent of horror films. When Sandro takes his blind mother out for a drive, stopping to get some air, and leads her off the side of a cliff, the previous slow build up of meticulous character development takes a sudden turn with a huge emotional payoff, as his mind deteriorates further with Sandro’s carefree behavior around his mother’s coffin. Sandro and Giulia are nothing less than giddy when throwing out their mother’s belongings, as if she were a dreadful burden they are more than happy to be rid of. It’s as if the dark, disturbing tone of the film has been suddenly rewired for murder.

Despite Sandro’s matricide, which he shares with his sister, life goes on exactly as before, where keeping a family secret is a normal part of their lives, as they kept their obvious disgust for their mother to themselves. Augusto even attempts to reach out to his brother, inviting him to a party of Lucia’s friends in the city, but Sandro remains isolated and alone, even in the company of others, including a persistent woman that asks him to dance with her. But Sandro resists change, knowing he is a hindrance to his brother’s chances to actually get out of that dreary house, becoming nothing more than a weight to the world. Bellocchio beautifully stages the aftermath of murder in a silent, seething rage, where the psychological presence of death remains in the forefront of both Sandro and Giulia’s thoughts, like a stench in the air they breathe, something they can’t get rid of, eventually both becoming consumed by the toxic fumes. What’s perhaps most startling is how banal and ordinary Sandro seems, a man with no special qualities, nothing to gain, and no real motive, so his murderous descent seems driven by boredom and indifference, gorgeously realized in the final operatic scene staged to Maria Callas singing Sempre Libera from Verdi’s La Traviata, a fierce, narcissistic anthem to freedom and happiness, where the soaring soprano voice sets the stage for the electrifying finale, a feverish plea for individuality that becomes a Macbethian portrait of terror.

Sempre libera, La Traviata, Verdi, Maria Callas

Free and aimless I frolic
From joy to joy,
Flowing along the surface
of life's path as I please.
As the day is born,
Or as the day dies,
Happily I turn to the new delights
That make my spirit soar.

Love is a heartbeat throughout the universe,
mysterious, altering,
the torment and delight of my heart.

Oh! Oh! Love!
Madness! Euphoria!

—“Sempre Libera,” (Always Free) by Giuseppe Verdi from La Traviata, Act I finale, 1853

Chicago Reader (Dave Kehr) capsule review

An epileptic teenager channels all his hopes and dreams into a single project: the mass murder of his wealthy family, which he intends as a public service. Marco Bellocchio's first film (1965) is a fierce, punkish mash of political satire and family melodrama, veins that Bellocchio would continue to pursue until his career petered out in an unexpected academicism.

Time Out review

A synopsis of Bellocchio's amazing first film might suggest an Italian version of US TV's Soap, with its story of a family variously plagued by epilepsy, blindness, low IQs and raging frustration. But Bellocchio orders his material and directs his actors with such verve and passion that audiences have little time and less inclination to giggle. In particular, Lou Castel's performance as Alessandro, a teenage epileptic ultimately driven to frenzied acts of violence, seethes with a hateful energy rarely seen on the screen. Both Castel and Bellocchio have been simmering down quietly ever since. A stunning film, literally.

Some Came Running: A Capsule Review Of Yorgos ... A 1967 Interview With Luis Buñuel from "Two Interviews With Luis Buñuel," translated from a Cahiers du Cinema article, reprinted in Modern Film Scripts: 'Belle De Jour,' Simon And Schuster, 1971

Q: Do you like Bellochio?

BUÑUEL: I've seen Fists in the Pockets—I don't find it the slightest bit interesting; it's repulsive and far too facile. It's really completely overdone—the blind mother, the retarded brother...the son putting his feet on the mother's coffin—it's too easy...While he was at it, why not show him shitting on his mother's head? It's the only thing he spared us.

Weekend Series: SPOTLIGHT ON MARCO BELLOCCHIO Facets Multi Media

Hailed in Italy as the most important debut of the decade, Bellocchio's first film is a manifesto of youth in revolt, Belloccio's feature is an audacious portrait of dysfunctional upper class family whose epileptic teenage son plots to kill his mother and brother. Tormented by twisted desires, the young man's drastic measures is his solution to rid his grotesque family of its various afflictions in this astonishing 1965 debut from Marco Bellocchio. Charged by a coolly assured style, shocking perversity, and savage gallows humor, Fists in the Pocket was a gleaming ice pick in the eye of bourgeois family values and Catholic morality, a truly unique work that continues to rank as one of the great achievements of Italian cinema. "What is strong and original in the picture is that it shows people just poor enough and just handicapped enough to be unfit to join the community of people for whom happiness is at all possible. One sees such people everywhere, in the cities and in the towns and yet they are very seldom effectively portrayed on film." (New York Times)

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson]

A long-overdue screamer from the semi-forgotten, underscreened New Wave archives, Marco Bellocchio's 1965 debut "started something" in Italian cinema, according to DVD talking head Bernardo Bertolucci—and the attack on everything old-world Catholic, provincial, late baroque, aristocratic, and traditional remains fierce and disconcerting. A family bell jar of sociopathy and funeral rites, Fists centers on a decaying, villa-occupying family that could be characterized as Milanese Gothic—brawls are common, homicide always threatens, and epilepsy, impressionistically observed as a metaphor for psychosexual entropy, is rampant. It's one of those films that mysteriously make every image—a bonfire of bedroom furniture, a caged chinchilla, a family dinner on the verge of explosion—resonate with social disquiet. As the family's middle son and primary agent of manic- depressive chaos, first-time star Lou Castel is an unforgettable figure, a dissolve between Brando and Matthew Perry, simultaneously affectless and hyperactive, as if the hot wire connecting feeling and expression were cut and giving off sparks. (Just as hypnotizing is Paola Pitagora as the young, sexy sister, weirdly creepy in her misanthropic prettiness—that is, until a line is crossed in the clan's degeneration, sending her into a spiral.) In addition to Bertolucci's intro, the DVD comes with a new interview doc memorializing the film's production, and the original trailer.

filmcritic.com (Jay Antani) review [4/5]

Little over halfway into Marco Bellocchio's acid-dipped 1965 debut Fists in the Pocket, the criminally malcontent Alessandro (Lou Castel) and his happy-go-lucky sister Giulia (Paola Pitagora) chuck their deceased mother's furniture into the backyard of their villa, build a bonfire, and celebrate the burning of all things past. Afterwards, they drift off-screen, but Bellocchio stays on the scene. We watch as Leone -- Alessandro's younger brother, an epileptic halfwit -- picks through the bonfire's smoking remains for items of their mother's still intact, then chides the others for wasting a perfectly good pot. The scene illustrates Fists' mordant and bizarre sense of humor, and also functions as a metaphor for the movie's theme of how, in order to find your footing in modern bourgeois society, you've got to cast off any and all undesirable parts of yourself. Blind and needy, the mother was better dead than alive. Not much later, Leone's value too is weighed on the same scale.

Teenager Alessandro doesn't know what he wants, but life in his dead-end Italian town has got him angry, fidgety, and restless -- not a safe state of affairs for somebody who's already mentally on edge. Like Leone, Alessandro is prone to epileptic fits. What's more, with his cool, pragmatic attitude to murder and suicide, he's also a budding serial killer. In his older brother, Augusto (Marion Masé), Alessandro sees a suave (not to mention, sane) go-getter with a girlfriend, and who might have a shot at happiness if he weren't indentured to a clan of cripples and lunatics. Dangerously self-loathing, rattling the bars of his existential cage, Alessandro pledges to make life easier for Augusto by killing off his familial "liabilities." And so it goes, with Alessandro expressing not a shred of regret until his own infirmities begin to threaten the consummation of his scheme.

Forty years since its release, Fists' satirical edge, its skewering of family values and Catholic propriety all feel bracingly raw. From one shot to the next, and from scene to scene, this is the kind of filmmaking possible only when those in front of and behind the camera throw all caution to the wind, and have nothing to lose. It's daringly misbehaved and hilarious as Bellocchio churns up a piping hot cauldron of black and deadpan humor. His cast is equal to the task every step of the way, walking the tightrope of tone to perfectly macabre effect. The powder-keg performance by Lou Castel -- a wet blanket one moment, and a firecracker the next -- brings to mind a young Klaus Kinski. All throughout, the film's gaze is deeply subjective, psychotically becalmed as it regards the action through the prism of Alessandro's twisted logic. Alberto Marrama's camerawork shunts between fluid, almost classical compositions and a jerky, from-the-hip realism that'll keep you off-kilter, unsure what mischief Marrama and editor Silvano Agosti will get into next. Indeed, much of Fists' comedy is realized in the interplay between its camera and editing; the movie is shot and edited not as a comedy, but as a somber tragedy. Hence, the dead seriousness of its execution, twined together by Ennio Morricone's tongue-in-cheek requiem-like score, crystallizes into a perfectly cooled satire.

It's at the level of story development, though, that Bellocchio shows his age. In resolving his tale, the then-26-year-old filmmaker seemed to lack the maturity to raise his anti-social tantrum into anything of sophisticated social and narrative value. By indulging Alessandro's spiraling mayhem, he fails to take fuller advantage of Augusto, the counterweight to Alessandro, and the character with whom we most identify. Had Bellocchio raised Augusto's stock in the story, he'd have had a prime opportunity to address the issue of how amoral must we all become to further our own ends. What is sacred anymore, if not family or religion? Where do we draw the line? Bellocchio missed an opportunity to make a satiric masterpiece by not realizing that it's Augusto's reckoning, not Alessandro's, which concerns us and lies beating within Fists' furious heart.

User reviews from imdb Author: debblyst from Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

There had never been a film quite like 'Fist" before. Marco Bellocchio's exasperating, ground-breaking, virtuoso family drama/existential tragedy/black comedy/ horror film is unclassifiable and brilliant -- an artistic and technical triumph. It's a corrosive depiction of a rotting, dysfunctional family being literally led to extinction (or rather to deaths by coups de grace) like a deteriorating, cancerous organism. Bellocchio grabs you by the collar to make you watch the agonizing putrefaction of a formerly well-off but now impoverished, demented, degenerated clan along with the fossilized Catholic rural bourgeoisie values they stand for.

Thus, we meet the doomed family -- the blind, powerless, quasi-mummified Mother (the Father is never mentioned, we assume he's dead) and her four children with Imperial names: there's Augusto, the eldest, tyrannical, insensitive, pathologically selfish, now the patriarch of the family, who plans to get away from their decadent house (Bellocchio's real family house near Piacenza) by taking whatever's left of the family money, marrying socialite Lucia and moving into town. There's Leone, the youngest, a harmless, dependent, mentally impaired epileptic who's rejected by everyone in the family but utters the sanest line in the movie ("What torture, living in this house!"). There's Giulia, the beautiful, narcissistic, inconsequential, prank-loving ragazza who just can't get enough love from her brothers. And there's Alessandro, the central character, an epileptic, tormented, anguished, angry young man who's so bipolar he's alternately called Ale and Sandro, torn apart by hatred and self-hatred, insecurity, sense of uselessness, sloth and an incestuous fixation on sister Giulia. Ale finally concludes that the best way to end all this mess is killing off all the family members (including himself), with the exception of Augusto, the only one in their degenerate caste with apparent "normality" and sufficiently "elastic" morality to join (i.e., become a parasite in) another caste by marrying modern, urban petty bourgeois Lucia.

Though "Fist" still stands very tall 4 decades later, it's makes one wonder what a revolutionary shocker it must have been when it first came out. Alessandro turns upside down the quintessential principles of European Catholic civilization: family love and unity (Alessandro hates and plans to kill his family); respect for the saintly Mother (he simulates slapping her and punching her in the face until he finally murders her, which is more like euthanasia); respect for the ancestors (he literally stomps on a family portrait): the Catholic sacraments (check the startling wake scene, where Alessandro nonchalantly rests his feet on the coffin with his mother's corpse, which certainly inspired the unforgettable Brando wake scene in Bertolucci's "Last Tango in Paris"); the respect for "La Patria" (Alessandro carelessly tosses away the Italian flag like useless garbage); the respect for property (after Mother's death, Ale and Giulia burn all her furniture and belongings in celebration!); the inviolability of the incest taboo (though it's never clear whether Ale and Giulia have actual intercourse, he aches with love and sexual desire for her).

Bellocchio uses Alessandro's bipolar disorder to make a film of moods and sharp contrasts. Amazingly, it was the work of beginners: it was not only Bellocchio's feature debut (he was barely 25), but also the debut of D.P. Alberto Marrama, whose chiaroscuro cinematography alternates blazing clarity and claustrophobic darkness; of cameraman Giuseppe Lanci (he would become Bellocchio's D.P. in the 80s), who juxtaposes shots of beautiful classical inspiration (Giulia sunbathing in the large veranda) and unsettling modernism (the unforgettable last sequence); of editor Aurelio Mangiarotti (a.k.a. Silvano Agosti), who translates the highs and lows of Ale's moods into contrasting rhythms (the electrifying "Sorpasso" scene vs. the delicate bathtub murder scene); and of art director Gisella Longo, who opposes the signals of old Catholic rural bourgeoisie (family daguerreotypes, old-style furniture and Catholic symbols) with the adapted-to-new-times pop bourgeoisie of Lucia's (Augusto's fiancée) world, especially in the beautiful, Zurliniesque night-club sequence.

Bellocchio's assuredness in exploring images, structure, music (a surprisingly succinct score by the great Ennio Morricone) and dialog is astounding, but the film wouldn't be quite as impressive without the powerhouse performance by Lou Castel. With his tormented looks -- a cross between the sensitivity and danger of a young Brando (whose photograph in "The WIld One" we see many times by Giulia's bed) and the scary madness of a Klaus Kinski -- emotional unpredictability and borderline intensity, Castel's Alessandro is one of the greatest young male roles/performances in film history, a "jeune maudit" perfectly worthy of Dostoevsky.

"Fists" reminds us of the creative freedom of the provocative, rebel cinema of a Buñuel. Bellocchio joins other early 60s greats (Pasolini, Bertolucci, Zurlini, Karel Reisz, Lindsay Anderson) in the examination of the deterioration of the "sacred family" and the struggling-for-survival anti-conformism of the younger generation: families were never the same again after this film (think of Pasolini's "Teorema", Visconti's "Conversation Piece", Fassbinder, Ozon, Garrel, Scorsese). **SPOILER** All is crowned by the last scene, where Bellocchio gives Alessandro's final epileptic seizure such orgasmic climax -- to the sound of Violetta's hysterical anthem to hedonism, the aria "Sempre Libera" from Verdi's "La Traviata" -- that we have to stop breathing during that last endless high note of agony and ecstasy; how many finales were ever this cathartic? When was a scene of death so powerfully liberating?

"Fist" is one of the greatest anti-conformist manifestos and one of the most stunning directorial debuts in movie history. Unlike some revolutionary masterpieces, its impact and power remain to this day alive, unsettling, unforgettable.

Fists in the Pocket: Ripped to Shreds Criterion essay by Deborah Young, April 24, 2006

Fists in the Pocket (1965) - The Criterion Collection

Fists in the Pocket Karl Schoonover from Senses of Cinema, May 2006

Fists in the Pocket & shortly, a Certain Familiar Tendency of 1960s Italian Cinema Jason Jude Chan from Traffic Jams and Tea, March 19, 2007

Reverse Shot [Nick Pinkerton] Spring, 2006

CriterionConfessions.com [Jamie S. Rich]

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson) dvd review also seen here: Turner Classic Movies dvd review

DVD Verdict (Eric Profancik) dvd review [Criterion Collection]

Twitch (Michael Guillen) review also seen here: The Evening Class [Michael Guillen]

Fists in the Pocket Michael Den Boer from 10kbullets

DVD Talk (Svet Atanasov) dvd review [4/5] [Criterion Collection]

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Jon Danziger) dvd review

Slant Magazine review Ed Gonzalez

Raging Bull Movie Reviews (Mike Lorefice) review [3/4]

Fists in the Pocket: The Criterion Collection DSH from DVD Journal

Crushed by Inertia Lons

Time January 12, 1968

Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick) dvd review [3.5/5]

Reel.com dvd review [3.5/4] Tim Knight

FISTS IN THE POCKET (Marco Bellocchio, 1965) Dennis Grunes

Marco Bellocchio - I Pugni in tasca aka Fists in the Pocket (1965) Karl Williams from World Cinema (photos)

Strictly Film School review Acquarello

Fists in the Pocket – I Pugni in Tasca (Marco Bellocchio – 1965) Café Pellicola

FilmFanatic.org [Sylvia Stralberg Bagley]

Film Comment: Art and Industry Deborah Young

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson) review

DVDFanatic.com [Adam Rosenberg]

Ozus' World Movie Reviews (Dennis Schwartz) review

User reviews from imdb Author: stededalus from Italy

User reviews from imdb Author: Daryl Chin (lqualls-dchin) from Brooklyn, New York

User reviews from imdb Author: Bryce David

Variety

The New York Times (Renata Adler) review

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

Marco Bellocchio - I Pugni in tasca (1965) in AvaxHome photos

CHINA IS NEAR (La Cina è vicina)

Italy (107 mi) 1967

Chicago Reader (Jonathan Rosenbaum) capsule review

It's possible that Marco Bellocchio's second feature, La Cina e vicina, a lively comedy about sex, class, and politics, is still his best film. Two scheming working-class lovers contrive to get themselves married into the same wealthy family, which includes a professor running for a municipal office as a socialist, his promiscuous sister, and a 17- year-old Maoist. Comic sparks fly out in every direction, pushed along by an exciting camera style. With Glauco Mauri, Elda Tattoli (who also serves as art director and collaborated with Bellocchio on the script), and music by Ennio Morricone (1968).

Time Out review Tom Milne

A stinging political satire which bears the same bizarre hallmarks as Fists in the Pocket. Once again the protagonists are a family, and once again they live a secret life as mysteriously inaccessible as that of the epileptics in Bellocchio's earlier film. But this time they are out in the world, with older brother busily pursuing a political career, younger brother touting for Mao in hopes of ruining his brother, and sister squatting at home indulging lazy love affairs. They are upper middle class and the world is theirs; but the day of reckoning is at hand, and in a brilliantly funny series of sexual encounters, elder brother and sister find themselves bemusedly trapped into marriage by a pair of working class secretaries on the make. A dazzling and curiously foreboding comedy of manners, it shares with Godard's La Chinoise a sense of May 1968 just around the corner.

CHINA IS NEAR (Marco Bellocchio, 1967) Dennis Grunes

The dysfunctional family in Marco Bellocchio’s second feature, La Cina è vicina, which Bellocchio co-wrote with Elda Tattoli, is a whole lot funnier than the dysfunctional family in his first one, Fists in the Pocket (1965). Glauco Mauri is beautifully bedeviled as Vittorio, a political science professor who is guiltily entrenched in aristocracy and massive family wealth. He has traded in his Communist credentials to run as the Socialist candidate for a municipal position, inviting the ire of his activist teenaged brother, Camillo, whose Maoism and brattiness compel him to regard Vittorio as traitor to their far leftist cause. (U.S. Americans who regard liberal Democrats as members of the far left will have to rearrange their insanity in order to grapple with Bellocchio’s narrative premise.) Their sister, Elena (Tattoli, excellent), although politically conservative, is sexually promiscuous.     

There are also two working-class characters: servants and lovers Carlo and Giovanna, whose appetite for financial advancement suits their sexual pursuits of Elena and Vittorio. They covet a bit of the high life that they also hypocritically decry. Additionally, Carlo himself wanted the Socialist Party candidacy that Vittorio has drawn.     

Bellocchio orchestrates a brilliant satire of politics and sex, religion, abortion, class, class envy, marriage and incest, taking aim at everyone’s hypocrisy, compromises, secret and unconscious motives. Consider Camillo’s exalted self-image as heroic revolutionary. He eventually blows up the toilet at the Socialist Party headquarters! In an elusive and surreal way this act underscores the family identity that Camillo is denying inasmuch as we were earlier introduced to Vittorio as he prayed for release from constipation while sitting on a home toilet. Indeed, this is a film full of oblique connections and echoes.     

Apparently, the grip of institutions like family and Church helps keep Italy’s Left in disarray.

The New Yorker [Pauline Kael] 5001 Nights at the Movies (pdf format)

The New York Times (Renata Adler) review

LOVE AND ANGER (Amore e rabbia)

Bellocchio segment "Discutiamo, discutiamo"

Italy France (102 mi) 1969 ‘Scope co-directors: Elda Tattoli, also Jean-Luc Godard, Carlo Lizzani, Pier Paolo Pasolini, Bernardo Bertolucci

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson]

One of the loveliest free-form ideas to find patronage and popularity in the New Wavey 1960s was the portmanteau film, a rarely successful but always tempting quasi-genre that usually imposed a general theme but was always more interested in enlisting the generation's coolest hotshot filmmakers to whack off and make their special kind of havoc. Often you could hope for one beaut out of five, but 1969's Love and Anger, concerned with the tension between emotional society and bloodshed, is thick with home runs. Pier Paolo Pasolini, whose Christ-movie vignette is the only world-beater in RoGoPaG, scores again with a derisive essay contrasting a cavorting flower child with news footage of contemporaneous atrocities, while Bernardo Bertolucci documents the death of the human race—by way of Julian Beck and the Living Theatre. Carlo Lizzani lambastes modern culture for disaffection (a rape goes unnoticed, while a car wreck victim gets victimized all over again on the way to the hospital), Jean-Luc Godard dialogues about love and war and the film itself, and best of all, Marco Bellocchio chronicles the collapse of civilization in a classroom overrun by 'Nam protesters. Bristly and mad as hell, the coalescent result is both a fabulous time capsule and a prescient rediscovery for today's latent anti-war movement. Supps include new interviews, galleries, and a booklet of background info.

digitallyObsessed! [Chuck Aliaga]

Love and Anger is a collection of five stories that are the handiwork of directors that have made names for themselves in decidedly different ways among the annals of foreign cinema. The heavy hitters of the time are all on board, including Bernardo Bertolucci (The Last Emperor, Partner), Marco Bellocchio (Devil in the Flesh), Carlo Lizzani (Requiescant), Pier Paolo Pasolini (Salo), and, a huge treat, the legendary Jean-Luc Godard (Band of Outsiders, Breathless). Most of these films are extremely surreal, but they all have political undertones. This actually works out quite well, as even if you aren't familiar with the political climate in Italy and France during the 1960s, you can revel in these masters' liberal use of inventive imagery, much of which never comes completely together in a standard narrative structure. The actors come from a pair of renowned theater groups: the Living Theater and Andy Warhol Factory, and include Julian Beck, who made his mark in Hollywood as the creepy preacher in Poltergeist II.

Each filmmaker is at the reins of one of these short films, with Carlo Lizzani handling L'Indifferenza. This tale is only about 12 minutes long, but is also the best. It's amazing just how many intersecting stories come into play in such a short time, but we initially see a woman who is stabbed to death outside an apartment while her neighbors do nothing to help. We then see an injured man asking his wife for help after an auto accident, as a reluctant driver is asked to help out by the police. The performances here are outstanding, but the film's shining point is in its gritty appearance and overall sense of dread, and it delivers an important moral message that has stood the test of time.

Agonia is directed by Bertolucci, and is much longer (about 30 minutes) and paced more slowly than the first entry. It is still very interesting though, if only for the chance to see Julian Beck in something different, and he gives a fine performance indeed. This is basically an experiment in avant-garde theater, with the director employing members of the Living Theatre troupe to pretty much do their thing (including meditation, violent reenactments, etc.) around a dying man (Beck). If you can bear with the sheer strangeness of this piece and it's languid pace, it does have its rewards, despite its flaws.

Next is La Sequenza del fiore di carta by Pier Paolo Pasolini, my least favorite segment. This is basically Ninetto Davoli walking down the streets of Rome just being annoying, while we see stock footage of historical figures whose legacies centered around various wars and other violent atrocities in which they played a major part.

L'Amore is from Godard, and this legendary filmmaker delivers a worthwhile film yet again. The his piece features a pair of couples; one that talks about various issues such as war, love, and politics, while the other pair is actually talking about what has transpired in the film to this point. Godard adds his usual visual flair to the proceedings, which often make up for some rather bland dialogue.

The last short is Discutiamo, discutiamo, helmed by Bellocchio. This ultra-political film attempts to be as real as possible by using student actors from the University of Rome. The director keeps them in their natural habitat by setting the picture in a classroom, focusing on a heated debate between vastly different members of the university. The main problem is that there's really not a single actor we can get a hold of and root for or against throughout the picture. Unless you're really attuned to the politics of the time, this short, in particular will leave you lost about the subject matter.

LOVE AND ANGER (Marco Bellocchio, Bernardo Bertolucci, Jean-Luc Godard, Carlo Lizzani, Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1968) Dennis Grunes

10kbullets - DVD review Michael Den Boer

DVD Talk (Svet Atanasov)

Monsters At Play Carl Lyon

DVD Verdict [Dan Mancini]

Twitch Andrew Howitt

Coffee, coffee and more coffee [Peter Nellhaus]

Cinema Strikes Back [David Austin]

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray]

IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER (Nel nome del padre)

Italy (107 mi) 1972

Edinburgh U Film Society (Spiros Gangas) review

This is one of the fiercest and most acute attacks on religion, power and authority. Bellochio, one of the uncompromising directors in Italy, provides with In the Name of the Father a caustic examination of the way authoritarian institutions operate in stripping people frown their individuality.

It deals with a Jesuit institution for rich delinquents and it focuses on Angelo (Yves Beneyton) a rebellious student who eventually clashes with the religious authority. There are here themes encountered in Vigo's Zero de Conduite, and in Lindsay Anderson's If.... but Bellochio's treatment of them generates a more powerful and blunt exposition of middle-class values usually embodied in institutions like the Church, the Army or the family. But as is mostly the case with Italian cinema - the best ambassador of political flimmaking - there are in Bellochio's film quite important but skilfully veiled political implications which recall Pasolini and early Bertolucci. The gradually decreasing influence of the Church as well as the stage "before the revolution" which Italian society has found itself so often, now being replaced by another form of oppression namely capitalism along with its technological offsets, are all present in this deeply anarchic and perceptive film.

Bellochio, in a Buñuelian manner, conjures Surreal images giving In the Name of the Father a weirdly beautiful atmosphere, full of black leather uniforms and strange Madonnas, matching perfectly stylistic innovation with a subversive content. A controversial and anarchic minor masterpiece.

IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER (Marco Bellocchio, 1971) Dennis Grunes

Surpassing Jean Vigo’s Zéro de conduite (1933), Henri-Georges Clouzot’s Les diaboliques (1954) and Lindsay Anderson’s If . . . . (1968), the other titans of boys’ boarding school films, Nel nome del padre is also Marco Bellocchio’s most savage and caustic work, one eviscerating both the bourgeois institution of the Italian college and the Church that runs it. The film is an assault on patriarchy and paternalism, which proceed from the father’s being the family head, which proceeds from God the Father’s being the most authoritative member of the Holy Trinity. The film also assaults Fascism, the political translation of the nation’s paternalism.     

If the film is Buñuelian in content, it is also so in form: a black comedy in which human experience is heightened to the nearly surreal, and interwoven into whose fabric are flights of the fully surreal. The school morality play whose staging is usurped by the most rebellious among the students, who lend to it its bizarre tone, exemplifies fantasy’s invasion of reality. Variously fantastic images of the Madonna also contribute to Bellocchio’s form and style while at the same time suggesting the distorted images of women with which a patriarchic society is likely to become obsessed. Fascism, with its military trappings, exemplifies political fantasy’s invasion of reality. For all the wildness of its presentation, Bellocchio has wrought an intellectually coherent work.     

The Jesuit-run school at its center is no place any boy would want to be—a point hilariously underscored by the film’s opening, in which a father and son assault each other as the former drags the latter to the school to enroll him. The pupils, then, have already chafed at authority. But the film’s anarchic spirit contests such an outcome as beating them back into line.

THE EYES, THE MOUTH (Gli occhi, la bocca)

Italy France (93 mi) 1982

THE EYES, THE MOUTH (Marco Bellocchio, 1982) Dennis Grunes

Giovanni, an actor, has not been successful in life; his identical twin, Pippo, has. But Pippo hasn’t been lucky in love. The bullet hole in his left temple testifies to this; and to what else? There’s a terrible burden in being the family black sheep; is there a subtle burden to bear in being its prince? Giovanni is in Bologna for his brother’s funeral. The family has closed ranks in a kind of play; for Mother’s sake the others hide that Pippo’s death was a suicide, which according to her ardent faith would bar Pippo’s soul from Paradise. Or is Mother herself hiding (perhaps even from herself) that she also is participating in this charade?     

Many consider Gli occhi, la bocca Marco Bellocchio’s lamest piece of work, in part because it uncomfortably plays off his legendary first feature, Fists in the Pocket (1965). The same brilliant actor who played Alessandro, the black sheep of a highly dysfunctional family, now plays Giovanni and Pippo, who also belong(ed) to a highly dysfunctional unit—a reflection of the postwar erosion of the hierarchic, patriarchal Italian family structure; whereas Ale kills off his family, starting with Mother, everyone now is protecting Mother from the truth about Pippo. What strikes most viewers as diciest occurs when Giovanni wanders into a darkened movie theater, and what should be playing? Fists in the Pocket! Color collides with black and white; briefly, there is another, less tender image of Lou Castel with which to contend. Preparing us for this burst of postmodernism have been surreal flashes of Giovanni’s imaginings that interrupt “reality.” Almost inevitably, according to script, Giovanni becomes his twin’s fiancée’s lover.     

This is Bellocchio’s worst film; but it isn’t fraudulent, as some claim. And Castel, of course, is wonderful.

User reviews from imdb Author: Giuseppe Lippi (giulipp@tin.it) from Milan, Italy

Marco Bellocchio's "Gli occhi, la bocca" is not an attempt to remake "I pugni in tasca" (1965), nor an essay born out of the vanity of self-quoting. It's true that the leading player (Lou Castel) is the same of the previous film, and that "I pugni in tasca" is quoted and even shown at one point (where we can see - from an oblique screen - the scene of Lou's mother assassination in black and white); but this is only because Giovanni, the character played by Lou Castel in THIS movie, is an actor and perhaps the same one who appeared in "I pugni" back in '65. What concerns Bellocchio here, aside from family problems and bourgeois maladjustment, is the question of the running of time. Castel says: "Time flows, we're always the same", and nothing changes. How are we to accustom to the problem of life's length? We're usually driven by popular wisdom to say that life is too short, but what if it were, in fact, too LONG? The only solution to this would be suicide, and in fact Giovanni's brother, Pippo, shots himself just before the film starts. How would Giovanni react to the tragedy, and Bellocchio with him? A reflection about the "entire lifespan" which separates "I pugni in tasca" from "Gli occhi, la bocca" is in order, and those seventeen years become the symbol of the entire problem of time and our maladjustment in it. Well worth watching and watching again, "Gli occhi, la bocca" gains more strength with the passing of years because this is one of its main issues. Now that we are in 2006, "I pugni in tasca" is forty-one years behind us and there's more than one reason to shudder. The only rejuvenating cure cure, then, is watching the new Marco Bellocchio's masterpiece, "Il regista di matrimoni" (The Weddings' Director, out now in Italy). The new film shows that, if Giovanni has hopelessly aged as perhaps WE have, Marco Bellocchio has not -- like Pippo, who in "Gli occhi, la bocca" refused to grow old.

DVD Talk (Svet Atanasov) dvd review[4/5] [Italian Release] [Region 2]

Aging actor Giovanni (Lou Castel) returns home for the funeral of his twin brother Pippo. The family tells him that Pippo has committed suicide leaving behind a short note explaining his motives. Yet, Pippo's mother (Emmanuelle Riva) is kept in the dark-she is told that it was an accident. Why? To make things even more complicated Pippo's on-and-off-again fiancée Wanda (Angela Molina) refuses to grieve with the rest of the family. Giovanni is puzzled, angered, and curious to find out what really happened.

Reuniting legendary Italian director Marco Bellocchio with Lou Castel, the enigmatic psycho from I Pugni in Tasca a.k.a Fists in the Pocket (1965), Gli Occhi, La Bocca a.k.a The Eyes, The Mouth (1982) is a film that comes dangerously close to being a copycat. Yet, despite some occasional resemblance to I Pugni in Tasca, it is not. And the reason why it isn't is precisely because the main protagonist Giovanni is nowhere as destructive and suicidal as the one in I Pugni in Tasca. In Gli Occhi La Bocca Giovanni must deconstruct an enigma where family relationships are only used as a background for a much larger universe of issues: is it worth growing older; what if life wasn't meant to be a pleasurable journey, etc?

Disturbing and misunderstood by both critics and fans Marco Bellocchio's Gli Occhi, La Bocca is a much more complex film than it may initially seem. The family tribulations which Giovanni must endure before he uncovers why his brother committed suicide are well played but not central to the story. What Marco Bellocchio is fascinated with in this film is the aftereffect of a tragic act which as the story progresses seems less and less catastrophic. But how could that be? Can suicide be justified with common logic?

Furthermore, Gli Occhi La Bocca also partially explores the conventional reactions human beings resort to when they must overcome tragedy. Unlike other films with similar thematic constructions, however, where it is the process of learning to live after a sizeable loss that becomes the focus of attention in Gli Occhi La Bocca what takes precedence is the importance of time, before and after the tragic act.

Perhaps the reason why Gli Occhi, La Bocca seems like such an introverted film is because none of the main protagonists appear as overpowering as Lou Castel's Alessandro from I Pugni in Tasca. Yet, the French actor constantly evokes comparisons with him which puts Gli Occhi, La Bocca in a somewhat compromised position (it is ironic that Alessandro's face could be seen here as well). It is also difficult to come to any sort of a definitive conclusion as to what the moral message of this film is. Are we to side with Giovanni or dismiss his reactions? As far as I am concerned Gli Occhi, La Bocca's greatest strength remains the fact that it forces audiences to reconsider (favored) "conventional" behavior where action is expected not reflexive.

The New York Times (Janet Maslin) review

DEVIL IN THE FLESH (Diavolo in corpo)

Italy France (114 mi) 1986

Time Out review

Bellocchio further extends his rap sheet on the stultifying bourgeoisie via an update of the Raymond Radiguet novel and its 1947 Autant-Lara adaptation. But he has a job trying to find any equivalent in the contemporary scene for the offence against Family and Country which Radiguet's lovers presented. The student hero (Pitzalis - no Gérard Philipe) embarks on an affair with Detmers, patient of his psychiatrist father and girlfriend of a left-wing extremist facing trial on terrorist charges. The familiar Bellocchio problem - the sense that his characters are being marshalled mainly in the service of some generalising thesis - is aggravated by the flat mise-en-scène. More likely to be remembered for the headline-making on-camera blow job nonchalantly administered by Detmers, than for its polemics, such as they are.

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Chuck Aliaga) dvd review

Erotic cinema just doesn't seem to exist anymore. Sure, every now and then we get a Basic Instinct, a film that has to mix an element of violence and suspense in to make it even remotely viable to mainstream audiences. So with this genre sorely lacking these days, we have no choice but to go back in time and revisit a classic Italian film.

The remarkable work in question is 1985's Devil in the Flesh. Director Marco Bellocchio (The Wet Nurse, Leap Into the Void) crafted a film that was extremely controversial, mostly as a result of the graphic nature of one specific scene. Bellocchio based his film on the 1923 novel, Le Diable au corps by Raymond Radiguet, but transplanted those characters to 1980s Italy. He did have the guts to bring that explicit scene to the screen, and by doing it in a tasteful way, really impressed critics around the world.

Giulia (Maruschka Detmers) is a young woman who has just experienced the loss of her father to a terrorist attack in Rome. Giulia has a boyfriend, Giacomo (Riccardo De Torrebruna), whom she learns might have had something to do with her father's demise. Their love is, obviously, put to the test by this revelation, and even more so when Giacomo decides to testify against his partners in crime.

Having confidence in his freedom, Giulia rents an apartment for the couple to live in after the trial. During this ordeal, Giulia meets a teenaged boy named Andrea (Federico Pitzalis), who first sees her as she is watching a woman who is about to jump off a roof. They eventually meet and start a lustful affair, but that is soon threatened by not only Giacomo, but by the revelation of how Andrea's father is tied to Giulia's past.

Devil in the Flesh basically had no chance to land a huge US audience, and even Bellocchio himself admits that American audiences didn't understand the political and cultural undertones that drive the story. The economy in Italy was in shambles when the film was made, and the terrorist element was a direct result of what was happening in the country. American audiences simply saw the film as pornographic junk; material that existed only to shock, when, in reality, Bellocchio and these actors had much more to say than that.

The aforementioned explicit scene involves Giulia performing felatio on Andrea, with Bellocchio and his camera leaving little to our imaginations. This was one of the first major films to show such a scene, so when "moral" people heard of this sequence, they blasted the film without ever actually seeing it. The actors involved in this scene (the gorgeous Detmers and her companion, De Torrebruna) handled it like strict professionals, obviously enamored with what their director was trying to accomplish by filming such a scene, that was, in fact, necessary to drive home the point of the harmful things that sexual obsession can do to people.

Despite such explicit sex, Devil in the Flesh is as much a hardcore film as Last Tango in Paris. This is far from being pornography, even though the amount of nudity (during a few scenes) is very high. This can be looked at as a precursor to the controversy that has surrounded Vincent Gallo's The Brown Bunny for the last few years. Those films, despite their very similar sex scene, differ greatly, in that while The Brown Bunny is a typical "personal" piece for a director, Devil in the Flesh delivers many important societal messages that were very valuable for Italians at the time of its release; that is what sets it apart from any of the erotic films that followed it.

Turner Classic Movies dvd review Glenn Erickson, also seen here: DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson) dvd review

DEVIL IN THE FLESH (Marco Bellocchio, 1986) Dennis Grunes

DVD Talk (Svet Atanasov) dvd review[3/5]

Devil in The Flesh Michael Den Boer

Goatdog's Movies (Michael W. Phillips, Jr.) review [1.5/5]

DVD Verdict [Dave Johnson]

Movie House Commentary Johnny Web

Wider Screenings [Robert Cettl]

DVD In My Pants - DVD Review Shawn McLoughlin

Film-Forward.com [DVD review] Kent Turner

User reviews from imdb Author: Robert J. Maxwell (rmax304823@yahoo.com) from Deming, New Mexico, USA

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [1.5/4]

The New York Times (Vincent Canby) review

DVDBeaver.com [Per-Olof Strandberg]

THE CONVICTION (La Condanna) B- 80

Italy (92 mi) 1991

While many hail the merits of this film, a courtroom drama that serves as a philosophical inquiry on the nature of rape, the reliance on theoretical arguments throughout suggest this belongs in what one might call the male masturbatory head case genre. Making arguments to the point of absurdity may work from time to time, but here it borders on the ridiculous, as is Bellocchio having his own personal psychotherapist Massimo Fagioli as the co-writer on the set to offer immediate advice. One might ask if there is a real feeling expressed anywhere in this film, or if it is entirely configured in a universe of artificiality. Therein lies the problem, as the film exists totally within the realm of theory and make believe. Still it’s an intriguing effort that attempts to provoke thought and ideas, but mostly ends up being thoroughly ludicrous.

In a provocative opening, Sandra Celestini (Claire Nebout) is touring the Farnese Castle art gallery, lagging behind her touring group with a discussion led by an art professor. Bellocchio’s cameraman Giuseppe Lanci has a field day with camera movement, as it follows Celestini down winding stairs, through dark corridors, or moving from room to room, where the camera pans quickly from behind to a few steps in front, showing a full range of freedom of movement that is remarkable. Nonetheless, Celestini finds herself locked inside the museum at night and can be seen sitting motionless before an artwork, as if in contemplation, whose mood does not seem the least disturbed when a male figure appears behind her and starts questioning her artistic interest, turning into a surreal choreography of various sexual positions. He turns out to be a handsome architect named Lorenzo Colajanni (Vittorio Mezzogiorno) who is an expert on art and love, using words as a calming sexual aphrodisiac, where Celestini’s initial fear of sex with a stranger turns into a sexual fantasy, voluntarily whipping off her clothes at one point and assuming the position of Goya’s The Nude Maja (also seen here: Full resolution). What’s highly unusual about the initial sexual encounters is that Celestini takes off her undergarments, but Colajanni initiates sexual acts without ever lowering his pants, which remain firmly buckled. This same technique was used during Bertolucci’s LAST TANGO IN PARIS (1972) with Marlon Brando, but in that film the suggestive language and imagery was entirely sexual.

A courtroom drama follows where Celestini has brought up Lorenzo on rape charges, where in a RASHOMON (1950) moment, each tell their version before an elderly judge who strains to understand Lorenzo’s freely acknowledged philosophical musings on love, where the visitor section is filled with women straining to get a good look at this overly masculine, idealized version of a man. In a strange twist, the story turns to the prosecuting attorney Giovanni (Andrzej Seweryn) and his deteriorating relationship with his mistress, Grazyna Szapolowska from Kieslowski’s NO END (1985) and A SHORT FILM ABOUT LOVE (1988). She questions Giovanni’s passion, claiming his lovemaking is all about remaining under control, while actually forming a connection with the defendant that Giovanni is prosecuting, actually walking out on him, which elevates his final argument to something personal. Colajanni is convicted, but in yet another twist, the sentence seems to reflect the interest of the privileged class system, as at a high society ball that Giovanni attends, a sexually provocative Celestini is there dancing merrily with an elderly man who resembles the trial judge. In a strange dreamlike turn, Giovanni finds himself protecting a sultry peasant woman from being molested by farmhands, which she laughs at with amusement, as it’s his upright moral position that is at odds with the lower class custom. All of this is supposed to demonstrate how out of touch a highly educated upper class system of justice is to presume knowledge and judgment on sexual matters of the lower class, which couldn’t be more distinctly different. What’s especially galling, however, is not only the argument made that if a woman experiences orgasm it dismisses the charges of rape, but also the district attorney visiting the convicted sex offender Colajanni in jail for tips on how to rescue his all too ordinary and uneventful love life.

Chicago Reader (Jonathan Rosenbaum) capsule review

A singularly weird if watchable Italian courtroom drama about rape from the once very promising Marco Bellocchio (Fist in the Pocket, China Is Near), who more recently has been known for his ponderous sexual psychodramas and for having his psychotherapist present on his shooting locations to advise him on each shot. Perhaps he could use a better therapist. In this 1990 feature a young woman who finds herself locked inside an art museum is approached and, after some initial reluctance, seduced by an architect. Afterward the architect reveals that he was responsible for locking her inside the museum, and the woman brings rape charges against him. In the courtroom the architect expounds at length on the philosophy of rape and the philosophy of orgasm; for him, her orgasm proves there was no violence. Bellocchio seems to think he has a point; as he puts it, “I am convinced that violence against women must be severely punished by law, but at the same time the perpetrator or the rapist is not really a rapist, but the 'ideal' man which every woman is looking for deep down, the man who does not destroy the woman's identity, but by stimulating her desire does not disappoint her and therefore enables her to 'be born' and to strengthen her own identity.” Come again?

Weekend Series: SPOTLIGHT ON MARCO BELLOCCHIO Facets Multi Media

The Facets Cinémathèque and the Italian Cultural Institute of Chicago proudly present a Tribute to Marco Bellocchio (b. 1939), one of Italy´s most talented, socially conscious, and respected directors, who has been making films for almost forty years. Ranging from historical epics to family dramas, his cutting examinations of humanity and stunning natural-light cinematography make his films some of the most important work to emerge from Italy in the last half century. He was celebrated in American art-film circles as a post-neorealist, hence a worthy successor to Rossellini, Visconti and De Sica. He is admired as a prolific filmmaker, with about thirty theatrical features in addition to several television series in a 45 year career and remains a perennial provocateur whose work continues to resonate with artistic force.

This unusual film chronicles the night a professor and a female student spend accidentally locked in a museum. When the student finds out that the professor had the keys the entire time, she accuses him of rape. This unusual film looks at the issue of rape from the male point of view, in particular one man's nightmare of being accused of the crime and having no recourse against the accusations of a persuasive "victim." Afterwards, he is surprised to be hauled into court on a charge of "rape without force" and convicted. However, his is not the nightmare vision being considered -- the prosecutor who has won his case begins having nightmares, especially after his girlfriend takes the side of the man he prosecuted. Co-scripted by Bellocchio's controversial psychoanalyst, the movie is a philosophical argument posing challenging questions on the meaning of consent, power, and pleasure.

User reviews from imdb Author: rsoonsa (rsoonsa@bandbbooks.com) from Mountain Mesa, California

Marco Bellochio pays homage in this film to the Gallic novelistic methods that he favours, particularly those depicting a primal life force, in this three part ethological drama co-scripted by the director and his defrocked psychoanalyst friend Massimo Fagioli, a cinematic triumph that displays a notable admixture of style and purpose as it reflects upon a trenchant formation of cause and effect: the psychology of sex, utilizing formal design in addition to surrealist imagery within mundane settings that few auteurs can match. Sandra Celestini (Claire Nebout) is touring the Farnese Castle gallery, near Viterbo, with her classmates under the aegis of their art professor, and when she has apparently lost keys to her apartment, she separates from the group in order to locate them and is subsequently locked inside, therefore preparing to wait for the morrow, when she discovers that she is not alone in the Castle, because Lorenzo Colajanni (Vittorio Mezzogiorno), an architect, is in for the evening. It soon becomes apparent that Sandra is about to be sexually assaulted by her new companion, their unplanned intimacy being exquisitely choreographed. When Lorenzo tells Sandra that he has in his possession the keys to the Castle, and that the two could have left the premises at any time, part one abruptly ends with part two taking place in a courtroom where Colajanni is being tried for rape of Sandra, an event marked by dialogue that concerns purely theoretical aspects of the Castle episode, i.e., was the lovemaking a result of coercion or rather shared passion?; indeed, how can force be defined during sexual contact?; is female sexual response released by an innate desire to be forcefully taken? This is plainly a subject designed for spirited controversy, but the juridical proceedings are mirrored by the troubled psychosexual private life of the case's prosecuting attorney, Giovanni (Andrzej Seweryn), forming the marrow of part three, depicting a philosophical choice to be made between temptation and coercion that haunts the relationship of Giovanni with his dissatisfied mistress. Although clues to clear resolution of these perennial conflicts will be sought by some viewers, the cardinal value of the film results from Bellochio's surehanded and ever fluid directorial craft, as his gliding camera provides ongoing surprises throughout this visually splendid motion picture that energizes both mind and eye, with rich contributions coming from Mirco Garrone and his crisp editing, Giuseppe Lanci, cinematographer, and Carlo Crivelli for his illustrative score, while acting honours here go to Nebout for her striking performance as Sandra.

Austin Chronicle (Marjorie Baumgarten) review[1.5/5]

Once upon a time, Italian filmmaker Marco Bellochio's name was uttered in the same anticipatory breath as Bertolucci's and Pasolini's. His first couple of films in the late Sixties, Fist in the Pocket and China Is Near brought him international attention and a controversial reputation. The subject matter of his films tends to be organized around psychosexual issues and leftist political analysis. Few of his later films have been distributed outside of Italy, with the exception of 1985's X-rated Devil in the Flesh, which Bellochio co-scripted with his psychoanalyst Massimo Fagioli, a well-known yet highly controversial practitioner whose renegade theories caused his expulsion from the Italian Psychoanalytic Society. The Conviction revives this screenwriting partnership. The story is a minimalist “he said, she said” and the subject is rape. Underpinning the drama are Freudian and Judeo-Christian tenets that regard the nature of female sexuality as passive and only unleashed by the desire to be forcibly overpowered. Thus, the world is a place where a woman's “no” means “yes” and a man's responsibility is to overtake a woman. In that way, the innate sexual natures of both sexes are satisfied and, theoretically, everyone goes away happy. Well, without going into it at great length, let's just say that there are multitudes who regard this line of thinking as -- in brief -- a bunch of cock 'n' bull. Though it does open up lines of investigation into thornier questions about the function of power -- not only physical but psychological, as well -- in sexual relationships and the differences between seduction and coercion. The Conviction begins as a woman (Nebout) becomes locked in a museum after-hours and, just as she is resigning herself to spending the night cooped-up, a man (Mezzogiorno) appears behind her and begins a conversation. Twice they have sex, though her attitude seemingly vacillates between consensual and non-consensual. Then, after he accuses her of non-responsiveness, she strips her clothes and invitationally lies down odalisque-fashion. Once more, they have sex and she comes to orgasm. Afterwards, she discovers he had the building keys all along. In the film's next section, she brings him to court on rape charges. Every day, the courtroom is filled with adoring female admirers of the defendant and the course of the trial allows an airing of the philosophical ramifications of the events. The third part of the film shifts its focus to the prosecuting attorney (Seweryn), for whom the trial mirrors his sexual situation at home. All these characters are portrayed fairly one-dimensionally; the visual compositions are minimalistic, as well. This fits a morality play structure more than a drama. And, while the morality under examination is fascinating and may actually lead to some breakthrough discoveries, the assumptions guiding its path are grounded in patriarchal nonsense and cultural sandbags.

The New York Times (Caryn James) review

There was a time when Marco Bellocchio was mentioned in the same breath as Bernardo Bertolucci. But that was a couple of decades ago when they were among the wild young things of the Italian film industry. Today Mr. Bellocchio is best known in the United States for his X-rated 1985 film, "Devil in the Flesh," and his latest work is not likely to raise his profile. "The Conviction," a 1990 film opening today at the Joseph Papp Public Theater, takes topical, explosive issues -- rape, sexual harassment, power plays between the sexes -- and reduces them into a forgettable puff of hot air.

The film begins in a promising, if calculated, way. An ordinary-looking young woman named Sandra (Claire Nebout) finds herself locked in a museum overnight. A handsome architect named Lorenzo (Vittorio Mezzogiorno, who died in January) has intentionally stayed behind as well. When he begins to rape her, at first she fights back. Then she freezes.

From that point on, the film takes one ludicrous turn after another. Shamed by her own coldness, Sandra invites Lorenzo to have sex she will enjoy. She does this by taking off her clothes and posing in an odalisque position in front of the museum's paintings, while they both expostulate about art and life.

Then Sandra drags Lorenzo into court. On the witness stand, she actually says, "He has a force of character that drives a woman to sexuality even if she doesn't want it." He wishes. So, it seems, do Mr. Bellocchio and his co-author, the psychoanalyst Massimo Fagioli. They regard Sandra as an authentic woman rather than a male fantasy out of Freud by way of D. H. Lawrence.

Soon the film shifts its attention to the prosecuting attorney, a man whose lover complains about his lack of passion. The prosecutor is played by Andrzej Seweryn with an unchanging look -- a furrowed brow and staring eyes -- that makes him look catatonic. Eventually he goes to the rapist for advice, wondering, "How do you lose your head for a woman?" Don't even ask about the scene in which the prosecutor stumbles across a peasant who looks and acts as if she were inhabited by the ghost of Anna Magnani.

Mr. Bellocchio obviously intends the sly references and stylized nature of this film, but he couldn't possibly have intended it to be this much of a howler. Relations between the sexes are complicated, but rarely as lunatic as they are made to seem here.

MARCO BELLOCCHIO'S LA CONDANNA Harlan Kennedy from American Cinema Papers, 1994

THE CONVICTION (Marco Bellocchio, 1990) Dennis Grunes

THE PRINCE OF HOMBURG (Il principe di Homburg)

Italy (89 mi) 1997

Time Out review Geoff Andrew

A staid, uninvolving adaptation of Kleist's story about a high-born cavalry general (Di Stefano) who faces execution after disobeying orders and leading a charge that results in victory. As the film proceeds to examine his crisis of faith, it confronts questions of honour, courage, heroism and responsibility with clarity but little dramatic force. It's a slow, elegant, lifeless costume drama, and its stylistic conservatism only adds to its aura of redundancy.

Film Scouts (David Sterritt) capsule review

Marco Bellochio's version of Heinrich von Kleist's venerable "The Prince of Homburg" is also politically suspect, albeit in more interesting ways. Kleist's play is basically a profascist poem suggesting that a person's greatest triumph may be victory over one's own humanity in service to a greater good, i.e. that old favorite, law and order as represented by the State and the Wise Old Man who runs it. Bellochio underscores the elements of hallucinatory expressionism in Kleist's original conception, but this isn't enough to outweigh the drama's authoritarian tendencies. Still, the picture is magnificently photographed by Giuseppe Lanci in rich low-light tones, and Carlo Crivelli's atmospherically dissonant music suits the mood of the picture nicely. In all, disappointing but far from a total loss. And what a cinematographers' festival this has turned out to be so far!

THE PRINCE OF HOMBURG (Marco Bellocchio, 1997) Dennis Grunes

Marco Bellocchio’s films blend fantasy and reality in pursuit of an analytical outcome. Dark and dreamy, like Kleist’s play, The Prince of Homburg departs from Kleist’s (conscious) intent and accumulates into an indictment of war.    

The protagonist is the titular young German general who is fighting the Swedes in the Thirty Years War. Swept up in romantic reverie centering on his beloved Natalia, he leads a cavalry charge prematurely. The offensive action succeeds; but his unintended disobedience of military orders requires his death. The Grand Elector, Natalia’s uncle, orders this after a trial; meanwhile, Natalia must marry the King of Sweden. Brave and heroic on the battlefield, the Prince disintegrates into fear at the prospect of execution. Natalia’s pleas on the Prince’s behalf win the Elector’s retraction of the death sentence—with this caveat: the Prince must agree to this outcome in writing. Honor and military code preclude his doing this; but before going to his death, the Prince secures the undoing of the planned political marriage for the sake of his and Natalia’s undying love.     

War, then, is at war with human feelings. It distorts, falsifies much that is human. Masks replace humanity: Hohenzollern may not be comrade of the Prince that he appears to be; the Grand Elector, anticipating Melville’s Captain Vere, is certainly not the loving surrogate father that the Prince believes him to be. Even the Prince’s cowardice turns out to be a mask!—irony of ironies.     

Bellocchio conjures images that intercept a fragmented dream. Outside a window in a dark room, soldiers on horseback pass; they appear as an expressionistic regimented train of ghastly silhouettes—a war-haunted European history, a revelation of the Prince’s tormented soul, a harbinger of his death:  the convoluted suicide preceding his dreamt wedding.

User reviews from imdb Author: jotix100 from New York

The Prince of Homburg, an eager young noble in Germany, sees an open grave set in the garden of his palace and figures it is meant for him. This troubled youth has been accused by the man in charge of the principality of having derailed a battle in which the prince has acted irrationally, as far as he is concerned. Now on the eve of an important confrontation in the battle field with the enemy, Sweden, the Elector Prince has his doubts again as to what is he supposed to expect from the young man.

The young Natalia, a princess in her own right, comes to the aid of the young man, who evidently loves her. She has been promised to marry someone else, so whatever he feels for her is of no consequence. When the Prince of Homburg goes to the front, he stays with the commanding officers at a side of the arena. His own eagerness compels him to charge ahead, jeopardizing the troops he is supposed to be a part of.

Because of his rash decisions, he is sentenced to die, a decision he fights, at first, but later on, he decides to accept his fate. Natalia pleads with the Elector and the prince is given a pardon. Unfortunately, he cannot change the fact that Natalia will be married to someone else.

Marco Bellocchio, the distinguished Italian director took liberties with Heinrich Von Kleist's play in his adaptation of the classic. It wasn't the first time the director tried his hand at transforming a play for the movies, "Enrico IV", by Luigi Pirandello came before this. His take on the story is a dark and complex tale that captures the essence of the conflict and the love of the tragic figure of the Prince of Homburg.

The cast is interesting. Andrea Di Stefano, whose second film this was, made an inspired Prince of Homburg. He brought equal parts of charm and darkness to the role. Equally good was Barbara Bobulova, who appears as the earnest Natalia, whose love for the prince will make her plead for his life to her own father. Toni Bertorelli portrays the Elector Prince with conviction.

Giuseppi Lanci's dark photography contributes to the atmosphere the director wanted to give his film. Marco Bellochio's film is worth a look because it shows us a great director, and a man at the top of his craft.

Variety (Deborah Young) review

THE NANNY (La Balia) B+ 90

Italy (106 mi) 1999

A film that bears some similarities to French director Antoine Santana’s own adaptation, A SONG OF INNOCENCE (2005), starring Isild Le Besco as the nanny, though Santana takes full writing credit for his film, even though there are exact copy cat shots taken directly from this earlier film. Santana’s is a much more subversive adaptation, as it’s presented in the horror genre as class warfare against a harsh and unyielding employer, leading to a completely different and actually more satisfying ending. Bellocchio’s is a lyrical, more novelesque adaptation that merits attention due to its strict attention to period detail, a historical costume drama using gas street lamps and horse driven carriages reserved only for the rich. Set during the end of the late 19^th century, the country is undergoing political upheaval, where a fascist militia is brought in to protect the upper class by wiping out the peasant uprising, expressed through banners and red flag waving Communist demonstrations on the street. In this capacity we meet a sympathetic Professor Mori (Fabrizio Bentivoglio), who treats mental illness at a local hospital, but also seems to receive a steady stream of political victims, announcing they need follow up care, keeping them at the hospital instead of allowing them to be arrested and hoisted off to jail. His wife, Vittoria, Valeria Bruni-Tedeschi, usually seen in French films but seen here early in her career in Italian, is suffering from postpartum depression, a condition little was known about at the time, but she has an intense fear of intimacy with the newborn, requiring the breast feeding services of a wet nurse.

Santana steals the most memorable image in the film, where twenty or so nursing mothers are lined up, each unclad from the waist up so the prospective employer can examine them as if choosing a woman at a bordello. Dr. Mori chooses Annetta (Maya Sansa), who he may have seen from a train earlier in the film, where she left an unforgettable impression. Against all advice, as she has a husband in prison for being a political activist demanding “freedom,” of all things, he chooses her anyway, perhaps mesmerized by her beauty, though he refuses to acknowledge his fascination with her. Perhaps the most difficult sacrifice demanded of her is being forced to live without her own newborn son. Annetta takes to the baby immediately, providing the natural intimacy missing from the real mother, which only inflames Vittoria’s resentment, who wants her sent away immediately. But this irrational conflict contrasts against the health improvements of the baby, who also sleeps more peacefully now and is gaining weight. Vittoria, however, remains hateful of the woman who has maternally taken her place, making her feel unappreciated and unnecessary. Dr. Mori has his medical practice to keep him busy, so all he’s really concerned about is the health of the baby.

The centerpiece of the film is a letter written to Annetta from her husband in prison, which Vittoria initially conceals from her, finding it odd that someone would be sent a letter knowing the recipient was illiterate. Annetta asks for help learning to read and write, but Vittoria ignores the request. Dr. Mori, on the other hand, makes time for her, which are some of the more tender scenes in the film, especially the way he gently guides her hand as she’s learning to write. But the letter itself changes the dynamics in the film. When Dr. Mori reads the letter out loud, which urges Annetta to remain liberated and free, to never settle for convention, to remain passionate in love and in her convictions, both can’t help but be impressed by the letter’s contents, which are not the thoughts of a political agitator, but a man who refuses to be anything less than a free soul on this earth and pleads with his wife to be the same, especially because they want a better future for their own young child. Unlike the rigid superficiality of Vittoria, who prefers strict obedience from the servants, showing no regard for them whatsoever, as in her eyes they are an inferior class, Dr. Mori is more flexible, expressing a tolerance and even a kind benevolence for others. When Annetta asks him to help her write a response, he’s at first reluctant, thinking her husband wrote such a strong letter. “You are strong,” (Tu sei forte), she tells him, an unusual moment where both classes are regarding one another with equanimity, showing appreciation and mutual respect, something that is clearly missing in the violent street protests raging outside. While the pace of the film is exasperatingly slow, the camerawork by Giuseppe Lanci is impressive, especially working in dim, underlit conditions where they tried to shoot under natural conditions, much of it by candle light, reminiscent of Kubrick’s BARRY LYNDON (1975). Of note, Dr. Mori’s medical partner, a man questioning the worth of medicine and who eventually walks side by side with the demonstrators, taking one of the mental patients with him, is none other than the director’s son, Pier Giorgio Bellocchio.

User reviews from imdb Author: fantans

I saw this movie in a EU film festival in Vancouver last year and was deeply moved. Quite unlike most other realistic Italian films, the film is a a "sober, unerringly controlled psychological drama about motherhood and mental frailty" (David Rooney, Variety). A Roman psychiatrist hires an illiterate country girl to serve as a wet nurse for his newborn child when his wife is unable to breast feed (or love) it. The maternal theme (and frequent nursing scenes) contribute welcome warmth to the director's customary rich visual style, while the plot points the wet-nurse has a jailed political activist husband and a small child of her own whom she must temporarily forsake in order to earn a living. It is an elegant film with slow rhythms, poetic psychoanalytical discourse and warm motif of maternity, loyalty, love and understanding. Beautiful and compassionate Italian masterpiece in the 1990's!

Weekend Series: SPOTLIGHT ON MARCO BELLOCCHIO

A Pirandello adaptation set in pre-World War I, The Nanny examines the subject of motherhood, a theme that runs throughout Bellocchio's work. A young wife in turn-of-the-century Rome bears a child, but suffers deep postpartum depression and is unable to nurse or even love the baby. A fraught relationship develops when a stern psychiatrist and his estranged wife hire a wet nurse to care for their new-born child. When the father hires a beautiful, illiterate nanny for the child (who has abandoned her own infant son in order to take the job), an explosive situation develops. Though the Roman Catholic Church deemed it blasphemous, most critics were in awe of this provocative drama from Marco Bellocchio, who brilliantly uses this affluent family as a social template that represents the collapse of the bourgeois order in Rome, amid proletarian riots, red flags and Socialist strikes. He exposes the contrast between the world of men and women, wealth and poverty, as well as origins and culture.

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson]

Fresh from yet another New York Film Festival triumph (the Moro-kidnapping psychodrama Good Morning, Night), Marco Bellocchio is finally ensconced in the mandarin priesthood of great international filmmakers. Though notorious as a provocateur (largely thanks to Maruschka Detmers's blowjob in Devil in the Flesh), Bellocchio is a supremely restrained, sober artist, as deft with poetic visuals as he is concerned with the dogfight between history and family. Facets brings us three of his best films, only one of which—the sad Pirandello satire Henry IV(1984), with Marcello Mastroianni as a mad aristocrat who believes he's the titular monarch—has seen a theatrical release here. The Prince of Homburg(1997), from a classic Kleist play, follows the travails of a dream-haunted German officer in the 17th-century war with Sweden, while The Nanny(1999), from another Pirandello tale, explores the dynamics of a fragile fin de siècle Italian family when a nursemaid is hired. Both these newer films are nuanced, deeply mysterious, and possessed of some of the most beautiful deep-shadow, natural-light cinematography (by longtime Bellocchio partner in crime Giuseppe Lanci) executed anywhere in recent years.

User reviews from imdb Author: eliane-4 from Holland

Lovers of Hollywood blockbusters beware: 'La Balia' is a distinctly European film, and an old-fashioned one at that. This is not to say it's a bad film. Quite on the contrary; it's excellent. It's slow-paced without being long-winded, subtle without being elitist, understated without being incomprehensible, and ever so elegant. This is particularly true for the love scene that highlights the final third of the film. No gratuitous nudity and full-on sex in this film; instead you get an older man teaching his uneducated wet nurse how to write and looking at the way she holds her pen in a way that just sizzles with passion. It's an old-fashioned way of depicting lust, but it's more erotic than any 'steaming' sex scene Hollywood could concoct. And that's just one of the many instances of understatement that make this film so impressive.

The acting, too, is top-notch - subtle but ever so effective. None of the three leading characters (the doctor, his wife, and their wet nurse) undergoes much development, but somehow the actors (particularly Valeria Bruni Tedeschi as the frigid wife with the smouldering passion underneath) give one the impression they do. It's an achievement not to be underestimated.

Of course there are things the makers of this film could learn from Hollywood, one of them being how to use lamps. The first few minutes of the film are so dark (one can barely see facial expressions) it makes one wish the job had been done by a Hollywood crew. Once one gets into the story, however, the natural light and gaslight become a part of the experience, making for an authentic nineteenth-century Italian atmosphere. And then some.

Highly recommended to those who like subtle-but-easy-to-follow arthouse films.

User reviews from imdb Author: jotix100 from New York

Prof. Mori, a Roman physician, finds himself in a quandary. His beautiful wife Vittoria has given birth to a boy, but she is suffering from what appears to be postpartum depression, something that might have been a baffling situation for the doctor that specializes in mental diseases. The times in which the action takes place do not help the problem. It is the beginning of the XX century and this is not probably something that was well known then.

The alternative is to find a wet nurse to breast feed the baby. Mori goes to a nearby town where he selects Annetta, a peasant girl. The baby who is not being fed properly, immediately takes to the new arrival as though she were his real mother. Vittoria envies the woman, but she cannot bring herself to show any emotions.

Annetta, whose husband is serving time in prison, is an intelligent girl who cannot read, or write. Her ambition is to learn. That way she can correspond with her man. When she mentions her desire to Vittoria, her employer appears receptive to the idea, but it is her husband who takes the time to teach Annetta. There is also a mysterious side to Annetta no one knows. She often goes out of the house on the sly. When questioned, Annetta answers she attends services at a church nearby. It takes a while, but Prof. Mori gets to the bottom of the problem. Annetta has a secret reason for sneaking out.

Marco Bellocchio, the Italian director, adapted with Daniella Ceselli, the original story by Luigi Pirandello and brought it to the screen. Not having seen it, it was a nice surprise when we found it on a cable channel recently. Mr. Bellocchio, one of the most prolific Italian creators, shows an understanding for the material.

The cast is excellent. Fabrizio Bentivoglio plays the doctor that wants to have his son to live after the total indifference shown by his mother. Valeria Bruni Tedeschi makes an enigmatic Vittoria, a mother that cannot do for her son what comes naturally. Maya Sansa makes a good impression with her take on Annetta.

Variety (David Rooney) review

One of the more satisfying films of recent years from veteran Italian director Marco Bellocchio, "The Nanny" is a sober, unerringly controlled psychological drama about motherhood and mental frailty set in the early 1900s. Adapted from the novella by Luigi Pirandello, the film for better or worse bears many of the customary traits of the director's work -- the coldly cerebral approach, exasperatingly slow rhythms and penchant for psychoanalytical discourse. But these are largely countered by the warmth and immediacy of the central theme of maternity, the constant motif of breast-feeding and by three compelling lead performances. While the market for foreign-language literary costume dramas of this type has shrunk steadily in the past 20 years, European arthouse demand should be marginally greater than for Bellocchio's previous Cannes competition entry, "The Prince of Homburg."

In tailoring Pirandello's novella to his own needs, Bellocchio, with co-scripter Daniela Ceselli, has transformed the male protagonist from a parliamentarian to a neuropsychiatrist working in an institute for the mentally disturbed. While this would appear to give the director carte blanche to burden the slender tale with numbing psych-speak, the occasional pedagogical dialogue intrudes only rarely.

Set against a backdrop of subversive uprisings and police repression, the story centers on well-heeled Professor Mori (Fabrizio Bentivoglio) and his young wife, Vittoria (Valeria Bruni Tedeschi), and the instability that grips her mind and the couple's relationship following the birth of their son. When the baby refuses its mother's breast, Mori enters into a contract with illiterate country girl Annetta (Maya Sansa) to feed and care for the child, requiring her to abandon her own newborn son.

Deeply depressed after the birth, Vittoria is further jarred by the wet nurse's presence. While the girl is natural and instinctive with the baby, immediately establishing a loving rapport, Vittoria is awkward and removed, incapable not only of providing physical care but also of showing maternal love and affection. Feeling inadequate and redundant in her own home, she asks Mori to dismiss the girl. When he refuses, Vittoria withdraws without explanation to the country. Despite his professional experience dealing with emotional disturbances, Mori is unable to intervene and help her.

The film's first half is powered by the uneasy dynamic and class conflict between the two women. Annetta is shy but decisive and self-assured while Vittoria veers nervously between vague animosity, jealousy, indifference, proprietary authority and threatened vulnerability. Mori hovers on the outside until Vittoria's departure brings him into closer contact with the nanny.

Unable to read a letter from her husband, an imprisoned political agitator, Annetta persuades Mori to teach her to read and write. The girl's spontaneity gradually uncovers a softer, more human side beneath the professor's earnest, clinical manner.

Plot factors outside the central triangle -- the political skirmishes in which peasants from the country rebel against class discrimination; the hospital and psych patient interludes; the ideological crisis of Mori's fellow doctor (the director's son and producer Pier Giorgio Bellocchio, in his first acting role), who falls for a patient and is drawn into the insurrection -- remain almost extraneous background elements to the intimate drama. But these strands add texture to the script's view of middle-class malaise and society in a state of ferment.

Heading a fine cast, Bentivoglio steers Mori from emotionally subdued, soft-spoken seriousness to warmth, openness and the rediscovery of an intuitive side. Bruni Tedeschi has perhaps played too many weepy neurotics to make her work here seem entirely new, but the actress ably conveys the contradictions of a desperate woman unable to articulate her afflictions. In a quiet but effective turn, newcomer Sansa brings focus and intensity to the title character.

As always with Bellocchio's films, the use of shadows and darkness is fundamental, both in Marco Dentici's handsome production design and Giuseppe Lanci's accomplished lensing, with most of the action arrestingly bathed in an atmospheric half-light.

Camera (Cinecitta color), Giuseppe Lanci; editor, Francesca Calvelli; music, Carlo Crivelli; art director, Marco Dentici; set decorator, Simona Migliotti; costume designer, Sergio Ballo; sound (Dolby Digital), Maurizio Argentieri; assistant director, Daniela Ceselli; casting, Fabiola Banzi. Reviewed at Quattro Fontane Cinema, Rome, May 6, 1999. (In Cannes Film Festival -- competing.) Running time: 106 MIN.

THE NANNY (Marco Bellocchio, 1999) « Dennis Grunes

MY MOTHER’S SMILE (Il sorriso di mia madre)

aka: L'ora di religione

Italy (105 mi) 2002

Seattle Post-Intelligencer [Sean Axmaker]

Artist and self-confessed atheist Ernesto (Sergio Castellitto) is greeted by an emissary from the Vatican with the explanation: "It's about your mother's canonization." It seems his entire family has been rewriting the terrible murder of his mother (at the hands of his mentally disturbed brother) as a holy martyr fantasy with cartoonish bluntness. As Ernesto is dragged into his family's little conspiracy of sainthood, he steps into a world of false fronts, insincere gestures and mercenary motives (there is a disturbing obsession for title and the social currency), and revisits his troubled relationship with a mother who was religious on the surface but hollow underneath. It's not hard to see why the Roman Catholic Church denounced Marco Bellocchio's portrait of opportunism wrapped in the cloak of piety. Bellocchio creates an unsettling atmosphere with his jagged direction. It isn't so much critical of the church as it is suspicious of its shadow over society and the blur between the spiritual and the political. It's messy and unsettled, but Bellocchio's distaste for the cynicism and mendacity is potent and sincere.

Slant Magazine Ed Gonzalez

In Marco Bellocchio's My Mother's Smile, painter and proud atheist Ernesto (Sergio Castellitto) learns that the Vatican hopes to canonize his mother, murdered years earlier by his mentally-ill brother. While it has courted controversy in its native Italy, My Mother's Smile is at once a subtle observation of religious hypocrisy and an indictment of its main character's moral uncertainty. Ernesto must deal with the calculated attempts of his family and friends to lure him into the process of winning his mother's beatification. (A mysterious young woman who claims to be his son's religion teacher is the film's false prophet and angelic center.) Hungry for the fame the woman's martyrdom would bring to the family, Ernesto's aunt rallies for his support. Equally hungry for a saint is the Vatican. At stake here is whether Ernesto's brother killed their mother in her sleep; according to the Vatican, the woman can only be canonized if she forgave her son right before he stabbed her in the heart. Bellocchio is profoundly fascinated with the cultural rifts between generations and the amount of deceit it requires for the dead to become saints. Curiously, Ernesto may be the film's true monster; indeed, his hatred for his mother is both heartbreaking and strangely ironic (he loathed her because of her simplicity and moral complacency). The man's strange experiences (a commercial photo op, a surreal religious gathering) bring to mind Tom Cruise's road to fidelity in Eyes Wide Shut, but set to Italian opera. Bellocchio has a way of spelling everything out for the audience; nonetheless, the film's intelligence is provocative and playful.

MY MOTHER'S SMILE (Marco Bellocchio, 2002) Dennis Grunes

Irene and Ernesto, an atheist, are separated. One day Leonardo, their little son who lives with his mother, is outside under the watchful eye of Irene, who is indoors. The child, distressed, is saying that he wants to be left alone. Irene attends to him, asking him what the problem is. Leonardo tells his mother that God is in his head, is everywhere in fact, and as a result he is never free—never free to think for himself! His mother smiles. And so do I. This is the launch of atheist Marco Bellocchio’s L’ora di religione: Il sorriso di mia madre (The Hour of Religion: My Mother’s Smile). The title refers to a time of faith, to be sure, but also to the weekly hour of religious instruction that Leonardo is currently being subjected to. Ernesto, a painter, has his own mother’s Mona Lisa-smile with which to contend. Thanks to his Monsignor-brother, their departed mother is currently under investigation for canonization! We Americans know what it means to have a mother who is a saint. It means you are Richard Nixon! (In the U.S. there was once a President Nixon, who upon resigning in the face of his high crimes and misdemeanors publicly acknowledged what we all had privately suspected: his mother was a saint.) Ernesto is not Nixon—or a crook, or a hypocrite. He must make do, however, with what is going on around him.    

Most of us love our mothers. Ernesto didn’t love his. An insane brother—not the monsignor—murdered her, while she slept, he insists, while others recall instead she was awake and persevering against his blasphemies. The Vatican, which has kept the canonization process secret from him for three years, now is implicating Ernesto in it by soliciting his testomony. Thus is he drawn into a spiderweb of childhood memories, current reveries, familial nonsense and papal intrigues. Writer-director Bellocchio has fashioned here a curious satire that tests our limited, even distorted views of reality. In the meantime, one wonders what Leonardo will one day recall of his own mother.     

For me, this is one of Bellocchio’s least interesting films. A master may be coping with his own ambivalences, not to mention his anti-religious certainty, which is in danger of calcifying into a kind of faith. Bellocchio rarely proceeds as selfconsciously as he does here.

Strictly Film School Acquarello

The Onion A.V. Club [Keith Phipps]

Offoffoff -- The Guide to Alternative New York David Lipfert

DVD Verdict [Jonathan Weiss]

Film-Forward.com [Kent Turner]

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

User reviews from imdb Author: Kári Driscoll from Oxford, England

User reviews from imdb Author: jotix100 from New York

User reviews from imdb Author: noralee from Queens, NY

User reviews from imdb Author: Chris Knipp from Berkeley, California

User reviews from imdb Author: gradyharp from United States

User reviews from imdb (Page 2) Author: Aquilant from Italy

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

San Francisco Chronicle [Jonathan Curiel]

New York Times (registration req'd) Elvis Mitchell

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

L'ora di religione (Il sorriso di mia madre) - Marco Bellocchio ... photos and brief comments from Avax Home

GOOD MORNING, NIGHT (Buongiorno, notte)

Italy (106 mi) 2003

Time Out review

In 1978 Italy, Red Brigades terrorists abducted and eventually murdered the statesman Aldo Moro, a past prime minister and member of the dominant Christian Democrat party. Marco Bellocchio's terse, speculative revisiting of the shattering incident bunks down with the kidnappers in their Rome apartment. Here, the sole female member of the cell, who initially shares her comrades' feeling of tense triumph, begins to have doubts, which Bellocchio sometimes expresses in disorientingly matter of fact dream sequences. Positing politics as a form of religion and vice versa, the film examines a proletarian revolution where 'everything is permitted' - the source of its eloquent anguish and existential dread.

VideoVista review Gary Couzens

Good Morning, Night is a reconstruction of the kidnapping of former Italian Prime Minister Aldo Moro in 1978. The kidnapping was carried out by an extreme political faction called the Red Brigade, who hide Moro in a house owned by Chiara (Maya Sansa), who works as a government official while secretly being part of the Brigade. As the kidnapping makes headline news across Italy, the reaction of the press, the media, parliament, the church and even the ordinary working people the Brigade purports to represent is hostile to the kidnappers. Even the Pope intercedes, pleading for Moro's life. As the kidnappers sentence Moro to death for his 'crimes', Chiara becomes increasingly unsure of her beliefs.

Marco Bellochio made an impact with his first feature, Fists In The Pocket, made in 1965 at the age of 26. He has worked consistently since, though many of his films have failed to be shown in the UK. One such was 1986's Devil In The Flesh, which achieved notoriety for an un-simulated fellatio scene involving lead actress Maruschka Detmers. The film failed to be released in the UK due to censorship worries, though it would be passed uncut nowadays without a doubt. Based on true events, Good Morning Night, which won the Best Screenplay award at the Venice Film Festival, is an engrossing story that gives some insight into the mindset of political extremists. Some knowledge of the political climate might be useful to non-Italians, but the film holds you in its grip nonetheless. Bellochio makes striking use of sound, in particular two Pink Floyd tracks (The Great Gig In The Sky and Shine On You Crazy Diamond), and if you have a 5.1 sound system, a firework display early on will give your speakers a workout.

Artificial Eye's DVD has an anamorphic transfer in the ratio of 1.78:1 and a choice of Dolby digital 5.1 and 2.0 soundtracks. Disc extras: an hour-long documentary covering the background to the story, behind-the-scenes footage, an overview of Bellochio's directing career, a Bellochio biography, and the trailer.

2003 Toronto International Film Festival Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

This is extra-textual knowledge and not really appropriate to mention in a review, but in Q&A Bellocchio admitted that he was trying to depict the Red Brigade terrorists not just as deluded, but as incredibly stupid. I certainly noticed, as they spouted meaningless slogans and chanted in unison, in addition to showing no real connection to the working class. This was offensive to me; whatever I may think of their politics and tactics, the Red Brigade did have a point of view, and depicting them with the subtle shading of a Popeye cartoon serves no one's argument well. Plus, as a film it was simply a chore to watch. It resembled the docu-fiction (but not the analysis) of Kluge, joined to the historical realism (but not the generosity to character) of Von Trotta. Mixed into all of this were some bizarre stabs at operatic pathos (Pink Floyd?) which signified their intentions rather than achieving them. Quite a disappointment. [SECOND VIEWING (9/8/05): There's a little more going on here than I first acknowledged, blinded as I was by Bellocchio's political cudgel-swiping at the Red Brigade. I was right about that; the film is a hatchet job by an inside man, a cry of passionate regret that could only come from a once-idealistic leftist who is now searching for a Third Way. But Bellocchio combines this with a domestic melodrama, featuring Chiara (Maya Sansa) as the entrapped daughter of the revolution, helplessly watching a private familial heartbreak play out before her. This is all pretty intellectually hamhanded; Chiara's Partisan father was killed by the Fascists, and now she identifies with Moro as a surrogate father, her comrades seeming all too indistinguishable from Mussolini's thugs. (When she dreams of the glory of revolutions past, Bellocchio cuts in footage of Stalin. He couldn't make the point any plainer.) So the death of radical Marxism is partly brought about by an unconscious twitch of neo-Freudian displacement, and we all apparently need to make our peace with the political mistakes of our parents' generation. I can respect Bellocchio's difference of opinion about the legacy of Western Marxist political action, and I grant that his perspective is borne of concrete experience that I, as a younger non-European, simply cannot claim. And yet, as politics and as cinema, it is entirely too pat. I have upgraded the film, since on second viewing I can appreciate its evocation of Chiara's claustrophobic prison of the mind. (The contrast with the outdoor wedding is remarkably potent.) But the whole thing still feels like a flailing smackdown rather than a close retrospective analysis, and the questionable gender politics (the female revolutionary as the conscience and soul, the mourning daughter who must potentially become the protective mother) only make matters worse. Skillful, effective, but cheap.]

Buongiorno, Notte Pasquale Iannone from Senses of Cinema, July 2006

Reverse Shot review Stacy Meichtry, November/December 2003

GOOD MORNING, NIGHT (Marco Bellocchio, 2003) Dennis Grunes

DVD Times Noel Megahey

New York Observer (Andrew Sarris) review

Slant Magazine Ed Gonzalez

Salon.com [Andrew O'Hehir]

The Village Voice [J. Hoberman]

Twitch (Michael Guillen) review also seen here: The Evening Class [Michael Guillen] including: The Evening Class-Interview [Michael Guillen]

The Onion A.V. Club [Nathan Rabin]

www.european-films.net (Boyd van Hoeij) review

filmcritic.com (Jeremiah Kipp) review [2/5]

The New York Sun (James Bowman) review

James Bowman review

Strictly Film School review Acquarello

DVD Talk (Svet Atanasov) dvd review [1/5]

TV Guide Entertainment Network, Movie Guide review [3/4]

Variety.com [David Rooney]

Guardian/Observer

BBCi - Films Jamie Russell

Boston Globe [Ty Burr]

The New York Times (A.O. Scott) review

DVDBeaver.com [Henrik Sylow]

Good morning, night (Buongiorno, notte) - Marco Bellocchio, Luigi ... photos from Cinematic Intelligence Agency

THE WEDDING DIRECTOR (Il regista di matrimony)

Italy France (97 mi) 2006

Time Out London (Geoff Andrew) review

How uneven is Bellocchio’s career! Decades after the glories of ‘Fists in the Pocket’, following hard on the heels of duds like ‘The Prince of Homburg’ and ‘The Nanny’, he bounded unexpectedly back with the weird and wonderful ‘My Mother’s Smile’. Four years on, that film has spawned a sequel of sorts, with Castellitto back, this time as a famous movie director reluctantly attending and filming his daughter’s wedding to a Catholic; thereafter things get complicated, surreal and, it must be said, somewhat silly, inconsequential and incoherent. The anti-clerical tone’s still there, but the humour’s less hit than miss, and a little of Castellitto’s melancholia goes a very long way. Disappointing.

Slant Magazine review Andrew Schenker

Marco Bellochio's The Wedding Director is a pleasant enough trifle—just the thing for a dreamy summer afternoon. Set in a fantastically anachronistic Sicilian town (a world of cavernous palaces decked out like Renaissance art galleries, Medici-like royal families and private beaches), the film finds celebrated movie director Franco Elica (Sergio Castellitto) fleeing dull professional obligations in the city (another adaptation of Manzoni's The Betrothed) for a brief seafront idyll. But no sooner than he's effected his escape, he's enlisted to film the wedding of a local Princess (Donatella Finocchiaro), and in the style of Visconti's The Leopard, no less—a setup quickly complicated by the instant romantic attachment that develops between Elica and the bride and the ensuing threats to the filmmaker from the latter's donnish father (Sami Frey).

"It's the dead who command in Italy," runs the film's refrain, and so the Princess is forced into her arranged marriage to fulfill a deathbed promise to her mother. So, too, noted filmmaker Smamma (Gianni Cavina), hiding out in the same town, fakes his own death in order to secure a much coveted cinematic prize. But, like Hans Castorp in The Magic Mountain concluding during his moment of revelation, "for the sake of goodness and love, man shall let death have no sovereignty over his thoughts," Elica rejects that very tradition that subverts worldly pleasure in favor of an undue deference toward mortality (a tradition that also includes Manzoni's novel) setting out to rescue the Princess from her impending nuptials (pointedly referred to by her father as her "funeral") and remove her from her beguiling, if ultimately stifling, surroundings.

Encompassing a reflection on the modern Italian film tradition from Visconti to Sandro Bolchi (and not ignoring Bellochio's own semi-privileged place), as well as an interrogation of an artist's relationship to subject, the film's meta concerns are played with a skillful dexterity, set off with a lightness of touch that never overwhelms the work's modest narrative framework. What emerges is a dreamlike escape, a leisurely fantasy that's fully comfortable in its languors—Bellochio's never in a hurry to cut—that, for all its intimations of danger, feels too far removed from any recognizable reality to threaten the viewer's ease of mind. A celebration of life that doesn't spend all its time dragging through the mire only to suddenly announce its rejection of the very muck that forms its principal content, Wedding Director is consistently pleasant from first to last. Setting aside the prevailing cynicism, there is, I think, no reason to view that with any suspicion.

THE WEDDING DIRECTOR (Marco Bellocchio, 2007) Dennis Grunes

Franco Elica (Sergio Castellitto, perfect) is a fiftysomething filmmaker who augments his income by videographing weddings. At one such wedding, he is supposed to shoot the scene in “the Visconti style”—“like Il Gattopardo,” a member of the groom’s party chimes in. But wait: Does this really happen at all? Marco Bellocchio’s Il regista di matrimoni is extremely dark, extremely underlit, even in the Sicilian outdoors in daylight. This visual style, superbly executed by color cinematographer Pasquale Mari, is correlative to the blurred distinction between reality and Franco’s dreams and imaginings. At the last, someone else’s intended bride, Bona, has run off with Franco rather than the groom. They are facing one another onboard a train, fleeing a scene. Or are they? Has Bellocchio gone so far as to end his film in one of Franco’s fantasies? Could be; we are, after all, talking about Bellocchio here—and the film ends with consecutive closeups of Franco and Bona rather than a two-shot placing them in the same dimension.     

Another filmmaker, whose The Mother of Judas(!) was very recently released to insufficient appreciation, commits suicide; but, when Franco discovers him hiding out, Orazio Smamma claims to have only feigned his death in hopes of winning a David—the Italian film industry prize. (Orazio: “It’s the dead who command in Italy.”) Orazio wins. Or does he? Franco sees the guy only at night, and it’s hard enough to determine human substance even during the day. In one remarkable shot, Bona appears as nothing more than a looming shadow; in other shots, her wedding dress, supported by a framework to keep it uncreased, is another kind of shadow of her.     

Real or unreal, Orazio tells Franco: “[Y]our name will never be remembered; neither will mine. We failed because we don’t know how to live, and so we can’t use film to describe the world around us.” (This certainly doesn’t hold true for Bellocchio.)     

“In Italy, it is the dead who command.” This is what the Prince has already told Franco; it is he whose daughter’s wedding Franco has been hired to memorialize. (Perhaps.) (Bona may be a fantasy-substitute for Franco’s own daughter, who herself has just married.) The Prince has arranged the match, he fully admits, in order to save his villa.     

Bellocchio’s brilliant satire targets the backward-glutting disposition of contemporary Italy. Apparently, Italy doesn’t know what it is at the moment. In the real or imagined church wedding ceremony, the bride still pledges to obey the groom for a lifetime—a persistent touch of patriarchic nonsense whose shadow is the Prince’s making up his daughter’s mind whom to marry in the first place. At the same time, however, the false rumors of sexual abuse that swirl around Franco—perhaps at one level revealing his confused affection for his daughter—suggest that Italy is iconoclastically ransacking its recent past of family and business relations to hunt down persons who, innocent or guilty, have become emblematic of this patriarchic bent or residue.     

Captivating, teasing, sharp, at times deliriously funny, Bellocchio’s Il regista di matrimoni is way better than you may have read that it is—and another reminder that (along with Francesco Rosi) Bellocchio is one of Italy’s two greatest living film artists.

IFC.com [Michael Atkinson]

DVD Verdict (Joel Pearce) dvd review

Fulvue Drive-in dvd review Nicholas Sheffo

Boxoffice Magazine review Matthew Nestel

Variety.com [Deborah Young]

Boston Globe review[2.5/4] Wesley Morris

The New York Times (A.O. Scott) review

DVDBeaver dvd review Gary W. Tooze

VINCERE A 95

Italy France (128 mi) 2009

As ballsy a film as I’ve seen in awhile, at times showing the ferocity of spirit and matchless flamboyance of CITIZEN KANE (1941), with a magnificent opening 45 minutes that feels like an assault to the senses, using archival footage with the assuredness of a documentary director like Terrence Davies, where instantly we are propelled smack dab in the middle of a precipitous moment in history, as a young Benito Mussolini is theatrically attempting to persuade a group of Socialists that God really doesn’t exist, a meeting that ends in sheer pandemonium. Out of this darkness, mostly shot by Daniele Ciprí in the shadows of already darkened rooms, the film cuts to a few years later as the police are attacking Mussolini as a rabble rouser, where he is seen like a Keystone Cops episode running towards the camera through a cloud of smoke, followed shortly afterwards by the police. Later national troops are on his trail firing shots, where he conveniently slips into a warehouse under the protection of an unidentified young mystery woman that we may have seen before in the opening scene, also doing some modeling in Milan, but soon without a word she is in the arms of Mussolini, later in his bed making love, eventually following him everywhere. Moving back and forth in time with ease, we meet the principle players, Filippo Timo who is fiercely dynamic as the young Mussolini, and Giovanna Mezzogiorno who couldn’t be more breathtakingly elegant as the aristocratic Ida Dalser. This couple is marked by their sexual liberation, as Dalser in particular is used to showcasing her body. Mussolini eventually tries to convince the Socialists to get off their asses and actually stand for something instead of remaining neutral, but when he insists on advocating war, he is thrown out of the party for his destructive influence. Time marches forward as scenes are accentuated by headlines boldly flashing across the screen, punctuated by Carlo Crivelli’s bombastic music, at times resembling the pulsating energy of Phillip Glass, an emphatic, strikingly original use of music that drives home the exhilarating message of untapped raw power.

Seemingly inseparable, as the two are in nearly every scene together, the now pregnant Dalser is so taken by him that she sells her business, a beauty parlor, as well as her clothes, her jewelry, and all of her personal belongings in order to finance Mussolini’s transition from the editor of the Socialist newspaper Avanti to the founder of his own paper, Il Popolo d’Italia, a platform for his message of Fascism. Mussolini goes from standing naked on a hotel balcony to becoming the full fledged leader of the country in just a few shots. As Italy marches off to war in WWI, one of the more inspired scenes is the image of a hospital ward of wounded soldiers where newsreel coverage is shown on the walls, a wonderful blend of cinema and reality thrust together in the same shot. When word of a wounded Mussolini is printed, Dalser visits but gets in a catfight at his hospital bedside where he is being nursed back to health by the plain and ordinary woman that would eventually become his wife and bear him four more children. This is the last time Dalser would ever see the man again. Without warning, the darkness of the opening scenes gives way to the light of day, as the Fascists of Mussolini soon gain control of the Italian government, where Timo the actor is replaced by the real Il Duce as depicted in newsreel footage giving fevered speeches that send euphoric crowds into a nationalistic frenzy. One of the more vivid newsreel scenes is the use of the music from Tosca, the ultimate betrayal opera, which underscores Mussolini forging an alliance with the Pope offering him his own Vatican City. Ironic that Mussolini the atheist would subsequently renew his vows with his wife through the church, a sign that he’s all but abandoned his original principles.

The entire tone of the film shifts away from a Mussolini onscreen to an unseen Mussolini whose disturbing impact couldn’t be more pronounced due to his heavy handed abandonment of Dalser and her son despite her claims she is the legitimate wife of Benito Mussolini and the mother to his firstborn son. Due to the political embarrassment this brings, she is sent to a tucked away rural estate of her brother for her son’s protection, as the family is under the watchful eyes of military surveillance, eventually kidnapping the son and sending Dalser to a mental institution, where she repeats her claims to deaf ears. Unfortunately, this storyline, although true, bears a similarity to Eastwood’s recent Angelina Jolie vehicle in CHANGELING (2008), where both women resolutely repeat their claims with such certainty that the state’s only alternative is to suppress the information as the rantings of a mad woman. Here the film lingers and slows somewhat captivated by her pathos, matching that of the helplessness of the nation, yet there continues to be highly expressive scenes, even as Dalser attempts to escape, and is seen attempting to crawl over the iron bars which go all the way up to the ceiling so there is no escape. There is a scene of her trapped in the darkness, stuck halfway up the iron bars, as a heavy snow falls outside, throwing letters through the bars that will never be delivered, an image that sticks in our minds where she is all but forgotten. When they show Charlie Chaplin’s THE KID (1921) at the mental asylum, Dalser is beside herself with grief watching them snatch the Little Tramp’s kid away, but overwhelmed when they are reunited. What’s not clear is whether she hallucinates the marriage shown onscreen or whether it actually happened, as no marriage certificate was ever found, but it would likely have been destroyed by the Fascists. Trapped and tortured, it’s clear the message inferred is that Dalser is completely sane while Mussolini’s insanity may well have done irreparable harm leading Italy into two lost world wars. But this film never projects that far, as the Fascists control the police, who eventually keep both Dalser and her son (also played as an adult by Filippo Timo) in separate mental institutions where both eventually die under confinement. Mussolini’s historical significance in Italy is enormous, as the country to this day is still coming to grips with its profound impact, especially considering the similarities between Mussolini and the Berlusconi of today, but the personal tragedy of a nation’s leader in denial over his own offspring, imprisoning them instead, perfectly expressed by the developing insanity of his own son mimicking his father’s mannerisms as he delivers his speeches, becomes a highly theatrical Shakespearean tragedy of epic proportions.

Special Note – actor Filippo Timo, actress Giovanna Mezzogiorno, director Marco Bellochio, screenplay Marco Bellochio and Daniela Ceselli, cinematography Daniele Ciprí, music Carlo Crivelli, editing, costumes, art direction

Scott Foundas Dreaming in Film: At Cannes and Its Renegade Festivals, from The LA Weekly, May 20, 2009

Another rise to political preeminence could be found in the competition’s second early dazzler, Italian director Marco Bellocchio’s Vincere, which observes the power plays of Benito Mussolini from the perspective of his first wife, Ida Dalser (the excellent Giovanna Mezzogiorno), and that of their love child, Benito Albino Mussolini. (Mussolini would go on to deny any relationship to either Dalser or his son, with the two spending much of their respective lives tucked away in asylums.) At 69, age has diminished none of Bellocchio’s sting — he opens his film with Mussolini the young socialist denying the existence of God and climaxes two hours later with the 1929 creation of the Papal State, in between revisiting all of his career-spanning concerns about the many faces of fascism and the hypocrisy of Catholic family values. The through line for Bellocchio is cinema itself, from an early scene in which fighting movie patrons become a sort of living newsreel, to the many archival film clips and propaganda slogans ingeniously worked into the body of the film. The history of 20th-century Italy emerges as a kind of grandly cinematic delusion, and Vincere as a timely cautionary tale about despots who fancy themselves media barons — and vice versa.

Peter Bradshaw War and Whimsy in Cannes, from The Guardian, May 21, 2009 (excerpt)

One of the biggest hits, and certainly the most unexpected, has been Marco Bellocchio's Vincere, the secret history of Mussolini's first wife Ida and son Benito Albino, whose existences were brutally suppressed by Il Duce and in his fascist authorities. Ida is played as an all-consuming fireball of passion and rage by Giovanna Mezzogiorno, while Filippo Timi is outstanding as the young Mussolini, the bull-necked and pop-eyed prophet of his own future greatness. When Mussolini ascends to public prominence, visible only on newsreel-movie screens, Timi goes on to play his own son; this is a great coup.

Many thought that Bellocchio was a bit of an extinct volcano, but the director has a huge amount of molten lava left in him. Did he take some inspiration from the new generation of Italian directors - Paolo Sorrentino, for instance? Maybe. He has certainly punched out a dynamic film, a wild operatic drama with an exhilarating orchestral score; the tide of melodramatic hysteria runs parallel to that whipped up by Italian fascism and war-fever at the beginning of the last century. Vincere speaks to modern Italy, where Mussolini's memory is tolerated and where macho leaders are still venerated - although, as Silvio Berlusconi has discovered, wronged wives still don't go quietly.

Cannes '09: Day Six Mike D’Angelo at Cannes from The Onion A.V. Club

Thankfully, today’s other Competition entry turned out to be far more audacious, especially considering its potentially dry subject matter. Italy’s Marco Bellocchio made a huge splash with his debut feature, 1965’s Fist in His Pocket, and has been working steadily ever since, but his recent films, which include My Mother’s Smile and Good Morning, Night, have struck me as a tad stodgy and abstruse. So when his latest effort, Vincere, introduced Benito Mussolini right off the bat, I confess that I inwardly groaned, steeling myself for another dull, dutiful biopic. Whereupon the 70-year-old Bellocchio unleashed an aural and visual assault so dizzying and unrelenting that it more or less recapitulates the birth of Fascism in cinematic form. Mundane film-critic adjectives like “operatic” and “expressionistic” fail to convey the vivid sense of being steamrolled in your seat by the first hour’s nunchuck intertitles (I swear one nearly took my head off), speed-demon pace, shrieking violins and silent-era performances. As Mussolini, Filippo Timi evinces the fearless bravado of the young Nicolas Cage, which makes it startling to see him repeatedly upstaged by Giovanna Mezzogiorno’s astonishingly feral work as Ida Dalser, who was allegedly Il Duce’s first wife and the mother of his first-born son. As it turns out, Vincere is ultimately an exposé that laments the way these two innocents were first tossed aside and then, when Dalser refused to go away quietly, institutionalized, which is a bit like making an entire movie about how Pol Pot used to smack his wife around. And when the film’s agenda finally crystallizes—the second hour sticks exclusively with Dalser and her son, viewing Mussolini only via archival footage (which is a bit disorienting, since Timi looks nothing like him)—Bellocchio’s formal ingenuity largely subsides as well, though Mezzogiorno remains mesmerizingly larger than life. Maybe I’m just a sucker for any historical drama that doesn’t go plod plod plod, but so far Vincere is easily my favorite film in Competition this year, despite being one of my least anticipated. And if Fish Tank’s fine but unremarkable Katie Jarvis beats Mezzogiorno for Best Actress, I’m breaking out some actual nunchuks.

Time Out Online (Geoff Andrew) review [4/6]

Marco Bellocchio’s career stretches back to the mid-‘60s and ‘Fists in the Pocket’ and ‘China Is Near’. Subsequent decades have traced an uneven trajectory, highlights including ‘In the Name of the Father’ (1971), ‘Leap into the Void’ (1980), ‘My Mother’s Smile’ (2002) and ‘Good Morning, Night’ (2004). Not that Cannes ever really ignored him: the last 15 years have also seen ‘The Prince of Homburg’, ‘The Nanny’ and ‘The Wedding Director’ honoured on the Croisette.Few of Bellocchio’s films can have carried quite the weight of his latest, however. ‘Vincere’ manages to succeed both as historical melodrama and as a salutary reminder that history tends to repeat itself.

Based on a true story and kicking off in the years before the First World War, it centres on Ida Dalser, a woman whom we first encounter helping to protect Benito Mussolini, then a young journalist and union activist, from an angry mob. Some years later she sees him again, demonstrating to another angry audience his ‘proof’ that God doesn’t exist, and an affair begins. Passionately in love, Ida supports her lover’s professional ambitions and bears him a child, only to discover that he already has a wife and family. Even that she is prepared to tolerate, but as Benito’s Fascists gain power, both her own presence and her son’s become unwelcome irritants to his career.

The story itself, while fascinating and rooted in fact, is hardly packed with surprises, but what distinguishes ‘Vincere’ is the flair with which the tale is related. First, one should certainly mention the excellent lead performances of Giovanna Mezzogiorno as Ida and Filippo Timi as Mussolini. But even more impressive is Bellocchio’s virtuosity in combining drama, archive footage, and music – not merely Carlo Crivelli’s thundering orchestral score but various existing works both classical and popular – to create a highly cinematic oratorio of enormous rhetorical force: a style, by the way, which is highly appropriate to the bombast favoured by Il Duce.

And therein lies the movie’s real strength. Because if, by the end, you somehow haven’t already realised that this is a film which is as much about the present (and, one fears, the future) as it’s about the past, then the final scenes, with Mussolini figlio insanely parroting his father’s ludicrously hysterical oratory, are a chilling reminder of the policies as well as the performing style of Italy’s current leader.

Bellocchio Exposes Mussolini’s Dirty Little Secret in “Vincere” Brian Brooks at Cannes from indieWIRE

Almost a century on, Italy is acknowledging the tragic stories behind one of the 20th century’s most notorious leaders in director Marco Bellocchio’s Cannes competition film, “Vincere.”

Benito Mussolini hid a secret family througout his quest for power and fascist reign in Italy. Il Duce had a wife and son he later denied and had committed. Ida Dalser (Giovanna Mezzogiorno) met Mussolini in Milan when he was the young Socialist editor of Avanti! So taken by the dynamic Mussolini (Filippo Timi) she sold everything she had, including a successful beauty parlor in Milan, to finance Il Popolo d’Italia, a newspaper he founded after being expelled by the Socialists, and a central component of his forthcoming Fascist Party.

After WWI erupts, he enlists in the Army and disappears. Ida eventually finds him again in a military hospital and he is tended to by Rachele, whom he has just married. She continues to pursue Mussolini, but is eventually forced into an insane asylum where she is tortured and dies. Their son, Mussolini’s first born, also falls to a similar fate, dying at age 26 in an asylum.

“Ida is a woman who fell madly in love with this man who shared her ideals,” said Bellocchio in Cannes Tuesday. “When he cast her aside, she became a tragic figure in history.” Bellocchio said she naturally became enraged with Mussolini who she became obsessed over and hated simultaneously. Tidbits of their relationship are preserved in documents, but many details are missing, but Bellocchio came across information by chance during production.

“There’s a scene where Ida takes out a gun with a single bullet and told her son, ‘this is a bullet and it’s for your father’s heart.’ A village woman who knew Ida told us this story, so we added it to the story.”

Mezzogiorno said the most challenging thing for her was to not portray Ida in a way that was her fate in history, but to emphasize her contradictions. “Personally, the major difficulty I found was that I shouldn’t make the story of this woman as a mad woman - that would’ve been easy. I had to emphasize her contradictions. She was modern, even feminist, but she sacrificed everything for this man.”

Mezzogiorno also said the production wasn’t a simple undertaking. “I didn’t have a single easy day in the shoot. Every single day was extremely tough and complex.”

User comments from imdb Author: Chris Knipp from Berkeley, California

Six years after his intimate reimagining of the Aldo Moro kidnapping that rocked Italy in the Seventies in 'Buongiorno, notte,' Bellocchio has made another haunting and even more sweeping and iconic historical film. 'Vincere' is about Benito Mussolini's secret first wife and son, who were hidden away and both died in insane asylums. 'Vincere' depicts a strange, distorted period in Italian history, and skillfully melds stock footage with recreations, black and white with color (rich in reds, alternating with ashen grays), public tumult with private torment. Visually lush and full of chiaroscuro, 'Vincere is also a showcase for the talents of Giovanna Mezzogiorno as Ida Dalzer, the woman who met Benito Mussolini when he was the editor of Avanti, an ardent Socialist with strong populist, anti-monarchical, anti-clerical views, who dramatically dares God, if He exists, to strike him down.

Opening sequences alternate between 1907 when Ida first meets Mussolini (Filippo Timi) in Trent, and 1914 in Milan. She is a respectable middle-class woman with a beauty salon. On the eve of WWI, he shifts from pacifist liberal to pro-war rightist. Deathly afraid of ending in mediocrity, he is ravenous for power. Ida intensely supports him whatever his direction, and sells all her possessions, including jewels, furniture, and her business, to support his newspaper. This leads to the founding of the paper "Il Popolo d'Italia," which becomes a fascist rallying-point. The film makes clear that she is madly in love but never mad. It also makes clear that though he declares his love of her and fathers a son named Benito, born just before he goes off to the front, whom he acknowledges, and they evidently marry, he keeps a certain distance.

In WWI Mussolini is wounded in the army and is pleased to be congratulated by the king. When Ida finds him he is being tended in hospital by a new lover, a woman named Rachele (Michela Cescon). This is the last time Ida sees him in person.

As Mussolini rises to power and becomes the dictator known as "Il Duce," linking himself with the ancient Roman emperors and dreaming of world domination, Ida is more and more kept away from him, and appears as a figure on the outskirts of power, at the center only of sporadic and operatic encounters during which she pleads for recognition and attention, only to be swept aside. She has a marriage certificate but it becomes lost. All her papers are taken. Mussolini remains with Rachele, is married to her, and fathers children by her. He conceals that he was married to Ida.

Ida, who calls herself Ida Mussolini and her son Benito or Benitino Albino Mussolini, is a woman obsessed, whom others urge to move on, but will not give up her pursuit of her idol and the man she believes to be the love of her life. For a while she is put under a kind of house arrest with her sister, then confined in one insane asylum and then another, while her son is taken away and sent to boarding school. She writes letters of protest to everyone, including the king and the pope; this of course only makes her seem crazy, but in a hearing it's evident that she is tragically obsessed, but lucid, and in fact she is never declared insane. A psychiatrist (Corrado Invernizzi) vows to help her, but she is taken elsewhere before he can do so.

The film is rife with operatic passages featuring bright lights, dark shadows, violent storms and heavy rainfall, and yet retains its own kind of lucidity; it's clear that the country and not Ida is mad, and Il Duce is the head madman. The most haunting scene shows an actual speech by Mussolini at the height of his power in which the gestures and facial contortions are not only ugly and strange but unmistakably those of a dangerous madman. Cut to the now grown son of Ida, doing an imitation of Mussolini's speechifying and himself appearing genuinely deranged. Records show both mother and son received treatments that were akin to torture, and Ida was incarcerated for eleven years. The son died at the age of 26; Ida Dalser died at 57, 30 years after she first met Mussolini Italy's eventual fascist dictator.

Since the film's protagonist is on the periphery, it makes sense that eventually we know Mussolini only through the newsreels she occasionally sees, which are brilliantly integrated into the film; it's hard to convey how striking and integral these images are. There are also haunting still portraits of Ida, showing her at progressive stages of suffering. The film's sense of pictorialism is augmented by a sense of the visual language of the period, heightened by a scene in which Mussolini is introduced to the Italian Futurists and their paintings, and excellent use is made of Futurist and Fascist graphic design and fonts. The sound track is powerful but muted.

The film in fact is most satisfying visually, and despite Giovanna Mezzogiorno's dedication to her performance as the independent yet long-suffering woman, there is a lack of three-dimensionality in the characterizations: the figures are monumental but not quite human. The focus becomes a bit distant even on Ida as her torments increase, and there is nothing about the private life of Il Duce. Finally there is not the intimacy Bellocchio achieved in 'Good Morning, Night,' except in the first intimate scenes between the young (still hairy) Benito and Ida. Nonetheless, the effect of the whole film is both sick-making and scary.

Though Bellocchio's style here is operatic, it's a swift-moving, elegant, contemporary kind of opera, and it works.

An IFC film, 'Vincere' was nominated for the Golden Palm at Cannes and was also shown at Telluride, and Toronto. I saw it at a preview screening of the New York Film Festival.

Boston Review — Alan A. Stone: Curtain Call July/August, 2010

Vincere | Reverse Shot Damon Smith from Reverse Shot

Vincere Special 1: Fascism is Dead, Long Live Il Duce - The Arts ... William Ward from The Arts Desk, also here: theartsdesk.com [William Ward]

World Socialist Web Site (Richard Phillips) review

Vincere Marco Bellocchio in the Unheroic Age of Mussolini, by Andrew Sarris from Film Comment, January/February 2010

DVD Talk (Jamie S. Rich) dvd review[4/5] also seen here: Confessions of a Pop Fan [Jamie S. Rich]

In Marco Bellocchio's blazing Vincere, it is no picnic being the ... Bilge Ebiri from The Nashville Scene

Slant Magazine review Andrew Schenker

Vincere Michael Sicinski from The Academic Hack

Marco Bellocchio's tale of young Mussolini's lover | Film Review ... Nathan Gelgud from Indy Week, April 14, 2010

VINCERE (Marco Bellocchio, 2009) Dennis Grunes

SBCC Film Reviews » Blog Archive » Vincere (Marco Bellocchio, 2009 ... Nicole Muhlethaler

Vincere (Marco Bellocchio, 2009, Italy / France) « Serene Velocity Serene Velocity

The Onion A.V. Club review[B+] Noel Murray

Christian Science Monitor review[5/5] Peter Rainer

The Village Voice [Rob Nelson]

New York Magazine (David Edelstein) review [with GREENBERG]

Digital Fix Noel Megahey

The New Yorker (David Denby) review (Page 2)

Salon.com [Andrew O'Hehir]

ReelTalk (Donald Levit) review

Screen International (Lee Marshall) review

Ruthless Reviews ("potentially offensive") Matt Cale at Telluride

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson) review[4/4]

Eye for Film (Val Kermode) review[3.5/5]

ReelViews (James Berardinelli) review[3/4]

FilmJerk.com (Brian Orndorf) review[B+] also seen here: DVD Talk and here: Briandom [Brian Orndorf]

DVD Town (James Plath) dvd review

DVD Verdict (Daryl Loomis) dvd review

floatationsuite [Sheila Seacroft]

Cinepassion.org [Fernando F. Croce]

filmsoundoff.com [Alex roberts]

Film-Forward.com Kevin Filipski

CompuServe (Harvey S. Karten) review

Critic's Notebook [Martin Tsai]

Exclaim! [Erene Stergiopoulos]

Vincere Acquarello from Strictly Film School

Movies Kick Ass [Jose Solís]

Mark Reviews Movies (Mark Dujsik) review[1.5/4]

Epinions DVD [Stephen O. Murray]

The L Magazine [Henry Stewart]

Boxoffice Magazine review Steve Ramos

Screenjabber review Doug Cooper

eye WEEKLY capsule review [4/5] Jason Anderson

NOW Magazine capsule review [4/5] Paul Ennis

Cannes. "Vincere" David Hudson at Cannes from The IFC Blog, May 19, 2009

Alison Willmore at Cannes from The IFC Independent Eye, May 19, 2009

Hollywood Reporter [Natasha Senjanovic] at Cannes, May 19, 2009, also here: The Hollywood Reporter review

Variety (Jay Weissberg) review at Cannes from Variety, May 18, 2009, also seen here: Variety (Jay Weissberg)

Time Out London (David Jenkins) review[4/5]

Time Out New York (Joshua Rothkopf) review[4/5]

Financial Times [Nigel Andrews]

The Independent (Anthony Quinn) review[3/5]

Independent.co.uk [Nicholas Barber]

The Daily Telegraph review[2/5] Tim Robey

The Boston Phoenix (Peter Keough) review

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Philadelphia Inquirer (Steven Rea) review[3.5/4]

Washington Post (Michael O'Sullivan) review

St. Paul Pioneer Press (Chris Hewitt) review[3/4]

Austin Chronicle review[4/5] Marjorie Baumgarten

San Francisco Chronicle [Mick LaSalle]

Los Angeles Times (Betsy Sharkey) review

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review[3.5/4]

The New York Times (Manohla Dargis) review

Blu-rayDefinition.com - UK Blu-ray [Brandon A. DuHamel]

DVDBeaver dvd review [Blu-Ray Version] Gary W. Tooze

DORMANT BEAUTY (Bella addormentata) C 75

Italy France (115 mi) 2012 ‘Scope

A grim, depressingly downbeat, and emotionally unsatisfying effort from Bellocchio, who was so distraught that the film didn’t win any awards at the 2012 Venice Film Festival that he announced he would never bring another film to Venice, while Jury member and fellow Italian director Matteo Garrone vowed never to serve on a jury again for an Italian film festival. This is nothing new, as in 2010 under Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi’s government, his Italian culture minister Sandro Bondi threatened to take over the festival because the judges (led by Quentin Tarantino) awarded no prizes to Italian films, claiming since the festival is financed by the state he should be able to hand-pick the jury, a move that was quickly rejected by the festival. Ousted by the Berlusconi government in 2002, Alberto Barbera was reinstated as the Festival Director in 2012, where after all the headlines in the national press focusing on Italian films, it must have come as a big surprise to Italian filmmakers who felt they had stacked the deck in favor of their films. It’s extremely disingenuous, however, to inflict nationalistic sentiments at an international film festival, where only 9 French films, by the way, have been awarded the Palme D’Or at the Cannes Festival since 1939, only once in the last 25 years, so that’s actually what makes it such an attractive and world prestigious event. While Bellocchio has been nominated for the Venice Golden Lion three times to go along with six Palme D’Or nominations at Cannes, he’s been shut out from taking the top prize, though he was awarded a lifetime achievement award at Venice in 2011. No Italian film has won the Golden Lion at Venice since 1988, which may not say a lot about Italian films, but it speaks volumes for the credibility of the festival itself. Why prestigious Italian artists are intent on undermining Venice and turning it into a provincial festival makes no sense, so Bellocchio and Garrone, both well known and respected international directors, only look foolish, where they’re apparently buying into the outdated Berlusconi propaganda. For what it’s worth, only one Italian film has been nominated as one of the five finalists in the Academy Award Best Foreign Film category since Roberto Benigni’s LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL in 1998, so Italian films have not exactly taken the world by storm in the past decade or so as they did in the 50’s and 60’s.

Bellocchio’s last film VINCERE (2009), however, was one of his best, a gorgeously powerful historical drama documenting the rise and fall of Benito Mussolini as seen through the eyes of the mother of his firstborn son, born out of wedlock, so when Mussolini rose to power, both were secretly whisked away and sent to live in asylums throughout Mussolini’s regime, eventually dying in confinement. The film certainly casts a shadow on the moral depravity of Italian leadership through World War II, where the parallel to Berlusconi’s own extensive record of moral hypocrisy and criminal conduct does not go unnoticed. DORMANT BEAUTY attempts to examine another moral issue making headlines in the Italian press, namely what to do with coma patients that show no sign of brain activity, where the argument is whether they are actually dead, kept breathing by life support, or in a state of sleep where they might one day miraculously recover. Much like the 2001 Terri Schiavo case in the United States, right-to-life religious groups, led by the Catholic Church, believed she was still alive, while her own husband wished to remove the life support system after 8-years in a coma but was prevented by government involvement, prolonging the case until exhausting all judicial avenues four years later. Italy had a similar public debate over the Eluana Englaro case in 2009, where after 17-years in a coma from a car accident the father chose to remove his daughter from life support, but the Berlusconi government and the Catholic Church aligned themselves to prevent him from doing it, initiating legal challenges and going public on all the Berlusconi-owned Italian newspapers and extensive TV channels, including three national and several private stations, including RAI, which is one of the producers of the film, in an attempt to convince the public this is paramount to murder. The effect was so extensive that the Friuli Venezia Giulia Film Commission in the Northeast province where this film was shot actually dissolved its own organization hoping to block financing for the film, but they are also listed as one of the production companies.

Without offering any backstory, which in this case necessitates confusion or is playing strictly to an Italian audience, the film, co-written by the director, unfortunately assumes familiarity with the case, where after a decade of court decisions strictly prohibiting any action, in 2009 Eluana’s father is finally given the legal right to remove life support. However, the nuns caring for Eluana since 1994 are seen on television making a public appeal to continue taking care of her, believing she is still alive despite her father’s contention that she was already dead, forcing the father to move her to a private nursing facility, which is where the film begins. Despite the court decision, a right-wing crusade led by Berlusconi and the Vatican, along with a well-financed media campaign, promote the idea that Eluana’s father is murdering his daughter, the view of the Church, further inflamed by Berlusconi’s pronouncement that Eluana is not only alive but capable of bearing a child. While public opinion suggests more than 80% of Italians support the father’s right, a defiantly outraged minority lead organized demonstrations and candlelight vigils in Eluana’s behalf while the government hastily draws legislation that would impose religious standards over the rights of individuals. Bellocchio interweaves several different melodramatic stories, including a conscience-stricken politician, Toni Servillo as Uliano Beffardi, a first term senator elected from Berlusconi’s party, who already faced this dilemma with his own wife, and while he’s adamantly against the proposed legislation, he’s advised by his party to abstain or disappear, but his bigger fear is losing his religious-minded daughter in the process, Alba Rohrwacher as Maria, who joins the angry public demonstrations, meeting someone she likes on the opposite side of the police barricades, Roberto (Michele Riondini), constantly seen attempting to appease the disturbing actions of his violently angry, mentally ill brother. The budding romance between the two quickly gets lost in the constantly shifting dynamic.

In a similar side story that confusingly resembles that of Eluana, where many in the audience may not realize the distinction, Isabelle Huppert, known only as the Divine Mother (as she is called by her son), embodies the position of the church with her own coma-stricken daughter. A famous actress who abruptly quit her career to assume full-time care of her daughter, alienating her husband and son in the process, she devotes her life to religious devotion, complete with an army of nurses and nuns who look after her in a palatial estate, she gathers her family together to celebrate her daughter’s birthday, where it’s impossible not to hear the constant sound of the life support apparatus doing the breathing for her. Despite the constant drone, emotions fly fast and furious, especially the near hysterical rants from her spoiled and overly pampered son who seems to be having an absent mother crisis, while the regal countenance of Huppert displays an aristocratic control over her suppressed emotions through a kind of self-imposed noble rigidity, literally imposing her will over every aspect of her daughter’s immaculate care, though she can be heard muttering to herself the lines of Lady Macbeth, unable to get the stain or smell of blood off her hands. And in yet another storyline, a young doctor (the director’s son, Pier Giorgio Bellocchio) gets sucked into the desperate acts of a suicidal drug addict (Maya Sansa) whose beauty betrays her noxious intentions. While the rest of the hospital staff callously take bets on the hour of Eluana’s eventual death, he keeps a watchful vigil over his new patient’s hospital bed, inexplicably drawn to her fierce desire to end her life, telling her, “You’re free to kill yourself, and I’m free to try to stop you.” Straining for dramatic cohesiveness and never developing any sense of emotional impact, the mood remains overly detached and downright gloomy throughout, though one has to chuckle at a somewhat surreal scene that comes out of nowhere, taking place in an ancient candle-lit bath house where Roman senators nakedly congregate before important votes, their heads seen floating on the surface of the water with their eyes glued to the television. Roberto Herlitzka plays a medication dispensing psychiatrist prescribing uppers or downers to depressed politicians. Bellocchio, however, fails to establish any connecting interest between the underdeveloped characters and storylines, especially with the director’s insistence to continually interrupt the proceedings with the disturbing actions of mentally unstable characters, where the suggestion of romantic possibilities, for instance, feels contrived and downright ludicrous, losing focus and interest in a convoluted structure that feels increasingly disconnected. While the experience is frustratingly disappointing, what the film does have going for it (besides Huppert) is a superb soundtrack by Carlo Crivelli in an ultra dramatic, percussive-laden adaptation of Brian Eno and David Bowie David Bowie Abdulmajid (Ryko version) - YouTube (3:30).

Film Festivals | White City Cinema Michael Glover Smith

Italy’s greatest living director, Marco Bellocchio (Fists in the Pocket, Vincere), returns with another controversial film inspired by a true story, this time concerning Eluana Englaro, a comatose woman who died in 2009 after being taken off life support by her father. Rather than dramatize the story of the principles involved in the real-life case, however, Bellocchio instead made the fascinating decision to tell three separate but subtly intertwined fictional stories (as well as a fourth parallel story featuring the mighty Isabelle Huppert as the mother of another comatose woman), all of which play out against the backdrop of public demonstrations – both for and against “mercy killing” – engendered by the case. This is a remarkably intelligent and complex movie that raises a host of Italian-centric issues about politics and religion, and the roles played by each in both public and private life. And, as a statement about the difficult relationship between love and euthanasia, this easily trumps Michael Haneke’s Amour, avoiding that film’s stern moralizing and shameless manipulation tactics and replacing them with true compassion, maturity and even-handedness instead.

Exclaim! [Robert Bell]

Again tackling a controversial topic without necessarily saying anything about it, Italian director Marco Bellocchio follows up Vincere (his take on Mussolini's love affair) with a more political dalliance, in the form of Dormant Beauty.

This time out, he's stepped into modern times by presenting the hot button topic of euthanasia as it relates to the Eluana Englaro controversy, wherein a father spent 17 years trying to take his vegetative daughter off the feeding tube keeping her alive.

But instead of addressing that bit of history head-on, he takes the subject as a framing news story and presents three related narratives to show different perspectives on the subject.

In one, a senator (Toni Servillo) vacillates in opinion while preparing for a parliamentary debate on the issue, while his daughter (Alba Rohrwacher) protests in the streets for her pro-life agenda, prioritizing screwing a stranger over her political beliefs. In another, a famous actress (Isabelle Huppert) wastes her talents and time caring for her comatose daughter. And in the last story, a doctor (Pier Giorgio Bellocchio) spends his time preventing the suicide of a meth addict (Maya Sansa).

Each story is blended together into a weirdly ineffective and melodramatic tapestry that acknowledges only the broadest of beliefs and concepts pertaining to euthanasia. Being an Italian film, Catholicism obviously plays a role in guiding some characters, while science contrarily guides others. Why each character believes what they do is implicit and superficial, leaving us little reason to care about, or connect with, their struggle.

What's worse is that Bellocchio's style is that of grandiose melodrama, heightening every moment of perceived conflict with sweeping stylization that never hones on the intimate to contextualize the flowery end result. It's as though he's trying to mask his tenuous handling of the subject and lackadaisical detailing of characters with showy theatrics and dramatic close-ups to imply there's actually something there.

Unfortunately, all that's there is a lot of big acting and trite character arcs.

IONCINEMA.com [Nicholas Bell]

After yet another career peak with his 2009 film Vincere, Italian auteur Marco Bellocchio continues his examination of Italian society with Dormant Beauty, a treatise on Italy’s hot button issue of euthanasia. Bellocchio managed to score one of the cinema’s most talented actresses ever to appear on screen when he signed French actress Isabelle Huppert (no stranger to Italian cinema (see a 1996 Goethe adaptation, Elective Affinities from Vittorio and Paolo Taviani), so it’s so unfortunate that this latest endeavor is so unconvincing in all regards.

At the core, based on a true story, the film revolves around three separate storylines, all going on in the last 8 days of Eluana Englaro’s life in February, 2009. Her father, Beppe Englaro, had decided to take his daughter off of life support after she’d been in a coma for 17 years, which divided the country concerning euthanasia because the father insisted on seeing that his actions were considered legal. The case was then turned into a parliamentary vote. Our main story thread concerns politician Uliano Beffardi (Toni Servillo), a first term senator called on to vote against euthanasia, which goes against his own thought processes due to a tragic incident from his past. But this puts him at odds with his Catholic daughter, Maria (Alba Rohrwacher), who has recently developed a hot and heavy relationship with Roberto (Michele Riondino). Roberto doesn’t share the same beliefs as Maria, and his outrageous and angry mentally ill brother despises her.

Meanwhile, a concurrent story features a famous movie actress known as “the Divine Mother” (Isabelle Huppert) who has put her career on hold and alienated her husband and son to care for her daughter, asleep in a coma. She is a righteous Catholic, parading nuns in and out of the house as she makes excursions only to church. Glancing at herself once too often in the mirror, she demands that all of them be removed from the house. She also has fitful dreams where she spouts lines of Lady Macbeth’s dialogue. And lastly, there’s a third storyline featuring a physician (Pier Giorgio Bellocchio) who is so strongly attracted to a suicidal drug addict (Maya Sansa), he sleeps next to her bed to prevent her from jumping out the window, sharing lofty conversations about the preciousness of life.

On the positive side, there’s certainly nothing preachy about Dormant Beauty, and Bellocchio certainly never gives us any indication about what side of the debate he stands on. But for a film that’s basically about the sanctity of life that people believe must be saved at all costs, the film is certainly devoid of it. Sure, there are moments of interest between Rohrwacher (always an interesting presence, also in I Am Love, 2009) and the always dependable Servillo. Sure, Isabelle Huppert is an arresting choice, her typical coldness channeled into perpetual mourning for her stricken child. That said, however, moments like having Huppert mutter “Out, out, damn spot,” in her sleep are too entirely ridiculous and melodramatic to ring true. The same can be said for the third storyline concerning a weary, handsome doctor in an understaffed hospital staying all night with the beautiful drug addict. Italy must have somewhere to detain those prone to suicide in their medical facilities without resorting to something so silly.

Please note that due to squabbles at the 2012 Venice Film Festival, where no Italian entries received the top prizes, Bellocchio has publicly sworn off showing anything at the renowned festival. An extremely talented filmmaker, it’s too bad that this may be the case. But what’s worse is this contrived affair bearing his name, a tiresome, expository piece of film that only manages to alienate us from the very issue it’s trying to get us to consider.

Bella addormentata: Italy was numb from Berlusconi

Filmstalker Richard Brunton

Indiewire [Oliver Lyttelton]

The House Next Door [Chris Cabin]

Dormant Beauty (2012) Movie Review from Eye for Film Jennie Kermode

Screen Daily [Lee Marshall]

CineVue [Jo-Ann Titmarsh]

Film-Forward.com [Christopher Bourne]

European Union Film Festival heads toward the finish line Ben Sachs

White City Cinema [Michael Smith]

24FPS @ LFF 2012: Diary 15/10 24 Frames Per Second, also seen here: Festivals | 24 Frames Per Second

mubi.com [Fernando F. Croce] #5

mubi.com [Daniel Kasman] #6

Bellocchio's Dormant Beauty stirs political controversy in Italy Geoffrey Macnab from Screendaily

Hollywood Reporter [Deborah Young]

Variety [Jay Weissberg]

Eluana Englaro - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Italy: The case of Eluana Englaro - World Socialist Web Site Marc Wells, February 19, 2009

Venice film festival: Italy turns on Quentin Tarantino over prizes ... Tom Kington from The Guardian, September 17, 2010

Marco Bellocchio, Matteo Garrone Swear Off Festivals After Bad ... Eric J. Lyman

SWEET DREAMS (Fai bei sogni) C+ 78

Italy France (134 mi) 2016 ‘Scope

Far more important than what we know or do not know is what we do not want to know.

—Eric Hoffer, introductory remarks to the book

On New Year’s eve, like every year, I called on my godmother to take her to see Mum.

My godmother is a piece of antique furniture in a very good state of conservation. She lives on her own in a house filled with sunlight, where she spends her time reading detective novels and chatting to the framed photographs of her husband. Occasionally she changes shelf and talks to the photograph of Mum, mostly about me.

I imagine she omits the more unwelcome news. Such as the fact I’ve had two wives – though not, it’s true, at the same time.

And that I never did become a lawyer.

While I was helping her into her coat, she brought up the subject of the novel I had given her for Christmas.

“I finished it last night.”

“Did you enjoy it? It’s not a detective novel.”

“Of course I did: you wrote it.”

“And the passages about Mum?”

“That’s the part I wanted to talk to you about.”

“It’s the only part which is autobiographical. I put a bit of the story of my own life into those pages.”

“Are you sure it’s your story?”

“And why wouldn’t it be?”

“It wasn’t exactly like that... I want to give you something, dear.”

I watched her fumble with dwarf-sized keys at the drawers of the bureau. Her lovely, gnarled old hands drew out a brown envelope. She handed it to me with a quivering voice: “After forty years, it’s time that someone told you the truth.”

—Sweet Dreams, Little One, opening excerpt, written by Massimo Gramellini, 2012

From a director who has made films from radical Marxism, teenage rebellion, religious institutions, to political subversion, now he explores the mother complex, as this is a fairly conventional story told in an unconventional manner, moving back and forth from various places and times, reflecting how a man remains haunted by the mysterious death of his mother well into middle age, even though it occurred in an early period in his life. Shamelessly sentimental and narratively slight throughout, yet with a few startling moments of humor and unrestrained energy, in a film where these few exquisite moments are all too rare, though nearly every one is associated with music, shot by Daniele Ciprì, where it curiously has a gloomy, sepia-toned look of washed-out color that immediately offers a somber tone that takes the joy right out of this picture. Adapted from the 2012 novel Sweet Dreams, Little One by Massimo Gramellini, current deputy editor at La Stampa, an Italian daily newspaper published in Turin, one of the oldest newspapers in Italy where he runs a daily front page column, the film is told in non-chronological order through flashbacks recalling various lifelong memories, like a memoir, where each is given a larger-than-life recreation, though it has a bit of an embellished, fairy tale feel throughout. Whether by Paolo Sorrentino or now Bellocchio, the central figure in these Italian movies tends to be a successful though emotionally damaged and largely unfulfilled male protagonist who fits the template of Marcello Mastroianni in Fellini’s LA DOLCE VITA (1960), who was a highly popular journalist writing for gossip magazines. In this film, Massimo (Valerio Mastrandrea) is a popular and highly successful sports journalist who also covers the war in Sarajevo, yet he’s scarred by the childhood loss of his mother at the age of nine. Quickly flashing back to childhood in 1969, with little Massimo played by Nicolò Cabras and his mother Barbara Ronchi, he has an idyllic childhood that he recalls in his own perfect way, singing a love song to him, Fai Bei Sogni - Scena: Resta Cu'mme YouTube (1:17), until his mother unexpectedly dies from a reported heart attack, yet he refuses to believe she is dead, expecting her to return at any given moment, where in his mind she is simply irreplaceable, linking the music of his childhood past to his present, where David Richard Mindel’s Twist Night evolves into The Trashmen’s Surfin’ Bird, Fai Bei Sogni Clip1 - YouTube (1:03).

The film title comes from the last words his mother spoke to him as she tucked him into bed that night, only to be vaguely informed what happened afterwards by his father (Guido Caprino), who lacks the warm affection and maternal charm of his mother, leaving Massimo in a state of delusion and emotional repression afterwards. From the innocent pleasure of playing hide and seek with his mother and sharing a love for watching late-night horror movies, including clips of the wildly popular 1965 French miniseries Belphégor, where he’d hold onto her for protection and cuddle close together under the blanket, not to mention the dizzying television appearances of Raffaella Carrà, the first female television personality to show her belly button on camera, 1971 - Canzonissima Chissà se va - Video Dailymotion (3:00), yet it was also an era of rowdy soccer crowds, where his father was a rabid fan of the Torino FC which played near their home. But Italy unraveled in the 1970’s, an era of political extremism and the Red Brigades, a paramilitary organization involved with robberies, kidnappings and assassinations. As a young teen, Massimo continues to lie about his mother, claiming she lives in New York, despite the intervention of a priest who informs him he must acknowledge the truth. He develops a friendship with an extremely wealthy fellow student, Enrico (Dylan Ferrarrio), inviting him home to his immense mansion, the kind only seen in the movies, where Massimo can’t take his eyes off his nurturing yet indulgently overprotective mother, Emmanuelle Devos. As a young man, he gets a job as a sports journalist, but remains in a state or arrested development, aloof and distant from others, never sustaining relationships, catching a break by being on the site of a major breaking news story. He’s sent to Sarajevo as a war correspondent, but shows a callous disregard for the people he’s covering, blatantly embellishing the photographs of victims and cynically staging them to make a name for himself. When his father dies, he returns to his childhood home and combs through his parent’s belongings, with past memories flooding his head, along with a sense of grief that continues to torment him.

In Turin, his editor asks Massimo to write a response to a letter from a reader who literally hates his domineering mother, as the regular columnist quits after suggesting to his coworkers that he simply put a gun to his head, refusing to spend any more time on it, as the man is hopeless. Of course Massimo rises to the occasion, plumbing the depths of his soul, and prints out a column that catches the attention of the entire nation, receiving tons of letters in response, where special machinery is used to transport it all from the Post Office, becoming a rock star of columnists, where he is rewarded with his own daily column. This kind of universal acknowledgment is rare, and honestly, Massimo isn’t sure he deserves it. The turning point of the film is an unexpected panic attack, where Massimo feels he’s about to die from a heart attack, perhaps mirroring what happened to his mother, where he calls the hospital emergency room for assistance, speaking to Dr. Elisa (Bérénice Bejo), a young French doctor working in Italy, a calmly assured voice that walks him through his anxiety, miraculously calming him down. He introduces himself at the hospital the next day, showing appreciation for her expertise, where she exudes the same kind of genuine warmth and affection as his mother, where her eyes are alert and alive, a light in an otherwise darkened crowd, where he can’t get enough of her. Neither can the audience, as it’s as if she’s from another film, a positive delight in an otherwise overly grim view of a man that continually feels sorry for himself, still demoralized and emotionally scarred from childhood events that he simply can’t come to terms with, where he confesses to her the power of an invisible companion that’s never left his side since childhood, the dark presence of Belphégor, who was like a heavy burden on his back, always weighing him down, a force that feeds on “my doubts and fears: mistrust, rejection, abandonment.” As if she has the power to reach into his damaged soul, Elisa’s kind-heartedness works miracles, inviting him to a family anniversary party where after initial refusals, he’s a hit on the dance floor in a showy scene that people will talk about afterwards, for it’s as if his very last breath has been resuscitated. After writing his first book, there’s an intriguing scene at the end, beautifully acted by his godmother (Arianna Scommegna), who tells him, “After forty years, it’s time that someone told you the truth.” No longer protected by the innocence of youth, or invisible demons, or various turns in his life where fantasy and reality get mixed up in the confusion, the story of his mother’s death is different than what he had been told, but only now is he in a position to accept it.

CINE-FILE: Cine-List - CINE-FILE Chicago Michael Glover Smith

Even if his films no longer make as big of a splash on these shores as those of younger contemporaries like Paolo Sorrentino or Matteo Garrone, Marco Bellocchio (FISTS IN THE POCKET) remains Italy’s greatest living director. Eschewing the controversial subject matter of recent works like VINCERE and DORMANT BEAUTY, the maestro’s latest feature is a bittersweet drama about the lifelong attempts of journalist Massimo (Valeria Mastrandrea) to come to terms with his mother’s death. By examining how childhood trauma can cast a shadow over an individual’s entire life, this adaptation of Massimo Gramellini’s novel seems both quintessentially Italian (the theme of the cult of “mamma”) and specific to Bellocchio (shuttling between multiple characters and timelines and featuring gorgeous “Rembrandt lighting” throughout). While the sentimentality inherent in the source material will not be for all tastes, I would gladly trade most of the movies I’ve seen in the 2010s for one sequence, a blast of pure cinema, in which the adult Massimo cuts loose on a dance floor to the tune of the Trashmen’s immortal “Surfin’ Bird.” Not a masterwork, perhaps, but certainly the work of a master.

Sweet Dreams (Marco Bellocchio, Italy) — Masters - Cinema Scope Blake Williams

Pressed so far beyond his trademark disdain for the patriarchal legacy that Catholicism has left (and continues to assert) over modern-day Italian life and culture, master filmmaker Marco Bellocchio here follows up his sublime and mysterious Blood of My Blood (2015) with a handsome and shamelessly cloying picture that represents the most logical culmination of this career-long fixation—that is, he’s made a film that spends all of its 131 minutes celebrating and yearning for the euphoria of being with one’s own mother. While Sweet Dreams represents another opportunity for him to explore the developing dynamics of the modern Italian family unit, the depths of his investigation, and his admirable attempts to subvert the project’s treacly intentions with oddly placed ironies, run shallow.

Basing his film on a 2012 novel of the same name by Massimo Gramellini, Bellocchio flexes all of his formalist muscles to complicate and doll up Gramellini’s not-quite-Freudian expression of maternal affection, interweaving streams of handsomely staged vignettes which evoke memories of times passed (never to be regained) and unfold across decades’ worth of motherless years, into a gauzy and impressionistic tapestry—or perhaps, rather, a basket, with which one might deliver a bouquet of yellow girasoli and fresh zeppole to his or her dearest matriarch on a Sunday. Those looking for evidence of Bellocchio’s notorious gifts for penetrating the Catholic unconscious in order to access and reveal some deeper, ecstatic truth about the natural world would be wise to look elsewhere in his filmography.

Cannes 2016. Marco Bellocchio's "Sweet Dreams" on Notebook | MUBI Daniel Kasman

Septuagenarian firebrand Marco Bellocchio turns a critical eye at once sentimental and ironic to Italian men’s relationship to their mothers in Sweet Dreams, an inspired adaptation of a memoir by journalist Massimo Gramellini that opened this year's Directors' Fortnight in Cannes.  Beginning with the dewy-eyed memories of a young Massimo in a halcyon 1960s, the boy dances, nestles and accompanies his mother everywhere, until her early and suspicious death sends him through the decades a man quietly emotionally and psychologically impaired—solitary, withdrawn, uncommitted. Or would he be like that anyway?

Bellocchio slyly balances the swooning syrup of a boy’s longing for his mother with a man’s hang-ups in adulthood, his romances and career. After moving into his teenage years, the film jumps to the 1990s when Massimo, by then a sportswriter, celebrated for his simple, direct and emotionless writing, encounters a Mephistophelean millionaire whose sudden death, rhyming with that of Massimo’s mother, sends the writer into broader journalism and to Sarajevo to report on the war. The specter of the man’s missing mother lingers over everything—as a boy, Massimo pledges himself to a demonic witch on television to protect him now that his mother is gone—shading how he interacts with the world around him, whether football or sniper deaths, and all of his possible romances through the years all seem to resemble his mama.

Fully embracing the melodrama of his source, Bellocchio’s sprawling, virtuosic drama takes the form of flashbacks of an older Massimo who has now surpassed his mother's age at the time of her death, a subjectivity simultaneously sentimental and subtly satiric. Sweet Dreams in fact most resembles the kind of have-your-cake-and-eat-it-too filmmaking of Paul Verhoeven, whose films from RoboCop to Showgirls critique the kinds of movies they are thrillingly embodying but never betray their origins nor the pleasures or pitfalls of their genres. Such is Sweet Dreams, an ode to the heart-warming, undying fixation of men with their mothers, and a wry saga of the neurotic influence and obsession the figure and being of a mother has on a man.

cannes 2016: sweet dreams de marco bellocchio ... - desistfilm web log Monica Delgado

And the Fortnight held its opening ceremony presenting this recent film Marco Bellocchio, demonstrating that its programming does not skimp on maintaining a significant level, even more than competing with the official selection of the festival, as has happened in previous years. Bellocchio's film has been a flawless start.

All Italian cinephile sentimentality on the figure of the mother, condensed in films like Mamma Roma or the recent Mia Madre de Nanni Moretti, or from religious and social imaginary of maternal love as a symbol of dedication and sacrifice in Fai Bei Sogni (Sweet Dreams, Italy, France, 2016), is subverted, or at least reinterpreted to establish correspondences between reality and memories, mother and lover, living and dead, without trying to avoid some Hitchcockian reminiscences double and Freud's Oedipus complex. Thus, Marco Bellocchio made a story about the mother but from his absence from overlapping times and moments in certain contexts.

Sweet Dreams reveals the intimacy from childhood, puberty and adulthood Massimo, the son who loses his mother unexpectedly (played in childhood by a splendid Nicolò Cabras), differentiating each period according to a peculiar use of color: Warm vintage and nostalgic to remember the mother in childhood, range from pale blue to adulthood colors, for example. But this character a few nuances is revealed through plot devices as brief unsuccessful encounters with women, their role testimonial journalist, the love of football, parental relationship or fanaticism Belphégor, television horror series of Claude Barma.

Bellocchio is building its staging, as often happens in the film, according to break-ins that allow complete portrait of Massimo, from different meetings that mark in life: a conversation with a priest, another with teacher sciences, telephone conversation with the doctor or visiting a sports tycoon. Even his work as a sports journalist and war in Sarajevo can discover in the permanent regret at the dead mother. And here comes into play the subtle correspondences between the women around him and away, creating mirrors or double suggested: the doctor who "dramatizes" the disappearance of the mother, dancing child versus dancing adult or character Belphégor as the nemesis of a depressed and weak mother.

Bellocchio describes Massimo intact from the sublimation of the absent mother, but gradually tarnishing will go to the discovery of the cause of the disappearance. What unites mother and child? It seems that this indissoluble bond is its fragility in a process of permanent mourning, and allows the filmmaker to describe the sensitivity of a generation inclusive.

There is a significant sequence so eloquent when Massimo published a response to the letter from a reader in the newspaper where he works, where he shows his pain and inability to end the mourning of decades, not just a cycle of silence is broken but her emotional nakedness allows the approach of different women who were indifferent. Another side of the maternal.

However, Sweet Dreams fails roundness of other works of Bellocchio, perhaps because it expands too tie up loose ends on the death of the mother, avoiding the subtleties, but no longer has bright moments, and a different look on loss and the powerful myth of the self-sacrificing mother.

BELLOCCHIO DIVENTA POP-VELTRONIANO CON “FAI BEI SOGNI ... Michele Anselmi from CineMonitor

'Sweet Dreams': Cannes Review | Reviews | Screen Jonathan Romney from Screendaily

[Cannes Review] Sweet Dreams - The Film Stage Rory O’Connor

Fai Bei Sogni (Sweet Dreams) Movie Review : Shockya.com Chiara Spagnoli Gabardi

London Film Festival 2016: Fai Bei Sogni (Sweet Dreams) | Review ... Sam Gray from The Upcoming

HeyUGuys [Stefan Pape]

The Upcoming [Jasmin Valjas]

Cineuropa.org [Camillo De Marco]

Cannes Report #4 (Personal Affairs, Sweet Dreams ... - The Young Folks Josh Cabrita

The A.V. Club: Mike D'Angelo May 20, 2016

Senses of Cinema: Daniel Fairfax July 10, 2016

A Movie Waffler [John Bennett]

Daily | Cannes 2016 | Marco Bellocchio's SWEET DREAMS - Fandor David Hudson

'Sweet Dreams' ('Fai bei sogni'): Cannes Review | Hollywood Reporter Deborah Young

'Sweet Dreams' Review: Cannes Film Festival 2016 | Variety Jay Weissberg

Sweet Dreams (2016 film) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Sweet Dreams, Little One by Massimo Gramellini, book review | The ... Amanda Craig book review from The Independent, March 11, 2015

Bellot, Rodrigo

SEXUAL DEPENDENCY (Dependencia sexual) D 59

Bolivia USA (105 mi) 2003

There are, as it turns out, a few interesting images early on in this film, as it began as a student short on the coming of age of a young Bolivian woman, but the film detours off track into the world of sexual exploitation to the point of violence. And I thought split screens were in the era of WOODSTOCK and DOWNHILL RACER, here we have to contend with it for an entire feature, basically doubling our displeasure - if only that were the worst criticism I had for this film. The director, who was present, felt his film was about commerce, and the violence that is supposedly perpetrated from huge amounts of cash promoting global, commercially provocative, sexual imagery. What do you expect? The filmmaker is a photographer by trade. I found this to be an aggressive and obnoxious film about aggressive and obnoxious behavior. The problem here is that the film is dominated by a pathetic display of so many self-centered and self-indulgent “assholes” with no accountability for what amounts to mindless, even criminal behavior, and they are blindly followed by still more mindless associates-in-crime who feel that drunk and boorish behavior is cool, as when drunk, they have no regard for the consequences. The focus of the film provides few who question this male condescension except perhaps a gay self-help group that appears to be seeking their own individual artistic voice. So where are the others? The director gives this abhorrent behavior center stage. This is like a film being made about racism, but only ardent racists are depicted on-screen for the entire film and there is no one questioning their actions. There was applause afterwards. I understand this is the highest grossing film in Bolivian history. Ugh!

Belvaux, Lucas

THE TRILOGY A 95

France Belgium (341 mi) 2002

PT I ON THE RUN (Cavale) A 95

France Belgium (117 mi) 2002

A taut, atmospheric suspense thriller featuring a terrific performance by the director himself playing the lead character, who escapes from prison in the opening scene, no explanation is given for his crime, but we learn he is a radical fugitive, sort of like the guy in THE BOURNE IDENTITY before he forgets his identity. This guy is a master of disguises, who walks through crowds of policemen completely undetected, bold, undaunted, an unbelievable study of control. I loved it when he tells one of his former revolutionaries, a former partner in crime, who has now evolved into a nice, family-oriented, middle-class lifestyle, how it’s all coming together, how the masses are now ready for the revolution, and she responds, “What masses?” But he is wonderful. The camera follows his every move in extremely close, graphic detail. There is a wonderful pace to this film, the sound of a pulsating bass underscores the tense, edgy mood, there’s some brilliant writing going on here, and the acting is flawless. Simply a terrific film experience.

Lucas Belvaux is here in Chicago at each screening. After seeing Part I, which features the director as the lead actor in nearly every frame, I asked him if he wrote this part for himself, as the part was so fabulous. He responded that the actor he had in mind couldn't schedule the time to do the film, so he, who had worked as an actor for 10 yrs, decided to do it himself. This film opened in Toronto, this is only the 2nd venue for screening. Personally, I would rate his performance, both as an actor and as a director, as among the best of the year.

Time Out review

Theoretically, the films in writer/director Belvaux's momentous Trilogy can be seen in any order, but this taut thriller makes the best possible introduction to its weave of stories in contemporary Grenoble. Belvaux himself takes the central role as the steely Bruno, an unrepentant terrorist just escaped from prison and determined to continue the bombing campaign he'd initiated 15 years earlier, even though the hard left rhetoric which prompted such extreme actions is now a historical anachronism. Building to his next attack, he keeps one step ahead of the law and receives assistance from an unlikely source - Agnès (Blanc), the morphine addicted wife of Pascal (Melki), the cop trying to bring him in. This study in fanaticism is timely, and if Belvaux acknowledges some sympathy for core anti-capitalist ideals, he certainly doesn't endorse their violent implementation. What draws us in, however, is the film-maker's keen understanding of audience fascination with the outlaw operator. With a palette of restrained blue-grey, and functionalist direction generating compelling involvement in Bruno's meticulous planning, the proceedings acquire a gripping intensity, despite our rational misgivings over the outcome. It's like watching the best film Jean-Pierre Melville never made, and as such is probably the most successful stand alone item in the Trilogy.

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez]

On the Run is the first installment of Lucas Belvaux's trilogy of films I'll hereby refer to as the director-actor's Trois Genres. Bruno (Belvaux) escapes from prison with the help of a friend and subsequently begins to settle old scores and reconnect with old flames in the town of Grenoble. Billed by Variety as an "economical, fast-paced thriller," On the Run is anything but. Over the course of 24 hours, a brilliant Bruno uses his wits to repeatedly evade capture by a local police officer, Pascal (Gilbert Melki). Along the way, he befriends the man's junkie wife, Agnès (Dominique Blanc), beats up his ex-girlfriend's current husband and kills numerous individuals who stand in his way. The film's ending is brilliant (Bruno outdoes the legal system and, in the end, is outdone by an uncontrollable act of fate), and Belvaux uses it to position On the Run as a kind of existential fable. As a genre exercise, it's a ringing success—its serpentine editing, disciplined pacing and controlled aesthetic tonality beautifully mirrors Bruno's methodical criminal master-mindedness—but the film lacks subtext. Bruno's anger is so unjustified here and the character relations so thinly unexamined that a certain detachment works against this otherwise competently told story. But if the characters are ciphers, that's because Belvaux fills in everyone's blanks in the second and third parts of his Trois Genres. The director claims to be interested in what happens to characters after they walk off-screen, but these films don't really benefit from the extra tidbits divulged in the second and third parts. On the Run, though, works better than An Amazing Couple and After the Life as a standalone creation, not only because it's a solid genre piece but because none of the supporting characters' behaviors are that out of the ordinary to suggest a context will be offered later.

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

Telling three distinct stories with characters that exist within the same universe, Lucas Belvaux's audacious The Trilogy immediately calls to mind Krzysztof Kieslowski's famed Three Colors triptych in concept, but the similarities end there. The relationships between the characters in Kieslowski's films are more glancing and abstract, and those characters are ultimately linked by his thematic interests in fate and the artist's power in orchestrating it. Though Belvaux's films operate well enough on their own individual terms (especially the first two, On The Run and An Amazing Couple), they interact more closely, each running through a parallel chronology, with major players in one entry fading into the backdrop of the next, and vice versa. The overall effect falls short of profundity, but as a magician's sleight of hand, The Trilogy is magnificently versatile entertainment, cycling through three different genres—thriller, farce, and melodrama, respectively—while maintaining a firm grip on the whole. Getting things off to an appropriately rousing start, On The Run cuts straight to a prison break in progress, a fitting opening salvo for a film that moves as quickly and methodically as its fugitive antihero. With a costumer's ransom in fake mustaches and hairpieces attached to his poker face, Belvaux himself stars as a leftist revolutionary whose daring escape comes so long after his incarceration that the movement has faded in his absence. Expertly skirting police roadblocks and ambushes, Belvaux heads back to his Grenoble haunt, looking to regroup his former comrades and settle scores with his ideological enemies. Holed up in a storage garage with canned goods, a lantern, and a healthy cache of weapons and currency, he seeks out his old accomplice Catherine Frot, but finds that she's given up the cause for a husband and family. Meanwhile, a disgraced cop (Gilbert Melki) tightens the dragnet while smuggling morphine to his drug-addicted wife (Dominique Blanc), whom Belvaux coaxes into sheltering him in a mountain chalet overlooking the city. A taut, diamond-cut piece of storytelling, On The Run sketches in the backstory when necessary, but it mostly observes a seasoned terrorist and outlaw as he plots both survival and revenge. At first, Belvaux encourages a compelling ambivalence about his character, but once his radical past has been revealed, he emerges as a rebel without a cause, stripped of the ideology that sheathes his ruthlessness. Having thoroughly unmasked its hero, On The Run reaches a good jumping-off point for An Amazing Couple, but not before providing one of the most deliciously ironic endings this side of The Wages Of Fear.

Lucas Belvaux's Trilogy The Hole Truth, Chris Fujiwara from the Boston Phoenix, April 9 – 15, 2004

The interactions of an odd assortment of people over a few days in Grenoble form the material for Lucas Belvaux’s absorbing trilogy, each of whose parts tells a self-contained story. The first, Cavale/On the Run (at the Brattle April 9 through 15), centers on Bruno (Belvaux), a leftist militant who breaks out of prison and resumes his terrorist activities while seeking to avenge his and his comrades’ betrayal. The second, Un couple épatant/An Amazing Couple (April 16 through 22), shows the spiraling misunderstandings between Alain (François Morel), the owner of a small technology firm, and his wife, high-school teacher Cécile (Ornella Muti), who suspect each other wrongly of adultery. The central character of the third film, Après la vie/Afterlife (April 23 through 29), is police lieutenant Pascal (Gilbert Melki), who has turned crooked in order to supply morphine to his addicted wife, Agnès (Dominique Blanc).

Belvaux’s narrative strategy makes the point that no story is ever complete and that telling a story is a matter of what to leave out. Although each of his three tales is self-sufficient, each leaves holes to be filled by the others. Coincidence plays no small part in weaving the stories together. The fact that Cécile and Agnès teach at the same school provides the pretext for Cécile to employ Pascal to spy on her husband; Pascal is also in charge of the police hunt for Bruno, and it happens that his morphine contact is Jaquillat (Patrick Deschamps), the gangster who set up Bruno 15 years ago. Pure chance creates a further critical link among the stories: sick from withdrawal after Jaquillat cuts off her husband’s morphine supply, Agnès ventures out in search of street heroin and is befriended by Bruno, a perfect stranger, when they both converge on a dealer working for Jaquillat.

In each film, the same characters show up under a different light. Cavale portrays Bruno as an idealist driven mad by an isolation that lets him see only masses and classes, not the individuals he feels free to destroy for his cause; but in Un couple épatant, he’s a polite, downtrodden guy; and in Après la vie, he’s the savior who helps Agnès through her withdrawal. The dour, fretful Pascal is a shadowy figure in the first story and a weird annoyance in the second; only in the third does he come into focus as a loving husband who turns desperate as he sees both his wife and his job unravel. Cécile’s refusal to lend her chalet for what she thinks is an adulterous rendezvous is a source of comedy in the second tale but a random, incomprehensible twist in the third. Part of the interest of the films lies in Belvaux’s experimental baring of the devices of genre construction and his linking of genre to character, mood, and distance.

But the films also operate against themselves as genre pieces. Setting the tone for the series, Cavale works as a dark, ambiguous study of people adrift, while falling short as a riveting thriller because of the director’s obliqueness and his even-handedness toward his characters, each of whom is allowed his or her say. Un couple épatant is a bizarre comedy peopled with characters most of whom aren’t funny at all. The most brilliant and piercing moments occur in the third film, in which the director, whose style throughout is fluid, clever, and assured, responds with deep sympathy for the plight of the addict and her provider: the image of Pascal enlacing himself in the arms of the sleeping Agnès is especially poignant.

By staying with the same characters for so long and revisiting the same situations from different angles, the trilogy builds up much fascination. The third film, which depends on this cumulative effect most, also derives the most benefit from it. As missing pieces drop into place, it becomes clear that the strength of the trilogy comes less from the satisfactions of putting the puzzle together (the sort of pleasure afforded by Memento or Pulp Fiction) than from the humor and melancholy with which Belvaux pays homage to the impossibility of reaching a total view of human events.

Nitrate Online (Nicholas Schager) review

Isthmus (Kent Williams) review

Jigsaw Lounge (Neil Young) review [6/10]

d+kaz. Intelligent Movie Reviews (Daniel Kasman) review [B]

Eye for Film (Angus Wolfe Murray) review [3.5/5]

Harvey S. Karten review [A-]

eFilmCritic.com (Jay Seaver) review [3/5]

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

On The Run (Cavale) Jurgen fauth from About.com

Trilogie Lucas Belvaux : Un Couple Épatant / Cavale / Après La Vie Noel Megahey from DVD Times

DVD Times [Dave Foster] reviews The Trilogy

The New Yorker (Anthony Lane) review reviews The Trilogy

PopMatters Michael Healey reviews The Trilogy

Images Movie Journal David Gurevich reviews The Trilogy

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson] reviews The Trilogy

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson) review reviews The Trilogy

Plume-Noire.com Movie Review Laurence Nicoli reviews The Trilogy

Guardian/Observer review

The Trilogy I: On the Run Ty Burr from the Boston Globe

San Francisco Chronicle [Ruthe Stein]

Chicago Tribune (Michael Wilmington) review

The Trilogy: On the Run - Movies - The New York Times A.O. Scott

Los Angeles Times [Manohla Dargis]

PT II AN AMAZING COUPLE (Un Couple Épatant) A 95

France Belgium (100 mi) 2002

Otherwise known as THE IMPROBABILITY PRINCIPLE, this section features the alluring Ornella Muti as the wife and her neurotic, overly paranoid husband, Francois Morel, who seem to have a solid marriage, they believe they have no secrets. But little by little, one secret turns to multiple acts of deception, both become more than a little suspicious, and before you know it, it’s one hilarious war of the roses. Everyone’s a suspect; all hell breaks loose, all built on a solid, comical premise of total misunderstanding. The same circumstances in Pt I happen again in Pt II, but through the eyes and experiences of different characters. Gone is the tense, pulsating bass music of PT I, replaced by a wonderfully comic orchestration, featuring a humorous bassoon theme – music by Riccardo Del Fra. Pt’s I and II feature some great writing, terrific editing, as this story moves right along at a brisk pace, and the story is always fresh, unique, and interesting. I began to think of this film as you would your ideal or perfect partner, gorgeous to look at, sexy, terrific staying power in bed (over 6 hours), and it’s still intelligent and witty in the morning. Great stuff!

Time Out review

This isn't a sequel to Trilogy: One, but a parallel film, set in the same town, Grenoble, in the alternate universe we call 'comedy'. Moreover, Belvaux insists it can be seen on its own terms, independently of the other films. The trouble with this formulation is that as a stand alone film, it's both rather strange and a little disappointing. Strange, because the plot swerves off in pursuit of what would seem an inexplicable tangent (who is that man living out in Cécile and Alain's weekend cabin, and what does he have on Cécile's friend Agnès?); disappointing, because the film is never as funny as it might be, nor as logical as you'd hope. It begins, slowly, with lawyer Alain (Morel) showing up late for his surprise birthday party. His wife (Muti) is disturbed by his strange behaviour. Could he be having an affair? She asks Agnès if her husband Pascal (Melki), a police inspector, would keep an eye on him. But when Alain sees Pascal and Cécile together, he forgets all about his imminent operation. Evidently, his wife must be cheating on him. It makes no sense to pretend this is a discrete film. It's the grand design that's so compelling, the prismatic effects of genre, the correspondences, connections and coincidences the triptych throws up.

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez]

Let the scavenger hunt begin. In On the Run, an escaped con played by director-actor Lucas Belvaux is hidden inside a country cottage by a police officer's junkie wife, Agnès (Dominique Blanc). The couple that owns the cottage, Alain (François Morel) and Cecile (Ornella Muti), are the dynamic duo of Belvaux's An Amazing Couple, the second part of his Trois Genres. While Bruno (Belvaux) is on the run from the law in the background, Alain and Cecile's relationship slowly deteriorates after an endless string of misunderstandings. Alain is a hypochondriac so afraid of a looming but routine operation that he dictates his will into a handheld recorder. Cecile dutifully misinterprets her husband's secretiveness, enlisting Agnès's police officer husband, Pascal (Gilbert Melki), and Alain's secretary, Claire (Valérie Mairesse), to find out if he's having an affair. Morel, whose character doesn't appear in On the Run, is remarkable here, and the film's funniest bits feature his fickle character altering his will whenever family and friends annoy him. An Amazing Couple is a chronicle of an elaborate mix-up, and though Belvaux gets considerable mileage out of the lengths Alain and Cecile will go to in order to catch each other in an inexistent act, the film is pretty unamazing and says very little about what motivates men and women to believe the worst about each other. The one or two people likely to catch the film without ever seeing On the Run or After the Life may be confused by the film's auxiliary characters, who stand out more in this film than they do in the others. As for those interested in the relationship between the three films, Belvaux offers the occasional overlap: An Amazing Couple's Alain goes through the same roadblock Bruno does in On the Run, and since An Amazing Couple is told through Alain and Cecile's perspective, the audience (like Cecile) doesn't see the gun Bruno is packing behind his back when she confronts him at her cottage. At best, these scenes can only be described as cute, because nothing that happens in one film illuminates what happens in the others. Belvaux himself seems unprepared to address the trilogy's proposed mathematical meta, which one of his characters seemingly scribbles on a chalkboard early on: "What must be shown is worthless." Stay tuned for more adventure.

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

The second installment in Lucas Belvaux's The Trilogy, a densely interconnected series of genre films that take place within the same time frame, An Amazing Couple relieves the tension of On The Run with a breezy, well-constructed farce. The film starts with the whitest of white lies and the action unravels from there, gaining comic momentum from overheard conversations, unwarranted suspicions, and wild misunderstandings. If On The Run left any doubts over Belvaux's genre mastery, then An Amazing Couple should extinguish them swiftly, with a plot that comes close to the crystalline perfection of La Cage Aux Folles. But paradoxically, perfection may be the film's chief flaw: With their obsessive i-dotting and t-crossing, Belvaux's whirligig theatrics seem a little bloodless, more to be admired than loved. Just when The Trilogy should be gaining in cumulative resonance, heading into the closing melodrama After Life, it's starting to feel too much like an exercise, designed to show off Belvaux's considerable flair for narrative. All the elements click beautifully into place, but the mechanics are laid bare, squeezing some of the spontaneity and joy out of an otherwise graceful comedy. As in On The Run, minor characters become major characters (and vice versa), and a few scenes are thrillingly recontexualized when viewed from another angle. The Gallic equivalent to Woody Allen in Hannah And Her Sisters, François Morel stars as an intensely neurotic hypochondriac who's convinced he's going to die from a simple operation. When his morose wanderings after the doctor's appointment cause him to be late to a surprise birthday party, Morel lies to his wife Ornella Muti about getting into an accident and covers his tracks by smashing his Jaguar with a hammer. Suspicious that he's having an affair, Muti recruits troubled cop Gilbert Melki to follow her husband and tap their phone, but Melki develops feelings for her in the process, prompting a whole new set of suspicions from Morel. As Morel and Muti eye each other for infidelity, the audience gets a bird's-eye view of the whole crazy affair, which could all be resolved by a simple, frank conversation between the two. By design, An Amazing Couple isn't quite as satisfying as a standalone work as On The Run, because Belvaux occasionally interrupts the flow by fitting new pieces into the trilogy's larger puzzle. But even those who haven't followed the cycle can appreciate the delightful curlicues of logic and the hilarious running jokes, such as Morel dictating a new will after every perceived betrayal by his wife. It's rare for a comedy to be as fully worked-out and exquisitely timed as An Amazing Couple; just don't expect to warm to it.

Nitrate Online (Nicholas Schager) review

eFilmCritic.com (Jay Seaver) review [3/5]

Eye for Film (Keith Hennessey Brown) review [4/5]

Jigsaw Lounge (Neil Young) review [6/10]

d+kaz. Intelligent Movie Reviews (Daniel Kasman) review [C+]

Harvey S. Karten review [C]

An Amazing Couple Marcy Dermansky from About.com

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Guardian/Observer review

Boston Globe review [2.5/4] Ty Burr

San Francisco Chronicle [Ruthe Stein]

The New York Times (A.O. Scott) review

Los Angeles Times [Manohla Dargis]

PT III AFTER THE LIFE (Après la Vie) A- 94

France Belgium (124 mi) 2002

Otherwise known as MCMILLAN AND WIFE, this story features a similar re-telling of the same events, this time through the eyes of the police inspector, Gilbert Melki, and his morphine addicted wife, Dominique Blanc. While this version has less fresh, original material, which may at first seem to slow down the rhythm of the film, the director compensates by moving the camera closer to the faces of the characters, which creates a different kind of intensity here. All the characters come together in Pt III, gone is the humor from Pt II, but all the loose ends are tied up, and there’s a different philosophical take in PT III, particularly the reference to the title. While there is continued suspense throughout, we have a greater understanding of the complex, inner world of this couple. Their love is reflected beautifully in a truly unusual light. All 3 sections have brilliant endings, but here another amazing couple brings this trilogy to a close.

Time Out review

The camera's close-in, the performances committed and tremendously raw in this most emotive segment of the series. Thus far we know in outline that Blanc's Agnès secretly relies on morphine to get her through life as a teacher. Here's the in-depth chronicle of her relationship with police detective husband Pascal (Melki), whose towering devotion extends to keeping her steadily supplied. His connection is the local drugs baron, pressurising Pascal to take out escaped terrorist Bruno (Belvaux). Until then, no more white powder. Pascal's moral quandary is that he's not corrupt enough to kill a man, but his refusal is tearing his wife apart before his eyes. Blanc delivers one of the screen's most powerful portraits of addiction, while careworn Melki compels as a man buckling under the heavy price of redemption. Even if you're fresh to the trilogy you'll get that much, but the crowded narrative will make better sense for old hands, who'll already have the scoop on Belvaux's guntoting angel of mercy from One and fellow teacher Ornella Muti's errant spouse from Two. Fitting the bits together blurs the line between watching a film and participating in it, since the world of love, pain and violence Belvaux has set out through his collision of characters and genres only comes to fruition when individual viewers construct the wider fresco for themselves. Appropriately, the final shot looks down over Grenoble, and all those people, all those stories. A mighty achievement, but you'll have to collect the set to appreciate it.

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

In the final installment of The Trilogy, his grand experiment in genre filmmaking, Belgian writer-director Lucas Belvaux turns to melodrama to bring home the cumulative impact of three stories, which all take place among the same characters over the same stretch of time. Following the taut policier On The Run and the finely calibrated farce An Amazing Couple, After The Life doesn't function nearly as well as a standalone piece, mainly because it's stuck with the thankless task of mopping up after the other two. The overlap between the films, once invigorating and revelatory, has now become merely repetitive, with several old scenes played out in whole strictly for continuity's sake, rather than showing something new. And yet, more than any of the three, After The Life conveys Belvaux's overriding thesis about human behavior, which is that people in the same circle can lead vastly different lives, and that a single interaction between them can take on entirely different meanings. In The Trilogy, context is all. No single character demonstrates Belvaux's theme more profoundly than Gilbert Melki (the troubled cop who pursued an escaped con in On The Run and tailed Ornella Muti's suspicious husband in An Amazing Couple), so it follows that he's the focus in the last chapter. Simultaneously a lawman, a crook, and a loving husband, Melki tries to juggle all these roles even as they threaten to come crashing down at his feet. He and his junkie wife (Dominique Blanc) are locked into a powerful and destructive form of interdependency: So long as he can score morphine for her, the marriage hangs together; if not, they no longer need each other. Having agreed with Blanc never to go through a dealer, Melki acquires drugs through Patrick Descamps, a crime boss who refuses to re-supply Melki until an old foe (the vengeful escaped con played by Belvaux) is captured or killed. As Blanc suffers horribly from withdrawal, she hits the streets looking for heroin, but a violent run-in with one of Descamps' dealers leads her to encounter Belvaux, who takes care of her in return for shelter. Belvaux intended every film in The Trilogy to work on its own, but After The Life would seem absurdly loose-limbed without the other two, because it's stuffed with minor scenes that exist only to bind the dangling narrative strands. Taken as a self-contained piece, After The Life has one enduring element: Blanc's moving performance as a junkie who knows how to manage her addiction, but falls apart the moment it can't be fed. Like Melki's character, hers has more than one side, and The Trilogy, when considered as a whole, devotes itself to seeing all the angles and dimensions of real life.

Film of the Month: [One] Cavale Edward Lawrenson from Sight and Sound

There's a scene midway through Lucas Belvaux's One (Cavale) that's set in a mountainside chalet. The movie is a fast-paced, sharply directed thriller, and this remote lodge seems typical of the genre. Overlooking the French city of Grenoble - in whose streets the rest of the film's quickfire action scenes take place - the chalet feels like somewhere to hatch criminal conspiracies, or to flee to when they go wrong. Sure enough, its main occupant is escaped convict Bruno Le Roux (Lucas Belvaux), who is biding his time here while the cops scour the streets below.

Yet there's a moment of incongruity among all this hardbitten stuff when the chalet's owner, an attractive middle-aged woman, appears. She's flustered at Bruno's presence and demands that he go, but she approaches him less like the murderous desperado we know him to be than as an unwelcome guest at a dinner party. In a movie whose steely surface frequently gives way to scenes of quick, merciless violence, the woman seems to have strolled in from another world, a character from an Eric Rohmer film adrift in a Tarantino movie.

The scene is repeated, more or less, in Belvaux's Two (Un Couple épatant), a comedy rich in Rohmer-like romantic misunderstandings. This time we see things from the point of view of the woman, schoolteacher Cécile (Ornella Muti), and the chalet, though outwardly unchanged, seems less like a conspirators' eyrie than the kind of semi-theatrical domestic space French bourgeois comedy has made its home. Oblivious to reports of political terrorist Bruno's escape from prison, Cécile has spent the last few days convinced that her husband Alain (Franois Morel) is keeping a secret from her. And Bruno, whom she thinks of simply as the man who is having an affair with her friend and colleague Agn s (Dominique Blanc), gets the sharp end of her tongue. Agns too is unaware of Bruno's crimes, but as a morphine addict in desperate need of a fix she has problems of her own. And her relationship with her detective husband Pascal (Gilbert Melki) - who is working on Bruno's case - is at the centre of the third Belvaux film to be released in the UK this year, the dark, unflinching study of chemical and emotional addiction Three (Apr s la vie).

Welcome to the formally dazzling, intricately interlinked worlds of La Trilogie, three separate films set in and around Grenoble during the same time period. Minor walk-on characters from one film occupy centre stage in the next, with selected scenes repeated, allowing seemingly throwaway moments to accrue a different significance on second viewing. There's nothing new to the idea of interlinked dramatic stories in the movies - the device is exploited in various ways in such recent examples as Amores perros, Pulp Fiction and Timecode - but La Trilogie extends the approach to encompass three discrete films, each with a running time of over 90 minutes. And the shift in perspective from one film to the next is further accompanied by a change in dramatic register.

While adhering, broadly speaking, to naturalist conventions, each of these movies is a distinct genre piece: One is a thriller, Two a comedy and Three a melodrama. Seen consecutively, the three build into a complex, rewarding assemblage, a daring experiment in narrative technique that is also an emotionally affecting, character-driven work of popular drama. Since the three films are best appreciated as connected parts of a coherent whole - which is why we're not devoting a separate review to each - it's impossible to discuss the project without jumping from film to film, chalking up cross-references that necessarily give away surprise plot points. Those who want to approach the trilogy fresh are advised to stop reading now and to return to this review on completing the cycle.

With its accomplished, albeit low-key action scenes, One is the most immediately grabbing of the three films, and you can understand why the UK distributors decided to open the cycle with it. (In French-speaking territories and on the festival circuit the films were released under stand-alone titles, suggesting they could be viewed individually and in any order.) Telling of Bruno's escape from jail and his struggle to elude his captors, One has a set-up that's simple to understand and features characters unencumbered with complicated psychological baggage. But this pared-down approach can make for an emotionally distant experience: because One depends for some of its dramatic impact on things we learn later in Two and Three, our first impression is of something half-completed, with figures whose backstories are riddled with unseemly gaps and whose relationships to one another feel underdeveloped.

This said, for long stretches, especially in the first hour, the sketchy nature of the narrative produces a sense of intrigue that's well suited to the thriller genre. Many of the details - Uzi machine guns rammed into leather attaché cases, brown envelopes stuffed with money - border on cliché, but Belvaux's deployment of these stock devices is carried off with such unironic assurance that the film remains compelling despite its emotional lacunae. A superb exercise in style - from Pierre Milon's effortlessly fluid camerawork to a wonderfully suspenseful night-time chase, all long shadows and ominous footsteps - One can be read as a metacommentary on how genre conventions hook us, even when we don't much care for or believe in the events or characters depicted. In the film's deadpan last moments Bruno disappears into a chasm beneath an icy Alpine snowfield, rubbed out, like an offending pencil mark on a page. The final image is a beautiful, blank surface.

But if this concluding scene suggests an attitude of godly disregard for the hero by his creator Belvaux - one that the audience is, to some extent, invited to share - this Olympian tendency is reversed in Two and Three. Characters whom we experience fleetingly as background action or comic relief in One are substantially fleshed out in the following two films.And as we're plunged deeper into the lives of those we'd previously dismissed as expedient plot functions, it seems likely Belvaux is making a moral point about our rush to judgement.

In One, for instance, Agns appears as the stereotypical street junkie of many a tough crime movie. It's only on seeing Three that you appreciate the desperation and fragility that underpin her addiction. In One her overdose is seen from Bruno's point of view - her sudden collapse viewed impassively from over his shoulder - and it's with reluctance that he stops to revive her. But in Three the same scene is unnervingly harrowing, the camera tight on Agn s' fitful gasps for breath as her body writhes on the floor. (Tellingly, there's a scene earlier in the film and in Two featuring a classroom debate about people's attitudes to drug addicts.)

The misleading nature of appearances is, one begins to appreciate, one of the subjects of the trilogy. Two, for instance, is almost an object-lesson on the messy consequences of jumping to the wrong conclusions. Thinking, mistakenly, that her husband is cheating on her, Cécile begins to keep tabs on him, setting off a chain of misinterpretations that's handled with elegant restraint by the director and actors, especially the lugubrious Franois Morel as Alain. The movie makes a joke of playing its characters' partial understanding of their situation against the audience's relative omniscience: our attitude towards the multiplying mishaps and recriminations is one of forgiving irony, and watching Alain and Cécile blindly caught up in the screwball logic of the finely calibrated plot is a deliciously sly pleasure.

But the joke is as much on the audience as on the hapless protagonists: throughout, the spectator is tricked into misreading key scenes and forming opinions he or she will revise on seeing subsequent instalments. Pascal, for instance, is made to look like a doe-eyed teenager in his relationship with Cécile, seeming to agree to keep her husband under surveillance because he's smitten with her glamour. It's only during Three that you realise that he suspects Alain of involvement with Bruno and that his dogged pursuit of the case is itself motivated by a need to get more morphine for Agn s.

Just as the characters see only what they want to see, so we tend to read each situation according to generic expectations. The propulsive pace of One doesn't encourage us to dwell on the protagonists' inner lives. The light, comedic tone of Two skates over the husband and wife's troubles and leaves us in no doubt that they'll be reconciled eventually. So the fact that Belvaux concludes his trilogy with the bleak Three is a melancholy statement. In so far as this is a definitive version of events - in which any loose ends or misapprehensions are cleared up - history is played out not as high farce but as grim tragedy.

But a question remains over whether one can fix a definitive reading of this cinematic puzzle. Ultimately, you sense that the detective work involved in piecing together the fractured narrative components is inexhaustible, and the ambiguities will only proliferate with repeat viewings. For the moment, though, the task facing the viewer is as likely to throw up firm conclusions as Harry Caul's surveillance work in Coppola's The Conversation. And about the only thing we can be sure of is the truth of Pascal's loaded line to Cecile: "Things are rarely how they appear."

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez]

Nitrate Online (Nicholas Schager) review

eFilmCritic.com (Jay Seaver) review [4/5]

Eye for Film (Angus Wolfe Murray) review [3/5]

Jigsaw Lounge (Neil Young) review [6/10]

Harvey S. Karten review [B+]

About.com Marcy Dermansky

d+kaz. Intelligent Movie Reviews (Daniel Kasman) review [D+]

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Guardian/Observer review

The Trilogy III: After the Life Ty Burr from the Boston Globe

San Francisco Chronicle [Ruthe Stein]

The New York Times (A.O. Scott) review

Los Angeles Times [Manohla Dargis]

THE RIGHT OF THE WEAKEST (La Raison du Plus Faible)

Belgium France (116 mi) 2006

The Right Of The Weakest (La Raison Du Plus Faible) Jonathan Romney in Cannes

A Belgian proletarian caper movie is hardly the first thing anyone expected from Lucas Belvaux, whose Trilogy, a set of three interlocking features, was an audacious formal anomaly in recent French mainstream cinema.

The Right Of The Weakest lies halfway between working-class realism in a Ken Loach/Dardennes bracket, and a Melville-esque tough-guy crime drama. But the film's decidedly ordinary execution, its narrative sluggishness and a staggeringly vain performance by Belvaux himself make his film the dud of the Cannes competition so far, beating even Southland Tales on that score by sheer dint of its drabness.

Neither hard-edged enough to qualify as art cinema proper, nor confident enough in its gestures towards genre commerciality, the film has less than glittering sales prospects. The film simply falls flat despite impeccable right-on social leanings.

The setting is Liege in Belgium, Dardennes' own stamping ground, where, in the district of Droixhe, much of the workforce of a steel smelting plant has been laid off. Among them are academically over-qualified family man Patrick (Caravaca), who happily tends the home and allotment while his wife Carole (Regnier) works at a dry-cleaning plant; jovial beer-slugging Robert (Semal); and feisty Jean-Pierre (Descamps), who has lost the use of his legs doing his extremely dangerous job (steel smelters, we're told more than once, are the "aristocracy of the working class".

While playing cards at their local bar, the men make friends with Marc (Belvaux), a tough, taciturn worker at the local Jupiter beer bottling plant (which he appears to operate entirely single-handed).

With money running scarce, Patrick's life comes to a crisis when Carole's moped breaks down and he realises that he hasn't got the money to buy her a new one. Increasingly embittered about their social disempowerment and lack of life prospects, Patrick and his friends at first club together for lottery tickets, hoping to buy Carole a new moped with their winnings. When they don't pay off, they try a new tack. Learning that Marc has done time for armed robbery, they persuade him to help them steal a million from their old workplace's scrap metal dealer (Melki).

Before the caper itself gets under way, there's much convivial japery between the chums, and larking around with Patrick's winsome young son Steve, to whom the accomplices all play protective uncles. Patrick himself isn't party to the heist, but when one of his friends inadvertently blows the gaffe, Marc opts out, but Patrick wants in. It's left for Patrick and Robert to perform the operation kitted out with ludicrous false moustaches, but when it inevitably goes wrong, Marc, who's been hovering on the sidelines, rises to the occasion and mounts a distraction for the police.

It's this final sequence, his ludicrous apotheosis as a Cagney-esque desperado, that represents Belvaux's most outrageous lapse of judgement: he's fallen into the worst mistake an actor-director can make, that of falling in love with his own close-up. A painfully extended helicopter shot of the local terrain ends the film on a grindingly bathetic note.

The supporting cast, notably Descamps and Semal as jovial salt-of-the-earth types, keep the film rolling, and Caravaca is personable if a little lacklustre as the sweet, smart guy out of his depth. Unfortunately, Regnier, one of the rising stars of French cinema, is given little to do but be sweetly long-suffering. The real weak spot, however, is Belvaux, more or less reprising his moody loner from Trilogy episode Cavale (On The Run), here giving a one-note performance that largely consists of prickly scowls, with or without cigarette balanced Belmondo-style in the corner of his mouth.

Cleanly shot by Pierre Milon, the film offers a few memorably rusty, dusty industrial landscapes, although, no doubt for budget reasons - the factory universe Belvaux evokes seems too underpopulated to strike true. Overall, however, the setting both looks and feels too drab to hold any visual interest. Narratively too, the film - with its premise not a million miles from Paul Schrader's caper film Blue Collar - is threadbare, and Belvaux's plotting is as patchy as that of his conspirators.

Riccardo Del Fra's score is ominously stylish at points, but overall tries too hard for moody tension. What earned the film a place in competition - where it truly is the weakest link - remains a mystery.

Read more... New York freelance critic Mike D’Angelo on the Nerve blog

Then again, maybe I'm just out of sync with my peers. If almost everybody seemed to love Babel, early word suggests that little love exists for The Right of the Weakest, which I found quite impressive (though it, too, suffers from third-act trouble). Directed by Belgium's Lucas Belvaux, best known for The Trilogy -- an actual trilogy, not the vague retroactive kind -- it's a strange, deliberate riff on a well-worn genre that I'd rather not name, simply because the film plays much better if you don't know in advance what direction it's going to take. That makes it a tad difficult to do justice to Belvaux's achievement, but I can at the very least praise his minute attention to detail, both physical and emotional; his unerring eye for the corroded majesty of Liège, the Belgian factory town where the film is set; his little-known yet superlative cast, featuring the sort of endlessly fascinating, careworn faces and physiques you rarely see in French-language cinema (unless someone like Depardieu ages into them); and the metronomical precision with which his low-key tale of dashed dreams and hopeless lives unfolds. It's most likely that last bit that puts off the eggheads, who tend to prefer their movies either dreamy and allusive or spare and uneventful. The Right of the Weakest is more like an electric lawnmower that nobody knows how to turn off.

Lucas Belvaux's films are both plot-heavy and devoid of visual poetry, which tends to make them anathema to the egghead crowd. The Right of the Weakest was received fairly well by French critics, but everybody else here seems to consider it beneath their notice, just a run-of-the-mill programmatic genre film with no business in Competition. (It's also inspired some of the dumbest reviews I've ever seen -- two of which ludicrously compare it to The Bicycle Thief, with which it has nothing in common apart from a single MacGuffinesque plot point.) Whatever, fellas. Socially conscious without ever stumbling into self-righteousness, building suspense and anxiety in the least emphatic way imaginable, The Right of the Weakest posits a world in which good intentions and decisive action are preferable to defeated resignation, but also refuses to pretend that the former are necessarily less disastrous than the latter.

Belzberg, Edel

CHILDREN UNDERGROUND

USA (104 mi) 2000

Children Underground Ed Gonzalez from Slant magazine

Edet Belzberg's documentary Children Underground subtly indicts the homeless plight of Romanian youth on Ceausescu's ignorant politics. Belzberg unflinchingly cuts back and forth between the struggles of her child urchins and an adult world consumed by flagging ideals. Mihai, Marian, his sister Ana, Christina and Macarena are as addicted to life on the streets as they are to the Aurolac paint cans they use to get high with. This tragic cinematic wail evokes a devastated Romania that unwittingly fell prey to the once-strong Ceausescu regime, which banned abortions and contraceptive devices during its failed grasp at a strong market economy.

Macarena, named after the dance she oftentimes mimics, is the film's ghostliest child. Her paint-huffing is so excessive that she always has Aurolac spots on her mouth and clothes. More tragic is the fact that she is painfully aware of the hopelessness of her situation—at 14, she believes she is too old to be saved and cries mercifully when an English schoolteacher takes Ana and Marian to a day clinic for clothes. Throughout Children Underground, Macarena seemingly floats in and out of consciousness. Tears stream down her cheek as she looks at the world around her, seemingly begging for a little human contact. She's so conscious of her not-being that she finds it difficult to comprehend that she once came into the world via a woman's loins.

Twelve-year-old Doe-eyed Mihai's love for poetry and the freedom of the streets outweighs his love for an education. Though he ran away from an abusive father, he nonetheless feels guilty for having spiritually and physically abandoned his family. There's no greater horror here than the sight of the otherwise cheerful Mihai suddenly breaking out into a self-mutilating stupor, cutting his arm with a blade as a means of making Ana suffer for getting them lost inside a city park. A trip to Mihai's home is particularly gruesome—his parents acknowledge that they would rather have their children starve than offer them a chance at salvation via the caring hands of the city's social workers.

Children Underground's evocation of adult shame and denial is no more ironic than in the spiritless squalor of Ana and Marian's home. Not unlike Mihai's father, their stepfather seemingly lies to the camera. Though he says he doesn't hurt his children, his sudden bursts of anger suggest otherwise. The ultimate tragedy here is that Ceausescu's legacy has created a Romania now populated by emotional cripples seemingly complacent with their struggles. Ana and Marian's stepfather understands why his stepchildren continue to run (there is simply no food to sustain them) though their mother still longs for the days of Ceausescu. It's difficult to watch Children Underground and not think about how these lives could have been saved if mothers had the luxury of aborting their pregnancies.

Bemberg, María Luisa

MOMENTOS D 58

Argentina (89 mi) 1981

Harlequin novel, Hallmark card, illicit romance flick, all too predictable throughout, with absolutely no surprises whatsoever other than a few brief moments of video games. A man and woman each cheat on their respective spouses, why? as there is obviously no connection, they have nothing in common, and they have nothing to say to each other, so inevitably, what else can happen? They have to return to their even more dreary lives that they hoped they could leave. No such luck. It was truly dreadful to sit through this one.

Ben-Asher, Hagar

THE SLUT (Hanotenet) C 73

Israel Germany (88 mi) 2011

Not sure how this ever got selected to play at Cannes, as the sensationalist aspects of the film eventually outweigh whatever cinematic merits the film offers. Written, directed, and playing the lead, who is in fact a slut living outside town on a chicken farm with two daughters, routinely having sex with various men, who sometimes have to come back later when she’s engaged with another partner. Hagar Ben-Asher obviously has a personal investment in this film, though one may question the point of it all, namely a woman’s right to remain sexually promiscuous, even as it negatively impacts on her daughter’s lives and their relationship at school and with the surrounding community. Nowhere in this film are there any taunts about the kid’s mother, which surely would be one of the essential aspects of their youth, where a mother who subjects herself to continual sexual objectification would be the talk of the town. Unlike Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, whose promiscuity was an attempt to escape the dreary emptiness of a loveless marriage, making a commentary on a deluded, self-satisfied bourgeois society, this film makes no attempt at social commentary, as Tamar (the slut) lives on the outskirts of town, where her male sexual suitors are the only villagers seen, so the town is all but absent, certainly an idealized portrait, as the reality would be much more brutally harsh, as surely the woman would be condemned and likely ostracized. Instead, this film is largely seen through the window of the woman herself, as it’s her right to choose what she does with her life. The question, then, is so what? If she doesn’t care about the ramifications of her behavior, then why should we? As a result, this film doesn’t have the impact intended, as it seems like a pointless exercise.

The filmmaking lends itself to authenticity and realism, where it’s a very credible portrait of living in the emptiness of the outskirts, as the surrounding unploughed dirt, various farm animals running free right alongside the caged chickens, and Tamar’s two free-spirited girls, Mika (Stav Yanai) and Noa (Daria Forman), who roam the countryside spending plenty of unsupervised idle time, reflecting a lifestyle outside the reach of society. All this is well portrayed, as is the low key performance by Ben-Asher herself, bearing a resemblance to American actress Amy Brenneman. The repeated occurrence of men popping up at her door gets a bit ridiculous after awhile, as there always seems to be someone else peering over the bushes, suggesting they may need to come back later, and unlike real life where they’d typically barge in anyway, where sex and violence go hand in hand, in this movie the men are polite about it and return sometime later. The story shifts with the arrival of Shai (Ishai Golan), a veterinarian who runs his business alone, as no staff or helpers are ever seen, just a large number of animals to be treated. Apparently the two knew one another awhile back, and he’s returned due to the passing of his mother. Unlike the other men, Shai’s not in it just for the sex, as he enjoys the company of her daughters, and they take to him right away.

Shai appears to be a loving influence on everyone involved, sexy, good looking, reliable, dependable, and responsible, and in this film, that appears to be a problem, as this upsets the unattached, liberated amoralism of Tamar, who comes and goes as she pleases and is beholden to no one. This is a strange option, but one chosen by the director who wrote the film, creating something of a deluded character that prefers all the extra baggage her choice entails. The fights from offensive remarks at school, the rocks through the window, the wrath of the missing wives, the possible killing of her chickens, the social repudiation from town, even the identification of the missing fathers are all intentionally missing from this film, which are the social realities that accompany her choice. The fact they are intentionally missing suggests this story is not grounded in social realism, but some other realm. Unfortunately, without any backdrop provided, and nothing whatsoever offered about why Tamar behaves in this manner, she is instead portrayed as a wounded animal. Sorry, but all metaphor doesn’t work in a supposed art film where ramifications matter. A film isn’t made in a vacuum, so one supposes this may have some psychological or therapeutic value for this young director, as she’s perhaps healing from her own unidentified experience, as this behavior may reflect the personal choices of someone close to her, where writing this film may have been a cathartic exercise.

20/20 Filmsight [David O'Connell]

A provocative title. And provocative subject matter too. Ah, but what a waste…………..not of a good idea, but of celluloid. I’m staggered at the sheer pointlessness of some films. I say this mostly in reference to American films in which screenplays are elusive items to be conjured up after a special effects pitch. But now an Israeli filmmaker has matched the deeds of Michael Winterbottom, an otherwise fascinating filmmaker, who in 2004 made his most useless contribution to cinema with the awful 9 Songs.

Hagar Ben-Asher’s The Slut, a film in which the director performs triple duty as writer and lead actor, centres on a dusty, primordial Israeli town with few inhabitants. The men gravitate towards two-time single parent Tamar (Ben-Asher) who ‘services’ them all, without any qualms it seems. All this sexual activity seems a part of the ebb and flow of this nothing place.

Then along comes Shai (Ishai Golan), a former member of the community who has returned to clear his deceased mother’s things. Naturally he remembers the alluring Tamar. And just as naturally, like every male member within a certain radius, he falls for Tamar. In double quick time he becomes another of her lovers. But this deluded creature actually imagines a future with a woman who inspires silent, jealous stares if she lingers at a single watering hole too long.

Little of the characters’ motivations are spelt out in dialogue. Words are a rare treasure in this film. Clearly writing is not Ben-Asher’s strength, but then why bother with clarification when you can fill in time with an erect penis or two being stroked for the sake of titillation? We’re highly desensitised to this sort of thing these days of course; explicit sex acts have become almost de rigueur in foreign cinema of a certain sort. There’s now little room left to move for filmmakers looking to truly shock audiences. The attempts continue later on as Tamar and Shai’s lovemaking enters a shady region in which you have to wonder at whether it's merely simulation.

The Slut might be considered a slow burn drama, but the fire we’re anticipating is never lit. Instead it draws towards a baffling, irritating conclusion in which the notion of revenge gets twisted on its head through a couple of risible permutations - one of which involves the corruption of a child.

What are we expected to make of all this? That a leopard can’t change its spots? That amorality is like a plague that can’t be cured? And can a man who falls in love with a ‘loose’ woman reasonably expect her to save herself for him alone, thus spurning both her overpowering carnal desire and need to sate all and sundry?

You’ll want to cry at the simultaneously pointless and twisted manner in which Ben-Asher’s toxic film floats towards its resolution. The aberrant psychological implications are hard to shake. Superfluous and transparent, The Slut (2011) is devoid of subtext or creative design. It simply exists for the world to consume.

I say: A meandering, dreary tale spiked with explicit sex acts to give it more life than it deserves.

See it for: No reason I can think of, unless you've been barred access to certain items of your most prized collection by your morally outraged, overbearing mother.

SBS Film [Peter Galvin]

Tamar’s behavior is fixed. One man after another, a hand job, a blow job, and so on. But she is also the mother of Mika and Noa, 12 and 8. She no longer seeks redemption, until Shai arrives. He comes in order to handle his dead mother’s property. Shai is not aware of Tamar’s behavior, but soon enough discovers her way. He does not care for it, for he thinks he can save her.

ISRAELI FILM FESTIVAL: This is a movie of bad omens, long looks and not necessarily meaningful glances. It seems to be about sex, or a kind of sexual freedom, though no one here seems to have too much fun for too long. It all ends in blood and grief. The setting seems to be significant: a remote outpost of civilisation somewhere in Israel, a place of dust, and hard sun. This is where Tamar (Hagar Ben-Asher), mother of two and lover of many, makes her home. In another time and place she might have be thought of as a free spirit. But here she’s “dangerous” – because men want (or is it need?) to control how she has elected to live. An old friend returns to Tamar’s village. He is Shay (Ishai Golan), a vet. Pretty soon the pair become lovers. They settle into a comfy rhythm of home making. Meanwhile, Tamar’s other suitors – with whom she enjoyed some emotionally uninvolving sex – look on dismayed, and bewildered.

The Slut is a movie where no secret stays exclusive; the characters here spend a lot of time sneaking around and spying. They watch one another through windows, and doors. No one says anything much.

Eschewing the conventions of clear motivation and psychological realism, Ben-Asher, who not only plays the lead but also writes and directs, has created a movie that’s part mood-piece, part existentialist poem. Shot in widescreen, in often very long takes, the pace is slow, the feel quiet, and yet there’s a sense of doom that surrounds this story. Though, it’s a weirdly detached experience; genuinely thought-provoking and yet remote. When it played in Cannes at Director’s Week in May this year a lot was made of both the films ‘political content’ and the fact that Ben-Asher puts herself in frank sexual situations throughout the action.

Still, the sex scenes are shot in a way that seems deliberately un-erotic; there’s nudity, but no sense of emotional involvement. It’s like we’re being invited to scrutinise, to observe, and not get too involved with these people. 

The feminist content is deeply intriguing but not necessarily secured to some kind of bold ‘statement’. The movie is so emotionally bottled, so carefully designed and programmed, its dramatic centre seems mysterious and perhaps finally elusive. Or to put it another way, it’s not a movie that boldly announces what it’s ‘really about’ but allows for multiple readings.

For starters, the title has to be some kind of ironic gag; everyone here seems to understand what they are doing and why, and no one is really, truly getting cheated, or betrayed. In a way the film seems to be a deliberate parody of the romantic melodrama, where the structure rotates a series of male suitors all of whom show promise for the femme hero as the potential best mate. Of course Ben-Asher ‘blands’ out the men; aside from Shay, her lovers seem almost interchangeable. Meanwhile, Tamar’s desire to settle into domesticity seems more to do with some yearning for romantic love, not security. Still, Ben-Asher has Tamar ‘cheat’ Shay with a former lover… or is it really cheating? Is there some other code at work here? Is it using sex as a device to communicate something to do with identity and self-image?

All these questions become imponderables. In a way Ben-Asher sets up the first scene as a kind of warning… a horse gallops, an image of freedom and speed. It then runs right smack into an oncoming vehicle, when it is knocked flat, landing which a sickening sound of grinding flesh on the bitumen. We never do find out what happened to that horse, or the driver. But that image is a shocker; it’s hard to shake and it hangs over the events of the movie like a bad nightmare.

The Slut Dan Fainaru from Screendaily

Variety Reviews - The Slut - Film Festival Reviews - Cannes ...

Benguigui, Yamina

9-3: THE MEMORY OF A TERRITORY (9-3: Memoire d’un Territoire) B+ 90

France (90 mi) 2008 Official site

A documentary about the history of the French suburbs, known as the banlieues, which features a jaw-dropping opening segment using archival footage along with urban planner historians to discuss how industry from the 1850’s was purposefully designed to remain outside of the city limits of Paris, in the northeast section where even the direction of the offensive odors would remain off limits to the Parisians. In those early days, the factory business was not about safety, as workers routinely worked with hazardous and toxic materials, breathing life threatening fumes that took many lives, where industry overflow drained into the middle of the nearby cramped housing districts where children playing in puddles could actually get burned. Initially the factories were filled with French citizens from the countryside, but in time, foreign labor from French colonies in the Caribbean and Northern Africa were recruited to fill the slots needed to run the factories, with of course, the same inevitable results. The official French policy practiced indentured servitude well into the 20^th century, a working form of slavery where foreigners agreed to work in these factories for a period of two years, after which France would consider allowing legal residency. But many died before they reached the two year period, or shortly thereafter, and others who quit to save themselves were declared illegals. So the practice of racial discrimination that exists today was actually spawned at the outset of the city’s design.

The film traces the origination of the mammoth housing projects which were built using substandard materials to house the huge influx of immigrants coming to Paris to work, all based on the policy of colonialism where workers from foreign countries were intentionally chosen for the most dangerous work. One woman recalled growing up there on the 16^th floor where the elevator remained out of order for 6 months at a time, where children going to school and mothers carrying groceries had to routinely climb 16 floors. Until relatively recently, there were no high schools in the region, certainly no colleges, as no one was expected to advance past elementary grades, but were instead routed into cheap labor at an early age. What’s interesting in this film is that the historians and city planners don’t dispute any of this, as it’s all common knowledge. Over time as the dilapidated, unkempt buildings decayed, all the whites moved out, leaving only people of Arab and African descent – people of color, the ones that continue to live in these enormous complexes today which is known as District 93. Many kids, even among the brightest and best educated kids from the neighborhood report getting pulled over and rousted by the cops as often as 8 to 10 times a day, sometimes by the exact same cops. This routine of selective mistreatment of citizens or legal residents who happen to be black is currently protected by the French Constitution, where Article 1 acknowledges that in France "All men are born and remain free, and have equal rights," suggesting race is not a factor. While the practice suggests otherwise, this film shows the history of the ingrained French attitudes that continue to remain clueless about addressing this issue of inequity. Instead, similar to America, the wealthy classes refuse to “throw money at the problem,” so wealth continues to be funneled to the wealthy districts while the poorer neighborhoods are out of luck and must fend for themselves. Is anyone surprised that the highest unemployment and crime rates reflect neighborhoods with the fewest options available?

One of the most interesting interviews was of a white family that used to live in the projects, as the original plan was to integrate white families with diverse ethnic neighbors. But the problem was all businesses abandoned the neighborhood and conditions deteriorated so quickly that even the most liberal minded whites would never want to live there. On the other hand, one well educated family from Mali mentioned how their children were good students, getting superior grades, yet being black, they were channeled into vocational schools while white kids, even the dummies, were channeled for college. The grown daughter went on to pass her law exams, but coming from District 93, no one would hire her. Only the United States hired her after the French race riots in the fall of 2005, largely as an effort to reach out and perform cultural liaison and translations services. Again she had the same problem upon returning to France. As a result, many prospective job applicants lie about their residency and refuse to mention they are from District 93. Even after such a powerful opening, the film grows more sluggish the closer it gets to the present, as there are really no solutions in play. According to the director who was present after the film, nothing has changed. Subcommittees, even a new cabinet level position, still refuse to acknowledge how race plays into substandard living conditions, so life goes on. This is a fascinating glimpse at the history and creation of an urban ghetto, which even after the end of the French Colonial era in the 1960’s is sustained by the same racist policies that created it in the first place.

12th Annual Festival of New French Cinema Facets Multi-Media

Award-winning feature and documentary filmmaker Yamina Benguigui focuses her new documentary on a large piece of real estate located outside of Paris: Department number 93. In the 19th century, the city of Paris initiated a policy to relocate its most polluting industries to the northeast outskirts of the city so that the wind from the east would not blow its foul-smelling and hazardous emissions into the city. The area grew to become one of Europe's largest industrial hubs, attracting poor French workers from rural communities as well as immigrants from all over Europe and beyond, who labored in deplorable conditions in factories where most ended up dying from exposure to the toxic fumes and dust. Workers were crammed into small living quarters built by their employers and situated near the factories, where they did their best to survive in over crowded communities and drastically unsafe environments. The documentary charts the history and life of Department 93 through its many changes, as it went from being a center of industry to an urban wasteland after the factories closed. It follows the different waves of immigration, political movements and failed public housing policies to arrive finally at the state of 93 today, which is the sadly famous French banlieues, where residents feel ghettoized and isolated, where university graduates searching for employment falsify their address to improve their odds, and where the youngest cities in all of France have the highest unemployment rate, which in some areas reaches a jarring 40 per cent. Starting with images of the 2005 riots and then switching to the 19th century, Benguigui provides a fascinating and unflinching look at the injustices of the past and the reality of the present, mixing interviews with municipal leaders, architects, community organizers and residents of the housing projects with riveting archival footage going back decades. Directed by Yamina Benguigui, France, 2008, DVD, 90 mins. In French with English subtitles.

Of French-Algerian heritage, Yamina Benguigui has spent her career exploring issues such as immigration, discrimination and the marginalization of women in the housing projects of contemporary Europe. She is the writer-director of four documentaries, including Les Défricheurs, Le Plafond de verre and Histoires d'immigrés: l'héritage maghrébin; one short (Pimprenelle); and one feature, Inch' Allah dimanche. In addition to her work as a filmmaker, Yamina Benguigui also serves as special assistant to the Mayor of Paris, who recruited her to lead a task force in charge of human rights and the fight against discrimination. Yamina Benguigui is expected to attend the screening and participate in a Q&A.

Please note that she will also participate in a symposium on urban design and architecture held at Northwestern University December 5-6, entitled "Towards a History of Design in the Global Economy," where the issue of urban sprawl and how it relates to the French banlieues will be specifically addressed. Please contact s-teasley@northwestern.edu for more information. Anticipated keynote speakers are French scholars Christian Devillirs and Jean-Louis Cohen.

Benigni, Roberto

LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL (La vita è bella) A- 94

Italy (116 mi) 1997

Like a fable, there is sorrow. Also like a fable, it is filled with love and happiness.

A rare comedy that moves from a fairy tale romance into the dramatic realm of war and death, blending slapstick comedy with the cold horror of the Holocaust. Some found this leap downright offensive and tasteless, a sort of Hogan’s Heroes artificial world of unreality. Jonathan Rosenbaum fumed: “The everyday realities of the (concentration) camps borders on the nauseating,” but perhaps he missed the point. It’s a film from the heart entering the world of dreams and the unthinkable. The romance in the beginning is a delightful fairy tale filled with breezy airs and whimsy, but also love. When this love is interrupted by terror and the darkness of mass internment and murder, it is still love that prevails. It is, after all, the story of a child who remembers through his own childlike eyes. What I liked best about the film, what I found to be the absolute finest moment came literally in the last few seconds. Only then are you jarred awake, only then does the heart break, only then can you possibly comprehend that the film is about doing for others, and that in love, there are no boundaries, particularly during war. Most especially during hard times, love never stops. You will do anything, anything for the ones you love, even die for them. I find nothing about that nauseating.

While I enjoyed the first half, I found nothing really captivating or unusual, no magical moments until a scene near the end in the camps when Benigni finds a phonograph player and turns the sound out the window, playing for his wife, his Principessa, who is alone with no word from him, the song of their romance, Offenbach’s “Belle Nuit,” which floats elegantly over the quiet emptiness of the moment, filling her heart and ours, with an invisible magic that possesses our emotionally drenched souls with the lightness of a feather.

Brilliant Observations on 1173 Films [Clayton Trapp]

Roberto Benigni and Nicoletta Braschi are the most romantic couple in the history of cinema. They way they look at each other. The scene where Benigni explains the "rules." The musical theme is the most haunting ever written for a film. The ending of this film is like coming up for air after nearly drowning. This masterpiece was complemented beautifully by Benigni making the greatest speech in the history of the Oscars.

Time Out review Geoff Andrew

Audacious but misguided, this determinedly Chaplinesque comic fable starts well enough with the innocent, childlike Guido (Benigni) arriving in a Tuscan town in 1939 to visit his uncle, and courting, in typically eccentric fashion, local teacher Dora (Braschi), whom he manages to seduce away from her Fascist fiancé. So far, so amusing - but then, when the film flashes forward to the couple and their son being sent to a concentration camp, with Guido imaginatively turning events around them into a bizarre child's game in order to protect the boy from the ugly realities of the Holocaust, the whole thing turns sickly, not to say disingenuous (how come the villains are now German rather than Italian?). Well-meaning humanistic 'charm' and a 'poetic' approach to horror (including fuzzy shots of mountains of corpses) are inadequate to the task, and soon bogs down in manipulative and maudlin sentimentality.

Life is Beautiful Colin MacCabe from Sight and Sound

Italy, 1939. Guido, a young Jew, accompanied by his friend Ferruccio, descends on Arezzo where Guido's uncle has promised to help him to set up a bookshop. Before they even arrive at the town, Guido has met and fallen in love with a local young schoolteacher, Dora, whom he calls his "Princess". Guido eventually woos his (non-Jewish) princess away from Rodolfo, the boorish fascist official with whom he has an unfortunate encounter when he tries to obtain permission to open his bookshop. While waiting for this permission, Guido works in his uncle's hotel where he meets, among others, a school inspector (whom he impersonates to see Dora at work) and Doctor Lessing, a German obsessed by riddles.

A few years later, Guido and his young son Giosué are deported to a concentration camp. Dora insists that she must suffer the same fate as well. Guido is determined to shield his child from the horrors that surround him and persuades Giosué they are actually engaged in a weird and wonderful game in which the prize is a life-size version of the toy tank which is the child's most treasured possession. As the camp is abandoned by the German guards, Guido hides his son and is killed trying to rescue Dora. Giosué finally comes out of his hiding place to encounter the tank of his dreams driven by a US soldier who reunites him with his mother.

Review

Life Is Beautiful starts as an idyllic Italian comedy set in Mussolini's Italy, but from the opening sequence of the film, in which Guido and Ferruccio are mistaken for royal visitors and given the fascist salute, we are aware that this is a comedy firmly rooted in history. Nothing, however, prepares us for the shock that begins the second half of the film when Guido and his young son Giosué are escorted to a train destined for the death camps.

Comedy is the genre that celebrates the social. Traditionally, comedies end with a marriage, confirming the power of society to reproduce itself. Tragedy is the domain of the individual, traditionally ending with the death of the hero who can't conform to the demands of the community. Life Is Beautiful takes for its subject matter the Holocaust – the attempt to build a new social order on the systematic extermination of an entire race. The horror of the camps defies all genres. In a world where murder is an instrument of state policy, all notions of the individual or the social are negated.

Benigni's magnificent film attempts the impossible: to make a comedy out of the Holocaust, to find an affirmation of society in the death of all social relations. This is not a work of realism. The central story – Guido hides his son Giosué in the camp as he persuades him that this is all a game – has no historical plausibility. But the film is not interested in this kind of realism. The marriage between Jewish Guido and gentile Dora is equally unlikely. Indeed the set, costumes and lighting in the second half of the film are all designed to produce a level of abstraction which does nothing to detract from the horror and brutality of the camps. However, this heightend mise en scène makes it seem otherworldly.

There is equally no attempt to understand the historical processes which produced Nazism and its millions of murders. The Germans are presented as an incomprehensible race whether they be brutal camp guards or the sophisticated Doctor Lessing. He re-encounters Guido in the camp and arranges a private meeting, only to pose him yet more riddles, while the philosopher Schopenhauer is invoked by Ferruccio at the beginning of the film as the thinker who held that one could change reality simply by force of will.

This is what the concentration camps at one level are: the perverted and bureaucratic product of an idealism which would make the real and the 'rational' one. It is against this will that Guido opposes his own to produce a world where his child can be happy. In this titanic mismatch of individual and system, Benigni, the supreme European clown of his generation, mobilises a comic heritage that reaches back through Chaplin to the commedia dell'arte. Never has Benigni's mobile face been put to more varied use; never has Nicoletta Braschi been so simply beautiful. The direction is as assured as the acting. The full resources of the cinema are harnessed to make the world of Arezzo live before us. The elegant farce of the hotel scenes are as good as anything produced in Europe this decade.

One could criticise the film for abandoning the terrain of the social, or rather for reducing it to the basic unit of the family. But the film's strength is its settled faith that the affective bonds of the family can overcome the worst that society can offer. If this is a fantasy, it is probably a compensation we need when facing the reality of history. It is not too fanciful to read in this fantasy of a father's protectiveness the real guilt of a generation of European children who grew up knowing they had been unable to save their own fathers.

But if much discussion of the film will turn around its narrative denouement, its real emotional strength comes from the simply acted and beautifully shot first hour in which Guido's love for Dora triumphs over all obstacles. "There is no greater sorrow," says Dante, "than to recall a time of happiness in misery." Throughout the second half of the film we are achingly aware of such happiness lost. It may be that the Holocaust will always defeat any attempt at representation or comprehension but Benigni's Life Is Beautiful is the first film that recognises the enormity of the task.

Life Is Beautiful . Nashville Scene . 11-09-98 Jim Ridley

The idea of a comedy set against the backdrop of the Holocaust begs the question: Are there subjects too dark to be dealt with comedically? Perhaps there are, but humor is one of the ways we deal with them. The grimmest of national tragedies inevitably triggers a backwash of sick jokes, the vileness of which increases in proportion to the seriousness of the incident. Humor is a salve and a leveler; it also helps shape an understanding of events that are otherwise beyond comprehension. In the early years of World War II, Charlie Chaplin and Ernst Lubitsch didn't make grim dramas as a clarion call to the world about the Nazis. They made The Great Dictator and To Be or Not to Be, knowing full well the power of ridicule and the appeal of humane wit.

For that reason, it's hard to agree with the reviewers on both sides of the Atlantic who've denounced Roberto Benigni's Life Is Beautiful (La Vita é Bella) solely on the basis of its premise. Since it won the Grand Prix this year at Cannes, Life Is Beautiful has been tagged as "a comedy about the Holocaust," which isn't entirely accurate. It's actually a movie about a comic character who uses his wit--and his wits--to survive, and as such it follows in the tradition of the Chaplin and Lubitsch films, as well as Lina Wertmuller's devastating Seven Beauties, which it resembles somewhat in structure. If Benigni doesn't always sidestep the maudlin pitfalls inherent in his premise, he still hasn't made the movie everyone feared--a repeat of the infamous Jerry Lewis gas-chamber opus The Day the Clown Cried.

Life Is Beautiful opens in 1939 with Benigni as Guido, a slightly less manic version of the motor-mouthed wildmen he played in Johnny Stecchino and Night on Earth. An Italian Jew and a newcomer to a Tuscan town, Guido promptly incurs the wrath of a local fascist official and literally collides with the official's girlfriend, the radiant schoolteacher Dora (Nicoletta Braschi). He becomes a waiter at the Grand Hotel, he woos the pretty teacher, and life is so sunny it's possible to overlook the instances of increasing intolerance--a horse painted with ethnic slurs, a school official's speech about racial purity.

Several years pass. Guido and Dora have a young son, Giosué (Giorgio Cantarini), and Guido maintains a small bookshop. But fascist rule can no longer be ignored. Dora returns home one afternoon to find her husband and son are being shipped to a concentration camp. She begs to be placed on the train with her family, and is obliged. To keep up his son's morale, Guido seizes upon a desperate gambit: He convinces the boy that the camp and its horrors are part of an elaborate game, the object of which is to accumulate enough points to win a tank. As the Nazis step up the rate of extermination, Guido struggles to keep his son in the game.

Aided by master craftsmen--including the great cinematographer Tonino Delli Colli, who photographed Seven Beauties, and production designer Danilo Donati--Benigni gives the movie's first half the airy, sumptuous elegance of a musical. The early scenes are so beautifully stylized that when the setting shifts to the stark, oppressive camp, we share the characters' dread. Benigni, who cowrote the script as well as directed, sketches the horrors of the camp as humanely as possible without denying the truth. A simple shot of men undressing for the showers with wrenching fastidiousness makes its point without melodrama or exploitation. Nor are the fascists made entirely generic villains--a kindly hotel customer (Horst Buchholz in a fine cameo) stands for all the seemingly irreproachable citizens who went with the program.

As director and writer, Benigni is more interested in the leaps of imaginative daring and denial that allowed men like Guido to function than in the mechanics of genocide. That's in bold contrast to the majority of recent films about the Holocaust, which unwittingly wind up commemorating the ruthless capability of the Nazis rather than the suffering and endurance of the concentration camp inmates. The lack of characterization of the other prisoners is a glaring flaw, but the warmth of Benigni's own character keeps us aware of the weight of all those vanishing lives--even though Guido is capable of acting without concern for anyone but his son, as when he translates a German guard's strict rules of camp conduct into nonsense game instructions.

Not that Benigni is above mawkish sentiment. In a sappy, manipulative scene, Guido and Giosué commandeer the camp's intercom to deliver a message to Dora; as the sequence yanks at your heartstrings, all you can wonder is why Guido would risk his son's life so foolishly. (On this point I agree with Salon's reviewer, who found the film as a whole stupefyingly offensive.) And as winning a presence as Benigni is, with his rubbery horse face, pinwheeling eyes, and effusive bray, his indefatigable cheer makes it hard for us to see how Guido is affected by the death and doom all around him.

Yet Life Is Beautiful is affecting because of Roberto Benigni's clowning and humor, not despite it. He doesn't permit himself a big breakdown scene or a didactic thesis speech like Chaplin's in The Great Dictator (although, to be fair, Chaplin made his film even before the U.S. got involved in World War II). Benigni's triumph-of-the-spirit moment--a gallant wink and a smile--is tellingly small: We don't fully comprehend its significance until later. But the individuality of his comic persona gives us an inkling, on a modest human scale, of the incomprehensible magnitude of the overall loss. Life Is Beautiful may seem light compared to more ponderous films on the subject, but in this case light doesn't mean insubstantial.

Boston Review (Alan A. Stone) review

Deep Focus (Bryant Frazer) review [B]

Nitrate Online (Elias Savada) review

Life Is Beautiful Gerald Peary, also seen here: The Boston Phoenix review

Scott Renshaw review [8/10]

Slate [David Edelstein]

Philadelphia City Paper (Sam Adams) review

Salon (Charles Taylor) review

Edwin Jahiel review

Film Scouts (David Sterritt) capsule review

The Onion A.V. Club [Joshua Klein]

Life Is Beautiful (La vita è bella) Mike D’Angelo

CNN Showbiz (Paul Tatara) review

Movie Reviews UK review [5/5] Michael S. Goldberger

Epinions [metalluk]

Nick's Flick Picks (Nick Davis) review [C]

The UK Critic (Ian Waldron-Mantgani) review [3.5/4]

Life Is Beautiful Jim Emerson from cinepad

Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick) review [4/5]

filmcritic.com (James Brundage) review [4/5] also seen here: James Brundage review

James Bowman review

Crazy for Cinema (Lisa Skrzyniarz) review

culturevulture.net, Choices for the Cognoscenti review Arthur Lazere

Jerry Saravia retrospective

[safe] (Terry Brogan) review

Isthmus (Kent Williams) review

Film Journal International (Peter Henné) review

Austin Chronicle (Marjorie Baumgarten) review [3.5/5]

San Francisco Examiner (Walter Addiego) review

Los Angeles Times (Kenneth Turan) review

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [3.5/4]

The New York Times (Janet Maslin) review

Bennett, Bill

KISS OR KILL

Australia (96 mi) 1997

Gone Dreamin' Mike D’Angelo (about halfway down the page)

Another what-the-hell? choice was Bill Bennett's Kiss or Kill, from Australia, which so relentlessly and monotonously employs its sole stylistic device that it might as well simply be called Jump Cut. Don't get me wrong -- I can readily understand why Bennett felt the need to jazz things up a bit, since he's chosen, perhaps on a dare, to make what must be approximately the 829,748th movie about a murderous couple running from the cops since Nicholas Ray shot They Live by Night just half a century ago. Like its equally debased cousin, the gangster flick, the lovers-on-the-lam genre has been plumbed so thoroughly over the past few decades that innovation is, for the time being, virtually impossible; Bennett adds a dollop of paranoia, cross-pollinating it with the Joe Eszterhas did-(s)he-or-didn't-(s)he mystery, but to no avail. Again, I find myself gazing in astonishment at the festival program, which claims that Bennett's aggressive cutting (in conjunction with editor Henry Dangar) "virtually re-invents the form." What, just by discarding continuity editing? He's re-inventing the form by aping 1959 Godard? Have I gone mad? As the loving but increasingly mistrustful couple, Love and Other Catastrophes veterans Frances O'Connor and Matt Day do creditable work, but they're playing not characters so much as rusty icons. Still, as generally undistinguished as Kiss or Kill is, I'm not a bit sorry that I saw it, because amidst all of the familiar details and visual lurching is the finest, most delightful comic scene of the year -- a scene that's wonderful in part because it involves two peripheral characters and has exactly nothing to do with the rest of the movie. (Damn, that's faint praise.) I didn't give a hoot whether Nikki (O'Connor) or Al (Day) was responsible for the trail of corpses left in the pair's wake, or whether one of them might be planning to ice the other...but I started awake when one of the two police officers trailing them, for no apparent reason, began regaling his gullible partner with invented details about his home life, delivered with a magnificently straight face. In the Q&A, Bennett revealed that this was the film's only scripted scene: the rest was largely improvised. Next time, Bill, sit down and write the whole thing, okay?

Big House Film (Roger Westcombe) review

This 1997 release is the first Australian feature to be described as film noir. Around this time every second Oz film seemed to be an outback road movie with Miranda Otto; Kiss Or Kill is a desert road thriller, with Miranda’s dad Barry. Because its protagonists are a photogenic young couple it has become associated with the amour fou, lovers-on-the-run strand of thrillers epitomized by Gun Crazy (1950), Bonnie and Clyde (1967) and Badlands (1973) - and also picked up the unkind sobriquet Natural Born Koalas.

Kiss Or Kill is a strong thriller - unpredictable, well-paced and enjoyably intricate. Its rhythm is orchestrated in a mix of longuers that befit its road setting, and Breathless-style jump cuts whose staccato pacing heightens the pitch and mimic the racing pulsebeat of crisis moments - of which there are ample for our young fugitives.

Its their depiction as basically nasty, ruthless crims that is one point of distinction between Kiss Or Kill and on-the-run thrillers like Bonnie and Clyde and They Live By Night (1948), whose central him’n’her characters exude naiveté, innocence and charm.

The other difference is the nature of the people they encounter on the way. A hostile universe is vital to the impact of true innocents-on-the-lam narratives like these latter titles, as it contrasts with the kids’ vulnerability to give these films their impact and audience identification. By contrast, in Kiss Or Kill these encounters are road-movie quirky, and its our young lovers who are the dangerous elements afoot.

(Badlands comprehensively demystifies this particularly American form of outlaw mythicizing, with the anomie of its blank-faced serial killers shifting viewer allegiance to the victims, and thus the society through which they move. It’s a road movie in opposition to the vicarious freedom and liberation that makes the genre so appealing. In thus breaking the mold, Badlands is simultaneously punk - and deeply conservative.)

Unlike typical road movies, the insignificance-inducing vastness of outback isolation is dispensed with here in favor of the daytime scenes being shot as interiors, the resulting claustrophobia underlining the couples’ entrapment (in themselves, their limited choices, their looming capture, etc) and providing a compression that maintains thriller levels of tension. Only in the beautifully panoramic, inky-black outback nights are the characters’ horizons allowed to open out; they are true creatures of the night.

A brittle black humor permeates Kiss Or Kill, adding hugely to its enjoyment and its tension. This humor can be as dry as the saltpans they traverse, and a dialogue set-up between the two cops bluffing each other out over breakfast ("You don’t eat bacon?; No, my parents were in Mossad..." etc) recalls a similar deadpan triple-reverse in Crossfire (1947) when B-girl Gloria Grahame’s husband surprises the fugitive soldier in their apartment ("I’m her husband - no, that’s a lie too...").

Director Bill Bennett appears to know his history, even if Kiss Or Kill is not film noir. There’s a fire motif running through this film whose load-bearing function within the narrative recalls the similar psychological thread in Raw Deal (1948), though here it’s deployed without that film’s cruelty. And the title, with its echoes of Kiss Me Deadly, The Killers, etc is not only resonant, but objective. In a world of extremes, our closest intimates hold our uncertain fates in their hands – sometimes literally *.

* See Bennett’s interview (below) recalling the knife incident which inspired Kiss Or Kill:

" I was at Broken hill in a shearing shed during the making of Backlash in 1986... all morning, he (a crew member who befriended Bill) had been playing with this big-bladed Rambo knife which he had bought... . Then he stopped and he looked at me with this very clear gaze and he said, "Bill, I could cut your throat. I could put your body underneath these floorboards here and, when the rest of the crew came back, I could tell them that you'd gone for a walk down by the creek. No one would ever know." He held that gaze and in that moment I discovered that in fact I really didn't know this man. I didn't know whether or not he was serious or whether he was joking ... . Anyway, he burst out laughing. The moment was forgotten for him, but it stayed with me. That really was the genesis of Kiss Or Kill; that somebody I thought I knew, somebody I was good friends with, could have a side of his personality that I just could not fathom. "

Source: Cinema Papers, May 1997, No 116

The Onion A.V. Club [Keith Phipps]

James Bowman review

ReelViews (James Berardinelli) review [2/4]

SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review review [3.5/5] Richard Scheib

The Globe and Mail review [2.5/4] Liam Lacey

Austin Chronicle (Marc Savlov) review [3.5/5]

Memphis Flyer (Susan Ellis) review

San Francisco Examiner (Barbara Shulgasser) review

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [3/4]

The New York Times (Stephen Holden) review

Benning, James

James Benning faculty profile at CalArts

I was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, during World War II in a German working class community that sent its sons to fight their cousins. My father worked on the assembly line for a heavy industry corporation that was then building landing gear for the U.S. military. Later he became a self-taught building designer. I played baseball for the first 20 years of my life receiving a degree in mathematics while playing on a baseball scholarship. I dropped out of graduate school to deny my military deferment (my friends were dying in Viet Nam) and worked with migrant workers in Colorado teaching their children how to read and write. Later I helped start a commodities food program that fed the poor in the Missouri Ozarks. At the age of 33 I received an MFA from the University of Wisconsin where I studied with David Bordwell. For the next four years I taught filmmaking at Northwestern University, University of Wisconsin, University of Oklahoma and the University of California San Diego. In 1980 I moved to lower Manhattan making films with the aid of grant and German Television money. After eight years in New York I moved to Val Verde, California, where I currently reside teaching film/video at California Institute of the Arts. In the past twenty-five years I have completed fourteen feature length films that have shown in many different venues across the world.

American Filmmaker James Benning Retrospective from the Austrian Filmmuseum, November 2007

James Benning, one of the most fascinating figures in US independent cinema since the 1970s, has long been considered a "filmmaker’s filmmaker”. Some of his most recent works, such as the California Trilogy, 13 LAKES or TEN SKIES, have established his reputation as a master of "landscape films", but a large portion of his earlier oeuvre is hardly known at all.

With the first-ever presentation of his entire work and the publication of a comprehensive monograph, the Austrian Film Museum offers a rich journey across the "United States of Benning": one man's radically personal version and vision of America. Mr. Benning will be in Vienna during this Retrospective. His newest production RR (2007), an idiosyncratic film about trains and the American West, will receive its world premiere in the framework of the show.

Benning, born in Milwaukee in 1942, returned to the University of Wisconsin in 1972 to take up film studies after having completed his mathematics degree. In this early phase of his creative work he was still searching for the "right" form of artistic expression, making several shorts which investigated both the conventions of Hollywood cinema and the established repertoire of the avant-garde.

By the mid-1970s, his own development had crossed paths with a significant movement in the American avant-garde: For a while, leading critics noticed Benning's major contributions to the "New Narrative". In films like 8 1/2 x 11 (1974), 11 x 14 (1976) and One Way Boogie Woogie (1977), he combined the structural analysis of image, sound and narrative with auto-biographical impulses, as well as with an almost "classical" interest in composition, colour, light and landscape. Using rigourously framed shots, Benning conceived an iconography of the Midwest, and developed a narrative form in which each individual image keeps its autonomy while creating a wealth of associations.

During his New York years (1980-88), topics such as history and memory became central to Benning's films, and the use of written text and voiceover took on a new importance. With American Dreams (1984) and Landscape Suicide (1986) he created two milestones of the 1980s. Both works offer a glimpse into the psyche of violent criminals whose deeds are placed in a historical and political context. With his dense collages, Benning generates a specific mental and physical landscape: an American dream which has become a nightmare.

After his move to California, Benning began a series of experimental documentaries and essay films. North on Evers (1991), Deseret (1995) and Four Corners (1997) expand his alternate history of the United States, tracing the ways in which political and economic relations are inscribed in the landscapes of the West. With the California Trilogy (1999-2001) and 13 LAKES and TEN SKIES (both 2004), he shifts these considerations into a radical new direction altogether: the attention and imagination of the viewer are focused on one sole image for several minutes.

On November 1 and 2, James Benning will introduce his most recent works at the Film Museum - both films have been in production for a number of years. RR surveys the American landscape based on the "geometry” of freight trains and railroad ties; casting a glance, which was recently world-premiered at the documenta in Kassel, examines a pivotal work of 20th century art: the gigantic "Spiral Jetty", erected in 1970 by Robert Smithson in Utah’s Great Salt Lake.

For Benning's own work, Smithson's example of leaving the Art Gallery behind had been a major impulse. Like Smithson, he can now lay claim to a rare and excitingly "dangerous” quality in his art: to confront oneself with Benning's films can lead to a permanent change in the way one perceives the world.

"TORTURED LANDSCAPES" feature and interview by D-L Alvarez from Filmmakers magazine, March 6, 2002

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young] JAMES BENNING: CIRCLING THE IMAGE, Germany 2003, d: Reinhard WULF, 50 minute documentary (TV version) / 84 mins (theatrical version)

Talking About Seeing: A Conversation with James Benning Danni Zuvela interviews Benning from Senses of Cinema, Sept 2004

James Benning's Art of Landscape: Ontological, Pedagogical ... James Benning's Art of Landscape: Ontological, Pedagogical, Sacrilegious, by Michael J. Anderson from Senses of Cinema (2005)

film > In a Year of 13 Lakes by Mark Peranson The Village Voice, February 15, 2005

"James Benning" edited by Barbara Pichler and Claudia Slanar book review by Vera Brunner-Sung from Senses of Cinema (2007)

James Benning (film director) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

11 x 14

USA Canada (81 mi) 1977

Plot summary from imbd

One of the most widely praised American avant-garde films in recent years, James Benning's 1977 feature is a laconic mosaic of single-shot sequences, each offering some sort of image/sound pun or paradox. At once a crypto-narrative with an abstract, peekaboo storyline and a fractured, painterly study of the American midwestern landscape, 11x14 points toward the creation of a new, non-literary but populist cinema.

Chicago Reader [Jonathan Rosenbaum] (capsule review)

One of James Benning's very best early experimental films (1976, 83 min.) is also one of the few with a narrative, although it's one that gets "swallowed up by the form of the film," as Benning puts it, and much of it consists of teasing fragments of implied stories. The individual shots, nearly always elegant (and a few running as long as 11 minutes), often come across as enigmatic, graphic, poignant, tricky, unreal, mesmerizingly slow, and/or evocative.

All Movie Guide [Tom Vick]

An expanded version of his 8 1/2 x 11, 11 x 14 utilizes some of the same narrative elements -- and even some of the same shots -- as director James Benning's earlier film, but integrates them into a more complex structure. Added to the two original story lines involving a pair of traveling women and a wandering farm worker is a plot line about a middle-aged man who appears to be involved in some kind of affair. Whereas traditional narrative films use their formal elements to support the plot, the three plot lines in 11 x 14 exist mainly to draw our attention to the film's beautifully realized explorations into composition, perspective, and sound-image relationships. This is where the film's importance lies, and though it can make for demanding viewing -- many of the shots are well over five minutes in duration -- it has proven to be one of Benning's most influential works.

from imdb Author: vincentxp38 from United States: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0156246/usercomments

An interesting 70-something minute avante-garde opus, a real patience-tester to those with only a passing interest in non-narrative experiments. But the average movie-goer is not only outside this film's intended audience. It is not availaible. I saw it at a film class at City Collge.

It consiststs a series of unedited static shots, taken from inside a train, from the back seat of a crowded car, behind some golfers, looking at a tractor lumbering across a field. In two instances, Bob Dylan's Black Diamond Bay (from "Desire") plays out its full duration. And it's long -- seven and a half minutes. The first is of two women in bed, in extreme slow-motion. The second is of a chimney. An industrial chimney made of brick simply puffs out smoke for the entire time it takes for the song to finish. Perhaps comparing the lyrics themselves to these images can shed light on an intended meaning or significance -- or is that over-analyzing.

It's basically an 80-minute slideshow. It looks like moving slide photos taken on someone's summer road trip. On paper, the idea of something so plain and simple would seem to be deathly dull, but there is in eerie quality that arisesas you approach an hour of watching these shots. Occasionally seeing people, their faces always slightly obscure, creates a sensation of spying. You're not following their story or absorbing their character; you're just watching them. In all the slow, static shots, the sum of the whole thing seems to hint at some sort of broad impression of Americana.

I understand that the filmmaker, James Benning has no interest in transferring this 16 mm celluloid opus to DVD (along with all his films I assume) so I recommend taking notes. Savor it. Think about it. It might be the only time you see 11 x 14.

PS I still don't know what "11 x 14" refers to, if I find out I'll let you know.

New York Times (registration req'd) Vincent Canby

AMERICAN DREAMS

USA Canada (58 mi) 1984

Plot summary from imbd

American Dreams is chock full of concrete, discrete elements that comprise an American iconography of the past three decades. The film encourages a kind of perverse nostalgia for 'the good old days': Nixon's 'you don't have Nixon to kick around any more'; Elvis' response to questions about his gyrating style and the rumour that once he shot his mother; Patty Hearst's 'Tania' statement; Senator Ribicoff's reference to 'Gestapo tactics in the streets of Chicago'. All of which is punctuated by the music of the period and set against a composite image of Hank Aaron memorabilia (arranged chronologically, 1954-76, the span of the champion home-run hitter's major league career), and the sordid diary jottings of the would-be assassin, Arthur Bremer.

LANDSCAPE SUICIDE

USA (95 mi) 1986

Plot summary from imbd

In "Landscape Suicide" Benning continues his examination of Americana through the stories of two murderers. Ed Gein was a Wisconsin farmer and multiple murderer who taxidermied his victims in the 1950s. Bernadette Prott was a California teenager who stabbed a friend to death over an insult in 1984. Benning's distanced approach to such grisly material is as far removed as possible from sensationalism, however. Although the acts of murder are both bizarre and violent, Benning dwells on them only minimally, emphasizing instead the details of psychological motivation, which in both cases seem frighteningly mundane. Benning has created a script which is a masterpiece of understated colloquial writing, and the actors he employs to re-enact confessional testimony and incidents recounted in trial transcripts perform with a flatly convincing lack of affect reminiscent of Gary Gilmore. The two monologues are embedded in Benning's characteristic meditations of landscape: long shots of the Wisconsin farmlands, general stores, dirt roads and pick-up trucks, and the carefully tended lawns, swimming pools, sprawling bungalows and malls of the middle-class California suburb. These images are offered in the classically spare mise-en-scene which Benning has perfected in his work as a cinematic poet of the contemporary American environment. Here, in his most accessible film so far, the beautiful, open vistas are dense with the significance of the catastrophes they engendered.

FOUR CORNERS

USA (80 mi) 1997

Plot summary from imbd

James Benning's "Four Corners" uses a specific geographical location to pose larger questions about the United States. Here, the geographic and wholly imaginary place Four Corners, that favorite tourist destination where Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah meet, becomes a kind of theoretical ground zero, the site from which Benning can give voice to other, pointedly unofficial American stories .... This is a film in which sound and image are not joined together in some sort of spurious conspiracy (the history of the United States), but one in which each sound and each image hints at a story not yet fully told (the histories of the United States).

Jonathan Rosenbaum, Chicago Reader

THE CALIFORNIA TRILOGY PT. 1: EL VALLEY CENTRO

USA (90 mi) 2000

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

I began El Valley Centro in November of 1998; I was driving through the Great Central Valley looking for places to film. I wasn’t going to start shooting for at least six months; I wanted to just look and listen – to get to know the Valley well before I would make images. But almost immediately I came across an oil well fire with flames high into the sky. I returned home for my Bolex and Nagra. Determined that landscape is a function of time, I let a full roll of 16mm film (100 feet) run through the camera. At that moment I knew I would make a portrait of The Great Central Valley using 35 two and a half minute shots. --James Benning, December 2001

As its name suggests, the Great Central Valley – El Valley Centro in Spanish – runs long and wide down the middle of California, encompassing much of that vast state’s cultivated farmland. Benning’s film explores this vast area, his camera pausing for the allotted two and a half minutes before he cuts to another location, another vista presented for our absorption. There are no ‘actors’ as such, no ‘characters’, no ‘dialogue’ as we know it, no ‘narration’ as we know it, hardly any sounds, hardly any ‘real’ action.

But the audience soon realises that each of these apparent ‘absences’ is, in Benning’s hands, a plus. He forces us to concentrate our eyes and ears on what he shows us, and the attentive viewer will find their efforts more than amply rewarded. As well as slowly compiling a remarkable portrait of a remarkable place, Benning thrillingly redefines the basic syntax of film-making and film-watching. The effect is staggering – as one of Caspar David Friedrich’s contemporaries commented when seeing his painting ‘Monk by the Sea’ for the first time: “it is as if one’s eyelids had been cut off.”

The film begins with a shot of a lake, apparently draining away into what looks like a huge plughole. It’s an ideal starting point – we’re being drawn into Benning’s world as surely as the water is being drawn into that hole, and we’re aware that our eye is specifically being directed to a certain point on the screen. But the two and a half minutes for which this shot is projected gives us ample time to explore the peripheries, and this is also part of Benning’s grand design. This is equally true of the remaining 34 shots in the sequence – he shows us places where ‘nothing’ is apparently happening, but which he reveals as stages on which a drama unfolds: the ‘subject’ of the shot may be a series of tiny orange blobs in the distance (as in the sequence showing a penitentiary), but they’re enough. We can work out the rest for ourselves.

Benning works at the interface of mathematics and geography: the exact position of the camera is absolutely crucial – he’s faced with an infinite number of possibilities, and the essence of El Valley Centro lies in his process of selection. Timing is equally important – there’s no environment in the world where this kind of film can’t be made, provided the right two and a half minutes are chosen. Benning’s judgement is exceptional, and he’s also aided by some providential turns of fate, trains and cars coming into our out of shot at just the right time.

The most spectacular moment of serendipity comes during a shot of a large ship making its progress along a river – the river is invisible, all we can see is fields. Then, coming the other way, a smaller boat appears and passes in front of the ship. For a moment we’re disoriented – how can the water run both ways at once? Then we realise it’s more a matter of how the craft are being propelled. But while this activity is taking place on the water, a car appears – the road is as invisible as the channels – and zips along and out of sight. It’s a delightful moment of accidental choreography (just like a later shot of tumbleweeds skidding across a dusty scrubland, almost alive, like the corps in a Martian ballet.)

Benning himself calls the ship/boat/car scene ‘such a crowd-pleaser,’ ahere’s an unexpected strain of humour in the film – most overtly in the sequence showing a champion goat-tier, repeatedly catching, tying then letting go an increasingly befuddled-looking goat with her back squarely to camera. Once he’s established certain ‘rules’, Benning is able to have fun with his choice of images – on more than one occasion he has characters going about their work in the fields, slowly advancing towards the camera, closer and closer until they seem sure to collide. At the last minute, however, they turn back, never even acknowledging Benning’s presence. This is just as well – after just a few minutes inside the Benning world-view, the viewer’s eyes effectively become Benning’s camera: and if any of the figures in the landscape did look up and catch us staring, it would be impossible not to flinch and look guiltily away.

But the workers-in-the-field shots connect to Benning’s serious theme: he shows the Valley as a place of toil, of man’s incursion into the natural environment and, most of all, of ownership. After the final two-and-a-half-minute ‘action’ shot there’s a final section of equal length telling us where each sequence was filmed and, in most cases, which farming conglomerate owns the land. But Benning’s careful, patient approach invests so much in each scrap of landscape that he, too, becomes a kind of ‘owner’ – as do we, watching in the cinema as the indelible images burn into our minds.

As Chinatown famously shows us, water and power go hand in hand in California: one of the most fascinating of El Valley Centro’s shots shows the welcoming ‘gate’ above the road entering the city of Modesto, a neon slogan-board reading ‘Water wealth contentment health.’ The phrase takes on a savage irony in this kind of exhaustive geographical-political-social context: the film starts and ends with water, water flows through so many of the frames, its moneyed manipulators sequestered in offices far away from Benning’s prying lens. Modesto also happens to be George Lucas’s home town, the place he set his masterpiece American Graffiti – perhaps in homage, Benning’s Modesto shot also includes cars at night, the retro glow of neon, the excited voices of teenagers as they drive in and out of the frame. You have to strain to hear them, of course – but this is a film in which the buzzing of a fly becomes a major movie event. This is a film whose every single shot deserves a full-length essay of its own.

Jonathan Rosenbaum, Chicago Reader

THE CALIFORNIA TRILOGY PT. 2: LOS

USA (90 mi) 2001

Movie Vault [Vadim Rizov]

James Benning is one of America's leading abstract/nonnarrative/structuralist filmmakers. Los, as Benning made quite explicit before the screening, is the second part of a trilogy about California. El Valley Centro depicted farming practices, especially those involving illegal use of water (I haven't seen it), and the third part, currently being filmed, will depict California's wilderness. When that part is done, Benning plans to slap all three into one 4 1/2 hour film. Each film consists of 35 stationary 2 1/2 minutes shots, beautifully composed and depicting various parts of the landscape described in the title.

Although Los is allegedly a portrait of an urban area, it's more like the less populated areas of that city. People are rarely seen unless in cars or tractors, and always in long shots; the only close-up, I believe, was of a group of penned-in bulls. Each shot is exquisitely composed, and the length of it gives one time to appreciate the thought that went into it. The shots gain meaning both through their content and through their relation to each other. The shot of cattle, for example, is followed by a graveyard shot, which is an appropriate punchline.

I know nothing about academic theory, and little about Benning, since none of his work has been transferred to video; Benning fears for the quality of the picture (very well filmed on 16mm), and for possible alterations of the composition. Though many of the shots do indeed deal with water or the lack of it and how it's used, I have no idea how some other shots fit in this general framework. However, every shot provoked thought and interest in me. I've been told that the first film was much wittier, and it's true that it does feel like Benning is being a bit self-consciously serious. Overall, though, Los is very absorbing, and is destined not to be a mere time capsule but a terrific film.

Jigsaw Lounge (Neil Young) : "mysterious,magical,majestic film of the year"9/10

Nearing the completion of El Valley Centro, I began planning an urban companion piece, Los, that was to be a portrait of Los Angeles. It seemed logical, for the politics of water certainly run from the Valley to the City. Los would have the same structure as El Valley Centro and would look and listen with the same intensity. The two films would be connected with the last shot of El Valley Centro pumping water out of the Valley over Wheeler Ridge while the first shot of Los would show Mulholland’s first spillway (still in use) bringing water into LA. --James Benning, December 2001

Conceptual-art portrait of Los Angeles County, comprising 35 two-minute shots of streams, hills, buildings, factories, gardens, highways, rivers, cattle, trains, people, the ocean, a cemetery, the skyline, policemen, back streets, a jail, soccer players…  Bennings’ camera remains static, and in the absence of commentary the only sounds we hear are whatever’s audible in each of these places: snatches of dialogue, distant background music, the rumble of cars and trains.

Benning has been one of American leading avant-garde film-makers for over 20 years, but remains barely known by the wider cinemagoing public, especially abroad – partly because he doesn’t allow his works to be available on video. And while Los is no-one’s idea of ‘commercial’ film-making, Benning’s low profile is an indictment of the timid policies of our supposedly adventurous arthouses: this is much too fascinating a use of film for it to be relegated to art galleries.

Los can be taken as 35 short movies, each of them saying something about the county, each of them posing some question about Benning’s technique, providing  Viewing becomes an active, enthralling experience – even when there’s apparently ‘nothing happening’ on screen. It soon becomes clear that the timing, order and contents of each image has been very precisely calculated, and in many cases it’s what we can’t see that’s the ‘subject’ of the shot. The penultimate shot is of ‘homeless people’, and at one point an unseen passerby exclaims “What the f*ck are you lookin’ at, stupid motherf*cker?”  But there are no answers – everything about the film is a matter of subjective interpretation, and every response is equally valid. Benning’s gaze transforms the whole of ‘greater’ Los Angeles into a vast work of art, in the process making it even ‘greater’ still – and this is only the central part of a projected ‘Southern California’ trilogy.

The film is full of engrossing incidental details, cross-references, tantalising clues that might mean everything or nothing. Early one we see a DKNY advertising billboard owned by a company named ‘Outdoor Systems’, and this phrase sums up Benning’s real subject – the human and natural processes that combine to form the bizarre anomaly we know as LA: a huge cloud of dust rising from a brush fire; the evening lights of cars zooming along a six-lane highway; the flight path of a landing jet-plane. This is a game with specific rules of form (the length and horizon-lines of each shot are similar) and content (each shot must contain some aspect of human activity; each shot must be outdoors) and, finally, memory test. We’re exposed to each of the images for so long, that by the end, when Benning brings up a series of captions identifying the locations of each, we can run through the whole movie again, in our mind.

Needless to say, Los won’t be to all tastes – in today’s market-oriented climate, such a project necessarily runs the risk of ‘pretentiousness’ accusations – but it’s surprising how quickly you adjust to the film’s unique rhythms, and this is a very straightforward, accessible kind of experimentalism. In terms of an artist using cinema to express himself, it dwarfs almost all this year’s ‘conventional’ releases: if any film of 2001 can possibly change the way its audiences think about and view their world, it’s James Benning’s mysterious, majestic, magical Los.

Los Megan Shaw Prelinger from Bad Subjects

THE CALIFORNIA TRILOGY PT. 3: SOGOBI

USA (90 mi) 2002

Sogobi Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

I am a great admirer of Benning, and I hate to jump on an already-sizable dogpile. But each film in the “California trilogy” has resulted in diminishing returns, Sogobi being the weakest. The 35-shot, 2 ½ minutes-per-shot schema doesn't really work here, because most of the shots are still, unadorned nature images. In almost every case, concentrated (or more accurately, elongated) temporal attention does not expand the viewer's relationship with the filmic space. I sometimes think Benning is unfairly held to a higher standard than other avant-garde filmmakers, because of his decision to make feature-length works and his open political concerns. He has as much right to make rarified, apolitical Art as anyone. Sogobi does lack the sense of social critique that suffuses the other two films, but to my eyes it also fails as a nature study. Many shots are hazy and wobbly, and with a few exceptions (such as the train sequence, or the military caravan) the careful juxtapositions of the previous films are sorely lacking. Hard to know what to take away from it, other than a basic “this is what we need to preserve from the cold hard grasp of capital” sentiment, better argued elsewhere.

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

As soon as Los was completed I added Sogobi to make it a trilogy, the urban and rural portraits needed the Californian wilderness to put them in perspective. Following the same structure Sogobi would look and listen to that wilderness. The first shot of Sogobi would relate to the last shot of Los, and the last shot of Sogobi would return to the first shot of El Valley Centro, revealing its mystery. The entire trilogy would become an interrelated puzzle. --James Benning, December 2001

Coming after the spectacular El Valley Centro and Los, Sogobi is a colossal disappointment. James Benning is the most methodical, careful and mathematically precise of film-makers, so it’s baffling that he should abandon the logical progression established in the first two parts of his California trilogy. Centro examined California’s farming heartland. Los explored the greater LA county, and skirted around the edge of the city itself. Surely the next step should have been to tackle Los Angeles in all its garish, terrible splendour, providing a filmic counterpart to Mike Davis’ books of dystopian polemicism, ‘Ecology of Fear’ and ‘City of Quartz.’

Instead, Benning takes a step backwards – in a fatal error of conception that even his immaculate execution can’t rescue, he retreating to the neutral, relatively untouched countryside for his standard sequence of 35 static shots. These are, this time, mostly of trees: the result is uncomfortably reminiscent of Koyaanisqatsi, the modish early-80s celebration of nature in flux. There are echoes of the other two segments – all three films feature shots of cattle – but it’s appropriate that the ‘Outdoor Systems’ billboard, so wittily deployed in Centro  and Los, is a forlorn blank this time.

What made those films such compelling political dramas was the presence of man, the evidence of man, the encroachment of man upon the natural world. Specifically, the encroachment of big business – faceless, remorseless, ubiquitous. It’s no coincidence that the most interesting and engaging segments of Sogobi are those which manage to incorporate human involvement: the passing through the water of the tanker Hanjin, seen from a bridge; a helicopter harvesting water from a lake; the distant passing of trucks. But these are very much the exceptions.

By largely removing man from the picture, Benning ends up with a film which is political only in the most frustratingly oblique way – Sogobi would only really make sense when shown straight after its companion pieces. You certainly wouldn’t show it to any newcomer asking to be convinced that Benning deserves front rank among American film-makers: it’s such an exercise in tedium that even the most hard-core devotees may find themselves glancing at their watch and heretically toying with the prospect of walking out. Corporate America is Benning’s bete noir, but Sogobi proves he needs it much more than he perhaps suspects: everybody knows that ‘Hamlet’ without the Prince is a bad idea, but the absence of Claudius is, it turns out, even worse.

Variety.com [Eddie Cockrell]

13 LAKES

USA (135 mi) 2004

13 Lakes Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

After spending much of his career treating minimalism as a launching pad from which he veered further and further away, Benning comes back to it in 13 Lakes, not with a vengeance exactly, but with a deepened sense of minimalism's possibilities. The title baldly announces precisely what the film delivers, and each shot adopts a perfect modularity; the film's order achieves certain effects, but any order might achieve other effects of equal power. Each of the thirteen lakes is depicted with an identically constructed shot: ten minutes, with the horizon line cutting the frame in half. The top half is sky (and occasionally a landscape feature), the bottom half water. Anyone familiar with Benning's work (the "California Trilogy," for example) knows to expect that within an overall structure that, in conventional filmic terms, registers as sameness, Benning will provide subtle differences, ones that take on magnified power within the reductive context Benning provides. And while this is true in 13 Lakes -- shot twelve, for example, of Crater Lake, induces gasps with its right-frame rock formation perfectly mirrored in the water's surface --, this is not as true as it has been in previous Benning films. That is to say, the differences are almost solely ones of light quality and the degree of choppiness on the lakes' surfaces (which sometimes evokes the texture of swirling emulsion). Benning has compared 13 Lakes to "found paintings" and "an installation you watch in one sitting," and these ideas are apposite. The radically pared-down visual means offer something muted and meditative, the forms of a Brice Marden or an Ellsworth Kelly suite with the earthy palette of Richard Tuttle. Unlike so many other film minimalists, whose work has evolved into a maximal, all-over activation of the picture plane, Benning uses natural beauty to orchestrate a spare, delicate film experience that at first barely registers as "there." But it is there, in the little details. As I look over my notes, I recall the jetskis on the Salton Sea (shot #3), the changes in density of the blue water line as the sun moves across Lake Winnebago (shot #5), the thickness of the gray field of rain along Alaska's Lake Iliamna, slicing into the frame with diagonal hashmarks (shot #10), and so on. Everything Benning shows us has its own unique character and sense of place. But the final impression of 13 Lakes is one of variety within sameness, of a calm and pensive look at natural features that require no explanation.

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

Sobriety, alertness and a clear head are most definitely required before you attend a screening of James Benning's latest, 13 Lakes - this is the antithesis of ‘easy watching,' and requires considerable levels of concentration and engagement from its viewers. But every ounce of effort will be rewarded tenfold - you're in the hands of a master, and one right back on top form after the perplexing misfire of his last feature Sogobi. Though walkouts will be sadly inevitable wherever the film is shown, (programmers would be well-advised to precede any screening with a showing of the recent documentary James Benning - Circling the Image), for many viewers 13 Lakes will be less a film, and more a life-changing cinematic event.

Most of Benning's works are structured along strict mathematical principles, and 13 Lakes is a fine example of his bracingly rigorous, uncompromising technique: it comprises 13 shots of lakes in North America, ten minutes each, during which the camera does not move. There is no dialogue, no voiceover, and the only ‘explanation' comes at the end when - in a kind of ‘roll-call' - the names and locations of each lake is baldly stated in a white-on-black caption.

A recipe for tedium? Well, boredom is indeed something that you may well experience during 13 Lakes - along with mystification, annoyance, exasperation and frustration. But over the course of these two-and-a-quarter hours you'll also feel joy, surprise, wonderment, exhilaration, and intellectual stimulation. It's hard to think of the last film which worked on so many different levels, and on so many different states of mind, as 13 Lakes, and it certainly can't be compared to anything else you'll see on a cinema screen this year. You may also find that it hurts your eyes after a while - unless you take advantage of the black-screen interludes with which Benning punctuates each lake-shot: to get the most out of the film, tightly close your eyes for ten to fifteen seconds at such points.

We're forced to examine the selected vistas in such close detail that even the ‘smallest' event on screen becomes a major development - and even the act of watching itself alters what we see: in the brilliant ‘Lake Pontchartrain' section our eye slowly adjusts to the grain of the projected celluloid, so that eventually it's possible to make out the tiny specks that are cars and lorries making their way across the long causeway that spans the water.

Even better is ‘Crater Lake,' in which a multi-coloured range of mountainous hills is reflected in the limpid water, the results resembling a weirdly organic totem-pole stretching across the whole of the screen from right to left. Over the course of the ten minutes we can - and should - tilt our head to examine this breathtaking image from all possible angles, while we hear the distant reports of hunters' rifles echoing across the vastness. This measly text description does little justice, however, to what is quite simply one of the greatest sequences in motion-picture history - proving that anyone who doesn't rate James Benning as the most brilliant and important American director currently working just isn't paying enough attention.

James Benning's Art of Landscape: Ontological, Pedagogical ... Michael J. Anderson from Senses of Cinema

The House Next Door [Andrew Chan]

FilmChat [Peter T. Chattaway]

Strictly Film School Acquarello

film > In a Year of 13 Lakes by Mark Peranson The Village Voice, February 15, 2005

TEN SKIES

USA (101 mi) 2004

User Reviews from imdb Author: Chris Barry from Canada

I finally saw this companion piece to 13 Lakes last night at the Ontario Cinematheque and I must say, it is absolutely breathtaking. It is as vigorous and intense as anything in the cannon of Brakhage. For the patient viewer it stands as a philosophical meditation on the ever-transforming landscape of nature as well as a testament to how much beauty stands outside of the realm of man. When you see a plane or a bird, they seem so alien and intrusive to this world just outside our own.

The clouds sometime seem to have faces, you want to project anthropomorphic features onto them, they shift like Rorsach paintings, sometimes the clouds appear as an ocean, or a vast, impenetrable mountain range...

This is a limitless film for someone who possesses even a modicum of imagination. I also thought about how many great people looked to the skies for truth and enlightenment. Franklin's experiments with lightning, Wittgenstein's experiments with wind and kite coordinates.

This is epic, heroic film-making. If Benning hadn't have made this film, someone had too.

The only problem I have with the film is semantic, and will probably only bother me. 13 Lakes was about 13 different lakes. 10 Skies is about ONE sky, segmented by breaks between ten ten-minute film reels. This segmentation and Benning's way of framing it, make me wonder if I'm missing something rhetorical in the piece, outside of its intuitive formalism.

The other thing about this film is that visually its very straining on the eyes because there's multiple patterns moving at the same time, all the time, endlessly layered, endlessly emerging but also slow moving. Haze comes like a fade in, but its opacity begs the absolute limit of looking. The result is as close to a trance effect as you can find in film-making.

Looking forward to seeing more of Benning's fabulous work.

d+kaz [Daniel Kasman]

Strangely enough, most of my thoughts on Ten Skies, James Benning’s minimalist film made up of ten shots of the sky each last ten minutes long, occurred during the first shot of the film. Whether this was because I had not yet fallen prey to the rhythm, trance, or torpor induced by the viewing experience (all of which I continually fell into and out of through the screening) or not it is hard to say, but certainly because of both the film's simplicity and lack of context my mind and my responses to the film were most active at the onset. Perhaps this is also inspired by the fact that Benning starts the film with the most opaque, challenging shot in the series, an already hazy composition of two thin clouds cutting diagonally across the screen with a blobby cloud in the middle of them. As time passes the shapes’ definitions become less and less clear and one realizes that what is onscreen seems to be both changing before one’s eyes yet is changing almost totally imperceptibly. It is a remarkable effect, made all the more remarkable because the film was shot on 16mm film stock and the dancing, undulating grain of the film material itself seems to make more discernible movement and changes in the composition than the wind or weather does on the cloud formations.

I thought about the ephemerality of film, of both that which is photographed and the photographs themselves, of the medium’s focus on movement over time both physically perceptible (objects in front of the camera) and invisible (changes in emotion, tone, ideas, and other abstractions), united to a degree by the effect of simply photographing clouds in the sky, objects that are so subtly transient as to appear abstract yet can also be so monumentally, physically dominating in the composition. The cut to the next shot—the next sky, a billowing cumulus formation with splotches of hues both too dark and too orange, suggesting roots in a fire somewhere off-camera—was jarring and refreshing, as all other cuts would be. In fact, after the first shot, my principle pleasure of watching Ten Skies comes from the fact that Benning held shots so long that inevitably my attention grew lax, often in tandem with the sky’s own dissolution as shapes became blurry, moved off-camera, or simply dissipated; my mind wandered and points of reference in the frame became fewer and fewer. So each cut comes as welcome relief: finally, new shapes, colors, and subtle movements to soak in and visually rove around! Banal things like jets passing in the distance or a bird or two arcing across the corner of the frame become wondrous moments of relief towards the later half of each shot as, more often than not, one becomes overwhelmingly used to this section of the sky.

After such intent peering eventually the actual angle of the camera becomes discernible, but for the most part a large degree of Ten Skies’ abstraction is the visual discombobulation; without spatial points of reference one often has the almost dizzying effect of being unable to account for the position from which we are looking at the sky. Some shots seem pointed obliquely upwards while others seem level with the horizon (as if shot horizontally from a mountain or hill), and some of the later shots, including the gorgeous centerpiece shot #5, seem as if the camera were pointed down at the sky, looking from above. Benning includes direct sound recorded during the shoot, including passing airplanes both visible and off-screen, as well as Spanish and English voices, traffic, and in shot #8, which was one of the rare segments I actually thought I saw a discernable shape in the clouds (a massive one looked like an old Spanish galleon or warship), features what sounds like gun shots fired sporadically through the duration. These sounds help link the shots to the earthly, if only to suggest that the camera is resting on the ground in the real world rather than floating abstractly through space. In fact, one of the greatest ironies of the film, for this viewer at least, is that shot #7, which features an unending gaseous plume of some sort of industrial venting cutting vertically through the frame and therefore not only provides more agitation and movement in the frame than any of the other shots but also firmly grounds the angle of the camera, is almost certainly the least appealing and interesting because it removes the previous lugubrious mysteries of the photographed sky. These natural mysteries and their entwinement with the mechanical cinematic recording, selection, and editing of Benning’s film are what is most intriguing and even sensorially affecting about Ten Skies, the refinement of a view one may take for granted and an appreciation for the metaphysical subtleties of cinema through such a simple focus.

After such intent peering eventually the actual angle of the camera becomes discernable, but for the most part a large degree of Ten Skies’ abstraction is the visual discombobulation; without spatial points of reference one often has the almost dizzying effect of being unable to account for the position from which we are looking at the sky. Some shots seem pointed obliquely upwards while others seem level with the horizon (as if shot horizontally from a mountain or hill), and some of the later shots, including the gorgeous centerpiece shot #5, seem as if the camera were pointed down at the sky, looking from above. Benning includes direct sound recorded during the shoot, including passing airplanes both visible and off-screen, as well as Spanish and English voices, traffic, and in shot #8, which was one of the rare segments I actually thought I saw a discernable shape in the clouds (a massive one looked like an old Spanish galleon or warship), features what sounds like gun shots fired sporadically through the duration. These sounds help link the shots to the earthly, if only to suggest that the camera is resting on the ground in the real world rather than floating abstractly through space. In fact, one of the greatest ironies of the film, for this viewer at least, is that shot #7, which features an unending gaseous plume of some sort of industrial venting cutting vertically through the frame and therefore not only provides more agitation and movement in the frame than any of the other shots but also firmly grounds the angle of the camera, is almost certainly the least appealing and interesting because it removes the previous lugubrious mysteries of the photographed sky. These natural mysteries and their entwinement with the mechanical cinematic recording, selection, and editing of Benning’s film are what is most intriguing and even sensorially affecting about Ten Skies, the refinement of a view one may take for granted and an appreciation for the metaphysical subtleties of cinema through such a simple focus.

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

Strictly Film School Acquarello

Bensaidi, Faouzi

A THOUSAND MONTHS (Mille Mois) B 89

Morocco France Belgium (124 mi) 2003

An interesting programming choice, as it has the feel of non-professionals and I found it hard to follow at times, as it’s told in a somewhat incomprehensible, non-linear format, perhaps as the characters might express themselves, where very little is explained, but one senses multiple layers at work here. Set twenty years into the past, it provides a truly unique look at an impoverished Moroccan village that has not yet succumbed to religious fanaticism, yet the groundwork is already being laid. There’s an almost ZORBA THE GREEK mentality here where the poor are forced to hide their real thoughts and actions from communal condemnation, yet at the same time, children of the rich and powerful are still boldly displaying their Westernized interests. I found the characters refreshingly believable and sensed I wasn’t likely to find another film like this one. I’ll be the first to admit I don’t understand the Islamic implications, as I would Bergman’s or Dreyer’s Christian views, but it’s intriguing having a canvas all laid out before your eyes, like a feast or banquet, waiting for you to indulge your inquisitive palette.

Taken from the texts: Quraan.com Authentic Islamic Literature

Then Allah magnified the status of the Night of Al-Qadr , which He chose for the revelation of the Mighty Quran, by His saying,

And What will make you know what the Night of Al-Qadr is?
The Night of Al-Qadr is better than a thousand months.
[At-Tabari 24:531, 532, and Al-Qurtubi 20:130]

Imam Ahmad recorded that Abu Hurayrah said, "When Ramadan would come, the Messenger of Allah would say,

"Verily the month of Ramadan has come to you all. It is a blessed month, which Allah has obligated you all to fast. During it the gates of Paradise are opened, the gates of Hell are closed and the devils are shackled. In it there is a night that is better than one thousand months. Whoever is deprived of its good, then he has truly been deprived"

A Thousand Months Philip Kemp from Sight and Sound

Benson, Ned

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF ELEANOR RIGBY: THEM A- 94

USA (122 mi) 2014 ‘Scope

All the lonely people…Where do they all come from?

—Eleanor Rigby, The Beatles, 1966, The Beatles - Eleanor Rigby (Original Animated Video) (1966) (2:45)

It takes a certain audacity to name a lead character in a film Eleanor Rigby, a featured character in a Beatles song, since the song itself tells a story of heartbreak, death and loneliness, where the movie follows similar themes, imagining a couple very much in love who seemingly have it all ending up nose-diving into opposite wavelengths, ending up alone, grief-stricken and depressed. While there is some controversy surrounding this film and the different versions being released, the important thing to do is to see it, as it is startlingly effective. It’s a powerhouse film with a cast to die for, rather miraculous for a first time feature film director, with elevated performances from Jessica Chastain (also one of the producers) as Eleanor Rigby and James McAvoy as Conor, the romantic couple at the center of the film, both offering career-defining performances. Secondary characters include William Hurt and Isabelle Huppert as Eleanor’s off-beat parents, Jess Weixler as her younger sister Katy, with Viola Davis playing earthy, no nonsense college Professor Friedman, also Ciarán Hinds as Conor’s distraught father, with Nina Arianda (Alex) and Bill Hader (Stuart) rounding out the cast as Conor’s friends. Ned Benson grew up in New York City, attended Deerfield Academy in Massachusetts, graduating from Columbia University in 2001 with a degree in English and Film. His only previous directing experience was writing and directing four short films, each made on a shoestring budget of $500 dollars, while also writing a play entitled Remission. This film was originally released at the Toronto Film Festival on 2013 in a 191-minute version that interestingly explored each of the lead characters one at a time, where scenes repeat, but with subtle variations in dialogue and dramatic emphasis, becoming an extended character study on a disintegrating marriage. Bought by Miramax Films, Harvey Weinstein decided to shorten the film down to a more audience friendly 2-hour movie called THEM, cutting 68-minutes of running time, where instead of sharing significant time with each character, their stories are interwoven into the overall fabric of the film. Weinstein’s plan was to follow up this release with two separate films entitled HIM and HER, told from two different perspectives, which seen together may resemble the initial film (released in New York, while neither was ever released in Chicago). Since Chastain’s performance is so brilliant, it’s hard to imagine which version the Academy might consider when contemplating awards, as this marketing scheme may backfire, confusing the audience to such an extent that they don’t show up at all, perhaps thwarting her opportunity for greater acclaim. As a producer of the film, however, it’s hard to believe she didn’t have a hand in this streamlining process. This beautifully directed shorter version, however, rather than being the disaster one might suspect, turns out to be one of the more brilliant films of the year, a stunning portrait of shattered lives and emotional devastation.

For viewers looking for an adult approach to movies exploring serious relationships, look no further, as this film provides what few others even attempt. It’s really an offshoot of Antonioni’s L’AVVENTURA (1960), which explores how the mysterious disappearance of a friend changes the emotional landscape of those affected by the loss. Similarly, Kenneth Lonergan’s 2011 Top Ten Films of the Year #2 Margaret is another dramatic powerhouse dealing in loss, showing how a random death can alter the interior circuitry, resulting in inexplicable sorrow and confusion. Benson is not the playwright Lonergan is, where he’s not able to capture the effortlessness of his language or the deep-seeded guilt and complexity of personal transformation, but he has conceived an extraordinary film that revels in the brilliance of the performances, where the eclectic musical choices beautifully highlight a changing emotional world, becoming a moody interior landscape of tormented lives consumed by unknowable anguish and despair from the inexplicable loss of a child, unable to find the right balance afterwards when their lives are destroyed by the loss, continually finding themselves in an uncontrollable state of flux. John Cameron Mitchell’s Rabbit Hole (2010) explores similar territory, a married couple grieving over the loss of their son, or Nanni Moretti’s Palme d’Or winning film The Son's Room (La stanza del figlio) (2001), where the affected characters retreat into a disturbing sense of isolation, where the sublime beauty of these films is capturing emotional authenticity, often expressed in long, extended wordless sequences. Due to the significance of the dialogue, capturing so many smaller, personal moments when two characters continually hold the screen, there’s an intensely theatrical feel, where this could easily have been adapted from a play. The level of intimacy achieved throughout from both characters is stunning, which makes one think extended time with each person would add even more weight to the film experience. This kind of thing has been done before, as Rainer Werner Fassbinder tried this with his television adaptation of BOLWIESER (1977), featuring a married couple on the rocks, starring the incomparable Elisabeth Trissenaar as the assertive wife who dominates and cheats on her husband with impunity, and Kurt Raab in his last Fassbinder performance as the masochistic near infantile husband whose sad descent into madness and utter despair is heartbreaking. Fassbinder filmed a longer 3-hour version on 16 mm that accentuated the husband’s point of view (BOLWIESER), then re-edited the film down to less than 2-hours blown up on 35 mm from the wife’s perspective (THE STATIONMASTER’S WIFE), the only version available on DVD in America, which is essentially a showcase for Trissenaar. Both of these films work due to the strength of the performances, but the longer version is among the more emotionally horrifying films he ever made.

Without having seen the longer version, this shorter 2-hour film skips around quite a bit, opening with a happy couple in the thrall of love, seen through an overly sensuous vantage point, most notably a dance sequence to Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark - So In Love - YouTube (3:32) shot in the dark illuminated by car headlights, a Terrence Malick technique used in BADLANDS (1973), but it’s highly effective here, creating a mood of lush romanticism. Jumping ahead several years, this is quickly followed by Eleanor’s impulsive jump off the Manhattan Bridge, where the mood shifts to extended scenes of trauma and internalized anguish. Retreating to the safety of her parent’s house in Westwood, Connecticut, the gravity of the situation is not lost to the viewers, further emphasized by the way her family completely avoids talking to her about her feelings or state of mind, where the mental confusion becomes the focal point of the film, as she’s fallen off the edge emotionally and struggles to retain her balance. Meanwhile Conor has opened a bar in the Village that remains mostly empty, reflecting the downbeat turn in his own life, commiserating in his misery with his best friend Stuart, the cook, before taking more desperate measures, moving in with his father, Ciarán Hinds, who is supposedly at the pinnacle of his career, running a highly successful restaurant, yet his life is in shambles as well, perhaps the most troubled character in the film. Woven into the pattern of these withdrawn lives is Conor’s discovery that Eleanor may be taking classes at NYU, resorting to stalking/surveillance measures to root her out, but she remains frightened and is in no mood to see him, angrily walking away from him on the street, leaving an even greater gulf between them. The scenes with Viola Davis are priceless, a professor ironically teaching identity theory, as despite her gruff and hard-nosed exterior, she’s a devoutly loyal friend whose concern is genuine, making her a needed ally in the center of the storm. Each marital partner continues to have thoughts about one another, but the mood of grief and depression is overwhelming, a seemingly unbridgeable gap, where the spaciousness of the film leaves plenty of room for interpretation, enhanced by the electric soundtrack of Son Lux, where their song “No Fate Awaits Me” is heard over the official trailer, The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby Official ... - YouTube (2:23), with snippets of dialogue interspersed throughout, but very little is ever explained, instead it’s expressed in long scenes where the internalized anguish of the performances are the real highlight of the film. It’s rare to see a film this committed to the authenticity of the characters, where it’s fascinating to get under their skin, two people whose lives have been altered beyond comprehension, who can’t even look at each other any more, or be in the same room, as their presence is too painful a reminder of what they’ve lost. While there are brief moments of shared connectivity that show a profound, deep-seeded understanding, the two dance around the issue throughout the entire film, resembling the utter devastation of Visconti’s White Nights (La Niotti Bianche) (1957), a choreography of missed opportunities where what lies ahead may well resemble where they’ve been, as a part of them has been unalterably broken, suggesting grief and heartache may always lie between them. The final shots add a lyrical grace note of screen poetry, and while there is a hint at hope, no clear picture is provided, remaining ambiguous, a couple left adrift, two shadows in the night that mirror one another, where we’re left to wonder if they will ever find their way.

The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby: Them - Slant Magazi Ed Gonzalez from Slant magazine

The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby: Them begins with a hackneyed prelude to a lost paradise, of two love birds, Eleanor (Jessica Chastain) and Connor (James McAvoy), skipping out on a check at an East Village restaurant before running through Tompkins Square Park and falling to the ground in giddy excitement. Theirs is a spectacle of twee douchery that's cloyingly understood, like the happily electric dance of the fireflies that dapple the air around them, as a mating ritual. It's also a marker of the happier days between Eleanor and Connor, before the catastrophic incident that tears them apart and which everyone around them only acknowledges in the abstract. It's no spoiler to say that the death of a child is what sends this husband and wife on opposing paths toward emotional oblivion, though it may come as a surprise to fans of Chastain and McAvoy that rarely have these actors been at the mercy of a film so wrongly convinced of its sense of ambiguity.

In the way first-time writer-director Ned Benson jumbles chronology and constructs characters through a process of abstraction, the film suggests the influence of the feel-bad perfume-commercials-cum-dramas of Derek Cianfrance. Though he's less beholden than the Blue Valentine and Place Beyond the Pines director to fatuous visual accentuations of theme, and less dependent on connect-the-dots plotting, Benson is still an artist of excess. Prone to hawking self-consciousness as import, he asks us to believe that Eleanor, who seems as if she's never lost it at the movies, would hang posters of Masculin, Féminin and A Man and a Woman on her walls. Perhaps the justification is that Isabelle Huppert has been banally typecast as her icy musician mother—or, more likely, and in the vein of Lee Daniels's risible and inexplicable neorealist aside from Precious, Benson is committing the rookie mistake of metatexually pawning off his favorite things as his characters' own.

But those are minor transgressions in a film that abounds in excruciatingly obvious, often precious, articulations of grief, where questions are schematically answered with more questions, and where armchair philosophizing volleys back and forth with punishing abandon. In one of few scenes that directly address the death of Eleanor and Connor's child, Connor's father (Ciarán Hinds), a fellow restaurateur, likens his departed grandchild to a shooting star that, while it only lasted a second, he's so glad to have seen. "It's a little Hallmark," responds Connor, to which the audience may choke in laughter. This is, after all, a film that has Eleanor tearfully setting free a firefly from a mason jar given to her as a nightlight by her nephew, and where Eleanor's father, a Yale professor played by William Hurt, likens tragedy to a foreign country, because "we don't know how to talk to the natives."

McAvoy and Chastain are remarkable actors who make Them's most cloying beats hum with a sincerity of feeling that can be striking, as in a scene where their characters state how they're a million miles away in the same room, in one where Connor went "soft" while Eleanor went "hard" in the wake of their child's death, and in one where she wishes she "could say something articulate." This in spite of the fact that everything that falls out of the mouths of these pretentiously etched babes feels as if it's been pored over with such intellectualized self-awareness as to suggest a would-be scholar's legwork for a dissertation, like the one Eleanor never finished after getting pregnant while attending NYU. And both actors soar in the film's climax, an explosion of emotional nakedness so raw and honest that it comes as a relief from all the floridly lightweight artifice that Benson deploys until then to give ultimately wafer-thin shape to Connor and Eleanor's suffering.

Two alternate versions of the film, Him and Her, which screened last year at the Toronto International Film Festival, have been positively received and are planned for release in October. It's possible that these alternate takes of The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby will more richly color in Eleanor and Connor's grief, maybe even convey their pain as something at least in part of their own making, as opposed to a behavioral response to every other character's pussyfooting. But even if one of these films completely did away with Them's biggest sore spot, an unbearable professor played by Viola Davis who, from her references to Descartes and Steinbeck, speaks consistently and cringingly on point to Eleanor's loss, it's impossible to imagine one even remotely approaching the operatic sway and sense of organic fullness of Kenneth Lonergan's resplendent study of sorrow, Margaret.

Review: Jessica Chastain is heartbreaking in The ... - HitFix Gregory Ellwood

After debuting last September at the 2013 Toronto International Film Festival in separate "Him" and "Her" versions, the combined "Them" (version) of Ned Benson's "The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby" screened on this side of the pond this afternoon. "Him" and "Her" told a story of a couple in crisis from the different perspectives of the film's main characters, Connor (James McAvoy) and the eponymous Eleanor (Jessica Chastain). "Them" is an attempt to tell the story as an equitable narrative for both characters, but it is clearly still driven by Eleanor's heartache and emotional journey.

After quickly demonstrating the couple's initial adoration for each other, the picture moves to the present where Eleanor makes a dramatic decision that puts her in the hospital and, quite soon, out of Connor's life. No explanation is given to Connor of Eleanor's reasoning or even where she's gone (one of the film's rare moments of disbelief is how long it takes him to figure out she's moved back in with her parents). Eventually we learn she's made this choice after months of tension following a personal tragedy, but Connor is dumbstruck over the immediate events and Eleanor's unwillingness to talk to him.

Connor's life is a mountain of stress as he's also dealing with the failure of a restaurant he started with his best friend (Bill Hader). Meanwhile, Eleanor finds herself dealing with parents (Isabelle Huppert and William Hurt) who are unsure how to cope with her trauma. Her father suggests she take a class with a former colleague, Lillian (Viola Davis), to help clear her mind. They quickly develop a friendship that transforms how Eleanor sees her current predicament.

While the strained relationship between Chastain and McAvoy's characters is clearly the center of the movie, it's Eleanor's scenes with Lillian that feature some of the film's best moments. There is a certain sparkle watching the former "Help" co-stars and Oscar nominees perform onscreen together, but Davis' excellent portrayal of Lillian is key in giving Eleanor perspective as she decides how to keep on living.

Chastain, who is also a producer on the project, is simply exquisite. There are only a handful of actresses who could have pulled this character off and Chastain clearly demonstrates she's one of them.  Even though some might find Eleanor's character selfish in her actions, Chastain find a balance that wears her depression well. She never plays Eleanor as incapable or overburdened. Instead, Eleanor is just trying to look in the mirror (a recurring theme) and discover who she really is at this point in her life. There is an incredible scene toward the end of the film where she breaks down in front of Connor that many will label an "Oscar reel moment." Such recognition would be genuinely deserved.

McAvoy is certainly overshadowed by Chastain, but that observation isn't meant to diminish his work here. As in "Filth" and "X-Men: Days of Future Past," McAvoy is at the top of his game portraying Connor with a subtle balance of empathetic frustration and anger. In one particular scene with Ciaran Hinds (who plays his father), Connor finally lets it all out, but because he's so beaten down, McAvoy expertly plays it more like a sad exhale than a scream. It's a great choice and indicative of the blend of realism and romanticism Benson, McAvoy and Chastain are trying to achieve.

Benson is a first-time feature filmmaker and gets the expected benefits of recruiting top notch actors such as Hupert, Hurt, Davis and Hinds to surround his leads. He owes much more, however, to cinematographer Christopher Blauvelt and a beautiful electric score from Son Lux. The film's problems, unfortunately, seem inherent to mixing scripts from two different POVs into one story. "Them" feels slightly longer than it needs to be and suffers from an unnecessarily busy third act. That being said, Benson's "final" ending is truly a unique choice and a wonderfully moving moment that haunts you as you walk out of the theater.

The "Them" version of "The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby" will be released on Sept. 26 with "Him" and "Her" receiving select limited runs a few weeks later.

Where Do They All Come From? The Deceptive ... Ray Pride from New City

Of the news coming south out of the 2014 edition of the Toronto International Film Festival, there are three or four or a dozen films that sound like surprises and delights, as there should be from any festival its size.

But the season’s finest surprise for me is a film, or, rather, films, that debuted at Toronto 2013, a heavyweight directorial debut by writer Ned Benson that comprised two features with a combined running time of 201 minutes. The delicately astonishing “The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby” relates two subtly but telling different sides of the aftermath of the sudden detonation of the lives of a married couple with a child, the first from the dreamily subdued perspective of a woman named Eleanor Rigby (Jessica Chastain), and subtitled “Her,” and the second from the more volatile perspective of her estranged husband, Conor (James McAvoy). When the narrative shifts to Conor’s perspective, scenes that were played between Chastain and McAvoy’s characters repeat, but with subtle variations in dialogue and dramatic emphasis. The separate events in their lives, when they are apart, are equally telling: the bruised hush of “Her” rises to confounded masculine disarray as we discover further eddies of grieving in the lives around “Her.” The essential elegance of this structure is how we, as viewers, have to reconstruct our memory of prior events, if only an hour, hour-and-a-half before, the way the characters, her and him, try to reconstruct tragic events of only a few months earlier.

In the months after “Eleanor”’s purchase by the Weinstein Company, a third version, which is being released theatrically this week, interlaced the twin narratives into a single feature, dubbed “Them,” which, as a separate incarnation, was granted a premiere slot at Cannes 2014. Despite that potentially bewildering provenance, the three separate features are themselves clear and present in each shining moment, with soulful serious performances (including Jess Weixler as Eleanor’s sister and William Hurt and Isabelle Huppert as her parents), intelligent, scrappy dialogue, and an intensely beautiful visual style. There are tender likenesses to the work of earlier filmmakers in the mood of “Eleanor,” among them the city-street-level puzzle narratives of Rivette, with much of “Eleanor” constructed on locations, as well as the tactile yet elusive temperament of Polish master Krzysztof Kieslowski.

These virtues are present in “The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby (Them),” but I’m aswoon even from reconstructing my memories of the bittersweet, melancholy “Her” and “Him,” which reportedly will receive their own release in October. Watching the back-to-back portions was a wallop not unlike being hit by a wall of bricks.

It took ten years, but Benson has three, or four, how do we count how many features “Eleanor” comprises? And how much ambition does it constitute in an era when American independent film distribution has almost foundered in rough economic waters. “I mean, look, about ten years ago, when I started writing the first script, which was ‘Him,’” Benson tells me over the phone from New York, “I didn’t really have the ambition that I had once I got further into the project, I was just trying to make a movie, period. I finished school and was just trying to write to direct. And this was the second original script that I’d written, and it started with me just wanting to write a love story.”

Then Benson became friends with Jessica Chastain. “Jessica had read ‘Him’ and started asking me questions about this character, Eleanor Rigby, and who she was and where she’d go and, as an exercise, I just started putting that on paper and it developed into this whole other script. A relationship is based on two people. I mean, I’m speaking the obvious here, the relationship itself is based on the two separate perspectives of it. The culmination of that relationship is through those two, those subjective experiences combined. There is no right or wrong and there is no true or false, it’s just based on the cumulative experience of the two people. So that became this really exciting thing. And whether that was commercial or not, we weren’t sure. I think the concept itself was exciting to people, but terrifying, and I think if it had just been one film, one dramatic piece, I don’t know that it would’ve been as exciting for us, and for the people who wound up getting involved. But to me, it was just the best way to capture a relationship cinematically. And then, it took us friggin’ forever. After I wrote Him, I didn’t start on Her for a couple of years, and then I wrote Her. And then I went back and forth between each script to fill in the spaces, to find the nuances of those overlapping scenes and sequences. Cassandra Kulukundis, my producing partner, and Jessica, we tried to put it together. At that point, Jessica had gotten the Terrence Malick movie and had finished it, but it was nowhere near theaters. And we worked and worked and worked until it came together. And by work, I mean, we just were getting passes and passes and passes and passes [from financiers].”

The elemental objections are pretty easy to guess. “Yeah, it’s the exact thing that you would guess. Like, ‘This is impossible. How do you play it theatrically? Are people going to invest in seeing three movies?’ And you know, people did respond to the concept of it, but I think their fears were based in the economics. The thing that ultimately made it economically viable was the fact that it was different, the fact that you had this opportunity to make two-for-one, you know? You don’t want to sell it as a gimmick, but in a weird way, you sort of have to sell it as a gimmick. We wanted to make the two movies for the price of one and give the opportunity to the audience to experience this different ways. I could never have expected that we would accomplish that or get to the place that we are right now. It’s just, it’s kind of mind-blowing to me.”

“The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby”: A mesmerizing ... Andrew O’Hehir from Salon

The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby: Them, reviewed. - Slate Dana Stevens

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Benton, Robert

KRAMER VS. KRAMER

USA (105 mi) 1975

Goatdog's Movies [Michael W. Phillips Jr.]

This story of a workaholic dad who is forced to become a father to his young son when his wife leaves is a showcase for acting; four of its principals were up for Oscars and two of them won. Dustin Hoffman plays Ted Kramer, an ad exec who doesn't even know what grade his son Billy (Justin Henry) is in. When his wife Joanna (Meryl Streep) decides to leave to find out who she really is, Ted must integrate his son into his busy life; along the way, he becomes a good father. Things get difficult when Joanna comes back after 15 months and wants custody of Billy, spurring an ugly court battle over what are basically rights of possession. Haven't these people ever heard of joint custody?

Hoffman won Best Actor for this film, and at first he had me scratching my head. His performance seemed incredibly fussy, fully of too-obvious mannerisms and that patented Hoffman stream of words (which might have seemed fresh and new in 1979, but I'm seeing it today after he delivered dozens of similar performances). He settles down eventually; all of his best scenes come late in the film, especially one eleventh-hour job interview. Justin Henry delivers a decent performance as Billy, but there isn't enough here to justify his record-setting nomination as Best Supporting Actor (at eight years old, he became the youngest person ever nominated for an Oscar). We see some specific details of how the divorce is affecting him at the beginning, when he vocally criticizes his father's lack of parenting experience, but soon enough he's on Hoffman's side; after that, the only sign he shows of being upset is when he finds out he's going to have to move in with his mom. For all of the talk about the child's best interests, the film isn't very interested in the child—in this respect, the film is as selfish as its main characters. I don't think it's a case of the kid adjusting to the situation with little fuss; I think it's a case of the film not paying enough attention to him. It was a stylistic choice, of course: many divorce dramas are preoccupied with the kids, and this film wanted to do something different. However, I think the film went too far in privileging Hoffman's point of view. The scenes in which Hoffman is learning how to be a dad provide a showcase for Nestor Almendros's Oscar-nominated cinematography. The shots start out open, emphasizing the distance between Ted Kramer and his son, but as their relationship solidifies, the framings become tighter, using half-closed doors and other impediments as barriers between the audience's prying eyes and the father-and-son moments; often, phone calls disrupt the familial and cinematic harmony with bad news of the outside world.

Much is decided in a big (and sometimes baffling) courtoom scene that seems designed to provide clips for the Oscar telecast. Streep's lawyer opens up a mysterious line of questioning about Hoffman's employment history; the answers seem to demonstrate that Hoffman is such a good father that he's willing to let his career suffer in order to be there for his son. I can't understand how Streep would benefit from introducing this information. And a break from the courtoom neatly proves one of Streep's points—that her husband was emotionally distant and didn't consider her feelings about things. Her lawyer has just put him through the ringer in court about an accident in which Billy cut himself, and Streep approaches him in the hallway afterward to apologize. Not ten minutes before, Hoffman had watched as his lawyer attacked Streep about her inability to sustain a relationship, delving into her sexual history in cruel, baiting questions—and Hoffman saw no reason to apologize. The filmmakers didn't intend this as a point in her favor, but I couldn't help see it as such. Jane Alexander, who plays a divorced woman and Kramer family friend caught in the middle of the current divorce proceedings, has one decent scene where she sums up the film's stance by attempting to be fair in the testimony she gives, and of course the warring lawyers won't let her finish her sentences. Overall, though, I just didn't see the appeal of Alexander's Oscar-nominated performance; I disliked her overly enunciated line readings and odd inflections. The film provides a much better, if much shorter in duration, supporting actress performance in JoBeth Williams, who is delightful in two scenes as a coworker who has a fling with Ted Kramer.

Overall, the film is set up to make Hoffman seem like the good guy, and it's so confident that we'll root for him that it gets sloppy. I'm sure that cases this extreme did occur, so I can't fault the film for being unrealistic, but I can fault it for stacking the deck so strongly against her (these are choices that the writer made; this is not a documentary). It has her abandon her child for 15 months, then come back and want full custody; we are led to believe that she'll take him back to California with her as soon as she can. She's flighty and unstable; the ending cements this picture of her. Of course we're going to side with her husband, but consider that by the end of the film, he still has never attempted to understand her. Despite the film's structuring of her character, Streep delivers a fine performance. She lets us in on the pain Joanna feels, pain built up in eight years of marriage to someone who took advantage of her and in 15 months away from the only good that came out of the marriage. She manages to make Joanna's actions almost understandable, a difficult task given the film's allegiances.

During the courtroom scene, Hoffman has one of those Oscar-bait speeches in which he admits that Streep loves her son, but says that that's not the issue at stake. In a nutshell, that's the problem with the film and its characters—because that is the issue, at least part of it. Hoffman doesn't get it, that in fighting so hard for his own interests, he's forgetting that she has the same interests. This is supposed to be a film about one father's struggle to keep his family together, but in the end it's about selfishness. I guess that's the one thing the film succeeds in without caveats: it neatly demonstrates how divorce makes otherwise sane and caring people turn into jerks.

Kramer vs. Kramer won five Oscars: Picture, Director (Benton), Actor (Hoffman), Supporting Actress (Streep), and Adapted Screenplay (Benton). It was also nominated for Supporting Actor (Henry), Supporting Actress (Alexander), Cinematography (Nestor Almendros), and Editing.

Turner Classic Movies E. Lacey Rice

When the 52nd annual Academy Awards rolled around in April of 1980, it came as no surprise when Kramer vs. Kramer (1979) took home 5 Oscars including Best Picture, Best Director, Best Adapted Screenplay, Best Actor, and Best Supporting Actress -- from its 9 total nominations. The film had already received several awards from such film societies as the LA Critics Association, New York Film Critics Circle, and many others. One of the biggest blockbusters of the year, it grossed over $70 million at the box-office, making it clear that both the critics and the public agreed. This simple, yet timely story of changing gender roles is one of the most sincere, emotionally stirring, and skillfully woven films ever made on a family torn apart by divorce.

Ted Kramer (Dustin Hoffman), a New York advertising art director, comes home from work one evening to tell his wife and son that he has just had "one of the five best days of his life." His career is on the fast track to success and his upper east-side family life seems picture-perfect. That same evening, his wife, Joanna (Meryl Streep), tells Ted that she is leaving him and their son (Justin Henry), to "find herself." His life suddenly in disarray, Ted is forced to make some career sacrifices and focus on becoming the boy's sole care-giver, a role that at first emphasizes the emotional divide between father and son. Eventually, the two grow close and reestablish themselves as a family when Joanna unexpectedly returns to claim her son, igniting a bitter custody battle.

Kramer vs. Kramer is based on the 1977 novel by Avery Corman and was adapted for the screen by Robert Benton. At first the film producers wanted the renowned Francois Truffaut to direct, but Benton insisted on being allowed to direct as well. The producers then agreed to let Benton make his directorial debut with Nestor Almendros as his cinematographer. A Cuban expatriate, Almendros had previously worked with Truffaut on several films and was added to the crew very early in production so that he had input on creative decisions. The resulting piece won Benton both Best Director and Best Adapted Screenplay Oscars and put him on the map as one of the most sought after writer/directors of the day.

Hoffman also landed an Academy Award for his remarkable performance. According to Vincent Canby's New York Times film review, "Mr. Hoffman is splendid in one of the two or three best roles of his career. It's a delicately witty performance, funny and full of feeling that never slops into the banal." This win was his first Best Actor Oscar despite three other nominations for his performances in The Graduate (1967), Midnight Cowboy (1969), and Lenny (1974). It was also said that Hoffman assisted with the editing and many of the rewrites on Kramer vs. Kramer.

Starring opposite Hoffman as Joanna Kramer, Meryl Streep transformed her minor role into a major performance and won unanimous praise from the critics, just as she had the previous year in The Deer Hunter (1978), which won the actress her first Oscar nomination for Best Supporting Actress. Originally the film's producers wanted Kate Jackson from Charlie's Angels for the part of the mother. They believed Streep would work best for Phyllis, the character JoBeth Williams ended up playing, because she had never carried a cinematic lead despite several popular theater and supporting film roles. "In their thinking, Meryl was not yet a bankable enough commodity to play Hoffman's wife," author Diana Maychick wrote in her biography, Meryl Streep. So Streep met with Benton and Hoffman to audition for the part of Phyllis four days after her wedding to sculptor Donald J. Gummer. Once they saw her, however, they thought she was absolutely perfect for the role of Joanna.

Streep ended up rewriting most of her part to make her character more sympathetic, including her entire courtroom speech. She did "research" by reading women's magazines and talking to her mother. Hoffman reportedly thought she was trying to upstage him and argued with her over many of the changes. Eventually though, she won him over and Joanna was made into a much more sympathetic and complex character. Hoffman later told Maychick, "Yes I hated her guts, but I respected her." He realized that Streep "was not fighting for herself, but for the scene. She sticks with her guns and doesn't let anyone mess with her when she thinks she's right." Streep's performance earned her the Best Supporting Actress Oscar for that year her first Academy Award.

Screen newcomer Justin Henry also received an Oscar nomination for Best Supporting Actor for Kramer vs. Kramer, making him the youngest actor ever to be nominated for any Oscar category. According to Susan Sackett in The Hollywood Reporter Book of Box Office Hits, "Justin Henry was just six years old and a novice actor when he was signed for the part of Billy Kramer. He was selected from a field of over 200 candidates, with Dustin Hoffman helping to make the final selection for the right boy to play his son, even screen testing with 40 finalists before choosing Justin. The senior actor spent much time coaching the boy for their scenes together. "The first few days his concentration was horrible," said Hoffman, according to Inside Oscar. "He kept looking at the camera...by the third week, he was becoming an actor."

DVD Times Nat Turnbridge

Kramer vs. Kramer Kramer vs Kramer vs Mother-Right, by Rebecca A. Baum from Jump Cut

Kramer Vs. Kramer A Fraudulent View, by Eileen Malloy from Jump Cut

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson)

DVD Verdict Patrick Naugle

Apollo Movie Guide [Ryan Cracknell]

Crazy for Cinema (Lisa Skrzyniarz)

The Flick Filosopher's take MaryAnn Johanson

FilmFanatic.org

Classic Film Guide (capsule)

Cleveland Press (Tony Mastroianni)

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

THE HUMAN STAIN B 83

USA Germany France (106 mi) 2003

This is one terrific story based on the life of Chicagoan Allison Davis, but not, in my view, a terrific film.  It reminds me in many ways of MYSTIC RIVER, as the acting does not seem on the same wavelength as the mood of the film.  There's a lack of subtlety here.  While Ed Harris is dead-on as a psychotic Vietnam vet, Nicole Kidman is terrific - but doesn't work in this film.  It's as if the director pushes a button and she acts, and while she is quite good, she doesn't fit here, as she's excessively eccentric, like some femme fatale who's been on downers for the past 10 years.  Her dreamy quality would be a better fit in a David Lynch film.  But Anthony Hopkins, precise as always, even reading from the dictionary here to prove the point, is anything but dreamy.  I loved the subject, enjoyed watching the movie, but was not impressed by the filmmaking. 

The Human Stain Xan Brooks from Sight and Sound

Bercot, Emmanuelle

BACKSTAGE C 76

France (115 mi) 2005 (trailer)

Emmanuelle Seigner plays Lauren, a platinum blonde pop star diva who wants to look like Madonna, (or is it Anna Nicole Smith?) but sounds a bit more like ABBA, using a provocative sexual allure and confessional, overly personalized, high production numbers filled with impressionistic lyrics that drive the adoring teenage crowd wild. A film about idol worship that opens with potential, with in your face footage and a good deal of humor, but no real pop from the leads, that does a good job exposing the downside of fame, the paranoia and temper tantrums, the need for constant pampering and handling, hiring an entourage to run the business side of things because much of a star’s life itself is incoherent. While kids worship these music icons, much of their lives are spent being couped up in a hotel room somewhere, basically hiding from a public whose enthusiasm they find terrifying.

Isild Le Besco’s role as Lucie starts out well enough, as she’s so completely aloof in her role of teenage rebellion against everyone that when her mother actually hires Lauren to come to their home, along with a camera crew filming a live performance for a reality TV show that’s targeted just for Lucie, everything turns wrong, as she’s so flabbergasted and overwhelmed that she can only hide her head in tears of confusion before running off to her room, which is a shrine to Lauren, but it may as well be her tomb, because it’s where she runs to turn away from reality. Afterwards, the diva retreats to her own hermetically sealed life as well. In a scene right out of Cassavetes OPENING NIGHT, Lucie runs after the car which drives on ahead, ignoring the girl. Both are somewhat scarred from this experience, though in different ways. This contact with fame makes everything else insignificant in Lucie’s eyes, as despite her mother’s pleas, she’s fixated on being with Lauren, running away from home, and leaving her small town for Paris. Immediately she discovers dozens of other fans hanging around outside Lauren’s hotel, all professing their love, just like her, spending every waking minute thinking about her. Through an improbable stroke of sheer luck, Lucie’s able to find the well-guarded apartment, and is allowed in for 5 minutes, but Lauren is taken by the girl’s inability to express herself, by that dumbstruck look in her eyes, which she decides to take full advantage of and inexplicably lets her hang around indefinitely like a pet lap dog, though it’s obvious she has no business being there. Lucie, however, believes this is pure love. Unfortunately, the two leads are so similar in their empty shells, both so self-centered, pampered, and spoiled, ignoring everyone else’s point of view but their own, and pretty much treating everyone else like shit, even their own families.

Neither actress really pulls it off. Seigner looks more like Radha Mitchell from HIGH ART, but comes off like a whimpering prima donna that everyone too easily gives in to, as they’re all on her payroll, never conveying any real need for the girl or anyone else, best expressed by a stuffed deer that she keeps in her apartment, while Lucie is just too young and unsophisticated, yet she’s playing an obsessed psychotic stalker who’s this close to being over the edge. There’s never any mounting tension between them and they just never really click, perfectly expressed in a naked swimming pool scene where other than a cruel streak exhibited from Lauren, nothing happens, nothing connects them together. What does work¸ and what is easily the best thing in the film is the performance of Lauren’s personal assistant, played by film writer and director, Noémie Lvovsky, who is filled with conflicting emotions about the young girl’s presence, actually caring about the girl while worrying how it affects her boss, yet also maintaining her own equilibrium with distance, good judgment and humor. She represents the eyes and ears of a star who’s far too wrapped up in herself to notice anything on her own. Unfortunately, in this kind of self-destructive rock star universe, which of course also includes a guy that they’re both interested in, the story is much too timid, never exploring the consequences of idol fixation, or kinky, self-centered sex, or drugs, or a career nosedive, nothing of consequence that really grabs the audience. Instead, Lauren lies around in bed with her teddy bear most of the time – big thrill. The film simply fails to take advantage of opportunities that present themselves and leaves the audience feeling neglected, empty and out in the cold.

Backstage Jonathan Rosenbaum from the Reader

As a publicity stunt, a pop superstar (Emmanuelle Seigner) turns up at the small-town home of an obsessive teenage fan (Isild Le Besco) and the girl responds by fleeing to her room. Soon afterward she runs away from home and manages to get taken in by her idol as a kind of resident groupie and gofer sent to reclaim the star's clothes from her estranged boyfriend. But what starts out as a kind of edgy variant of The King of Comedy devolves into something closer to All About Eve in cowriter and director Emanuelle Bercot's hands. The limiting factor, despite serious performances by the two leads, is that neither character is entirely believable; the star's imagined as a standard-issue diva, while the fan oscillates a bit too neatly for my taste between hysteric and conniver.

Slant Magazine [Nick Schager]

Depicting the thorny relationship shared by pop star and fan, Emmanuelle Bercot's Backstage radiates not the nostalgic sentimentality of Cameron Crowe's Almost Famous but raw, pathetic, obsessive desperation. Lucie (Isild Le Besco) is stunned when she returns home one day to find that her mother has surreptitiously signed her up for a reality TV show that involves a surprise visit and performance from her favorite singer Lauren (Emmanuelle Seigner). Incapable of coping with the filmed-for-TV moment, Lucie is nonetheless motivated by the incident to abandon her unhappy suburban family life for Paris, where she quickly gains entrée into pill-popping Lauren's inner circle of harried assistants, managers, and security staff. Bercot's over-the-top representation of Lauren's frazzled hotel-room existence benefits immensely from DP Agnes Godard's grimy, underlit cinematography, which quietly mirrors the moral miasma engulfing artist and admirer. Moreover, while the inclusion of U2's lovely "Love Is Blindness" serves as an unflattering counterpoint to Lauren's hit songs (penned by Laurent Marimbert and sung by Seigner herself), Seigner and Le Besco's performances bring an imposing chilliness and anxious fervor, respectively, to the often-overstated melodrama. That Lauren's celebreality is a far cry from her glamorous public image is no more shocking than the film's conception of fandom as a consuming passion prone to corrupt. Yet there's more to Backstage than such mundane truisms, as what eventually surfaces from Lauren's self-centered neediness and Lucie's lesbian-tinged fixation (taking the form of wanting to not only be with, but actually be, her musical idol) is a portrait of the symbiotic nature of fame, which requires both stars' egotism and followers' infatuation. And thus what reverberates most authentically isn't the story's histrionic schemes, betrayals, and revelations involving Lucie's affair with Lauren's estranged boyfriend (Samuel Benchetrit), but the sight of a supposedly disgusted Lauren—after telling an overwhelmed Lucie not to give the TV cameras the satisfaction of seeing her cry—failing to suppress a pleased smile at the knowledge that her stardom elicits such devastating devotion.

Backstage Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

How frustrating -- for the first fifteen minutes of Bercot's film I was certain I was watching a top-ten finisher, if not a flat-out masterpiece. The film opens with Lucie (Isild le Besco) coming home to find a camera crew preparing to document her surprise visit from Lauren Waks (Emmanuelle Seignier), a vaguely Madonnaesque pop singer. Lucie is a mega-fan and the film adopts the stylistic tropes of reality TV to show the young woman's emotional devastation upon stumbling into what should be the happiest moment of her life. In short, it looked as though Bercot was doing what no American director thus far has had the guts to do -- plunge into the psychological ramifications of reality TV and the larger cult of stardom. (This E! channel starfucker culture is, when you think about it, the public relations arm of our oligarchy of millionaires, training us to love the rich and consider them our betters.) Sadly, the film departs from Lucie's stricken subject position and considers the developing relationship between her and Lauren. In addition to morphing into a fantasy piece in which a superstar welcomes an unbalanced fan into her entourage (shades of All About Eve are not coincidental), Backstage lapses into well-trod naturalism and familiar amour fou gestures, becoming the umpteenth iteration of the intense-female-friendship movie, with its Borderline Personality Disorder as narrative propulsion and its usual lesbianism-by-proxy. And the politics of fame? The naturalism naturalizes it away. Also, aside from a few striking sequences of Paris at night, you'd never know this was shot by Agnés Godard. Getting her for something this visually negligible is like hiring Claude Monet to whitewash a fence.

The Village Voice [J. Hoberman]

The 24-year-old French actress Isild Le Besco has one of the most exotic faces in movies. With long, pale eyes supported by high cheekbones, and a fleshy, down-turned mouth brooding over a gently receding chin, she might have modeled for the stone carvers of a lost Mesoamerican civilization. (Her background is a mix of Breton, Vietnamese, and Berber.)

Le Besco's natural look is a mask of stoical misery, and she's made a career portraying sullen teenagers, mostly for veteran gamine-connoisseur Benoît Jacquot. But angst-ridden adolescence won't be her signature role much longer, and she kisses it off to splendid effect in Emmanuelle Bercot's Backstage. Le Besco also appeared in Bercot's featurette La Puce, the tale of a young girl's first sexual experience; here she undergoes another sort of initiation.

An enjoyably overwrought meditation on the consequences of celebrity and the vicissitudes of fandom, Backstage stars Le Besco as the schoolgirl acolyte of Emmanuelle Seigner's pop diva, a singer-songwriter and high priestess of cheese. Their meeting is suitably world-historical. In an ill-conceived public relations pseudo-event, Seigner pays a surprise visit, or rather a holy visitation, to Le Besco's humble suburban home—the star saunters in through the backyard singing her latest chanson to her stricken devotee.

It's a wonderfully choreographed sequence, parodying music video pyrotechnics while supplying the movie with an MTV-friendly excerpt that allows worshipped and worshipper to come face-to-face. The camera crew dances around them, with Le Besco's idiotic mother fervently lip-synching in the background. The tearful girl hugs her idol (a bit too long and hard for everyone's taste) before dashing devastated for the safety of her bedroom, which—replete with life-sized posters—doubles as a Seigner shrine.

Everything that follows is a reaction to the initial spectacle of a dream come true. The sleep of flacks creates monsters: Le Besco makes a pilgrimage to Paris and—thanks in part to a spontaneous nosebleed at a strategic moment—manages to cross the border between heaven and earth and insinuate herself into Seigner's entourage. Thereafter, Backstage develops into an appropriately mood-swinging two-hander, with each of the principals more than a little scary. Seigner, who does her own singing, gives an excellent performance as the mercurial diva—projecting a naturalistic combination of goddessy self-absorption and spontaneous, distracted bewilderment. "They keep hassling me—I don't know what they want," she complains to Le Besco of her other fans.

Publicity for Backstage compares it to All About Eve, but Le Besco's character wants something far crazier and more primal than to assume the star's career or have her clothes or her cute boyfriend or even her identity (as Rupert Pupkin lusted after Jerry Langford's in The King of Comedy). Those are rational, if not exactly heartwarming, ambitions. Le Besco may steal from Seigner but she doesn't maneuver to supplant her; she has no plan, she's gripped by a mania. Her desire is closer to founding a new religion. She's possessed—and Backstage is less case history than myth.

The most down-to-earth character is Seigner's long-suffering bodyguard (Jean-Paul Walle Wa Wana). That he's played by an actual bodyguard elevates him to the slopes of Olympus as well—he's the personification of the reality principle.

New York Sun [Nicolas Rapold]

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray]

eFilmCritic.com (Peter Sobczynski)

Los Angeles Times [Carina Chocano]

Chicago Tribune [Michael Wilmington]

New York Times (registration req'd) Stephen Holden

Beresford, Bruce

BREAKER MORANT

Australia (107 mi) 1980

Time Out

Three lieutenants (Woodward, Brown, Fitz-Gerald), members of an Australian platoon fighting in the Boer War, are court-martialled for murdering Boer prisoners and a German missionary, and Jack Thompson steps in to try to prove their innocence. It's a Paths of Glory situation, complete with righteous anger at the expedient conniving authorities, distinguished by some strong courtroom scenes and an overwhelming pessimism. If it hardly breaks any new ground either formally or politically, it's nevertheless a moving and highly professional affair, in which Brown and Thompson give particularly good performances.

filmcritic.com Christopher Null

Before there was Nicholson's "You can't handle the truth!" outburst in A Few Good Men, there was the firey Edward Woodward as an Australian soldier during the Boer War (South Africa, 1899 to 1902). Like Jack, Woodward is on trial for murder -- in this case of Boer guerillas, executed possibly under the implicit orders of the Aussie government. Now a scapeoat, Woodward's "Breaker" Morant is asked to defend his actions. His explanation -- "We caught 'em and we shot 'em under rule 303!" -- is one of cinema's most undernoticed and passionate speeches. The camera cuts away to show us exactly what rule 303 is: The caliber of the rifles used by Morant's division.

Heavy stuff, and though most of the based-on-a-play Morant plays out in holding cells and the courtroom, as a court martial determines the guilt of Morant and two of his compatriots (including Brian Brown in an early role), it's still compelling and fascinating stuff. Morant is a genuine bastard, but he's just following orders and trying to win a war. It's the same argument that we'd see in umpteen Nazi films (and understanding the intricacies of the Boer conflict is probably a fool's errand), but Woodward's Morant makes for a troubling and complex anti-hero. He's aided amicably by Jack Thompson, playing the three lieutenants' good-hearted but ultimately ineffective attorney. (Also of note, this film was director Bruce Beresford's big break. He'd come to Hollywood shortly after Morant hit.)

Morant's last words in the film will spoil the ending for those of you who haven't seen it, so feel free to stop reading and start watching if you're new to the movie. (Hey, it's 25 years old and the 100-year-old story is true, so don't blame me too harshly.) But anyway, Morant's line, "Shoot straight, you bastards -- don't make a mess of it!" stands as a second awesome soliloquy in a scene full of memorable, small moments. Check it out.

DVD Savant Review Glenn Erickson

A major title in the wave of Australian films that hit American shores in the late '80s, Breaker Morant has special interest because of its distinctly colonial politics. Peter Wier's Gallipoli would stun audiences the next year, but its intentions were divided between criticizing the abuse of Australian troops under the command of the English, and telling a more universal, 'All Quiet on the Western Front' tale of youth wasted on war. Breaker Morant's agenda stays true to the blistering theater piece that was its source: It's about war, viciously administered wartime policies, and national pride.  

Fighting as volunteers for the British in the South African Boer War of 1901, three Australian anti-guerrilla troops are brought up on trial for their lives, courts-martialed for the murders of Boer prisoners and a German cleric. Lord Kitchener arranges a trial that is a simple formality: The three are to be executed to curry favor for the brass and to appease political interests ... the Kaiser is related to Queen Victoria, after all. Lieutenant Harry Morant (Edward Woodward) is a serious and well-respected officer known as 'breaker' for his superior horsemanship. Lieutenant Peter Handcock (Bryan Brown) is a rough-hewn soldier who joined the army to find employment. And young Lieutenant George Witton (Lewis Fitz-Gerald) is just beginning to get some experience when arrested; he fervently believes in fighting to help keep the Empire together. Their defender is Major J. F. Thomas (Jack Thompson), who is given less than a day to prepare their case. But what matter? The outcome of the trial seems already predetermined, and Thomas is further hampered by the fact that the three do indeed seem to be hiding some of the details of the events that led to their arrest.

There are plenty of anti-war films, like Oh! What a Lovely War!, which hammer away at their target long after the point has been made. Back in 1930, All Quiet on the Western Front was desperately needed just as public education; it's a founding pillar of the noble genre of films that actually help to form public consciousness and policy over controversial issues. This year's Traffic certainly belongs to this group. Breaker Morant is a less-strident variation on the anti-Army Paths of Glory, which in 1958 boldly assailed the honor of the French Army by dramatizing what is never officially admitted: In wartime, those that give the orders sometimes callously 'murder' the men under their command, whether by sending them to meaningless certain death or hypocritically condemning them after the fact, to cover up military blunders.

Kubrick's film was so forceful it overcame a Stanley Kramer-ish liberal undertow, the kind that says, "I'm standing up strong and firm against injustice" when the injustice involved happened fifty years in the past. Bruce Beresford's simple and direct movie lays out the plain facts, that the flags for which soldiers risk their lives (sometimes gallantly, sometimes not) are not immune from class barriers and national prejudice. These three are condemned not so much for any crime, but because it is convenient for a military machinery that sees them as expendable. What gives Breaker Morant depth beyond whining about injustice are the details. Morant and his men aren't idealists who expect fair play all around. And they have no illusions about the war, in which England is putting down a rebellion not out of principle but to retain the rich mineral rights of the Transvaal. They are also guerilla soldiers both following orders and creating their own to deal with a ruthless enemy in a dirty war. The routine savagery in such circumstances makes the courts-martial, with its prim illusion of orderly and honorable combat, a farce. Breaker Morant goes so far as to imply that the three (or at least one of them) are indeed guilty of the specific charges they face. The point is military hypocrisy. Prosecuting someone for murder in the midst of a no-rules guerilla war is an ugly joke. The film has special value because it implies a larger picture. The corruption is not limited to a couple of corrupt generals, as in Paths of Glory, but about Armies and war itself. It addresses the lie that war and combat can be in any way clean and morally tidy - from anyone's point of view.

The four leads are riveting, especially Woodward, who genre fans will remember well from The Wicker Man. Bryan Brown went on to fame in the two FX movies, and Jack Thompson has remained a familiar face as well. Breaker Morant has been opened-up just enough to disguise the fact that it is a filmed play, but the performances do not seem to suffer. The improvised, anything-goes aspect of the guerilla fighting scenes contrast well with the trial material, where the stuffy English Lords have the privilege to define what is true and what is not.

Most people remember the film for its harrowing conclusion, which Savant is happy to say still has a maximum impact. The sentences given the three carabiniers, and the way they receive them, are hard to shake off. Set exactly 100 years ago, the events of Breaker Morant still seem to be happening.

Raging Bull [Mike Lorefice]

Dragan Antulov

Turner Classic Movies Rob Nixon

DVD Town [Christopher Long]

Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick)

Breaker Morant Quibbling Over Imperialism, by Stephen Crofts from Jump Cut

David Macdonald`s Movie Reviews also seen here: The Z Review

DVD Talk (Matt Langdon)

Ruthless Reviews Jonny

Turner Classic Movies Paul Sherman on DVD release

Berg, Amy

WEST OF MEMPHIS B 88

USA New Zealand (147 mi) 2012 Official site

WEST MEMPHIS THREE is a film that has the luxury of twenty year hindsight and a bankroll of celebrities, that was originally brought to the world’s attention on HBO TV by filmmakers Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky in an astonishing film PARADISE LOST: THE CHILD MURDERS AT ROBIN HOOD HILLS (1996), a film with a limited budget that outlines the details of a gruesome triple murder in 1993 of three 8-year old boys in West Memphis, Arkansas, including the arrest and subsequent trials of three accused teenagers, best friends Damien Echols (18) and Jason Baldwin (16), along with Jessie Misskelley (17) from the same high school, who were all supposedly involved in a Satanic cult. Based on the horrific brutality involved, where the boys were sexually mutilated, the region was in an uproar, stirred into a hysteric frenzy vowing blood, demanding the electric chair for whoever did it, eventually convicting all three in an atmosphere resembling a public witch hunt. Berlinger and Sinofsky went on to make two follow up films, PARADISE LOST 2: REVELATIONS (2000) and PARADISE LOST 3: PURGATORY (2011). It’s impossible to separate this new film from the earlier Trilogy, as they’re all dealing with the same subject matter. What’s unique about this film is the active involvement of the producers, specifically New Zealand filmmaker Peter Jackson and his partner Fran Walsh, where Jackson actually hires a private detective to uncover background evidence that the police overlooked, also hiring a forensic team in 2007 to examine the existing DNA on the case, while Walsh is an unseen narrator heard throughout the film. In addition, co-defendant Echols and his wife Lorri Davis are co-producers, so there is nothing to suggest this film is remotely impartial. While the forensic tests reveal there is no DNA evidence whatsoever connecting any of these three defendants to the crime, a motion filed to have the case reconsidered in 2007 was denied, as the state of Arkansas refused to consider new evidence, including one of the primary witnesses, Vicki Hutcheson, who in 2003 recanted her original testimony that a Satanic ritual was involved, claiming she made it up in exchange for local police dropping suspected credit card theft charges against her.

It was only then that the case drew public attention, not only LORD OF THE RINGS (2001–3) director Jackson, but high profile actor Johnny Depp, the Dixie Chicks, and Pearl Jam singer Eddie Vedder, all raising money and drawing public attention. Questions raised about the original trial reveal the State brought in an expert on the occult to testify the murders were in fact a Satanic ritual, while a knife was brought into evidence as the murder weapon, though the prosecution had prior knowledge that it had been thrown into the river a year before the murders took place. Perhaps most egregious was the biased testimony of the Medical Examiner, a supposed forensic specialist that in the state of Arkansas works for the office of the prosecution, so no independent inquiries were ever conducted, concluding the knife was responsible for the sexual mutilations and the large quantities of blood on the victims’ bodies. It was Peter Jackson who hired 7 of the top forensic experts in the nation to examine the evidence, all of whom concluded there was no evidence of a knife at all in the murders, that there was instead inflicted head trauma where the cause of death was drowning, suggesting the mutilations occurred after death, most likely animal bites, specifically snapping turtles that were known to be in the vicinity, leaving various bite wounds on the body consistent with animal bites. A more considered approach to examining the evidence instead reveals none of the 3 defendants were present at the murder scene, there was no Satanic cult, and there was no sexual mutilation inflicted by human hand, which is certainly a different scenario than what was presented at the trial. Even the parents of the children were beginning to believe the three convicted kids had nothing to do with the killings, but they continued to languish in prison anyway, as Arkansas refused to grant them a new trial.

In a highly unorthodox documentary approach, Jackson himself unleashes his own investigation, which uncovers two other potential suspects whose DNA was present at the scene of the crime, including Terry Hobbs, the stepfather of one of the boys killed (Stevie Branch) as well as his alibi witness. While Hobbs informed police of nothing but marital harmony, the private investigator revealed otherwise, uncovering battery charges against both a former spouse and the murdered child’s mother, who years later divorced Hobbs due to the inflicted beatings. In fact, he has a trail of uncontrolled violence and possible sex abuse, as he likely abused his stepdaughter from a young age, but she’s so acutely damaged by drugs she can hardly remember if it’s real or all in a dream, currently undergoing treatment, but not altogether off drugs yet which she uses to forget the nightmarish things that happened to her. Hobbs inflicted plenty of brutally harsh punishments, especially to Stevie, inducing welts from a belt, where he often hid in the closet due to his extreme fear of Hobbs. Nonetheless, even after this uncovered information, the State of Arkansas has never really brought Hobbs in for serious questioning, as in their eyes, they already convicted the killers. Raising many of the same questions as The Central Park Five (2012), where convicted teenagers spent as many as thirteen years in prison for crimes they never committed, these three spent 18 years behind bars for crimes they never committed before they reached a deal with Arkansas prosecutors in August of 2011, a somewhat archaic and questionable agreement called Alford pleas, where they have to admit guilt while still pleading innocence, but are immediately released from prison, where the State has a guilty plea on the books and is not liable for subsequent lawsuits. Perhaps the most devastating revelation is hearing the Arkansas prosecutor Scott Ellington gloat afterwards about their all-important guilty plea, which will be hoisted on a law and order banner of honor come election time, where political ads will run showing a prosecutor who gets tough on crime, where wrongful convictions hardly seem to matter to an uneducated electorate in Arkansas that will be sold a bill of goods. This kind of win at all costs mentality lacks any moral authority and is a hollow charade parading around as justice. There wasn’t a hint of remorse or contrition for sending three innocent men to prison for 18 years, so the real crime is he’d do it all over again in a heartbeat, and probably has already several times over, where it’s the State that is a repeat offender.

Trevor Johnston - Time Out

The 1994 conviction of three disaffected teenagers in West Memphis, Arkansas, for killing a trio of eight-year-old boys raised strong public emotions at the trial, and a lengthy campaign afterwards claimed that hysteria over ‘satanic rituals’, rather than genuine evidence, put the accused behind bars.

Documentary makers Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky devoted their acclaimed ‘Paradise Lost’ trilogy to exposing what many believed a major miscarriage of justice, inspiring an Internet campaign supported by numerous celebrities including Eddie Vedder, Johnny Depp and director Peter Jackson. After all that exposure, then, is there really any need for this expansive doc covering the 18-year span since the murders?

Those who’ve seen the ‘Paradise Lost’ material will certainly encounter an overlap. But Amy Berg’s film makes a compelling case for itself as a patient, methodical summation of the complex issues involved. Rooted in a precise sense of place, the extensive interview testimony and archive footage build up a troubling fresco of police incompetence, enterprising advocacy for the prisoners and a blinkered judicial system puzzlingly slow to confront escalating doubts.

Since the film’s producer, Peter Jackson, was also a significant backer of the private investigation key to generating the appeal process, Berg’s unfettered access creates a riveting sense of new evidence being uncovered before our eyes. There’s justifiable outrage here, but it’s lucid and focused, and if the celeb cameos and emphasis on crowd-funding seem over-insistent at times, it’s a viable point to make – public contributions really did keep the fight for justice alive.

Reel Film Reviews [David Nusair]

West of Memphis tells the familiar story of Damien Echols, Jason Baldwin, and Jessie Misskelley (also known as the West Memphis Three), and explores the circumstances that led to their arrest and conviction for the murder of three little boys. Though the majority of viewers are aware of the basic facts surrounding the case, West of Memphis nevertheless boasts an opening half hour in which the evidence against the accused is systematically laid out - to the extent that it would certainly be easy to envision neophytes initially holding the assumption that the three men are indeed guilty as charged. It's only as filmmaker Amy Berg doubles back and begins exploring the degree to which the case was mishandled that the guys' innocence becomes clear, as Berg, along with an army of talking heads, explains, with remarkably clarity, exactly why it's impossible that Echols, Baldwin, and Misskelley could have committed this heinous crime. (The director tackles everything from the handling of the confession to the supposed knife marks on the bodies to the veracity of the prosecutor's statements.) There's little doubt that most of this is admittedly quite interesting, yet by that same token, West of Memphis, saddled with an absurdly overlong running time, suffers from a repetitive midsection that slowly-but-surely drains the viewer's interest - with the inclusion of an almost remarkably tedious stretch revolving around the possible guilt of one of the boys' fathers compounding the movie's progressively arm's-length feel. The end result is a sporadically fascinating yet hopelessly erratic documentary that might work best among those with little to no knowledge of the case, although, having said that, it's hard to deny the power of the buildup to and aftermath of the trio's release from prison.

The Playlist [William Goss]

"West of Memphis" doesn’t ignore the fact that filmmakers Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky have already crafted a trilogy of documentaries concerning the perceived injustice of the West Memphis Three, three Arkansas teens convicted in 1994 of murdering three young boys in 1993. In their small town, the threat of satanic cults made the juvenile delinquents ripe for persecution, but over the two decades since, conflicting testimonies and newly uncovered evidence have caused many to reach out and champion their cause of innocence.

Celebrities like Eddie Vedder, Henry Rollins, Johnny Depp and 'Memphis' producer Peter Jackson have raised awareness and funds to cover the necessary legal fees, while others – including Lorri Davis – saw Berlinger and Sinofsky’s "Paradise Lost" films and dedicated themselves to the appeals of Damien Echols (to whom Davis would later be wed), Jason Baldwin and Jessie Misskelley Jr. as they were subjected time and again to the cruel throes of bureaucracy. It was a long-spanning crucible akin to the one documented by director Amy Berg in her previous film, Oscar-nominated "Deliver Us From Evil," about those haunted by sexual abuse at the hands of a Catholic priest. And here she returns with "West Of Memphis," an exhaustive and exhausting chronicle of justice sought by victims on all sides of the West Memphis Three case.

Even though it often simply outlines events as they occurred in chronological order, 'Memphis' maintains the fundamental grip of a well-structured mystery. The first reel is devoted to presenting the case as it was commonly accepted in 1994: Echols, Baldwin and Misskelley were given to occult pursuits and therefore, they must have been guilty of mutilating and murdering these innocent children in the name of Satan. There was little reason for a jury, let alone the general public, to doubt the scenario, and when Berg shows some graphic crime scene photos, it’s hard not to feel a visceral pull towards the assignment of blame at any cost.

The two hours that follow are an intentionally staggering encapsulation of appeal after appeal, suspect after suspect, motive after motive in which the three young men are subjected to leading questions from authorities, political ploys from the halls of power and damning reports from witnesses falsified or otherwise. Many, if not most, of the participants are interviewed on-camera, ranging from jurors to prosecutors, from the parents of the prosecuted to the parents of the victims, and although Berg includes an overwhelming amount of information – legal documents and DNA evidence and late-inning accounts by neighbors – she does invite questions as to why we never get any alibis from the WM3 for the night of the crime or why Baldwin and Misskelley weren’t interviewed in prison while Echols was contacted at length.

Perhaps the trickiest aspect of the film is its 150-minute running time, a length that allows the case to be considered with commendable scope, but amplifies the occasional sense of selective depth. The interviews included are extensive (some were filmed as recently as last week), perhaps too much so. Seemingly candid therapy sessions have an oddly staged feel and the noble involvement of famous faces threatens to skew the film closer to back-patting territory, just as the predominant involvement of Echols as the sole recipient of a death sentence runs the risk of painting him as a martyr over and above his imprisoned brethren.

These odd moments and oversights, however, can’t distract from the morass of facts and falsities and fairness (or lack thereof) which grows murkier than the creek in which those three bodies were found. Agonized parents find themselves re-examining their once-certain beliefs of guilt, while culprits refuse to acknowledge their own fallibility as part of the legal system, or as part of a family unit, or simply as a part of civilized society. As much as the initial details of the case itself could and did elicit a visceral reaction, it’s the prolonged fallout and follow-through that prove to be even more moving, finally building to a point where even the well-publicized happy ending can be feasibly constituted as a worrisome moral and judicial compromise.

For all of its thorny concerns, "West of Memphis" is more often than not an emotionally effective investigation into how real-life villainy may be more insidiously present than commonly assumed, how persistently elusive the truth can be and how a genuine sense of hope can persevere after years and years of trials and other tribulations. [B+]

Meet the Un-Exonerated in West of Memphis ... - Village Voice Alan Scherstuhl

Review: West Of Memphis offers a fresh and vital take on the ... - HitFix Drew McWeeny

Slant Magazine [Tomas Hachard]

'West of Memphis': Long Time Coming | PopMatters Cynthia Fuchs

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Sound On Sight (Edgar Chaput)

West of Memphis - Movie Review - 2012 - Documentaries - About.com Jennifer Merin

Review: 'West of Memphis' Is a Ringing Indictment of the ... - Film.com Laremy Legel

Paste Magazine [Maryann Koopman Kelly]

Electric Sheep [Mark Stafford]

SBS Film [Simon Foster]

IONCINEMA [Nicholas Bell]

Sound On Sight Lane Scarberry

Film-Forward.com [Nora Lee Mandel]

DVD Talk [Jason Bailey] also seen here: Fourth Row Center [Jason Bailey]

Critical Movie Critics [Howard Schumann]

West Of Memphis (2012) Movie Review from Eye for Film Sophie Monks Kaufman

West Of Memphis | Film | Movie Review | The A.V. Club Noel Murray

Sound On Sight [Simon Howell]

California Literary [Julia Rhodes]

EatSleepLiveFilm.com [Jordan McGrath]

Blu-ray.com [Brian Orndorf]

CompuServe [Harvey Karten]

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eFilmCritic.com [Erik Childress]

West of Memphis | Filmlinc.com | Film Society of Lincoln Center

West Of Memphis subject Damien Echols on his ... - The AV Club Josh Modell interviews Damien Echols from The Onion A.V. Club, January 18, 2013

The Hollywood Reporter [John DeFore]

Variety [John Anderson]

Review: West of Memphis - Reviews - Boston Phoenix Jake Mulligan

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Critic Review for West of Memphis on washingtonpost.com Ann Hornaday

The Cleveland Movie Blog [Pamela Zoslov]

Austin Chronicle [Leah Churner]

Alibi.com [Devin D. O'Leary]

'West of Memphis' review - chicagotribune.com John Pais

Chicago Sun-Times [Roger Ebert]

'West of Memphis,' by Amy Berg, on - Movies - The New York Times Stephen Holden, also seen here: New York Times [Stephen Holden]

West Memphis Three - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

"3 Teen-Agers Accused in the Killings of 3 Boys" The New York Times, June 6, 1993

"Youth Is Convicted In Slaying of 3 Boys In an Arkansas City" The New York Times, February 5, 1994

In Search Of Evil Mark Caro from The Chicago Tribune, October 2, 1996

"Complete Fabrication" Tim Hackler from The Arkansas Times, October 7, 2004

New evidence in West Memphis murders Mara Leveritt and Max Brantley from The Arkansas Times July 19, 2007

Lawyers file DNA motion in Cub Scout murder case Henry Weinstein from The Los Angeles Times, October 30, 2007

"Judge rejects request for new trial for 3 men convicted of 1993 slayings of 3 Arkansas boys" Jill Zeman from Nesting.com, September 10, 2008

"Arguments conclude in 'West Memphis Three' appeals" Arkansas Online, October 2, 2009

Jury foreman in West Memphis Three trial of Damien Echols accused of misconduct Beth Warren from The Memphis Commercial Appeal, October 13, 2010

"New hearing ordered for 3 in Ark. scout deaths" Jill Zeman Bleed from The Associated Press, November 4, 2010

"New judge appointed for West Memphis appeals" Arkansas Online, December 1, 2010

"New evidence in West Memphis murders" Mara Leveritt and Max Brantley from The Arkansas Times, July 19, 2007

"Fresh DNA evidence boosts defense in 1993 Arkansas slayings" Suzi Parker from Reuters, July 27, 2011

"Plea reached in West Memphis murders" Gavin Lesnick from Arkansas Online, August 19, 2011

"Deal Frees ‘West Memphis Three’ in Arkansas" Campbell Robertson from The New York Times, August 19, 2011

"Decades without daylight: 'West Memphis Three' describe life in prison" CNN Wire Staff, September 29, 2011

"West Memphis 3, locked up 18 years, together in NY" David Bauder from The Houston Chronicle, October 10, 2011

"West Memphis Three : Memphis Photo Galleries : The Commercial Appeal: Local Memphis, Tennessee News Delivered Throughout the Day." Photo Gallery from The Memphis Commercial Appeal

PROPHET’S PREY B 86

USA (90 mi) 2015

One of the more distressing and disturbing films of recent memory where the rampant sexual violation of minors by a so-called Mormon prophet in the name of God is exposed as a house of horrors that comes across in nightmarish fashion as an expression of pure evil. The film uses a clever animated sequence to detail essential background information, including the birth of the Mormon religion, when in the early 1820’s at the age of 17, Joseph Smith was first visited by the angel Moroni in upstate New York, receiving a series of visions leading to his discovery and translation of ancient texts (golden plates) buried in a nearby hill, which became the source material of the Book of Mormon that was published in 1830, the foundation of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (LDS). Moving west, Smith established missionaries and built a congregation while hoping to build a self-sufficient, communal utopia called Zion, a place where Mormons could live under theocratic law outside all governmental control. While evoking religious persecution along their journey, Smith’s inner circle began to fracture when they discovered Smith was trying to marry their wives, excommunicating them when they resisted, claiming plural marriages (polygyny) was a main principle of Mormon faith, where a man had to have at least three wives in order the reach the highest of the three levels of Heaven and eventually become a god in charge of his own universe. When this became public in the 1840’s, popular opinion turned against the Mormons, especially newspaper editors where Smith was roundly criticized, claiming he was using religion as a pretext to lure women to his church in order to seduce and marry them. Fearing the newspaper was turning the public against them, the Mormons declared them a public nuisance and destroyed a local press, declaring martial law, causing the governor to mobilize a state militia where Smith, his brother Hyrum, and three other top Mormons were arrested on June 23, 1844 and held to stand trial in Carthage, Illinois for inciting a riot, charges that were later increased to treason against the state of Illinois. Four days later, however, all were shot and killed by members of an angry mob that stormed the jailhouse. Throughout his life Smith was portrayed in the press as a religious fanatic, but in death he was memorialized by Mormons as a prophet. His successor, Brigham Young, became president of the church, eventually founded Salt Lake City, and served as the first governor of Utah territory. In a Spring 2015 Collector’s Edition compilation of the 100 Most Significant Americans of All Time, Smithsonian magazine ranked Smith first and Young third in the category of religious figures, "Joseph Smith, Brigham Young rank first and third in magazine's list of significant religious figures". By 1862, President Abraham Lincoln signed into law the criminalization of the Mormon practice of polygamy, which was appealed to the Supreme Court, but upheld. Initially the government threatened to repeal the LDS church charter and dissolve the church, but it was only when they announced it would start seizing property and temples that the Mormons agreed to obey the law, issuing an 1890 Manifesto called the Great Accommodation where they agreed to suspend the practice of plural marriages. It was this capitulation that generated several offshoot groups that broke away from the original group, that was forced to punish, via excommunication, those who continued to live in polygamous relationships, the largest of which is the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (FLDS), believing plural marriages were a fundamental part of the LDS Church’s culture and were an important practice, ordered by God.

Enter Warren Jeffs, the self-proclaimed prophet of the FLDS, asserting leadership of the church in 2002 after the death of his father Rulon Jeffs, where conflicting reports suggest he was survived by either 19 or 20 wives with 60 children, ("Mormon Leader Is Survived by 33 Sons and a Void"), or 75 wives and 65 children ("Warren Jeffs and the FLDS Church"). Warren Jeffs subsequently married all but two of his father’s widows (one fled the community, Rebecca Wall, and was instrumental in Warren’s eventual arrest, while the other was prohibited from marrying again), allegedly accumulating a total of 81 wives ("The Wives of Warren and Rulon Jeffs"), making him the stepfather of many of his siblings, only further solidifying his political position in the community. Interspersed throughout the film is the unsettling voice of Warren Jeffs, which is void of an ounce of emotion, but sounds as if he’s hypnotized or taken sedatives, offering various pronouncements, edicts, and decrees, often transmitting revelations that he claims are messages straight from God. Under his leadership, he expanded the powers of his own position, as well as the egregious practice of underage marriage, where Warren Jeffs himself had 12 and 13-year old brides, introducing them to sexual relations, which is sexual assault in the eyes of the law, as children under 17 are legally underage to give consent, even if they have been “sealed” through marriage. Jeffs implemented oppressive restrictions where only men deemed “godly enough” are permitted to enter into plural marriage by the church leader, while those judged unworthy may have their wives and children reassigned to other men, where at his whim he was at liberty to choose somebody’s wife or take away not only family members, but their home and all their money, as everything belongs to the church. His view of religion requires total and absolute obedience from his followers which includes banning any contact with the outside world. While virtually all FLDS children are homeschooled, installed with their own religious teachings (which some view as systematic brainwashing), they see no need to advance past 8th grade, as each plural wife has primary responsibility for her own children, but has distinct duties, where one wife might manage the kitchen, a second act as schoolteacher, and a third might see to the mending and dressmaking. Female FLDS members wear modest attire (red dresses are banned), including coiffed hair and old-fashioned, ankle-length prairie dresses, worn even while swimming, where they are encouraged to do everything together, as even young children are expected to help with chores—sewing, picking, canning—throughout the year. Despite their conservative lifestyle, most FLDS women drive, have cell phones, and are computer literate. Living in complete isolation, few Americans had even heard of the FLDS before April 2008, when law enforcement officials conducted a raid on a remote 1600 acre compound in West Texas known as the Yearning for Zion Ranch (YFZ Ranch) after receiving a tip that 16-year old girl was being sexually abused by her middle-aged husband. The tip turned out to be a hoax, but for days afterwards television viewers remained glued to their screens witnessing the bizarre spectacle of hundreds of women and children being removed from their homes, herded onto school buses by social workers and police officers. SWAT teams were brought along, reminiscent of the apocalyptical 1993 FBI shoot-out at the Branch Davidian Compound in Waco, Texas some 200 miles down the road. A Texas court found that authorities overreached and had not met the burden of proof for the removal of more than 400 children, so most were returned within two months. However, a thorough search of the compound unearthed damning evidence to charge twelve church members with charges ranging from bigamy to sexual assault with a minor, including Warren Jeffs, who had previously been convicted in a Utah court as an accomplice to rape in 2007 for officiating at the marriage of a 14-year-old girl to a church member.

Even earlier than that, July 2004 in Utah, Warren Jeffs had charges filed against him from three of his own nephews, claiming their uncle sodomized them in the Salt Lake City church compound. Brent Jeffs was only five or six years old when it started, while his brother Clayne Jeffs committed suicide after accusing Jeffs of sexually assaulting him as a child. Further charges of sexual misconduct with a minor were filed in 2005 alleging Jeffs arranged a marriage between a 14-year old girl (Elissa Wall, younger sister of Rebecca Wall) and her 19-year old first cousin, claiming her new husband raped her repeatedly, eventually leaving him and escaping from the FLDS community, described in her book Stolen Innocence. These accusations caused Warren Jeffs to flee underground, yet he was able to support himself in the manner he was accustomed, as he had access to the church’s finances. Placed on the FBI Top Ten Most Wanted Fugitives, right alongside Osama bin Laden, he was eventually captured in Nevada and returned to Utah for trial. What immediately comes to mind is just how confusing all this is, remaining vague about the lingering aspect of many of the charges, yet the director is to be commended for attempting to provide an accurate picture of the FLDS, drawing upon a journalistic exposé written by Sam Browers, Prophet’s Prey: My Seven-Year Investigation into Warren Jeffs and the Fundamentalist Church of Latter-Day Saints, along with Jon Krakauer, author of Into the Wild (2007) as well as the book Under the Banner of Heaven: A Story of Violent Faith. Both Browers and Krakauer team up in attempting to crack the tight enclosure surrounding the group, as FLDS remains an extremely secretive organization that remains highly suspicious of strangers and off-limits to the outside world, so there is little opportunity to show a balanced view. Additionally, Amy Berg, director of West of Memphis (2012), fails to address some of the more basic questions, like why it is so difficult to prosecute suspected criminal acts that are in all likelihood continuing to this very day, that are, in fact, the core foundation of their religion. If police and prosecutors were stymied in gathering evidence and stopping the practice of sexual abuse of minors, as this film suggests, it offers no real legal explanation, though in Utah, historically it has been hard to bring prosecutions as Mormons dominate the judiciary. But the film doesn’t even mention that. Additionally, in order to maintain the practice of multiple marriages, there would have to be an abundance of available women for every man to marry. As the birth rate for boys and girls is fairly equal, this practice could only be maintained by getting rid of most males, where it is reported that male youths between the ages of 13 and 21 are typically ripped from their families for the slightest indiscretions and banished to the outside world, driven to other cities or even left on the side of the road and dumped without any conceivable means of support ("The lost boys, thrown out of US sect so that older men can marry more wives"), where they are referred to as Lost Boys. Unfortunately, the film does not address these issues either, providing only the tip of the iceberg of what can only be perceived as an unending tragedy of nightmarish proportions, as young teen girls are routinely handed over into marriage, like a religious rite of passage. When Utah overturned a 2007 rape conviction on Jeffs in 2010, claiming the jury received improper instructions, the state of Texas extradited him for sexual assault charges on a 15-year old and a 12-year old, unearthing a shocking 21-minute audio tape found at the Utah compound where Jeffs (panting throughout) can be heard having sex with a 12-year old child bride, which was eventually used to convict him to a life sentence, where he is currently serving his time at the Louis C. Powledge Unit in Texas. While there is a website (The Principle (F-LDS)) by Trent Nelson from The Salt Lake Tribune devoted to documenting photos and information about the FLDS, incredibly, and perhaps most appallingly, Warren Jeffs continues to rule over the church from his prison cell, as his devotees have been taught from birth to give maximum unquestioning obedience to their highest church authority, still believing he is a prophet, voicing the word of God.

According to Trent Wilson, the youngest known child brides of Warren Jeffs:

• Alyshia Blackmore - 12
• Nolita Blackmore - 12
• Merrianne Jessop - 12
• Brenda Lei Fischer - 12
• Ida Vilate Jessop - 13
• Millie Blackmore - 13
• Loretta Jane Barlow - 13
• Annie LaRee Jessop - 14
• Alice Marie Barlow - 14
• Gloria Anne Steed - 14
• Tammara Allred -14
• Veda Keate - 14
• Permelia Johnson - 15

As most all that we know about FLDS comes from those who have escaped from their clutches, the following is an excerpt from Brent Jeffs, author of the book Lost Boy, "From Polygamist Royalty To FLDS Lost Boy:

Heaven or Hell

Every child believes he’s special. But when you are number ten of twenty, with three “sister-mothers”—two of whom are full-blooded sisters—and a grandfather whom thousands of people believe speaks directly to God, it can be hard to figure out what “special” really means. All told, I have roughly sixty-five aunts and uncles on my dad’s side and twenty-two on my mom’s—with probably thousands of cousins. In families as large as mine, even keeping track of your own siblings—let alone cousins and aunts and uncles—is difficult. As a grandson of Rulon Jeffs and nephew of Warren Jeffs, it once seemed that I was destined for high honor in the FLDS. My family had what our church called “royal blood” We were direct descendants of our prophet through my father’s line. My mother, too, is the child of a prophet, who split from our group in 1978 to lead his own polygamous sect. When I was little, my family was favored, in the church’s elite. I was assured that there was a place for me in the highest realms of heaven and at least three wives for me right here on earth once I attained the Melchizedek priesthood. I was in a chosen family in a chosen people, visiting sacred land near end times. I would one day become a god, ruling over my own spinning world.

So why would I ever abandon such status and rank? In the world of the FLDS, things are not always what they seem. The shiny, smiling surfaces often hide a world of rot and pain. And even royal blood and being born male can’t protect you from sudden changes in its convoluted power structure.

Outsiders tend to think our form of polygamy must be a great deal for us men. You get sexual variety without guilt: in fact, you are commanded by God to have multiple partners and the women are expected to go along with it. Indeed, they are supposed to be happy about doing so and obediently serve you. This is the only way for all of you to get to the highest realms of heaven.

To many men, that sounds like heaven right there, without any need for the afterlife part. They focus on the sex-fantasizing about a harem of young, beautiful women, all at their beck and call. They don’t think about the responsibility — or the balancing act needed to keep all of those women happy, or even just to minimize their complaints. During the one full year I attended public school, the few guys who befriended me rather than ridiculing me were fascinated by it all.

But while it might seem good in theory, in practice, at least in my experience, it’s actually a recipe for misery for everyone involved. In the FLDS anyway, polygamy and its power structure continuously produce a constant, exhausting struggle for attention and resources.

In families as large as mine, it simply isn’t possible for all of the women and children to get their needs met. Just making sure the children are fed, clothed, and physically accounted for is an ongoing challenge. Simply keeping dozens of children physically safe is close to impossible.

I’d estimate that maybe one in five FLDS families has lost a child early in life, frequently from accidents that better supervision could have prevented. And that number doesn’t include deaths related to the genetic disorder that runs in our church—which handicaps and often kills children very early in life but which many members refuse to see as a result of marriages among closely related families.

For the father, even though he’s at the top of the heap in his own family, he must constantly disappoint, reject, ignore, and/or fail to satisfy at least some wives and kids. There’s only so much of his time and attention to go around, and supporting such a large family takes many hours, too. At home, if one person has your ear, someone else doesn’t. Yes to one wife is no to the others. And, if a man wants more wives, he will have to engage in his own highly competitive fight for status and influence with the higher-ups in the church.

Then there’s the math problem: half of all children born are boys, of course. For some men to have many wives, others are either going to have to leave, recruit new women into polygamy (a difficult task, unsurprisingly-and one rarely attempted by the FLDS), or go unmarried.

Consequently, being born a boy in the FLDS is not the privileged position it first seems to be. Unless you are willing to kowtow to the leaders and attempt perfect obedience with constantly changing demands and hierarchies, you are likely either to be expelled or to have a hard time getting even one wife, let alone the required three. Just on the numbers alone, you will need a lot of luck to avoid losing everything as you hit manhood. Being born into the right family like I was is a good start—however, it may not be enough.

Once people get over their titillation and harem fantasies, and think through these issues, they start wondering why anyone stays. “How can you believe such strange things?” they ask. “Why didn’t you leave years earlier?” “And how could those parents marry their teenage daughters off to old men, abandon their sons, or give up their wives and children at Warren’s command?”

The answer is tangled in family loyalties, family history, and a church that has become expert at using these bonds to move beliefs into brainwashing.

On my father’s side, I come from around six generations of polygamy. My mother’s history is similar. Our families have lived polygamy since Joseph Smith first introduced “the principle” of “celestial marriage” in 1843—and the same is true for most members. One reason we stay is that this is the only life we know. Another is that leaving involves giving up contact with basically every single family member and friend you have—sometimes, everyone you know, period.

And, too, there’s the fact that you have been kept ignorant of the way the rest of the world works: you have been indoctrinated nearly every single day of your life to believe that all other peoples are evil, wish to harm you, and are damned by God, unchosen.

It’s weird, but even if you truly don’t believe what they have told you, some part of you remains frightened that they may be right and that fear—and your fear of losing everyone you love—is at the heart of what traps people. Then there’s the weight of family history and tradition.

My great-grandfather, David W. Jeffs, was born in 1873 and baptized in the Mormon Church when polygamy was officially part of the religion. Founder Joseph Smith had begun practicing polygamy before he preached it. The identity of his second wife is disputed because the ceremony took place in secret, without even the knowledge of his first wife, who vigorously opposed the whole idea.

As Smith’s biographer Fawn Brodie wrote, Joseph Smith “believed in the good life . . . ‘Man is that he might have joy’ had been one of his first significant pronouncements in the Book of Mormon.” The prophet’s belief in the rightness of things that gave him joy meant that he couldn’t see having more than one wife as sinful. That just didn't make sense to him. Of course, a prophet couldn’t have mistresses. And so, “celestial marriage” was born. It is not known how many wives Joseph Smith had—but the number is believed to be around fifty.

Joseph Smith’s revelation on plural wives was grounded in the Old Testament, and in our church it is sometimes called the Law of Sarah, who was Abraham’s first wife. The Jewish patriarchs and kings of the Old Testament were polygamous. While the rest of Christianity accepts the New Testament and rejects polygamy, fundamentalist Mormons believe that the Book of Mormon supersedes the New Testament in the way that the New Testament updates the Old.

Joseph Smith’s 1843 revelation on polygamy was personally directed at his resistant first wife. He was tired of hiding his other wives from her and everyone else and wanted it all out in the open. He wrote that God told him, “I command mine handmaid, Emma Smith,” to “receive all those that have been given unto my servant Joseph” and “cleave unto my servant Joseph and to none else . . . if she will not abide this commandment she shall be destroyed.”

Prophet's Prey | Chicago Reader JR Jones

Amy Berg made an impressive debut with Deliver Us From Evil (2006), her Oscar-nominated exposé of a pedophile priest. This documentary, her fifth, treads similar ground, detailing the crimes of fundamentalist Mormon leader Warren Jeffs, and you'd better believe there are plenty of ominous tones on the soundtrack (courtesy of Nick Cave). Jeffs allegedly maintained a harem of 70 wives, some of them child brides, before sexual assault charges landed him on the FBI's most-wanted list; after several trials he was finally convicted in 2011 and sentenced to life-plus-20. His story was brought to Berg by private investigator Sam Brower and author Jon Krakauer, who monopolize the movie's talking-head testimony. Their ownership of the story eats into Berg's authority, and the movie slows down near the end, even as the action is heating up. But Berg has a secret weapon in the sermons Jeffs recorded for his flock: his bland, droning voice epitomizes the banality of evil.

Review: Prophet's Prey | Newcity Film Ray Pride

Amy Berg’s comprehensive “Prophet’s Prey” is readily the most disturbing documentary I saw at Sundance 2015, and that would have been even without a mild acquaintance with Mormonism and its cult offshoots, such as Warren Jeffs’ FLDS (Fundamentalist Church of Latter Day Saints). Jeffs, to cut to the chase, is a monstrous madman and exploiter of the flesh. He’s also a canny financial thinker, establishing industries to sustain the rein of himself and his family (including a company subcontracted to manufacture the “O” rings that detonated the Challenger space shuttle). There’s a scene of a minute or so, extracted from hours of audio, that could crush the heart. I want to describe it, but I won’t. It’s simple enough to say that it’s essentially the death of innocence at the hands of Jeffs, spoken in a reedy drone, and emblematic of acts he committed again and again. (Audio of his voice is used to chilling effect throughout.) In its capsule form, it’s as devastating as Berg’s 2006 “Deliver Us From Evil” and the cautiously outlined and scrupulously researched film almost capsizes from that moment. It is distillate evil and difficult to banish from mind. Researchers Sam Brower and Jon Krakauer (who wrote “Under The Banner of Heaven” about the Jeffs empire) build the case, and not only Jeffs, his family and his cult are damned, but the forces in Western states (especially Utah and Arizona) and corporations that support their exploitation of their congregation members for vast profit. “Warren has really great taste in real estate,” Krakauer says in one aside. Nick Cave and Warren Ellis again compose an effectively dark score for Berg, as they did with her “West of Memphis.”

In Alarming Doc 'Prophet's Prey,' Charismatic ... - Village Voice Ernest Hardy

Director Amy Berg's documentary on the sexual, psychological, and financial exploitation at the core of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (FLDS) is grim but riveting viewing, a layered commentary on this country's moral and spiritual underbelly.

Coming on the heels of the Duggar scandals, and both Kim Davis and Donald Trump galvanizing America's right-wing religious base, the film's sharp dissection of a religious leader who profited (and profits) handsomely from manipulating an ill-educated flock resonates beyond its bleak specifics. The film begins with a succinct history of the Mormon Church and its founder, Joseph Smith, quickly tracing the period of Brigham Young's leadership and the breakaway faction FLDS, which refused to comply when the church renounced polygamy in 1890.

Fast-forward to elderly Rulon Jeffs, leader of FLDS, husband to 50 wives, and father of Warren Jeffs, around whom the sordid tale mainly unfolds — and who, it is speculated, may have killed his father in 2002, expediting Warren's rise to power. Investigative reporter Sam Bower (whose book Prophets Prey: My Seven-Year Investigation Into Warren Jeffs and the Fundamentalist Church of Latter-Day Saints inspired the film) is the linchpin of this story, walking viewers through hubs of FLDS activity, interviewing key figures (child brides; apostates; journalists), and filling in grim tales of pedophilia, child marriages, financial blackmail, and all manner of hypocrisy.

Prophet's Prey is simultaneously enervating and infuriating. By using his own words (and chilling audio from one sexual encounter) to bracket dozens of testimonials and disturbing newsreels, it reveals Warren Jeffs, with his mousy looks, charmless manner, sociopathic wiring, and taste for young girls, as the embodiment of evil.

User Reviews from imdb 22 June 2015 | by Red-Barracuda (Edinburgh, Scotland, UK) – See all my reviews

This very disturbing documentary looks at Warren Jeffs the former president of the Fundamentalists of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (FLDS). This organisation is one of the largest Mormon churches in America. It is most well-known for continuing the practice of polygamy. Jeffs himself had approximately seventy wives. Under his leadership there was a marked increased oppression of the FLDS followers. He implemented many restrictions on their lives and at his whim was at liberty to take away a members family, their home and all their money. The membership of the FLDS were to a large extent systematically brainwashed from birth to give maximum unquestioning obedience to their leaders in the priesthood and were banned from any contact with the outside world whatsoever. Warren Jeffs in particular used the guise of religion to carry out a number of extremely evil acts; most damningly he sexually abused and raped many children under his wing.

Two men, private investigator Sam Brower and novelist Jon Krakauer, have dedicated considerable time in bringing Jeffs down, while film-maker Amy Berg has brought this story to the screen here with Prophet's Prey. Scored with a very fitting downbeat minimalist music by Nick Cave, this is a well-made film which makes its point very clearly. The story is deeply unsettling and strange and shows that there is a form of extremely unpleasant religious fundamentalism of a Christian variety that is established within the United States itself. Jeffs consistently comes across as a deeply creepy man, with his very sinister monotone voice anything but reassuring. The liberties he continued to take and the way in which he is still considered a martyr to many in the FLDS is an indication of the way a group of people can be programmed to believe almost anything if it is presented in the right way to them. Jeffs paints himself as a prophet of God and was free to do as he pleased. The horrible extent of this is revealed in a small segment of a clip of a recording of him raping one of his twelve year old wives. It has been included here to show us a deeply unpleasant truth and is not exploitative; the full clip itself is seemingly harrowing. Despite his claims to the opposite, Jeffs is a man with no morals at all and simply abused his power at every given opportunity. He is a hypocrite who indulged in many things he forbade his followers to do. Latterly, from his cell he is questioned by Berg on his actions. His response is to repeat the words 'the Fifth Amendment' ad nauseam; it seems that when it suits him he is happy to hide behind the technicalities of the laws of the United States, a country he was hitherto at pains to disassociate himself from before. The truth of course is that he sexually abused many children, often of alarmingly young ages and he simply has no answer to these accusations.

Amy Berg has put together a very powerful documentary about a subject many of us had not hitherto known about. It is disturbing and enlightening. It is perhaps especially pertinent for us here in the UK who are still living in the aftermath of the Jimmy Savile scandal where a children's television entertainer who was regarded by some as a national treasure, got away with years of paedophile abuse of kids of all ages. He got away with it because he manipulated his position and did good deeds in order to give him cover to do bad. Warren Jeffs is a man from the same ilk and the more predators like him are exposed from the low-lives they are, the better society will be.

Mark Reviews Movies [Mark Dujsik]

The man's voice is enough to chill one to the bone. The disembodied voice of Warren Steed Jeffs, the self-proclaimed prophet of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (FLDS), echoes throughout Prophet's Prey. The subjects of his speeches are ones we expect—on submission and judgement and righteousness and eternal punishment. The tone, though, is unexpected. There are no signs of passion or even conviction in his voice. It's a monotone—disinterested and cold. This is not the intonation of a preacher, let alone a prophet who claims to hear directly from a supreme deity on matters of vital importance for his flock. He sounds—not to put too fine a point on it—like a sociopath.

Amy Berg's documentary about Jeffs and the FLDS is a study of evil disguised as virtue and of devotion taken to the extreme. Jeffs, as far as we can tell, is a sociopath, as well as a liar and an unrepentant criminal (If he weren't such a monster, it might be amusing that he answers the question of whether or not he is remorseful by invoking the Fifth Amendment). He might be a murderer, as a few people imply when it comes to the subject of how he obtained his position of power, although that accusation of patricide seems quaint compared to the other crimes Jeffs committed before and after becoming the head of the FLDS. That's the kind of thing he is.

The film opens with a lesson in history and genealogy. The FLDS, as one might gather from the name, is a fundamentalist sect of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. The split between this sect and the mainstream church came with the latter's decision in the late 1800s to cease the practice of plural marriage, considering that it was illegal and causing a lot of problems getting the church recognized as a legitimate religion.

Jeffs speaks of polygamy as the "most important covenant" of his faith. In that regard, he does possess a degree of conviction—a degree equal to about 70 wives, some of them part of a "harem" that he "inherited" by marrying his elderly, ailing father to younger and younger women and girls.

Jeffs was the son of his father Rulon's "favorite" wife and the heir apparent to the title of prophet/president of the church (The accusation that he killed his father comes from his obvious ambition and, as we well learn, his lack of qualms when it comes to basic decency and morality). Through the testimonials of author Sam Brower (upon whose book the film is based) and an assortment of others, we learn of the corruption within the FLDS and the heinous extent of Jeffs' crimes.

These aren't curious outsiders, either. Of those whom Berg interviews, a private investigator, who has spent years or more of his life trying to uncover Jeffs and the questionable practices of the church, is the one with the least first-hand knowledge. In other words, Berg and her interview subjects make about as close to an airtight case against the man and the organization as we could expect from a series of anecdotes.

Here, we hear from Jeffs' family members—including a brother, a sister, and a nephew who were all kicked out of the church for apostasy—and some of his victims. One of them, who was his 63rd "wife," was "married" off to Jeffs when she was 16. He "married" younger girls. Some of them, we assume, caught his eye when he was principal at his father's school, where he took it upon himself to enforce the girls' dress code in his office, which he made certain overlooked the playground. One young man recalls how Jeffs would give a sermon to the students before bringing some of them downstairs to the bathroom. The young man was one of those children.

Jeffs' crimes went unanswered for decades, because he built an insulated community around his flock, complete with its own security force (which stops and intimidates the filmmakers while they tour the gated neighborhood). It's more than just brainwashing, the private investigator observes. It's a culture—a way of life and a way of thinking that becomes a part of one's own identity.

It helps to explain why Jeffs, who was eventually placed on the FBI's Most Wanted list (between Osama bin Laden and James "Whitey" Bulger) after fleeing from criminal charges, was able to do what he did. On an audio recording that was presented in court, he tells a group of women to step back before he proceeds to rape a 12-year-old "wife" while praying. Even while knowing this, his followers formed a shield around him when the private investigator started taking pictures from an airplane of a new FLDS compound in Texas.

Even now, while serving a life sentence (plus 20 years for good measure), Jeffs holds an unnatural sway over his followers, the interviewees argue. The FLDS continues its illegal practices, which go beyond polygamy to exploiting children for labor and straight-up extortion and racketeering (allegedly, one should probably add). All of it is supported by the notion that, for believers, Jeffs' "persecution" is proof that he is the prophet (Even after he admits to lying, they still believe, which only makes him more forceful in his leadership).

Tragically, even the Supreme Court of the United States helped their cause in a recent ruling that protected the "religious liberty" of for-profit organizations, of which the FLDS has plenty to fill its coffers. All of this makes Prophet's Prey, in equal measures, a haunting examination of one evil man and an infuriating indictment of shielding the illegal and the immoral behind faith.

'Prophet's Prey': Inside Warren Jeffs' Polygamist Cult - The ... Jen Yamato from The Daily Beast

Review: Amy Berg's Brutally Unsettling 'Prophet's Prey' | The ... Kate Erbland from The Playlist

Flavorwire [Jason Bailey]

Slant Magazine [Chuck Bowen]

Kasia Anderson: 'Prophet's Prey' Film Review ... - Truthdig

Prophet's Prey :: Movies :: Reviews :: Paste - Paste Magazine Ross Bonaime

EyeForFilm.co.uk [Rebecca Naughten]

Prophet's Prey | Reviews | Screen - Screen International Anthony Kaufman

Prophet's Prey · Film Review · The A.V. Club Noel Murray

Sound On Sight (Dylan Griffin)

Film-Book.com [Drew Stelter]

Avi Offer [The NYC Movie Guru]

Facets : Cinematheque Schedule: Prophet's Prey

The Fundamentalist Cult Warren Jeffs Built: An ... - Gawker Jennifer C. Martin interview from Gawker, September 21, 2015

'It's total bull': Jon Krakauer hates 'Everest,' - Los Angeles ... Amy Kaufman interview with author Jon Krakauer from The LA Times, September 25, 2015

'Prophet's Prey': Sundance Review - The Hollywood Reporter Leslie Felperin, also seen at Film Journal International here: Film Review: Prophet's Prey

'Prophet's Prey' Review: Amy Berg's Gripping ... - Variety Justin Chang

'Prophet's Prey' probes Warren Jeffs' rise to power; attorney ... Cami Cox Jim from St. George News

'Prophet's Prey' - Los Angeles Times Robert Abele

Prophet's Prey - Roger Ebert Brian Tallerico

Review: 'Prophet's Prey,' a Documentary About Mormon ... Manohla Dargis from The New York Times

Prophet's Prey - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Mormon fundamentalism - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

The Principle (F-LDS) Trent Nelson from The Salt Lake Tribune

"Warren Jeffs and the FLDS Church" Amy Walters, Howard Berkes, and Wade Goodwyn from NPR, May 3, 2005

The Young Women of the F.L.D.S. - NYTimes.com July 27, 2008

The Polygamists - FLDS: An exclusive look inside the FLDS Scott Anderson from The Free Republic, January 17, 2010

Polygamy during the 19th century in Mormon Churches? Religious Tolerance, December 3, 2010

Mormonism and the Problem of Jon Krakauer | Religion ... Max Perry Mueller from Religion and Politics, July 14, 2015

Federal food stamp fraud charges could topple Warren Jeffs' polygamous Utah sect Yanan Wang from The Washington Post, February 24, 2016

Polygamous leader to remain jailed in food stamp fraud case Brady McCombs from The Washington Post, March 7, 2016

Polygamist Cult Found Guilty of Violating Civil Rights Jesse Hyde from Rolling Stone magazine, March 7, 2016

Towns Run by Polygamist Sect Violated Rights of Others, Jury Finds Fernanda Santos from The New York Times, March 8, 2016

Feds deal double blow to FLDS, the sect led by the Jeffs brothers Ann O’Neil from CNN News, March 8, 2016

Crackdown on Warren Jeffs' sect: Feds deal double blow to FLDS Q13 FOX News, March 8, 2016

Polygamous towns led by Warren Jeffs found guilty of discriminating against nonbelievers Anneta Konstantinides from The Daily Mail, March 8, 2016

Berg, Peter

FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS B 88

USA (117 mi) 2004

Based on a book by Buzz H.G. Bissinger, the film opens with a seeping panormama of utter desolation, miles and miles of nothing but an empty highway, along with an occasional oil well, as a DJ on the radio brings us into the world that is Odessa, West Texas. This is the setting for high school football, the religion of the town where everyone is a believer, complete with a brand new 20,000-seat stadium that sticks out like a national monument in an otherwise barren and empty landscape. Told with a hand held camera visual style that resembles rock videos, where the original music of Explosions in the Sky literally jumps off the screen, helped along by the grainy, always interesting, quick cutting film that features plenty of close-ups and moves along at a breakneck pace. Billy Bob Thornton is excellent as the coach who is expected to win a State championship every year, and the whole town is represented by adults who are mere shadows of their youth, ghosts of football seasons past, where everything that is important in their lives is measured by their successes or failures on the football field. After high school, their lives mean nothing. The thrill is gone. There’s nothing left to do in this dirty old town but talk about and watch football. This puts tremendous pressure on the kids every year, who go up against bigger and faster teams from the cities, but they have to find a way to not only survive, but prevail. The film predictably follows the teams travails over the course of one season, including Lucas Black as the white quarterback and Derek Luke as the all-everything black runner, apparently leaving out the racial animosity between teammates that was a highlight of the book, and while it is emotionally compelling, filled with plenty of detailed character insights, it’s still chock full of every kind of ROCKY sports cliché told in that overly hyped vein. Certainly not the best sports film of all time, OLYMPIA and PERSONAL BEST come to mind, not even the best football film, as one thinks of THE SLAUGHTER RULE, nonetheless, it has a terrific documentary feel and is riveting throughout.

Bergendy, Péter

THE EXAM (A vizsga) B- 81

Hungary (89 mi) 2012

A year after the failed Hungarian uprising of 1956, when Russian tanks occupied Budapest, this film is a Kafkaesque reminder of the absurd lengths the communist secret police would stoop to in order to test their own people’s loyalty, literally inventing fake scenarios testing what their agents would do when tempted under extreme duress, all while they are miked, wiretapped, and secretly observed. While the list of agents remains classified, the screenwriter Norbert Köbli obtained access to historical educational films that were used to train agents, becoming the basic structure of the film. The director seems to have been schooled on Spielberg films, as this Eastern European film has a westernized Hollywood feel, where the focus is on the film construction, as this is a heavily mechanized work fitting all the pieces of the puzzle together, where paranoia lurks behind every shadow, using gorgeously photographed stars wearing clothes from a distinctly stylized period, and even the streets are always watered down to get that maximum look.

More of an action thriller, where the established tone is a creepy aura of suspicion, there’s not much character development, or anything particularly likeable about any of the characters. The entire film takes place over a few hours on Christmas Eve, mostly set in two apartments, where in one, Zsolt Nagy as the ruggedly handsome Jung András fronts as a teacher while acting as a mid-level agent collecting information from civilians informing on fellow citizens, and in the other, unbeknownst to Jung, are higher level Secret Police photographing, listening to eavesdropping devices, and watching his every move, run by the stern-faced Markó (Janos Kulka), something of a mentor and father figure to Jung who lost his own parents when he was young.

The first breach of protocol is a surprise visit from Eva (Gabriella Hamori), an obviously attractive woman with a connection to the freedom movement before the occupation, where the three Secret Policemen squeezed into tight quarters are forced to listen to a passionate lovemaking session between a couple that obviously knows each other, arousing suspicion about Jung’s loyalty to the Party. Revisiting much of the same territory as THE LIVES OF OTHERS (2006), Markó plays a similarly conflicted oversight role, a Party stalwart while also feeling attached to his young protégé, knowing full well that his actions are being watched as well. All bets are off however when Jung suspects he’s being watched, making a beeline to the suspected area only to be thwarted by clever diversionary tactics, but the tension quickly elevates, much of it beautifully photographed by Zsolt Toth in the dark of night, where the amped up music of Gergely Parádi drives the action. Although the viewer doesn’t realize at first, the authorities have chosen this night to implement their highly challenging exam, an obscure, incredibly secretive procedure allegedly designed by the Russians, supposedly a surefire method to test their agents in the field.

The complexity of the ordeal takes on dramatic proportions after Jung suspects something is up, turning this into a highly unorthodox espionage case, with both sides of allegedly the same team spying on each other, each suspecting someone has turned, where no one really knows who to trust, but certainly a worse case scenario would be somebody getting killed during an artificially designed secret exam. Interestingly, this film was initially shot on a small budget targeted for a Hungarian television audience, but was released in theaters first due to the unexpected quality of the film, winner of the Best New Director Award at the Chicago Film Festival, “a film which combines the intricate plotting of a Cold War secret agent thriller with the serious undercurrent concerning deeper issues of personal loyalty versus the police state; it exudes a quiet confidence, remarkable in a new filmmaker.”

Nisimazine | Review: The Exam Andreea Dobre

There are spy films that make the latest productions from the neverending James Bond franchise look like a kid with a toy gun next to a classy gentleman in a smoking: films that manage to capture the thrills of one of the trickiest professions in the world without resorting to car chases, tons of bullets or high-tech special effects, relying on complex characters instead and drawing suspense from sophisticated scriptwriting that puts your mind to work.

After a long career in TV commercials and the successful debut feature Stop Mom Teresa! (Állítsátok meg Terézanyut!), director Péter Bergendy turns his eye to Hungarian history, creating an intimate piece where the espionage plot is only a pretext for a more complex story of trust and betrayal.

In late 1956, Budapest was boiling with turmoil after a student demonstration inspired a wider uprising against the Soviet policies imposed by then-ruling Communist Party, only to be crushed in less than a month. After these events, you would assume that the Secret Police had loads of work on their hands keeping an eye on anti-Communists, but Bergendy’s The Exam plays with the idea that the organisation needed to test their own people’s loyalty as well.

As Christmas 1957 approaches, one man seems untouched by the warm and fuzzy holiday mood. András Jung is a young agent posing as a lonely teacher who gives private language lessons in his small apartment: the perfect cover-up for receiving all sorts of visitors all day. What he doesn’t know is that his mentor, superior and only friend Markó Pál and a small team follow his every move. However, this film has a lot of surprises for us, and no random act of kindness or innocent glance is what it seems.

What impresses you first in The Exam is the visual style: Bergendy knows exactly what details to show to let the Christmas frenzy sneak in, or to cast the spell of doubt on a character, and director of photography Zsolt Tóth fits them all within a coherent film noir style, all in a captivating reconstruction of the fifties that will leave any retro nostalgic longing for more. Perhaps the background music is a bit too much at times, but that is merely a detail.

Despite its stylistic merits, The Exam’s greatest accomplishment lays somewhere else: Péter Bergendy has the ability to send out a clever statement in a mainstream-friendly way and show how Communism has taught people to never trust their peers. A legacy that former Communist countries will only be able to let go of after a couple of generations.

The Exam: Karlovy Vary Review - The Hollywood Reporter Stephen Farber

The Hungarian thriller from director Peter Bergendy follows two lovers living in 1957 Budapest, a city under surveillance by its Communist secret police.

Karlovy Vary—In recent years a number of films from central and eastern Europe have looked back at the repressive policies of the Communist era. It has taken a decade or more for European filmmakers to take stock of these past crimes, just as many of the best American movies about Vietnam were made years after the war had ended. The Lives of Others remains the best of these post-Communist films, but a number of other notable films have enhanced our understanding of this dark period. The new Hungarian film The Exam, which played in Karlovy Vary, offers another variation on the theme. Audiences will enjoy the film, though the subject matter may be a little too familiar to garner much attention in the American marketplace.

The film is set in Budapest in 1957, a year after the failure of the Hungarian uprising. Like The Lives of Others, it dramatizes the obsession with surveillance by the secret police. Jung (Zsolt Nagy) is a teacher who is also acting as a mid-level agent informing on many other citizens who come to report to him. Every Hungarian must go through an elaborate testing process to ascertain his loyalty, and Jung does not realize that he is also being watched and photographed by higher level policemen who want to be sure of his commitment. Jung’s superior and mentor, Marko (Janos Kulka), is overseeing the surveillance, even though he feels a fatherly interest in Jung.  Marko and his cohorts are surprised when Jung receives a visit from Eva (Gabriella Hamori), who was one of the freedom fighters in the revolt of 1956. It soon becomes clear that the two young people are lovers, which casts doubt on Jung’s loyalty to the Party.

The entire film takes place over several hours on Christmas Eve and is mainly set in two apartments—Jung’s and the apartment across the way where Marko and his colleagues are keeping watch on the young teacher. Director Peter Bergendy does a fine job building the claustrophobic atmosphere, and yet there is just enough action to keep the film taut and suspenseful. An erotic scene between the attractive young stars helps to keep us hooked. Both Nagy and Hamori give compelling performances, though veteran Hungarian actor Kulka has the richest role. Marko is reminiscent of the conflicted secret policeman played by the late Ulrich Muhe in Lives of Others. Marko is a loyal Party functionary, but he also feels affectionate concern for Jung, and his humanity makes him a somewhat unreliable Party member. Kulka’s portrayal is deeply nuanced.

There are a lot of twists and turns as the film moves toward its bitterly sardonic conclusion. The film does a fine job capturing the paranoid atmosphere within many Eastern bloc countries, when everyone was spying on everyone and no one felt safe. The tight editing helps to sustain tension, and Zsolt Toth’s appropriately dark-toned cinematography makes the most of the clammy atmosphere in the apartments and on the chilly streets of Budapest. While The Exam doesn’t break any new ground, it’s an effective low-key thriller.

CIFF 2012: The Exam (A Viszga, 2011) Marilyn Ferdinand from Ferdy on Films

Do the words “homeland security” make you feel protected? Do they make your skin crawl? Do you look around you in a bustling airport for unattended packages, or are you most interested in finding the food court? We may still say “It’s a free country,” but what citizens of the United States, and other countries as well, are more or less resigned to is the “new normal” of walking around in their stockinged feet as their shoes are x-rayed and their bags are randomly searched at the airport, going to museums that require they pass through metal detectors, or looking idly at Google Earth to see what their homes look like through the surveillance satellites and cameras that never sleep. We are all suspects now in an international game of terrorism, something the characters of Hungarian director Péter Bergendy’s second feature film must understand or face the consequences.

Hungarian screenwriting phenom Norbert Köbli has written a crackling thriller in which the main character is suspicion. Channeling the murderous paranoia of Stalinist rule in the year after the failed 1956 Hungarian counterrevolution, The Exam shows how oppressive regimes tend to eat their own tails by focusing on loyalty tests that were mandated for even the most zealously pro-Communist operatives in government.

The subject who is being tested on Christmas Eve—importantly, without his knowledge—is András Jung (Zsolt Nagy), a handsome young handler for the secret police. The opening credits cleverly show the double life Jung leads, toggling between close-ups of homey Christmas items like tree ornaments and candles and such tools of the spy trade as headphones and a gun being laid out for use. Jung poses as a German instructor who gives private lessons at an apartment maintained by the government as a less conspicuous way for Jung to contact his informants. We see him arrive home and carefully remove a matchstick he placed between the doors to inform him whether someone entered the apartment in his absence. He prepares to receive some of the informants he has been running by getting his hidden tape recorder and microphone set up and checking his list of agents. Before anyone arrives, his mentor Pál Márko (János Kulka) pays him a visit, inviting him for dinner and giving Jung a gift from his wife Janka (Mária Varga)—a ceramic angel to hang on his Christmas tree.

Thus begins Jung’s test. Márko goes across the street to an apartment where a surveillance team is set up to watch Jung, record his phone conversations from the tap placed in his telephone handset, and listen to his conversations with the informants he receives through the microphone hidden in the ceramic angel. The test proceeds uneventfully, and Márko is ready to call an end to it. The official test-runner, Emil Kulcsár (Péter Scherer), a nerdy, by-the-book member of the team who seems to idolize Márko, argues that they are required to watch the subject for 12 consecutive hours. Márko is dismissive of Kulcsár, consistently failing to remember his name, and wants to flaunt regulations so that he can get on with having a nice Christmas at home. That delightful possibility is definitively quashed when an unknown woman (Gabriella Hámori) arrives at Jung’s home and makes passionate love with him as the microphones and embarrassed spies catch every sigh.

Brutal and action-oriented, as befits his status as a war hero and early Soviet supporter, Márko follows up every lead, identifying the woman as Éva Gát, a music student with a questionable past whom Jung met at a concert. He becomes convinced that Jung is in love with her, and wonders how he can warn his surrogate son about the danger she poses to Jung’s position with the secret police. However, Jung is not the only agent in trouble; every main character, including the hapless Emil, has a personal, emotional tie that could jeopardize their position. Like many other films, books, and other works of art that deal with state oppression (e.g., Nineteen Eighty-Four), The Exam posits the personal and individual as major threats to the ruling order. As Jung tells a priest he has recruited to spy on another priest, guns are not the only weapons that can be used against the state.

In addition to the period detail, what I enjoyed so much about this exciting, cat-and-mouse film is that it was hard to decide who was the cat and who were the mice. In fact, from the landladies and enforcers who follow the orders of Márko and Emil to the humorless, intimidating Jung, we are never really sure whom to trust, what anyone is feeling, and what actions are real or staged. The actors play more than one role within their basic character, aware of living their cover stories, how they must behave to accord with the rules of the test, and holding their personal identities like precious water in a leaky bucket. Nagy particularly impresses as a cold operative with an equally passionate flipside and the capacity for sudden violence when his survival is threatened.

Like Jung, we, too, are being tested, asked to examine our loyalties by which character we identify with and root for. In the final scene, Márko and his wife finally sit down to Christmas dinner. The place setting for Jung remains empty until Janka at last removes it. The state has swallowed the personal, and we are left to consider the true cost of the “new normal” to our own lives.

Nisimazine | Interview-Portrait: Interview - Péter Bergendy Andreea Dobre interview from Nisimazine, July 5, 2012

Variety [Boyd van Hoeij]

Berger, Pablo

TORREMOLINOS 73

Spain Denmark (91 mi) 2003

Boston Phoenix [Nina MacLaughlin]

An encyclopedia salesman turns amateur pornographer turns Ingmar Bergman wanna-be in Pablo Berger’s endearing debut. It’s 1973 Spain, and plump, balding, world-weary Alfredo (Javier Cámara, the lovelorn nurse in Pedro Almodóvar’s Hable con ella) is hawking encyclopedias door to door with diminishing success while trying not to hear the alarm that’s going off on the biological clock of wife Carmen (Candela Peña). In an offer that seems to solve both their lack of money and their lack of a baby, Alfredo’s suave boss, Don Carlos (Juan Diego), gives the couple an opportunity to help with his new venture, "World Encyclopedia of Reproduction," which turns out to be less ethnographic sex study and more homemade porn project marketed to Scandinavia. Alfredo discovers a passion for directing, Carmen sheds her inhibitions, and both become eager, if awkward, participants. Their naïveté charms; what they’re up to never feels filthy. Carmen doesn’t get pregnant, and Alfredo does get bitten by the Bergman bug. But even as matters turn serious, the levity remains. And Alfredo gets to make the film he wants, both ode to and spoof of The Seventh Seal — excepting the final scene. In Spanish with English subtitles. (91 minutes)

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young] revised review for 2005 UK release

Torremolinos 73 was one of the crowdpleasing hits of the Edinburgh Film Festival... 2003 edition! But with even some of the most remarkable recent Spanish movies (such as Achero Manas's brilliant November) struggling to obtain UK distribution, it's perhaps a case of 'better late than never'. Nobody would claim that Berger's debut is particularly outstanding - but this idiosyncratic satire of late-Franco-era Spanish film-making is an extremely likeable, engagingly daft affair.

Serious subtexts occasionally surface: this is, among many things, a wry but optimistic view of early pan-European co-operation between the chilly-but-liberated north and the warm-but-repressed south: a Danish film-crew (including ubiquitous Scandi-superstar Mads Mikkelsen) helps out budding director Alfredo (delightfully hangdog Almodovar-regular Camara) as he haltingly progresses from ‘educational' sex shorts to his 'epic' entitled "Torremolinos 73". But while the director has lofty aims to emulate his hero Ingmar Bergman, the money-men insist on the film containing some rather more salacious - and therefore commercial - bedroom scenes.

The soft-core porn elements are incorporated with a touch of of the bouncy, innocent glee which gave Paul Thomas Anderson's seminal Boogie Nights such a lift - the atmosphere is ‘naughty' rather than in any way sordid, with period details (everything is orange and/or brown) captured unobtrusively. Berger's direction never approaches 'P.T.A' heights of inspiration, of course, but his script is rather cannier than you initially suspect. The most amusing (and touching) moment comes when our hero has to produce sperm so that his fertility can be checked: he goes into a hospital cubicle whose walls are covered with images of naked women, but prefers to use the passport-sized photo of his own, relatively "homely" wife Carmen (Pena) for stimulation.

The picture glides along nicely on this kind of good-natured character comedy for almost all running-time, only losing momentum a little in the final stretches. But it's rare to find a movie without a single  scrap of self-importance, even if film-within-film "Torremolinos 73" is the most wildly pretentious Fellini/Bergman pastiche imaginable. Sight and Sound is unlikely to agree, but on this evidence, Berger is, if anything, a rather more entertaining film-maker than either of those overrated 'masters'.

Torremolinos 73 Paul Julian Smith from Sight and Sound

DVD Times Noel Megahey

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DVDBeaver.com [Henrik Sylow]

Bergkraut, Eric

LETTER TO ANNA (Ein Artikel zu viel) – made for TV B 88

aka: Letter to Anna: The Story of Journalist Politkovskaya’s Death

Switzerland (84 mi) 2008

A powerful exposé on freedom of the press, especially when taking on totalitarian regimes that eventually find the truth tiresome. This documentary, shown as part of the Human Rights Festival, offers a rare glimpse of Anna Politkovskaya, a driven investigative journalist who worked for Russia’s only independent newspaper, Novaya Gazeta, providing scathing coverage of Russia’s annihilation of Chechnya, which she called genocide, as Russia killed 200,000 Chechens, or 25% of the entire population, leaving the country in ruins in order to thwart an independence movement. Eventually what turned the tide is Ramzan Kadyrov, one of the Chechen military leaders, changed sides and joined the Russians in attacking and eventually torturing his own people, eventually becoming the Putin hand selected choice for Prime Minister of Chechnya, a position he continues to hold today. So the story goes, one of betrayal and continued assassination well after the fighting stopped in order to consolidate power, resembling the hideous nature of murder behind the scenes in Shakespeare’s Richard III. Politkovskaya herself was the victim of an assassin’s bullet, shot dead in the entrance stairwell inside her apartment building. However in this film she is captured on film interviews, working at her desk, or talking with friends by a Swiss TV documentary crew that was examining the war in Chechnya. Her own words, especially her knowledge that she would be killed, provide a compelling thread among the many voices heard throughout the film.

The talking heads style of the film is fairly typical, featuring a Susan Sarandon narration, blending lyrical piano music with the harrowing nature of what she was covering, including raw footage of Russian military personnel shooting captured and unnarmed Chechens, charred remains of burned bodies, mothers wailing over the loss of their sons, where Politkovskaya is sure that enough evidence has been collected to justify the formation of a war tribunal against Russia’s annihilation of Chechnya, where they took no prisoners, preferring instead to kill every last man, including in some instances women and children as well. According to Politkovskaya who asked the Russian soldiers why, they answered boastfully that they were Chechens. We gather early impressions of her life, born in America to Russian diplomats to the United Nations, eventually studying in Moscow where she married her husband, another Russian TV reporter, and was a stay-at-home mom for her two kids, eventually getting the bug to do more with her life, choosing work over marriage, where her husband mentioned coming home at night and seeing her working at her desk, a sign he wasn’t ready yet to go home, claiming it was like “living on top of a hot volcano.” The newspaper editor, Dmitri Muratov, recalled she was beautiful, full of idealism, charm and laughter, but as she got older, particularly after her first trip to Chechnya, the laughter disappeared, replaced with a near obsessional drive to get at the truth. She had a rather saintly quality of never telling lies, a radical posture in such a bleak war zone, especially when attempting to expose nations that survive by duping the public, where her message becomes more than an irritant, but a threat to their hold on power.

Politkovskaya was able to identify the Russian strategy of using double agents who infiltrated Chechen military units urging them into unwinnable situations where little did they know it was a trap, where the agent disappeared at the last moment before the Russian assualt wiped out every last man. Equally critical of the Chechans, calling Kadyrov a “state criminal” while documenting his torture methods, she refused to be sympathetic to the Chechen cause and take their side, especially when they were holding hostages, so she was stuffed into a Chechen pit, where they kept prisoners in isolation until she was mysteriously rescued, where no details were given, but apparently word of her dire situation made its way to the West. Many times she was called upon to mediate Russian/Chechen standoffs, due to her impartiality and concern for human life, where as she was flying to help mediate the Beslan school hostage crisis, she was the victim of one of the KGB’s favorite strategies, poisoning those they want to silence, and barely survived a poisoned cup of tea she drank on the plane, never really regaining her health afterwards. The picture she paints of the Russian style of governing most closely resembles the mafia, as they routinely utilize their services to carry out dirty business, so that after awhile they become indistinguishable for their inherant corruption, bribery, and use of murder to accomplish their aims. Since Kadyrov is part of the same rotten system, Politkovskaya had her work cut out for her. Eventually she was silenced, where the role of investigating her murder likely fell into the hands of those that carried it out, be it Russian or Chechen, so a few suspects were rounded up but they were ultimately cleared of all charges. To this day, no one has been held accountable for her murder, or for that matter, the murders she was exposing through her books and articles.

The 7th Annual HUMAN RIGHTS WATCH TRAVELING FILM FESTIVAL Facets Multi Media

Anna Politkovskaya was a brave and tenacious journalist for one of Russia's only independent journals, Novaya Gazeta. Anna used her journalist platform to strongly criticize Russian military actions in Chechnya. On October 7, 2006, she was shot dead in the stairwell of her Moscow apartment building. A few years before her untimely death, filmmaker Eric Bergkraut met Politkovskaya while making his documentary Coca: The Dove From Chechnya. Bergkraut filmed some powerful, frank interviews with the late reporter. In Letter to Anna these are interwoven with a tantalizing search for her likely killers and insightful contributions from colleagues and loved ones who discuss her work while celebrating the life of an extraordinary woman and mother, a fearless defender of the people, "the conscience of Russia." Narrated by Susan Sarandon. Directed by Eric Bergkraut, Switzerland, 2008, 84 mins. In Russian and English with English subtitles.

Chicago Reader    Andrea Gronvall

The crusading Russian journalist Anna Politkovskaya covered the Chechen conflict and wrote a scathing book about president Vladimir Putin before she was murdered in her Moscow apartment building in 2006. The crime took place on Putin’s birthday, and some of those interviewed in this 2008 documentary imply that he knew about the crime beforehand. Director Eric Bergkraut, who featured Politkovskaya in his 2005 film Coca: The Dove From Chechnya, uses outtakes from that documentary to show her in her prime. He also interviews her family and colleagues as well as Russian expatriates and political activists like former chess champion Garry Kasparov, almost all of whom paint a grim picture of Russia’s current government. The most chilling footage shows a beaming Chechen president Ramzan Kadyrov, a puppet of the Kremlin; the use of torture by his paramilitary forces was the subject of an exposé Politkovskaya had begun writing the week before her assassination. Susan Sarandon narrates. In English and subtitled Russian. 83 min.

Eye for Film (Val Kermode) review [3/5]

This is the story of the brave journalist, Anna Politkovskaya, who was murdered in 2006 following her persistent reporting on the Russian war in Chechnya.

The Swiss director, Eric Bergkraut, had worked with Anna on his earlier film, Coca: The Dove From Chechnya. Hearing of her death, he decided to make this film as a tribute to her, using some of the footage which he already had and interviews with those who knew her well.

The voiceover in this English version is by Susan Sarandon, and the events of Anna’s last day are shown in reconstruction, though we see an image of Anna’s killer caught on CCTV as he leaves her apartment block. That the killer was never traced comes as no surprise. The poisoning of Litvinenko in London is also touched on, as are the murders of other journalists. This film puts the ultimate blame squarely on the then President Putin.

We are given only a minimum of background information on the situation in Chechnya. It is referred to as a 200-year war of independence and some call it genocide. Newsreel footage is used, together with video of atrocities committed by Russian soldiers, the tapes made by them as souvenirs and collected by Anna’s friend and colleague, Zainab. There is no attempt to present historical balance. The emphasis is on the abuse of human rights which was Anna’s concern.

Anna was known and trusted for her impartiality. This led to her being called in as a negotiator during the Moscow theatre siege and again to the Beslan school hostage tragedy, though on this occasion she narrowly escaped death when she was poisoned on the plane taking her there.

The film raises many questions. Despite the bravery of some of the interviewees, such as Anna’s editor Dmitry Muratov from Novaya Gazeta, I would have liked more answers. But by letting us hear the voices of those who knew her and particularly through the use of many strong closeups, we gain a picture of Anna as a brave, humane and beautiful person, which was Eric’s intention. What could have been simply a very sad film is ultimately uplifting.

Death of a courageous journalist Malcolm Haslett from the BBC News, October 9, 2006

To many of us Anna Politkovskaya will remain the epitome of what a journalist should be.

She represented the best traditions of the Russian intelligentsia - highly cultured, courageous and fiercely honest.

A softly-spoken and serious woman who always talked in measured terms, she was deeply concerned about what was happening in her country.

She was also deeply disturbed by the direction the Putin administration was taking it, and despite the huge pressures put on Russia's media to submit and conform, she regularly investigated and reported the many abuses she believed were ruining the country's progress towards a normal state of democracy.

Because of this she not only had to face a barrage of officially sponsored scorn and innuendo from journalistic colleagues who chose to make their peace with the official line. She also survived more than one attempt on her life.

Multiple suspects

One of the main focuses for her criticism of President Putin's rule was his policy on Chechnya, and the finger of suspicion for her death has already been pointed at the controversial pro-Moscow strongman Ramzan Kadyrov, currently prime minister of the Chechen republic.

The Russian journalist Masha Gessen told the BBC that Kadyrov had threatened Anna Politkovskaya and deterred her from visiting Chechnya for the last two years, despite the fact that she was "very courageous, almost irrationally courageous".

"She was probably the most vocal critic not just of Ramzan Kadyrov but the Kremlin decision to appoint him. She called him a state criminal, and she called him Putin's most tragic mistake," Ms Gessen said.

But there is no shortage of other suspects too, official and unofficial. She made enemies among Russia's powerful business class. And crime syndicates. Nor did she avoid, as so many Russian journalists now do, open criticism of the Putin administration and its security services.

So there will be multiple suspects.

And it is a sad reflection on present-day Russia that so many powerful people spent so much time trying to isolate Anna Politkovskaya, transform her into some sort of crank.

Silenced

Masha Gessen points out that while she was one of the best known Russian journalists in the West, she had been "effectively silenced" in Russia itself.

"The newspaper she wrote for had a fairly small press run, not terribly well distributed - because it is extremely difficult for an independent newspaper to distribute in this country," Ms Gessen says.

"And whereas several years ago she still had access to television shows and radio shows - so she was widely known for things she said rather than for things she wrote - that was no longer the case."

To those who met Politkovskaya, and read her material, it was quite obvious she was far from being a crank, and that the material she published - whether on human rights abuses in Chechnya, brutality in the army, or the failures of the judicial system - was worthy of at least being examined by the authorities.

Vladimir Putin has been carefully nurturing, particularly during the build-up to the G-8 summit three months ago, an image of Russia as struggling forward towards democracy.

Anna Politkovskaya's journalism seriously undermined that image. Her death undermines it even more.

Who Killed Anna Politkovskaya? - The New York Review of Books Amy Knight from The New York Review of Books, November 6, 2008

Russia - Death of a Journalist - A new documentary, "Letter to ... Roland Elliott Brown from The Moscow Times, May 16 – 22, 2008

Variety Derek Elley

BBC Tristana Moore from BBC News, February 11, 2008

Cleaning up "Sanitisation" in Chechnya, by Anna Politkovskaya from Eurozine, May 6, 2002

'Putin must talk peace or risk spilling the blood of more innocents' Anna Politkovskaya from The Guardian, October 28, 2002

Anna Politkovskaya: Poisoned by Putin Anna Politkovskaya from The Guardian, September 9, 2004

Anna Politkovskaya reports on suspected mass poisoning of schoolchildren in Chechnya Anna Politkovskaya from The Guardian, March 1, 2006

Anna Politkovskaya: A Russian Diary - global-sisterhood-network.org Excerpts from Anna Politkovskaya articles, including “Fascism Is in Fashion,” “Beslan Is Quietly Going Out of Its Mind,” and “Inside the Dragon’s Lair,” previously published in The Guardian, March 2007

Anna Politkovskaya : Putin's Russia book summary from Politkovskaya’s website

Her Own Death, Foretold - washingtonpost.com Anna Politkovskaya from The Washington Post, October 15, 2009

Full coverage of the Anna Politkovskaya case The Guardian, also seen here: Anna Politkovskaya | Media | guardian.co.uk

Chechnya: Articles by Anna Politkovskaya Danish Support Committee for Chechnya, May 20, 2002

Spreading Despair Human Rights Watch Report on Chechnya and the neighboring Republic of Ingushetia, September 21, 2003

Why are the Chechens so mad at Russia? - By Masha Gessen - Slate ... Masha Gessen from Slate, September 4, 2004

Leading Russian journalist 'poisoned' Chris Tryhorn from The Guardian, September 6, 2004

Russia 'impeded media' in Beslan Stephan Dalziel from The BBC News, September 16, 2004

Dispatches from a savage war James Meek interviews Anna Politkovskaya from The Guardian, October 15, 2004

Russian army bullying 'horrific' BBC News, October 20, 2004

History blamed for Russia's bully culture Steven Eke from The BBC News, October 20, 2004

Poison's Use as Political Tool: Ukraine Is Not Exceptional Scott Shane from The New York Times, December 15, 2004

Analysis: Russia's mixed signals Steven Eke from The BBC News, December 22, 2004

America's friend, Uzbekistan's dictator. - By Christopher Hitchens ... brief book review of Putin’s Russia in Slate, June 1, 2005

Russians win human rights prize BBC News, January 12, 2005

TIME Europe Magazine :: Heroes 2005 :: Persistence of Vision - 1 Time Europe magazine, 2005

Russia: A Journalist's Murder Slain But Not Silenced, by Christian Caryl from Newsweek magazine, October 7, 2006

Chechen war reporter found dead BBC News, October 7, 2006

Obituary: Anna Politkovskaya BBC News, October 7, 2006

Tributes paid to Russian journalist BBC News, October 7, 2006

Journalist Critical of Chechen War Is Shot Dead - New York Times C.J. Chivers from The New York Times, October 8, 2006

Assassin's bullet kills fiery critic of Putin Tom Parfitt from The Observer, October 8, 2006

Russia hunts journalist's killer BBC News, October 8, 2006

Russian media mourn 'fearless' reporter BBC News, October 8, 2006

The hitmen who stalk Russia Patrick Jackson from The BBC News, October 8, 2006

Anne Applebaum - A Moscow Murder Story - washingtonpost.com Anne Applebaum from The Washington Post, October 9, 2006, also seen here in Slate: Russia's dirty war against journalists. - By Anne Applebaum ...

Putin silent as fiercest critic is murdered Tom Parfitt from The Guardian, October 9, 2006

Russia Blog: Who Killed Anna Politkovskaya? Charles Ganske from Russia Blog, October 9, 2006

Chechens deplore reporter's death BBC News, October 9, 2006

Anna Politkovskaya: Putin's Russia BBC News, October 9, 2006

Funeral for shot Russian reporter The BBC News, October 10, 2006

Crowds drawn to reporter's funeral Artyom Liss from The BBC News, October 10, 2006

Red October: Killing the Truth in Moscow | Chris Floyd Online ... Empire Burlesque, October 11, 2006

Thomas de Waal: The Chechen silence Thomas de Waal from The Guardian, October 12, 2006

Murdered Russian reporter's critical last work published Tom Parfitt from The Guardian, October 13, 2006

Who Killed Anna Politkovskaya? by John Laughland Lew Rockwell, October 19, 2006

Russia: Police accused of obstructing arrest of potential suspect in Politkovskaya murder Tom Parfitt from The Guardian, November 6, 2006

Russia Blog: Who Poisoned Alexander Litvinenko? Charles Ganske from The Russian Blog, November 20, 2006

Radioactive Poison Killed Ex-Spy - washingtonpost.com Mary Jordan and Peter Finn from The Washington Post, November 25, 2006

Who poisoned the KGB agent? | Salon News Alex Koppelman from Salon, December 1, 2006

Poisoning Of Ex-Agent Sets Off Alarm Bells - washingtonpost.com Peter Finn from The Washington Post, January 7, 2007

Chechen police probed over murder BBC News, January 23, 2007

Politkovskaya and the Cold War - Pravda.Ru  Timothy Bancroft-Hinchey, 2-page article from Pravda Online, February 4, 2007

Politkovskaya’s Slanderous and Cowardly Smear against the Kremlin....by Sir Bancroft Timothy Bancroft-Hinchey from The Pravda Online Forum, February 4, 2007

Press exposure Tatiana Lokshina from The Guardian, May 3, 2007

Britain demands Russia hand over polonium suspect | Reuters Mark Trevelyan from Reuters, May 22, 2007

Craig Murray - Russian Journalist Murders, and Gazprom Craig Murray, June 1, 2007

Chechen mafia and rogue officials blamed as Russia arrests 10 for journalist's murder Luke Harding and Matthew Taylor from The Guardian, August 28, 2007

Arrests over Russia writer murder BBC News, August 28, 2007

Murder probe grips Russian press BBC News, August 28, 2007

Roman Shleinov: Enemies of the state Roman Shleinov from The Guardian, September 1, 2007

New team for Politkovskaya case BBC News, September 4, 2007

Keeping hope alive Robert Ménard from The Guardian, October 7, 2007

Killer of Russian journalist is known, editor says C.J. Chivers from The New York Times, October 7, 2007

Charges in Russia reporter murder BBC News, October 17, 2007

Politkovskaya murderer named James Orr from The Guardian, May 12, 2008

Anna Politkovskaya trial to be open to public Oliver Luft from The Guardian, May 2008

Raucous Russian Tabloids Thrive Anne Barnard from The New York Times, July 27, 2008

Former Rebel In Chechnya Is Killed In Moscow Michael Schwirtz from The New York Times, September 24, 2008

Irina Filatova: As the alleged assassins of Anna Politkovskaya stand trial, so too does Vladimir Putin Irina Filatova from The Guardian, November 18, 2008, also seen here: Putin in the dock

Politkovskaya supporters condemn secret trial Luke Harding from The Guardian, November 20, 2008

How Putin has failed Russia James Marson from The Guardian, November 21, 2008

'To be a journalist in Russia is suicide' Luke Harding from The Guardian, November 24, 2008

Russian politician was behind Politkovskaya murder, lawyer claims Jemima Kiss from The Guardian, November 25, 2008

Lawyers demand dismissal of judge in Anna Politkovskaya trial Oliver Luft from The Guardian, November 25, 2008

Judge in Anna Politkovskaya murder trial defies calls to stand down Jemima Kiss from The Guardian, November 26, 2008

Politkovskaya killing ordered by politician, lawyers claim Luke Harding from The Guardian, November 26, 2008

'Suspicious strangers' spotted near Anna Politkovskaya's home Caitlin Fitzsimmons from The Guardian, November 27, 2008

Anna Politkovskaya trial moves into closed court to hear secret testimony Caitlin Fitzsimmons from The Guardian, December 4, 2008

Critic of Chechen President Is Killed in Exile in Vienna C.J. Chivers from The New York Times, January 13, 2009

Frederick Bernas: Exactly who is the boss in the Kremlin? Frederick Bernas from The Guardian, January 19, 2009

Leading Russian Rights Lawyer Shot to Death in Moscow, Along With a Journalist Michael Schwirtz from The New York Times, January 19, 2009

Irina Filatova: The assassination of Stanislav Markelov tells Russians not to count on the law Irina Filatova from The Guardian, January 22, 2009

Luke Harding: Who is behind the latest in a long list of mysterious murders in Russia? Luke Harding from The Guardian, January 28, 2009

Jason Corcoran: Vladimir Putin's denial that he is a 'billionaire-slayer' looks increasingly unconvincing Jason Corcoran from The Guardian, January 28, 2009

No outcry over Russian killings BBC News, February 7, 2009

Politkovskaya suspects acquitted BBC News, February 19, 2009

Anna Politkovskaya trial: Four accused found not guilty Luke Harding from The Guardian, February 19, 2009

Anna Politkovskaya trial: Four accused found not guilty - The Guardian Luke Harding from The Guardian, February 19, 2009

Anna Politkovskaya murder timeline Luke Harding from The Guardian, February 19, 2009

Anna Politkovskaya trial: the unanswered questions Luke Harding from The Guardian, February 19, 2009

Truth elusive in Politkovskaya case Rupert Wingfield-Hayes from BBC News, February 20, 2009

Politkovskaya murder hunt reopens BBC News, February 20, 2009

Anna Politkovskaya: No Justice | Human Rights Watch Tanya Lokshina from Human Rights Watch, February 20, 2009

Russia Reopens Case of Murdered Journalist Ellen Barry and Michael Schwirtz from The New York Times, February 21, 2009

Who killed Anna Politkovskaya? Irina Filatova from The Guardian, February 21, 2009

The New Leader of a Russian Region Inherits Its Burdens and Its People’s Hopes Ellen Barry from The New York Times, February 27, 2009

Simon Tisdall: Dmitry Medvedev's promise to uphold the rule of law sounds hollow when so many assassins remain at large The Guardian, April 9, 2009

Russia ends anti-terrorism operations in Chechnya Luke Harding from The Guardian, April 16, 2009

Country profile: Russia BBC News, April 16, 2009

Medvedev the fake reformer | Luke Harding Luke Harding from The Guardian, May 7, 2009

Regions and territories: Chechnya BBC News, May 13, 2009

Gunmen Kill Judge in Ingushetia in Latest Caucasus Violence ... Michael Schwirtz from The New York Times, June 10, 2009

Politkovskaya case to be retried BBC News, June 25, 2009

Russian activist 'found murdered' BBC News, July 15, 2009

Estemirova's Murder Leaves Chechnya Bereft Anna Nemtsova from Newsweek magazine, July 20, 2009

New Politkovskaya probe ordered BBC News, September 3, 2009

Suspected Politkovskaya killer arrested Jim Heintz from Salon, May 31, 2011

Politkovskaya murder suspect held BBC News, May 31, 2011

Ex-police chief detained in Politkovskaya murder case RT, August 24, 2011

Journalist Murders: Bailey Killers Convicted: More Charges in ... Holly Miller from Silha, September 1, 2011

Main suspect in Politkovskaya case pleads guilty RT, September 3, 2011

Berezovsky behind Politkovskaya killing - report RT, September 16, 2011

New Details Emerge in Politkovskaya Murder Case Benjamin Bidder and Matthias Schepp from Der Spiegel, October 4, 2011

Politkovskaya – Justice nears after 5 years Natalia Kolesnikova from RT, October 7, 2011

Suspects charged over Russia journalist Anna Politkovskaya's murder The Independent, October 7, 2011

New charges in Politkovskaya slaying RT, October 27, 2011

Suspects recycled in Politkovskaya case - Blog - Committee to ... Elena Milashina, from the Committee to Protect Journalists, November 7, 2011

Berezovsky, Zakayev ‘behind Politkovskaya murder’ - suspect RT, February 29, 2012

An accomplice in Politkovskaya's murder moves to house arrest ... Pavel Koshkin from Russia Beyond the Headlines, June 1, 2012

Ex-cop indicted in Politkovskaya murder case — RT RT, July 16, 2012

Russia investigators charge ex-officer for Politkovskaya murder - Jurist Michael Haggerson from The Jurist, July 18, 2012

Investigation of Politkovskaya murder suspect completed | Russian ... Rapsi News, September 6, 2012

Anna Politkovskaya (1958-2006)

Anna Politkovskaya - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Anna Politkovskaya assassination - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Anna Politkovskaya | Amnesty International USA

Beslan school hostage crisis - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Alexander Litvinenko poisoning - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

The killing of Anna Politkovskaya: Russia's Dirty Secrets YouTube video on Viddler (103 minutes)

Bergman, Andrew

THE FRESHMAN

USA (102 mi) 1990

Time Out review

Film student Clark Kellogg (Broderick) arrives in New York ready to start his first term, but within minutes smooth-talking hustler Victor Ray (Kirby) has relieved him of money and luggage. When Kellogg later chances across Ray, the latter makes amends by offering the distraught teen a part-time job with his uncle Carmine Sabatini (Brando) who, seen sprawled behind his desk at an Italian 'social club', looks every inch the Godfather. Kellogg's first assignment seems fraught with hazards... Writer/director Bergman's good-natured comedy makes light of gangster genre conventions, and humorously under- cuts some of the more portentous aspects of film academia: Kellogg's plight is rendered farcical when, at a seminar on Coppola's The Godfather, he begins to find disturbing similarities between his life and the movie. The casting, needless to say, is perfect, and Bergman keeps the various escalating intrigues clipping along at a brisk pace.

Austin Chronicle [Christopher Null]

Nothing soothes the mind of someone undergoing a traumatic change of residence like The Freshman, Andrew Bergman's brilliant fish-out-of-water story that, for some reason, never really found its audience. Broderick, a perennial favorite of mine, is the titular idealistic film student who finds himself victimized by a scam artist (Kirby) only 19 minutes after his arrival in New York City. What follows is a perfectly hilarious tale about what might be the mob (headed by a very Godfather-ish Brando), an elaborate "importing" scheme, the perils of film school, and a large Komodo dragon. With dead-on performances (Whaley and Kirby could both keep the film afloat on their own) and enough film references to keep the most dedicated cinephile interested, The Freshman is a woefully underlooked movie (that fortunately comes on cable all the time). Frankly, I never tire of watching this movie over and over again, and it always manages to make me forget my troubles (as well as Bergman's more recent work, like Striptease). Hopefully, Bergman will once again regain his instincts... or else I'll make him an offer he can't refuse.

Washington Post (Joe Brown) review

When was the last time you were really surprised in a movie? These days, it seems, most movies are homogenized and safely predictable in order to appeal to the widest possible audience without disturbing anyone.

Surprise! Here's "The Freshman," a quirky sleeper with something truly unexpected around every corner. Its best surprises are the appearance of the long-absent Marlon Brando, in his first starring role in a decade, and his comic charisma and chemistry with co-star Matthew Broderick.

Wary but green NYU film school freshman Clark Kellogg (Broderick) has been in New York City fully 19 minutes and 11 seconds when he talks to a stranger and winds up losing everything he owns. Kellogg accidentally catches up with the scamster who offers him a job by way of apology, and Kellogg finds himself helplessly drawn into a nearly surrealistic New York demimonde. It's like Griffin Dunne's ordeal in "After Hours," only considerably less nightmarish.

Kellogg's employer is one Carmine Sabatini (Brando), an imposing Italian eminence everyone insists is an "importer," but who bears a startling resemblance to Don Corleone of "Godfather" film fame (which is coincidentally being screened and studied in Clark's film class). Terrifying but sentimental, Sabatini takes a fatherly shine to Kellogg and sends him out to pick up a package -- which turns out to be a rare Komodo dragon, a reptile fully seven feet long, with a flickering forked tongue seemingly half that length. By the time Kellogg smells trouble, he can't refuse Sabatini's offer, and the chaos happily escalates.

Brando and Broderick get along brilliantly, with what seems on screen a natural affection and affinity. Brando, who has an ingeniously offhand way with his clever lines, takes some sly swipes at his own iconic "Godfather" characterization, and good-naturedly lends his considerable dignity to some very silly situations. Broderick is up to the challenge of acting with a giant. His Kellogg is an amalgam of his other smart-kid roles -- he even begins the movie with a "Ferris Bueller"/"Biloxi Blues"-style voice-over. But it's Brando's movie.

All the lesser lights shine as brightly, including Bruno Kirby as the flaky flimflam man who sets Kellogg on the road to ruthlessness; Penelope Ann Miller, who clearly relishes the role of Mafia princess; and Paul Benedict, flesh-crawlingly familiar as the insufferably self-regarding film professor. And the Komodo dragon (actually a dragon look-alike called a water monitor) is so ugly-adorable you'll be rooting for it in its mad dash for freedom in a New Jersey mall.

Writer-director Andrew Bergman gets away with nearly every goofy gag he goes for, and he's successful largely because his actors never betray that their giddy universe isn't absolutely real. There are rather large loopholes in the film's internal logic -- it's a good bet that chunks of film lie on a floor somewhere. But "The Freshman" is so refreshing and endearing, its laughs so genuine, chances are you'll be willing to forgive the minor glitches. Bergman's got a sweet-natured sense of humor and the film is peppered with in-jokes and matter-of-factly off-the-wall sight gags and cameo appearances. (If I told you more, it wouldn't be a surprise.)

Turner Classic Movies review Paul Tatara

The movies Marlon Brando appeared in after his swift ascent to acting-god status in the early 50s are almost all partially remembered for the feathers Brando ruffled while filming them. His life was forever complicated by his mercurial mood swings, a calculated disregard for any form of etiquette, and the blatant way that he manipulated his family, lovers, and closest friends. Simply put, Brando was hugely gifted and too often a difficult, self-absorbed actor, a flaw that eventually clouded his standing as one of the four or five greatest actors of the 20th century. Perhaps the most potently bizarre thing about Brando is that this tainting of his legend appeared to have been a personal goal.

Andrew Bergman's The FreshmanThe Godfather (1972), is a perfect example of the kind of havoc he could wreak when the mood struck him. Although the picture signaled something of a return to form for the actor, Brando managed - while it was being filmed - to needlessly antagonize a dear friend, two of his own children, and almost every person connected with the project.

In The Freshman's deliberately twisted screwball plot, Matthew Broderick plays Clark Kellogg, an NYU film student who's robbed by Victor (Bruno Kirby), a Little Italy thug, the moment he hits town to begin classes, leaving him broke. Clark tracks Victor down, and Victor, who no longer has the money, offers to introduce him to his Uncle Carmine (Brando), an "importer-exporter" who can give Clark a legitimate job. When Clark, a movie fanatic, meets Carmine, he's immediately stunned by his eerie resemblance to...Marlon Brando in The Godfather. The first meeting between Broderick and Brando is arguably the best scene in the film, as Carmine alternately seduces and terrifies Clark with equal aplomb.

Clark will accept the job, which consists of importing endangered animals to the US for exotic dining purposes (don't ask). He will also fall in love with Carmine's beautiful daughter, Tina (Penelope Ann Miller, who looks about as Italian as Diane Keaton does.) Clark will wind up involved in a scam that's way over his head, and you'll get to see and hear Bert Parks croon a freakish version of Bob Dylan's quasi-humorous protest anthem, "Maggie's Farm."

Oddly, it was Brando who originally made contact with Bergman, rather than the other way around. Bergman remembers that Brando called him "out of the blue" to tell him how much he laughed at a video of the director's outrageous comedy The In-Laws (1979). About a year after that, Bergman sent Brando an early draft of his script for The Freshman. Brando liked what he saw, and soon had a contract that promised him $3.3 million and 11 percent of the picture's gross. Not bad for a glorified supporting role.

The New York portion of the shoot went smoothly and was uneventful. But when Brando re-joined the cast and crew for further work in Toronto, things began to unravel. In fact, Brando's long-time friend, Philip Rhodes, a makeup man who also worked on The Freshman, felt that Brando was having a nervous breakdown. Just a few days into the Toronto shoot, Brando screamed wildly at Rhodes, accusing him of having leaked some of his personal information to the press. Rhodes had argued with Brando before, but never anything like this.

"It was frightening, and then he refused to talk to me throughout the rest of the picture," Rhodes later told Brando biographer Peter Manso. "He froze me out, just ignored me." Rhodes, however, felt that he finally recognized what made Brando turn on people who were close to him. "I came to understand that he had decided that people like me, who knew about his life, are dangerous, and then he stops thinking and has these irrational blowups. So after The Freshman we didn't speak for at least a year and a half."

So that was how Brando treated a "friend." Next came Brando's family. His first sleight was when his troubled son, Christian, attempted to get a small role in the movie. Brando simply waved the request away, apparently never recognizing how badly he hurt Christian's feelings. Then, Brando's equally troubled teenage daughter, Cheyenne, tried to come visit him in Toronto. But he refused to let her.

According to Cheyenne, her father had initially said she could come watch him act before the cameras, something she had never done, and she was very much looking forward to spending time with him. Viewing this latest, wholly unexpected rejection as a betrayal, Cheyenne hung up the phone after quarreling with Brando, sped off in her jeep, and promptly turned it over. She suffered severe injuries, and would have to endure multiple operations to reconstruct her face and skull.

And then there was the cast and crew, most of whom Brando managed to offend in a single self-serving gesture that was completely unexpected. Near the end of filming, Brando threw a lavish party, where he warmly handed out gifts to his assembled co-workers. Shortly after that, he went out to dinner with several members of the cast and crew, and seemed to be having a fine time. Little did these people know, however, that, he had recently given an interview to the Toronto Globe and Mail wherein he derided many of them.

"It's horrible," he said of the movie. "It's going to be a flop, but after this I'm retiring. I'm so fed up. This picture, except for the Canadian crew, was an extremely unpleasant experience. I wish I hadn't finished with a stinker." Brando, it should be noted, called the paper himself to volunteer this information. It's not like some crafty reporter goaded him into saying it.

It was quickly determined that Brando tried to sabotage the picture due to a quarrel he was having with its production company, Tristar. He was trying to extract $50,000 in overtime from them, so - why not nail everyone he was working with in the process?

Soon enough, though, Brando realized that his comments, if they managed to taint the box office, would also limit how much money he'd make. So he called his cast mates and offered apologies (Broderick, for one, was unmoved), then issued a public request for forgiveness that praised Bergman's "screamingly funny script." He even went so far as to say that "the movie contains moments of high comedy that will be remembered for decades to come."

Regardless of Brando's flip-flopping on the merits or deficiencies of The Freshman, most critics acknowledged the film's oddball comic charm with Roger Ebert stating, "There have been a lot of movies where stars have repeated the triumphs of their parts - but has any star ever done it more triumphantly than Marlon Brando does in "The Freshmen"? He is doing a reprise here of his most popular character, Don Vito Corleone of "The Godfather," and he does it with such wit, discipline and seriousness that it's not a ripoff and it's not a cheap shot, it's a brilliant comic masterstroke."

Edwin Jahiel review

Newsweek (David Ansen) review

Edward Copeland on Film

Brilliant Observations on 1776 Films [Clayton Trapp]

filmcritic.com (Christopher Null) review [4.5/5]

Moderns and Classics Movie Reviews [Brian Bell]

Entertainment Weekly review [B-] Owen Gleiberman

Variety review

Washington Post (Hal Hinson) review

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [3.5/4]

Siskel & Ebert (video)

The New York Times (Janet Maslin) review

STRIPTEASE

USA (115 mi) 1996

Time Out review

The first of Carl Hiaasen's hilarious thrillers to reach the screen, this faithfully reproduces the novel's anti-Republicanism. Reynolds plays right-wing Congressman David Dilbeck as a bewigged buffoon with a penchant for vaseline, and a fatal obsession with stripper Erin Grant (Moore). Writer/director Bergman contrasts Dilbeck's hypocritical advocacy of traditional family values with the sustaining alternative-family group at the Eager Beaver club - in which single mom Erin brings up her daughter (Rumer Willis) - comprising a bunch of strippers and bouncer Shad (Rhames). Unfortunately, the movie's so dire you wonder if it isn't an elaborate double-bluff designed to reveal the ineptitude of liberals. The kind of comedy thriller which cancels itself out, this is pitched too close to caricature to engender suspense, but lacks the crisp, acerbic wit which distinguishes Hiaasen's prose. There's a no-nonsense approach to nudity in general, but everything gets very self-conscious whenever Demi is called on to strut her stuff - which is often.

Talking Pictures (UK) review Alistair Pope

Andrew Bergman’s film, contrary to anything he might claim, has no comment to make about the sex industry or the exploitation of women.  But is it entertaining?  Not unless you are deeply in lust with Demi Moore, who performs no less than six erotic dances during this over-long and unsatisfying movie.

Moore plays Erin Grant, a woman who, having lost her job and custody of her daughter, takes up stripping to earn enough money to pay for an appeal case to win her offspring back.

Moore, Armand Assante and Ving Rhames play it straight, whereas Burt Reynolds seems to be acting in a different film altogether.  His comedy congressman character is a parody of sleazy politicians, similar to Bulworth but with no depth or humanity.  Robert Patrick plays Erin’s thieving husband in a similarly unrealistic vein.

In fact, what with Erin’s pole dancing colleagues - all of whom are lacking in intelligence - the wacky, ‘funny’ characters far outweigh the genuine, believable ones.  Imagine a few straight parts had been written into Raising Arizona and you’ll get the picture.  This is where Striptease falls down.  Is it meant to be a gripping drama or a crazy comedy?  Because of the confusion it fails to be either.

Rita Kempley The Washington Post

Demi Moore bares most everything but her soul in "Striptease," a sexless seriocomedy that would be a bust without the support of Burt Reynolds and Ving Rhames. The pair bring a much-needed lift to this tale of a mother at the mercy of the system. Without them, the movie is mostly a showcase for the star's personal trainer.

The film's premise is thinner than the heroine's G-string. Reynolds, a corrupt congressman, and Rhames, a lovable bouncer, are smitten by Moore's Erin Grant, an exotic dancer at the Eager Beaver topless bar. Pumped and primed for the part, Moore brings an unusual muscularity to the daily bump-and-grind.

Erin, a young divorcee, loses custody of her 7-year-old daughter (Moore's own daughter, Rumer Willis) after being fired from her clerk's job at the FBI. The judge rules in favor of Erin's estranged husband, Darrell (rowdy Robert Patrick), whom he knows to be a career criminal with serious emotional problems. Erin does what any mom would under the circumstances: She becomes a topless dancer.

Like an understudy in a Broadway fantasy, Erin becomes an overnight sensation. After her set, the bartender has to mop up the puddles of drool. Rep. David Dilbeck (Reynolds), a randy souse whose reelection is crucial to Florida's ruthless sugar cane growers, is so besotted with Erin that he refuses to campaign till he has her.

Erin, who is interested in Dilbeck only because she thinks he can help her regain custody of her child, suddenly finds herself snagged like a nail in a nylon by this increasingly precarious situation. The dancer, however, has a devoted ally in Shad (Rhames), who regales the sugar cane goons with tales of Meryl Streep's go-go-bar years. But to reveal more would be a travesty.

Andrew Bergman, who wrote and directed this stripped-down adaptation of Carl Hiaasen's hilarious satire, takes a much broader aim at hypocrisy, corruption and sexism in South Florida. He unbuckles the Bible Belt and pulls down the good ol' boys' pants in a movie that becomes increasingly mechanical as it draws to its perfunctory close.

"Striptease" loses all suspense 30 minutes before the end when Moore finally slips off her bra. (Her cup runneth not over, but neither is it a demitasse.) Her gyrations, of course, are the film's main attraction, but Reynolds's hora at a Jewish retirement home is its highlight. Moore seems to think she's striking a blow for feminism here -- Erin strips to women's anthems and pays lip service to the "good honest work" she's doing for mankind. Talk about pulling yourself up by your bra straps.

Scott Renshaw review [6/10]

"It's not SHOWGIRLS" one trailer for STRIPTEASE bluntly announces, capping off a marketing campaign which may be the first in recent memory to attempt to convince the movie-going public that a new film is _nothing_ like a previous film. Sure, it works the other way all the time, thanks to pre-fabricated critical blurbs like "This year's FORREST GUMP" or reminders of the director's previous successes, but the stink of SHOWGIRLS is such that it threatens to contaminate anything featuring a pelvis and a pole. Of course, if you remembered that writer-director Andrew Bergman is behind such comedic gems as THE IN-LAWS, THE FRESHMAN and HONEYMOON IN VEGAS, you'd know not to expect SHOWGIRLS. The real question is whether you'd expect STRIPTEASE, a film as inconsistent in its tone as it is occasionally hilarious.

Demi Moore stars as Erin Grant, a Miami woman forced to extreme measures when her pill-popping, police-informant ex-husband Darrell (Robert Patrick) is granted custody of their 7-year-old daughter Angie (Rumer Willis, Moore's real-life daughter). To earn the necessary money for the appeal, Erin takes a job dancing at the Eager Beaver, a topless bar which counts Congressman Davey Dilbeck (Burt Reynolds) among its regulars. One night, Dilbeck is caught on film assaulting another patron at the bar, a fact which deeply concerns Dilbeck's staff and corporate supporters. When the photographer and another man turn up dead, homicide detective Lt. Garcia (Armand Assante) begins an investigation which draws Erin and her daughter into a nasty mess of sleazy politics.

Moore received the surprising sum of $12.5 million to bump-and-grind her way through STRIPTEASE, and at the very least the producers should take solace in the fact that she picked up dancing a heck of a lot faster than she has picked up this whole acting thing. There is something both smug and overly earnest about Moore's standard screen pose, as though she never wanted there to be any doubt that she felt deeply about whatever her predicament might be, but also that nothing could stop her if she set her mind to it. In STRIPTEASE, that is a major problem. This is supposed to be a frisky comedy, but Moore's deadly serious performance acts like ankle weights on a swimmer. There are scenes between her and Armand Assante which seem to come from a second-rate TV-movie -- "Baring Her Soul: The Erin Grant Story."

That's a real shame, because there are plenty of moments in STRIPTEASE where Bergman's wonderfully weird sense of humor gets to shine through. Ving Rhames has a great role as the Eager Beaver's put-upon bouncer Shad, a man looking for the get-rich-quick scheme which will allow him to get out of the bouncer business; he gets one of STRIPTEASE's best moments as he impresses a couple of thugs with tales of his responsibilities "auditioning" topless dancers. Burt Reynolds is completely over the top as Dilbeck, a pathetic, fetishistic drunkard who coats himself in Vaseline and sniffs Erin's dryer lint before addressing a Young Christians' conference, and there is something improbably enjoyable about the way Reynolds doesn't even pretend to modulate his performance. Bergman makes fine use of oddball supporting characters, and seasons STRIPTEASE liberally with his trademark unpredictability, like a priceless scene during the film's climax involving Erin's daughter, two well-endowed dancers and a jump-rope.

There are plenty of laughs in STRIPTEASE, enough to make it moderately entertaining, but the reason STRIPTEASE isn't a better movie is that they're the wrong _kind_ of laughs for the material. Based on Carl Hiaasen's novel, the story demands a darker edge in its political satire, a sense of irony that the topless dancer is one of the few characters in the film with any morals. That simply isn't Andrew Bergman's style; his comedy may be wild, but it's always good-natured. When Burt Reynolds' Congressman is as absurd a character as the general played by Richard Libertini in THE IN-LAWS, it's tough to extract any biting commentary. The result is a film which is moving in several different directions at once: the source material is trying to make it dark, Bergman is trying to make it silly, and Moore is trying to make it serious. When it's silly, STRIPTEASE is super, but a lot of the time it's not clear _what_ STRIPTEASE is. Except, of course, that it's _not_ SHOWGIRLS.

Nitrate Online (Carrie Gorringe) review

Linda Lopez McAlister (c/o inforM Women's Studies) review

Best Big-Screen Strippers Cinematical

Edwin Jahiel review

Dragan Antulov retrospective [2/10]

ReelViews (James Berardinelli) review [2/4]

Movie House Commentary Johnny Web and Tuna

DVD Talk (Chuck Arrington) dvd review [2/5]

eFilmCritic.com (Ryan Arthur) review [2/5]

SPLICEDwire (Rob Blackwelder) review [0/4]

PopcornQ review Elizabeth Pincus

Entertainment Weekly review [C-] Owen Gleiberman

Eric Brace The Washington Post

Austin Chronicle (Marjorie Baumgarten) review [1.5/5]

San Francisco Examiner (Barbara Shulgasser) review

San Francisco Chronicle (Mick LaSalle) review

Los Angeles Times (Kenneth Turan) review

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [2/4]

The New York Times (Janet Maslin) review

Bergman, Ingmar

DVDBeaver Director’s Chair: http://www.dvdbeaver.com/film/reviews.htm

One of the more important figures of modern film, a gifted cinematic artist, Ingmar Bergman continued to venture into exciting narrative and thematic areas in his directorial career. Almost defining his own genre Bergman probed the heights and depth of human emotion. His work was influential on entire generations of filmmakers around the globe. His primary concerns crossed over from spiritual conflict while probing the fragility of the human psyche. Within this framework, he has crafted a body of work universally celebrated for its technical innovations while exploring the human condition. Bergman is quoted as saying "No form of art goes (as far) beyond ordinary consciousness as film does, straight to our emotions, deep into the twilight room of the soul."

Tribute to Ingmar Bergman Ivana Redwine (excerpt below) from About.com

In his native Sweden, Bergman is revered as a director of stage plays and for his work in television. But internationally, Bergman’s reputation rests primarily on his filmmaking.

Ingmar Bergman was raised in Stockholm, where his father Erik was the pastor at a major Lutheran church. Bergman’s mother Karin spent most of her time supporting church activities, but she once had a passionate extramarital affair with another minister. As an adult, Bergman’s feelings toward his parents seemed to be ambivalent, but it’s interesting that several of his films have a character named Karin.

Bergman has been married five times, but none of his wives were actresses. His first two wives were dancers, his third wife a journalist, his fourth a concert pianist, and his fifth a countess. Bergman had one or more children by each of his first four wives—a total of seven children in all. His 24-year marriage to his fifth wife, Ingrid Karlebo, produced no children, and Ingrid’s death in 1995 left Bergman a widower.

Bergman had extended romantic relationships with three actresses: Harriet Andersson (1952-53), Bibi Andersson (1955-58), and Liv Ullmann (1965-70). In addition to the children Bergman had by his ex-wives, he had a daughter by Liv Ullmann. Each of the three actresses worked with Bergman after her romantic relationship with him had ended.

Bergman has lived and worked in Sweden all his life, except for a period of about three years in the late 1970s when he moved his primary residence to Munich. In 1976 Bergman was charged by the Swedish government with income tax evasion, and eventually the case was settled with Bergman paying only a fraction of what the government initially claimed he owed. While his case was working its way through the system, Bergman elected to live abroad most of the time, choosing Munich because he could direct plays there. It was during his self-imposed exile that Ingmar Bergman went to Norway and made "Autumn Sonata," which stars Ingrid Bergman (no relation) of "Casablanca" fame.

Ingmar Bergman Jim Sinclair from Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

“No other filmmaker has so obsessively, so intelligently or so openly analysed what it has been like to live on this planet since World War II.”

—Philip Strick

One of motion picture's pantheon talents, and arguably one of the most important artists of the 20th century, Ingmar Bergman stands as a central figure in the cinema both for his achievement as a visionary filmmaker of singular gifts and for the impact and influence his films have had on international film culture. Bergman's works of the late 1950s and early 1960s played a crucial part in the explosion of interest in international cinema, in the appreciation of film as a serious art form and a means of intensely personal expression, that ignited around the globe in the 1960s and early 1970s. As the American critic Richard Corliss has observed, "For a lot of us ... the discovery of Ingmar Bergman in the late fifties was as exciting as the arrival of The Beatles would be a few years later. Suddenly we could see the difference between movies and film, between the Hollywood product we assimilated like so many White Tower hamburgers and the haute cuisine food-for-thought of European cinema."

Bergman was born in Uppsala, Sweden, in 1918, the son of a strict Lutheran clergyman. He was fascinated by both theatre and film from an early age. A key childhood memory, recounted in The Magic Lantern, Bergman's autobiography, has the future director, bitterly disappointed at receiving a teddy bear for Christmas, trading 100 tin soldiers to his older brother for the gift he really wanted: a cinematograph, or small projector.

Bergman began a professional career directing for the theatre and writing screenplays shortly after leaving Stockholm University, and directed his first feature film, Crisis, in 1945. His international breakthrough came with 1955's Smiles of a Summer of Night, a major hit at Cannes in 1956. (It is a measure of Bergman's prolific output as an artist that he already directed some 15 feature films before making Smiles, and had also been active all the while in the theatre, establishing himself as one of Sweden's leading stage directors.)

A remarkable string of successes (and masterpieces) followed in short order: The Seventh Seal, Wild Strawberries, The Virgin Spring, Through a Glass Darkly et al. With Persona, The Shame, The Passion of Anna, Cries and Whispers, Scenes from a Marriage and many other notable works, Bergman remained one of world cinema's most-watched and most-discussed filmmakers throughout the 1960s and 1970s, before making his 'official' farewell to cinema with 1982's triumphant Fanny & Alexander, his 40th feature, a lavish, masterful, magical work of memoir and summation that has become one of his most beloved films.

Bergman's superlative cinema is of astonishing depth, breadth and variety, and deifies easy summary, but is notable for several chief reasons: its exploration of the inner life and the fundamental questions of human existence, including the search for meaning, truth and God; the remarkable work on display by a stock company of Bergman performers (Bergman is undeniably one of cinema's greatest directors of actors); the profound sympathy for female characters and rare insight into female psychology (some justified feminist caveats notwithstanding, Bergman still ranks as one of the cinema's foremost "women's directors"); the often uncompromising dissection of male-female relationships; and Bergman's extraordinary accomplishment as a visual stylist, with a flair for surreal, dream-like, often nightmarish imagery. Indeed, for all the starkness, austerity and angst, the profound metaphysical questioning, typically (and not inappropriately) associated with Bergman's oeuvre, it is worth remembering that works such as The Seventh Seal, Wild Strawberries, Sawdust and Tinsel, The Magician, Hour of the Wolf and Fanny and Alexander are as rich, visually and thematically, as anything the cinema has produced. And there is also in Bergman, as A Lesson in Love, Smiles of a Summer Night and other films demonstrate, a considerable vein of comedy to be mined. Godard, a huge Bergman admirer, wrote in the late 1950s: "That which is unpredictable is profound, and a new Bergman film frequently confounds the warmest partisans of the preceding one. One expects a comedy, and along comes a medieval mystery." Of course, as Bergman's reputation as a serious artist grew in the 1960s, one was much more likely to expect, and Bergman to deliver, an intense chamber piece on the resounding silence of God!

This retrospective of nearly 30 features, including a healthy number of newly struck prints, focuses primarily (but not exclusively) on the director's major works from Smiles of a Summer Night on, and demonstrates why Ingmar Bergman is universally regarded as one of the cinema's greatest masters.

Bergman, Ingmar World Cinema

Swedish director, a towering figure in European art cinema, whose career has throughout intertwined cinema and his other chosen medium, the theatre.

Starting out as a theatre director and manager, Bergman also wrote for both theatre and films. His earliest screen credits were for the script and assistant direction on Alf Sjöberg's Hets / Frenzy (1944), followed two years later by his first film as director, Kris / Crisis (1946). Subsequent efforts such as Det regnar på vår kärlek / It Rains on Our Love (1946) and Musik i mörker / Music in Darkness / Night is My Future (1948) were influenced by American film noir and the pessimistic mood of the mid-1940s, while Hamnstad / Port of Call (1948) was a genuflection to neo-realism. The first film over which Bergman had full artistic control was Fängelse / Prison / The Devil's Wanton (1949), an elegant blend of 1940s nightmare and urban irony. With cinematographer Gunnar Fischer and a regular troupe of actors, mainly from the Malmö Municipal Theatre, Bergman embarked on an impressive series of films in the 1950s, starting with Kvinnors väntan / Waiting Women (1952) and the successful Sommaren med Monika / Summer with Monika (1953). His greatest achievements in this period, however, are generally considered to be Gycklarnas afton / Sawdust and Tinsel (1953), Sommarnattens leende / Smiles of a Summer Night (1955), Det sjunde inseglet / The Seventh Seal (1957) and Smultronstället / Wild Strawberries (1957), the last starring the great silent film director Victor Sjöström in a powerful performance. During the 1960s Bergman's films took on more ascetic qualities. Films such as Tystnaden / The Silence (1963), Persona (1966) and Vargtimmen / Hour of the Wolf (1968) are intense psychological dramas which have their antecedents in the German Kammerspielfilm. Bergman also had considerable international success with the dreamlike but harrowing Viskningar och rop / Cries and Whispers (1973) and a series for television, also edited into a theatrical version, Scener ur ett äktenskap / Scenes from a Marriage (1974). From the 1950s to the early 1970s, Bergman's work represented the epitome of art cinema in its recourse to symbolic imagery—beautifully visualized (mostly in black and white) by Fischer and then Sven Nykvist—and especially in its serious involvement with "big" themes: death, religious faith, ethics and the modernist concerns with identity, anxiety and alienation.

While on the international scene they came to emobdy "Swedish cinema," Bergman's films have had an uneasy relationship to their national context. Critics have variously claimed that they should rather be looked upon as part of European art cinema, or as utterly personal statements related only to his own background, or as the transcendental work of a "genius." Despite their world reputation, Bergman's films were not always positively received by critics in Sweden. Animosity peaked in 1962 when despite, or possibly because of, Bergman's increasing commercial success rival Swedish director Bo Widerberg published a pamphlet attacking him for reinforcing national stereotypes and calling for a new and more socially conscious national cinema. By this time, however, Bergman's international status was unshakeable. Two films of the 1950s in particular were responsible for propelling him to the position of European auteur-in-chief—Sommaren med Monika and Sommarnattens leende. The first of these, re-released in Paris in 1957, inspired Jean-Luc Godard to write his legendary eulogy in Cahiers du cinéma entitled "Bergmanorama," in which he claimed that Bergman was both "the most original film-maker of the European cinema" and stylistically a New Wave director avant la lettre. If one dimension of Bergman's international profile was his influence on the emerging French New Wave, the other was the association of his films with an idea of "e(u)roticism." This was particularly strong in the US; Sommaren med Monika, released there in 1954, suffered and profited in equal measure from the association, prints being confiscated in Los Angeles, distributors being arrested and imprisoned and a judge declaring that the film "appeals to potential sex murderers"; Sommarnattens leende continued the prurience-driven marketing that underwrote much US art cinema exhibition; for its American release in 1957, the distribution material promoted the film as "a Swedish smorgasbord of sex, sin and psychiatry...for the grown-ups, please." In cinéphile circles, François Truffaut best summed up the impact of the eroticism of Bergman's cinema by having Antoine Doinel (Jean-Pierre Léaud), the young hero of Les Quatre cents coups (1959), steal a publicity still of Harriet Andersson in her décolleté sweater. Indeed Andersson, together with Bibi Andersson, Ingrid Thulin and Liv Ullmann, was at the core of Bergman's remarkable ensemble of players (whose main male representatives are Max von Sydow and Gunnar Björnstrand) who brought to world cinema a Nordic, cool yet physical sensuality, a more tormented version than that embodied by New Wave actresses such as Jeanne Moreau and Anna Karina. Long praised for the centrality and complexity of his women characters, Bergman came under a different type of criticism in the 1970s and 1980s, when feminists pointed out that, as so often in Western culture, these women were always, precisely, equated with the sexual and biological, leaving the men free to pursue their important metaphysical quests. The fact remains that Bergman's fascination with women, combined with the charisma of his actresses, makes him the most prominent "woman's director" among European auteurs.

After a controversy with the Swedish tax authorities (later settled in his favour), Bergman left Sweden in the 1970s to work as director at the Residenztheater in Munich. He also made films, such as Das Schlangenei / Ormens ägg / The Serpent's Egg (1977, Germany/US), reminiscent in its expressionistic frenzy of his 1940s work. Most notable of his productions from this period, however, is Höstsonaten / Herbstsonate / Autumn Sonata (1978), starring Ingrid Bergman and Liv Ullmann as a tense mother-daughter couple. With the great fresco Fanny och Alexander / Fanny and Alexander (1982), based on his own childhood memories, Bergman returned to Sweden where he also wrote scripts for other directors (Bille August and Daniel Bergman), and went back to the theatre, directing at the Royal Swedish Theatre. A prolific writer, Bergman has produced two volumes of memoirs and a stage play about the Swedish silent film director Georg af Klercker. Bedecked with award, honourary degrees and a professorship from the Swedish government, Bergman is now certainly recognized in Sweden as occupying a unique place in the country's cultural life.

— Lars-Gustaf Andersson / Bo Florin / Chris Darke, Encylopedia of European Cinema

Stealing Beauty Favorite Bergman scenes from Sight and Sound

Ingmar Bergman's huge body of films retains a fascination few other directors' work can rival. So much so that he is featured in these pages more often than most. Yet it was still a welcome surprise that his long family saga Fanny and Alexander came third in our poll of best films from the last 25 years. Now, as the National Film Theatre is preparing its long-awaited full retrospective to run in January and February, we ask Terence Davies, Lukas Moodysson, Thomas Vinterberg and Gillies MacKinnon to describe the Bergman scenes that have meant most to them.

Lukas Moodysson: Fanny and Alexander

The first time I saw Fanny and Alexander I was ten or twelve years old. I saw it first at the movies, and then I watched the long version (which is better) on television around Christmas time. I was home alone, crying in the kitchen because I felt so sorry for Alexander. I suppose I identified a bit with him - I guess I was really feeling sorry for myself.

It was the scene where Alexander has lied in school - he's said he's from a circus family and now he's going to be taught right from wrong by his stepfather. It's a scene about justice and imagination and falsehood and truth and power - and about never, not even when you've lost, letting yourself down. I don't have a clue about its technical qualities. I seldom think about things like that. The same goes for the acting - if it's good you don't think about it, you're just pulled into the universe of the film. I've often wondered what happened to Bertil Guve, the boy who played Alexander: where does he live, what does he look like, what work does he do? But I don't think I want to know.

The scene isn't typical of Bergman. There's a warmth and love that's sometimes missing from his other films. It's also unusually political: it's about the oppressing of a dissident by a person in power.

I like Bergman, but I don't think he's inspired me much. I've possibly been inspired by his attitude as an artist, which is that he takes himself completely seriously despite working within an artform that's often stupid and infantile.

Gillies MacKinnon: Persona

I first saw Bergman's films at Glasgow School of Art's film society. I must have been about 18 and I'd never seen anything like them before. There was something complex about them - they were like novels but in pictures. They left you thinking. At art school film was seen as second rate, but I guess that's where I realised I wanted to be a film-maker.

There was one scene in Persona that really struck me: it's when the nurse delivers the letter the actress has written. She stops the car and reads it. She realises the actress is writing about her with contempt - as "this sweet little nurse who is maybe a little bit in love with me." Then she returns to the house. She breaks a glass, I think, and leaves it on the doorstep and the actress walks in and out of the house with bare feet. You know she's going to stand on the glass - she doesn't the first time but then she goes back and stands on it. It's a wide shot and there's a cruelty about it. The nurse really adores this person and this person has betrayed her so she leaves a trap for her.

I remember the faces in Persona, the way he used big close-ups and big wide shots, the tracking shots and the way he used sound. I seem to remember him cutting out sound - you'd see the ocean behind the figures of the women and the sound of the ocean wouldn't be there. There were all kinds of things happening which reminded me that cinema wasn't necessarily what Hollywood had brought me up with, much as I loved all that.

There are certain film-makers I look at when I'm going to make a movie, even if there's no direct connection with the story I'm going to tell. Bergman is one, Tarkovsky the other. I've not watched Persona from beginning to end for a number of years, but I dip in and out of it. It was one of the films I looked at when I was making my new film Pure. At dinner time, when I went into my wee trailer and had a few moments to myself, I used to put on scenes from Bergman and Tarkovsky. There's that dreamy sequence in Persona where the actress comes into the nurse's room at night, drifts in like a spirit. There was no particular reference to the scene in the movie I was making, but I watched it again and again. It's an emotional reaction. It's to do with putting you in the right state of mind to deal with the problems in the film you're making.

Terence Davies: Cries and Whispers

I can't remember when I first saw Cries and Whispers. I think it was on television. The history of the film is that Bergman had the idea for the scenario in a dream - he saw these women wandering around in a red room.

After the sister dies and the other sisters go to look at her, Liv Ullmann sits on the bed and you see the sister's dead hands come up and grab her face. The obvious interpretation is that the dead exercise more power over us than the living - I assume there's a metaphorical meaning though the one I've extracted is rather superficial. In any case, it's very surreal and frightening. It's shot as if it's pure realism, which gives it a feeling of being both real and nightmarish. A dead person tries to hold on to you - it's an extraordinary moment.

The maid holds the dead woman. She's like mother earth, she can accept it. She seems able to accept everything with absolute equanimity - it's almost beatific. The sisters can't accept it because the relationships between them are so fraught. Nothing is said openly but clearly it's a very unhappy family.

Bergman does three things: he shows us the actual death, which is very painful, not an easy death; then the dead sister is washed and dressed and everything is made to look perfect, as if she's merely asleep, so death becomes decorous; but then that decorousness is broken because she appears to come back to life. So there's the agony of death, the way we try to prettify it because it's too horrible to contemplate and then the dead coming back to haunt us and exercise their power over us.

I've never really thought about the way Bergman uses the colour red so heavily. Perhaps it's the colour of blood, which is life-affirming but also claustrophobic and enclosing. Perhaps he's trying to say that the life blood of the family is its very dysfunction. I've no idea what the metaphor is - I just accepted it.

It's only when you've gone through the entire film that you realise how powerful and surreal it is. The end scene shows the sisters - all in white, all in a park - and the woman who has died says: "The people I am most fond of in all the world are with me." It's heartbreaking. You assume what you've seen is a flashforward not a flashback.

At one point you see the Liv Ullmann character gently touching the maid's face, having already decided to get rid of her. You realise what a monster Ullmann's character is - she appears to be loving and gentle but she's terrifying, manipulative and cruel. Perhaps that's what the film is about.

I don't regard Bergman as a religious film-maker. I think he's an atheist and he's saying that there's nothing beyond this life. But that doesn't stop him from being spiritual and humanist.

When I was a child, between five and seven, my father died of cancer at home. It took him two years to die. So I saw someone in agony, dying over two years. It had a very profound effect on me. He hadn't paid any National Insurance so my mother didn't get any widow's benefit. And I had to sleep in the bed he died in, which was quite traumatic for a seven-year-old. The scene in Cries and Whispers reawakens that terror.

Thomas Vinterberg: Fanny and Alexander

We did a steal from Bergman in Festen. I can confess to that. At one point they dance around the house in a chain dance, which Bergman did in Fanny and Alexander. But they also did it in Visconti's The Leopard - so Bergman stole it too.

I love Fanny and Alexander so much. It's my childhood. That's what people keep saying about Festen - they think it's a portrait of their own lives. With Fanny and Alexander I get that feeling especially from the chain-dance scene - it's like a picture of my upbringing in a commune in Copenhagen. All the hippies ran around at Christmas time all over the house. It was the very same ceremony.

I'd also like to comment on a scene from Bergman's real life. I heard a rumour he was in a shit-house in Sweden. There's this hole and he's sitting there and his foot is paddling through some old newspapers. On one of the front pages he finds some of his actors and they're holding the Palme d'Or in their hands - that's how he found out he'd won. It's a role-model situation for life as a film-maker.

Fanny and Alexander is one of his most sentimental and least consequential films. You can say others are closer to being masterpieces, but Fanny and Alexander had a great effect on me emotionally. You could say it's his worst film - it was made for television, it's very sentimental, it's a mix of genres. Other films have more authority, but it's Fanny and Alexander I really like. It wins my little race of Bergman films.

Remembering De Düva (The Dove) The best Ingmar Bergman parody, ever, from Timothy Noah at Slate

It takes nothing away from Ingmar Bergman's greatness as a 20^th-century artist to remember with pleasure an extremely funny 15-minute parody of his films, titled De Düva (The Dove). Made in 1968 (and nominated for an Academy Award), De Düva is notable, among other things, for marking the film debut of Madeline Kahn. It was directed by and starred George Coe, who later would surface briefly as a founding member of the Saturday Night Live troupe. To watch Coe's hilarious short, click here. (If that doesn't work, try here.)

The second recommended viewing choice leads here:
http://www.bibi.vlog.br/archive/2007/07/de_duva_the_dove.html

De Düva: The Dove, aka The Dove, (1968): directed by George Coe and Anthony Lover, starred by Pamela Burrell, George Coe, Sid Davis, Madeline Kahn, Stan Rubinstein and Tom Stone. (14 min)

This short film is a parody of some of Ingmar Bergman's best known films, including Wild Strawberries (Smultronstaellet) and The Seventh Seal (Det Sjunde Inseglet). The dialog, seemingly in Swedish, is actually a Swedish-accented fictional language based on English, German, Latin, and Swedish, with most nouns ending in "ska". The principal character, Professor Viktor Sundqvist, 76, is being driven to a lecture at the university, when dove droppings splatter the car's windshield. Detouring at his uncle's old house, his mind wanders back to his youth, when Death came to a family picnic to claim his sister, Inga. Knowing that Death is a gambler, Viktor has Inga challenge Death to a single-point game of badminton for her life.

Ingmar Bergman Face to Face maintained by the Ingmar Bergman Foundation, links to his films, plays, writings, and photos IIn English and Swedish)

The Ingmar Bergman Foundation

Ingmar Bergman - Films as director:, Other films: Film Reference profile by Roger Manvell, updated by Rob Edelman

Ingmar Bergman Hamish Ford from Senses of Cinema

Ingmar Bergman Wings of Desire – Cinema: Ingmar Bergman

Bergmanorama: The Magic Works of Ingmar Bergman

Brief biography at Kirjasto (Pegasos)

Ingmar Bergman biography from Turner Classic Movies

From Short Story to Film to Autobiography: Intermedial Variations in Ingmar Bergman's Writings and Films by Maaret Koskinen with excerpts from In the Beginning Was the Word. Ingmar Bergman and His Early Writings, originally published in Film International #1

Ingmar Bergman Acquarello from Strictly Film School

Sontag on Persona.pdf - Thomas-Hersey essay from Sight and Sound, Fall 1967 (pdf format)

The New Yorker: "Smorgasbord" by Anthony Lane (14 June 2004)

Washington Post: "Scenes From A Film Career: Bergman in Retrospect" by Tim Page (July 11, 2004)

Operation Ingmar Joe Queenan watched the director's entire oeuvre from the Guardian

Film-maker Bergman In Memoriam from the Ingmar Bergman Foundation

Ingmar Bergman 1918-2007 Brian Baxter eulogizes Bergman from The Guardian

Ingmar Bergman's death marks the end of an era Peter Bradshaw July 30, 2007 from The Guardian

Ingmar Bergman 1918-2007: Master of the art of darkness dies at 89 Peter Bradshaw July 31, 2007 from The Guardian

Twin visionaries of a darker art, The Guardian, 5 August 2007 Philip French from The Guardian

Leader: Ingmar Bergman, through a glass clearly from The Guardian

Back from the cold The Guardian’s Geoffrey Macnab interviews today’s filmmakers about what Bergman means to them

'No one made films like him' novelist Rick Moody explores more thoughts on why Bergman mattered from The Guardian

Ingmar Bergman, Sweden and us Martin Kettle from The Guardian

Even I think my films are depressing Tania Branigan talks to the director for The Guardian

Ingmar Bergman's greatest scenes Andrew Pulver from The Guardian

A life in pictures a photo gallery walk through many of Bergman’s films from The Guardian

All about Ingmar a Bergman quiz from The Guardian

Ingmar Bergman, Famed Director, Dies at 89 Mervyn Rothstein July 30, 2007 from The New York Times

An Appraisal: In Art’s Old Sanctuary, a High Priest of Film Stephen Holden from The New York Times

Before Them, Films Were Just Movies reflections on Bergman and Antonioni by A.O. Scott from The New York Times

Saying Goodbye to Two Giants of Cinema J. Hoberman from the Village Voice

On Bergman and Antonioni K.A. Westphal from Motion Within Motion

Ingmar Bergman: In Memory Roger Ebert

indieWIRE The Start of a Journey: An Appreciation of Ingmar Bergman, by Michael Koresky from Reverse Shot

CRITIC'S NOTEBOOK; Sweden's Poet of Film and Stagecraft Caryn James from The New York Times readies New York for a Bergman retrospective

Bergman's Essential Strangeness, on DVD Terrence Rafferty from The New York Times

Ingmar Bergman's Loud Goodbye Ben Brantley’s theatrical review from The New York Times of Bergman’s rendition of Ibsen’s Ghosts

Sunday View: Bergman Conquers, Not Once but Twice Margo Jefferson’s take on two Bergman theatrical productions from The New York Times

Ingmar Bergman: Summing Up a Life in Film Michiko Kakutani June 6, 1983 from The New York Times

A Profile of Ingmar Bergman: Face to Face With a Life of Creation Alan Riding April 30, 1995 from The New York Times

The Man Who Asked Hard Questions Woody Allen from The New York Times, August 12, 2007

OP-ED CONTRIBUTOR; Scenes From an Overrated Career Jonathan Rosenbaum from The New York Times

http://movies.groups.yahoo.com/group/a_film_by/message/45964 David Edelstein from a_film_by

http://movies.groups.yahoo.com/group/a_film_by/message/45992 Michael E. Grost from a_film_by

Defending Ingmar Bergman Roger Ebert’s response to Jonathan Rosenbaum’s New York Times Op/Ed piece

Bergman, Antonioni, and the stubborn stylists David Bordwell responds to Rosenbaum at Observations on Film Art and Film Art, August 11, 2007

Owen Gleiberman on Bergman's legacy Entertainment Weekly chimes in on the Rosenbaum furor

Why Ingmar Bergman Mattered Richard Corliss from Time magazine

Woody Allen on Ingmar Bergman a conversation with Richard Corliss from Time magazine

Ingmar Bergman (1960) Time magazine 1960 cover, also a link to the article “I Am a Conjurer”

Ingmar Bergman Biographical look at Bergman’s life and career from The London Times, July 30, 2007

Film director Ingmar Bergman dies Dark arthouse director Ingmar Bergman dies, by Philippe Naughton from The London Times, July 30, 2007

Comment: a master of gloom who will be sorely missed James Christopher from The London Times, July 30, 2007

Cinema mourns Ingmar Bergman Ben Hoyle and Marcus Oscarsson from The London Times, July 31, 2007

many thoughtful tributes GreenCine July 30, 2007 on Bergman’s death

Film Great Ingmar Bergman Dies at 89 Louise Nordstrom from Stockholm

Thirteen Ways of Looking at Ingmar Bergman Glenn Kenny from Premiere magazine

07/30/2007: Ingmar Bergman, 1918-2007 Jim Ridley from Nashville Scene’s blog Pith in the Wind

Ingmar Bergman, 1918-2007 Bryant Frazer from Deep Focus

Michael Atkinson a personal response by the Village Voice critic to Bergman’s death on Zero for Conduct

Edelstein on Bergman: The Master of the Dream Play David Edelstein’s Bergman obituary from New York Entertainment

NPR : Film Legend Ingmar Bergman Dies at 89 Howie Movshovitz, including a photo gallery

Rock Star Dana Stevens from Slate

July Victor Morton from Rightwing Film Geek

Bergman – Ever the Provoker Todd Field from The LA Times, August 1, 2007

Obituary and Tribute Lasting Tribute

Ingmar Bergman (1918 - 2007) Angus Macdonald from Close-Up Film

Remembering Ingmar Bergman Daniel Peleschuk from Blast magazine, August 2007

commentarybergmanantonioni Art Tattler, August 2007

People's Daily Online - As the lights go down China’s reaction to Bergman and Antonioni’s deaths, from the People’s Daily, August 6, 2007

DEATH & THE DIRECTOR the feeble views of John Podhoretz from the New York Post

A question for John Podhoretz (answered, pretty much—see update) Glenn Kenny from Premiere magazine

Artists pay tribute to Bergman from Roger Ebert’s website

Ingmar Bergman, July 14, 1918-July 30, 2007 Bergman images (click to enlarge) selected by Keith Uhlich from The House Next Door

Picture books: The Swedish Auteur | Arts | The First Post a photo gallery from The First Post, December 14, 2008

Illusion Travels By Streetcar: Old Stuff: Two Obits from Two Years Ago Tom Sutpen from Illusion Travels by Streetcar, July 31, 2009

Vintage Screams: Ingmar Bergman → Nigel Honeybone from Vintage Screams, August 16, 2010

Uncle Ingmar and Me Bilge Ebiri from They Live By Night, October 13, 2010

bergman's persona - Scribd Ingmar Bergman’s Persona, edited by Lloyd Michaels, October 18, 2010 (pdf format)

You are the greatest film-maker at work today letter of praise from Stanley Kubrick February 9, 1960, posted at Letters of Note July 7, 2011

Ingmar Bergman from They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

[01] [02] [03] [04] [05] Read Interviews with Ingmar Bergman from EuroScreenwriters

Playboy interview with Bergman in 1964

Comprehensive excerpt of a documentary about Bergman in 1972

Interview with Sven Nyqvist - Bergman's cinematographer - on working with Bergman, 1984

Director interviews director. Ingmar Bergman visited Iceland in the summer of 1987 and was interviewed by Icelandic film director Hrafn Gunnlaugsson

The Guardian/NFT interview with Liv Ullmann by Shane Danielson, 23 January 2001

Bergman talks of his dreams and demons in rare interview, by Xan Brooks, The Guardian, 12 December 2001

Excerpt from a recent Swedish newspaper interview with Bergman, with candid opinions on the work of other directors May 12, 2002

The Magician IMAGES My Life in Film, by Ingmar Bergman, a book review by John Simon from The New York Times

Simon on Bergman Zach Campbell from Elusive Lucidity, September 5, 2007

At the Movies Michael Wood from The London Review of Books, September 20, 2007

Through a Life Darkly Woody Allen reviews Bergman’s autobiography The Magic Lantern, from The New York Times

INGMAR BERGMAN: THE DARKNESS BEFORE THE DAWN

Bergman's own favorite films, both international and Swedish

Ingmar Bergman Collection Noel Megahey reviews a 30 DVD release from DVD Times, including links to full reviews

Ingmar Bergman - 3 dokumentärer om film, teater, Fårö och livet av ... see BERGMAN COMPLETE, a documentary on Bergman by Marie Nyreröd

The Religious Affiliation of Ingmar Bergman

The 13th Most Influential Director of All Time (2002 MovieMaker Poll)

Survey of Filmmakers: Top 25 Directors (2005 poll by The Film Journal)

Gerald Peary's Magnificent Seven (2006)

Robin Buss' Top 10 Directors

Richard Corliss' Favourite Director

Ingmar Bergman: Svart p� vitt (Swedish-language)

Ingmar Bergman - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

TORMENT (Hets)

aka: Frenzy

Sweden (101 mi) 1944 d: Alf Sjöberg screenwriter and assistant director: Ingmar Bergman

Time Out

A vaguely rebellious teenager (Kjellin), bullied by his sadistic Latin master (Järrel), falls for a young prostitute (Zetterling) who tells him she is being persecuted by a sinister man; when the boy finds her dead, he also discovers the teacher hiding in the room... As scripted by Ingmar Bergman (it was his first filmed scenario), Sjöberg's film is a relentlessly cruel study in sadomasochistic relationships, structured as a bleak, sordid thriller. Full of superb expressionist shots which serve to highlight the intensity of the film's highly emotional subject matter, it also benefits from the excellent performances of Järrel and the young Mai Zetterling. Interestingly, Järrel was made up to resemble Himmler, prompting interpretations of the film as an allegory on Fascism; more crucially, however, its harsh pessimism anticipates the spiritually tormented universe of Bergman's own work.

Old School Reviews [John Nesbit]

Best known as Ingmar Bergman's initial foray into cinema, Torment (Hets) was among eleven Grand Prize winners at the 1946 Cannes Film Festival. Bergman wrote the screenplay, and his solemn outlook permeates the film. Its multiple angled black and white cinematic look and feel comes closer to the German Expressionist school, however. Directed by Bergman mentor Al Sjöberg, the foreboding coming of age drama revolves around Jan-Erik Widgren (Alf Kjellin), a Swedish boarding school senior, who suffers from his sadistic Latin teacher (Stig Järrel) and from his new emotionally distraught girlfriend.

Set in a strict Swedish boys secondary school, where students are routinely punished for being late to prayer meetings or for forgetting their hymnals, we get an early indication of the Latin teacher's intimidation factor—the students nickname him Caligula (after the insanely ruthless former Emperor) and nervously sweat out their upcoming class during church services. Their fears are well founded. He struts around the classroom seeking unprepared victims to accuse of laziness and issue demerits and demands on more of their time. Although the Latin language is dead, he acts as though it remains the only vital part of the curriculum, and particularly dumps on young Widgren.

Widgren's is ripe for abuse, having a basic romantic nature, he takes Caligula's reprimands (along with his stern father's) far too seriously for his own good. In contrast, Widgren's best friend Sandman (Stig Olin) quotes Neitzsche and protects himself with his far more nihilistic perspective (very much like Bergman). Of course, Widgren is destined for torment from the beginning, and this only escalates after he hooks up with tobacco store clerk Bertha Olsson (Mai Zetterling). Running into the girl one evening in an intoxicated state, he pities her and soon becomes involved with the girl. When Widgren learns that she too is being tormented by a mysterious caller, he becomes involved in a suspenseful "love" triangle inevitably doomed for disaster.

Both Widgren's father and Latin teacher highly disapprove of his newfound romance with such a girl of disreputable character. At least that's what they say outwardly. Other agendas are also in the mix, lurking in the shadows of the frame and thinly obscured by the narrative.

Although the major plot points are signaled well in advance, the plot is tightly constructed and explores themes that Bergman examines throughout his legendary career—societal responsibility vs. individual conscience and conflicts between living a righteous life and seeking happiness through the hedonistic pleasures of this world. Tortured souls come in various forms, but each shares a profound sense of loneliness at their core that plays out successfully. The film successfully avoids the trap of creating stereotypical caricatures of its obviously good and evil main characters by fleshing them out sufficiently—most notably with the cruel Caligula, who turns out to be pitiable and vulnerable beneath all his pomposity.

Torment remains far from being a Hollywood crowd pleaser, but that will be fine with Bergman fans and art house film lovers. It's a near miracle that the film will now be readily available at all!

Now that The Criterion Collection has undertaken a new concept with its Eclipse series—providing bare bones DVD releases of rare and obscure gems in pristine condition without the full Criterion treatment (and without the heftier price tag)—we can expect more treasures like this fine work from the Early Bergman box set. Considering that Tortment and the other films in this set have been virtually impossible to track down in any format, this ranks among the most exciting news for film aficionados since the DVD era began!

DVD Times Noel Megahey

Epinions [metalluk]

Kamera.co.uk Colin Odell and Michelle Le Blanc

The New York Times (Caryn James)

DVD Talk - Eclipse Series [Jamie S. Rich] 5 Bergman films

EARLY BERGMAN DVD review Steve Erickson on 5 Bergman films

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze] 5 Bergman films

KRIS

Sweden (93 mi) 1946

Old School Reviews [John Nesbit]

Ingmar Bergman takes the director's chair for the first time in the pedestrian adaptation of Leck Fisher's theatrical play, Crisis (Kris). An inauspicious debut, very little in this melodrama foreshadows the filmmaker's genius though it does indicate that Bergman knows how to construct a coherent narrative. Bookended with unnecessary off screen narrative descriptions of the idyllic village, Crisis unfolds as a simplistic morality play with one dimensional cardboard cutout characters. Best representing the type of character for which Bergman is known for is middle-aged music teacher Ingeborg (Dagny Lind)—stoic and full of existential self-doubts. Other characters are similarly conflicted, but they just aren’t fleshed out sufficiently.

Ingeborg has raised Nelly (Inga Landgré) ever since her mother Jenny (Marianne Löfgren) abandoned her at birth. Now 18 years later, Jenny suddenly reappears to reclaim her daughter and take her to live in the big city where she enjoy urban advantages and be with her mother. Jenny's initially unspoken agenda for ripping her from her roots has more selfish motives.

Despite Nelly's mundane ordinary existence in the small hamlet and her lack of interest in the much older veterinarian (Allan Bohlin) who fancies her, this doesn't supply sufficient reason for the young girl to pack for Stockholm. That's where gregarious Jack (Stig Olin) comes in. Playful and mischievous, he intrigues Nelly and beguiles her into following him to the big city. Unknown to Nelly is Jack's dark history and his dalliance with her mother.

Inevitably, life in the city doesn't pan out like Nelly anticipates, but her mother attempts to cover this (just like her other fantasies). Most revealing are the scenes where Ingeborg visits. Jenny unbelievably reads aloud from her daughter's diary a selected passage and reprises Mrs. Danvers (from Hitchcock's Rebecca) sinister display of clothing and undergarments to illustrate how good her Stockholm life is. Never fear, however. In morality plays, the righteous are always rewarded and the wicked inevitably are doomed for suffering and punishment.

Predictable and ordinary, Crisis would hardly stand on its own merits, but Bergman completists certainly must see (or own) this film. Although populated with thinly drawn characters, glimpses of Bergman's tormented future protagonists remain evident and some finely constructed individual scenes stand out from the competently constructed narrative—notably Ingeborg's dream sequence and Jenny's appearance behind the nylon curtain. This rare film is now readily available through The Criterion Collection's new Eclipse series on DVD—a fine print without the usual Criterion treatment of exquisite supplemental features.

Channel 4 Film

DVDBeaver.com - Review [Mikkel Svendstrup]

DVD Talk - Eclipse Series [Jamie S. Rich] 5 early Bergman films

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze] 5 early Bergman films

IT RAINS ON OUR LOVE (Det regnar på vår kärlek)

Sweden (95 mi) 1946

Time Out

Bergman's second feature is a playful but rather ill-advised blend of rainswept miserablism and laborious whimsy. Kollberg and Malmsten are thrown together in adversity, since she's pregnant and homeless, and he has just been released from prison with only spare change in his pocket. An apparently deserted country cottage gives them a chance to set up housekeeping, but the landlord, church and bureaucracy obstruct the couple's future happiness. Shadowing their path, however, is Cederlund's omniscient and possibly otherworldly narrator, who acts as surprise counsel for the defence as the lovers' fate is decided in court. His beneficent paternalism and the drawn, faux-naif chapter headings sit uneasily beside the catalogue of misfortunes passing for a plot. Indeed, the film's jesting quality is almost an admission it might not stand close scrutiny. Look out for Gunnar Björnstrand's first Bergman appearance in an unlikely comic role as a silly ass functionary.

A SHIP BOUND FOR INDIA (Skepp till India land)

Sweden (98 mi) 1947

Time Out

The spirit of Carné's Quai des Brumes presides over this rather obvious dockside melodrama, adapted from Martin Söderhjelm's play. Tugboat captain Löwenadler dominates the proceedings as the volatile paterfamilias who's alienated his long-suffering wife (Lindahl) and son (Malmsten), but whose abrasive exterior also masks his thwarted dreams of escape. The news that he's going blind sharpens tensions, as his illicit relationship with chorus girl Fridh comes into the open, though Malmsten might better satisfy her hopes for the future. The collision of claustrophobia and yearning in both domestic and geographical terms is vivid enough, though at this stage the emotive and thematic weight of Bergman's ambitions prove a bit too much for his decidedly functional plotting and characterisation. The captain's secret room, filled with model boats and exotic knick-knacks, shows an isolated spark of inspiration in its visual rendering of psychological ferment.

from imdb Author: (saltsan) from New York: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0039834/usercomments

But it's not one of his best. The characterizations of the film's protagonists are inconsistent from scene to scene and some of them leave a viewer with many unanswered questions (like the mother's motivations.) Beyond that, the cinematography is pretty dowdy, particularly the exterior footage.

Still, it has elements that Bergman fans will recognize from his more famous films, and it contains sequences of despair and anguish that can haunt a viewer days later. Birger Malmsten, who plays the lead character Johannes and who will be seen in several later Bergman films, is immensely likable and compelling as the hunchback son who finally stands up to his despotic father. While many of the early Bergman films are uninteresting at almost every level ("Port of Call," for instance) this one is well worth a look for the hard core Bergmaniac, if you can find it.

MUSIC IN DARKNESS (Musik i mörker)

Aka: Music Is My Future

aka: Night Is My Future

Sweden (87 mi) 1948

Time Out

After three successive flops, Bergman needed a hit, so he knuckled down to Edqvist's adaptation of her tearjerking novel about a blind piano teacher finding love with a female student. An early sequence, where protagonist Malmsten is disfigured on a military rifle range while trying to save a puppy, gives some indication that this is one film Bergman didn't wrench from the depths of his soul. It plays like a commercial chore, but may have saved his movie career by doing well at the Swedish box office. And now and again, sequences flare into life, among them the surreal dream where the hero sees himself dragged into a swamp by disembodied hands, the touchingly understated material shot at the blind school, and Malmsten's proud moment when he's slapped by a romantic rival - at last treated as an equal, not an invalid.

DVD Times Noel Megahey

Riding high on the success of his first filmmaking efforts, Ingmar Bergman was however abruptly brought down to earth with the boxoffice failure of A Ship Bound For India in 1947. The director clearly still had a lot to learn about the filmmaking industry and the primary consideration at this stage of his career was that his films needed to be a commercial success. Leaving the fold of Svensk Filmindustri, Bergman went to work for an independent producer Lorens Marmstadt and his Terrafilm studio, to work on the filming of Dagmar Edqvist’s novel ‘Music In Darkness’. Bergman hated the novel, but worked with the author on the film script and was determined to keep the film entertaining in the style of his early mentor Gustaf Molander. It worked and the film was a success, consolidating Bergman’s reputation and ushering his way back to Svensk Filmindustri.

Despite its success back in 1947 as a popular entertainment, Music In Darkness doesn’t hold up quite so well today and there is scarcely anything of Bergman recognisable in the film which is a rather lightweight melodrama. The struggle to balance the melodrama with the kind of psychodrama that would become familiar in his later films is evident in the film’s opening scenes. A young army cadet, Bengt Vyldeke (Birger Malmsten), attempts to rescue a cute puppy from a firing range, only to fall under a hail of practice fire and falls into a coma where he is tormented by surreal and terrifying images. It’s the melodrama that wins out, as Bengt wakes up and finds that he has lost his sight. A talented musician, Bengt can however still play the piano and, while playing organ at the church for the funeral of her father, he meets a young peasant girl called Ingrid (Mai Zetterling). Requiring help around the house to look after the blind man, Bengt’s aunt and uncle engage Ingrid as a maid.

Struggling with the loss of his sight and the loss of his fiancée Blanche who has deserted him after his accident, Bengt however is too tormented by his fall to recognise the growing love Ingrid has for him. Coming from a wealthy family, he is nevertheless forced, when he fails to gain a place at the Royal Music Academy, to take up the only work he can obtain - working as a pianist in a cheap restaurant, where he is taken advantage of by his coarse employer and a young helper. Ingrid on the other hand is seeing her fortunes change for the better in inverse proportion to Bengt’s decline. Her youth, beauty and brightness prosper in the environment of the Schröder household, where her reading of books to Bengt has inspired her to continue learning and train to become a teacher. The tables turned, Bengt finds himself in a position where he now has to fight for the girl’s affections.

Bergman balances this contrast of darkness and light well, giving the film a strong theme, balance and structure, but it seems to lack the strength of its melodramatic convictions. Bergman is no stranger to melodrama – it’s there in his first film script for Torment and it’s almost overpowering in his final film Saraband, the director fully aware of the genre’s power to fully explore deep human emotions. At the time of making Music In Darkness however, he doesn’t seem to have the conviction or the ability to portray it effectively on the screen. No amount of dramatic lighting, staging, overacting or crashing music chords and can make up for the rather stereotypical and broadly defined characters whose inner life Bergman fails to really delve into with any great insight.

In some ways, Music In Darkness is typical of Bergman’s early films from the 1940s and early 1950s, the young director struggling to find a means of expression but constrained by the melodramatic and commercial exigencies of the Swedish film industry. A lot of the melodramatic devices around the use of music and blindness are reused the following year in the Bergman scripted Eva, again starring Birger Malmsten, but directed by Gustaf Molander. Both films have a similar lack of conviction and ability to effectively deliver this material as successfully as Alf Sjöberg in his frenzied direction of Bergman’s first script Torment (1944). While the likes of Birger Malmsten and Mai Zetterling are adequate performers for the demands of the material in these early Bergman films, it would take actors on the scale of his later troupe of Harriet Andersson, Bibi Andersson, Ingrid Thulin, Liv Ullmann, Gunnar Björnstrand, Max von Sydow and Erland Josephson to bring real weight to the dark despair of internal torments and relationships that Bergman would later explore in his characters.

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

VideoVista Paul Higson

The New York Times (Bosley Crowther)

PORT OF CALL (Hamnstad)

Sweden (100 mi) 1948

Time Out

Bergman himself admitted the strong influence of Rossellini and Neo-Realism on this dockside drama, filmed partly on authentic Gothenburg locations. A striking opening sees heroine Jönsson saved from drowning herself, before flashbacks fill out her desperate plight: repressive treatment from a mother embittered by the failure of her own marriage, a history of institutional care insensitive to her emotional needs. After spending the night with her and sparking the embers of a human connection, merchant seaman Eklund stumbles towards an attuned responsibility which might allow him to accept her for all her faults - in marked contrast to the authorities. It's no less schematic than it sounds, but solid performances and straightforward handling make Bergman's fourth feature the most fully achieved, though hardly most characteristic, of his fledgling film career to that point.

DVD Times Noel Megahey

Gösta, a sailor returning home from the East Indies with hopes and ideals, witnesses a young woman throw herself into the sea at the docks in an attempt to drown herself. It’s a premonitory sign that he has to return to the grim reality of life in a small port town and soon Gösta finds he has to accept a manual labour job working in the docks. One night at a dance-hall he once again meets the girl from the docks, Berit.

Berit is unhappy and seeks solace in sex, picking-up boys in an effort to ease the loneliness she feels inside. When she meets Gösta, she expects nothing more from him than previous relationships – another port of call for men who know they can take advantage of her weakness. Berit’s promiscuity is a matter of common knowledge – she has spent time in a reformatory and, when her mother finds out she’s been with another boy, she reports her to the social worker. What will happen to her relationship with Gösta when he finds out about her past?

Port of Call (‘Hamnstad’) is untypical of the type of films we normally associate with Ingmar Bergman, but is representative and a good example of his early film work before he had gathered the regular troupe of actors and characters that he would later mine for his more complex, psychological dramas. Later Bergman dramas would come to be associated with personal breakdowns, the alienation and isolation of the characters expressed partly in the remoteness of the outside locations (Persona, Autumn Sonata, Winter Light, Hour of the Wolf, The Passion of Anna). Here, as in many of Bergman’s early films (Summer Interlude, Summer With Monika, Torment) it’s the outside location, the small-town attitudes and social restrictions on young people, particularly women, that influences the state of mind of the characters rather than represents it. Port of Call is consequentially a much more conventional social drama, a rite of passage for the young director.

While it lacks the sophistication and complexity of later Bergman films, Port of Call is nevertheless a very fine film. Berit and Gösta’s relationship, as well as their backgrounds and aspirations, are well-defined. Berit’s reaction when Gösta turns up for a second date – even though she knows that it was more by accident that they happened to meet again – is expressed with such overwhelming joy by Nine-Christine Jönsson, that the viewer’s heart can’t help but go out to her. The film’s subject is very much that of the couple’s struggle against a society that wants to keep them apart and there’s a bit of a “love of a good man” situation that is not terribly original and it’s often not too subtle or realistic in its social observation – although it was certainly shocking for the time it was made. But it’s the genuine sincerity of the central relationship, the strong characterisation it is built upon and its progress through the barriers that the attitudes of society put up against it that carries the film along.

Made in 1948, Port of Call deals with some serious social questions in a manner that would undoubtedly have been shocking for the time and it even contains a very brief nude scene, all of which would gain the film a certain notoriety and an ‘X’ certificate for its UK release. While Bergman deals with the subject with customary frankness, in as far as would have been possible for the time, the film doesn’t dwell on the more lurid aspects or use them for shock value. The director’s main interests are in the psychological make-up of his characters and the effect their environment and social conditioning has on them. In the process, the director and cast present a taut, workman-like script with strong characterisation in an involving and, allowing for some melodrama, in a quite realistic and customarily grim fashion. The DVD is quite up to the standard of previous Tartan Bergman Collection releases, though it lacks much in the way of relevant features to support the film.

Channel 4 Film

DVD Talk - Eclipse Series [Jamie S. Rich] 5 Bergman films

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze] 5 Bergman films

THE DEVIL’S WANTON (Fängelse)

aka: Prison

Sweden (79 mi) 1949

Time Out

The maverick producer Lorens Marmstedt gave Bergman the go ahead for this avowedly experimental feature, but only if he shot it for next to nothing on short-ends and rationed lighting. Based in and around a movie studio, it has director Ekman encouraging journalist Malmsten as he works through an autobiographical screenplay based on his relationship with an ill-fated prostitute (Svedlund), driven to despair by her bitter experiences. Their brief idyll and her subsequent pregnancy unfold as a film within the film, fascinating not only for its thematic tussle between the attraction of suicide and the comfort of faith in the face of brutalising existence, but for its stylistic endeavour, including a surreal nightmare and a niftily mocked-up silent movie farce (fragments of which turn up again in Persona) both strongly shadowed by the premonition of mortality. The connecting narrative isn't really strong enough to integrate all this turmoil, but Bergman displays a keen appetite for innovative expression.

Magic Lantern: The Complete Ingmar Bergman from the Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

The first film Bergman directed from his own original script was this cruel meditation on illusion and reality and the absence of God, originally released in the English-speaking world as The Devil's Wanton. An elderly mathematics professor suggests to a former pupil, now a filmmaker, that he make a film about Hell on earth. The filmmaker then discusses the idea with an alcoholic, suicidal writer, who proposes the troubled life of a young prostitute he knows as ideal fodder for such a work. The eclectic visual style mixes naturalistic detail with expressionistic excess; the surrealist , Bušuelian dream sequence, and the Pirandellian play with film-within-a-film structure, all point the way to Bergman's later , mature work. "Bergman's first important film. . . imprinted with many of the expressive means that were to become identified as the director's personal style. The plot . . . is dotted with references to God and Devil, Life and Death -- philosophical and ethical questions that were to torment Bergman in many of his future films" (Ephraim Katz). "An exciting film to watch. . . riddled as never before with Bergman's own doubts, fears and convictions. . . Many directors could have shot Bergman's earlier films; no one could have created the strange, graphic quality of the vision in this film" (Peter Cowie).

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

In the beginning, a director (Hasse Ekman) is approached by a former teacher (Anders Henrikson), now aged, just released from a mental asylum and pitching a film idea about Hell on Earth. Life is "a cruel but seductive path between birth and death," Henrikson puffs, and Ingmar Bergman, working for the first time entirely from a screenplay of his own, spends the rest of the film trying to argue to the contrary. Is God dead? Did He ever exist? "Anybody who really thinks about life commits suicide," states prematurely disillusioned writer Birger Malmsten, whose nihilistic worldview ligthens a tad through his relationship with doomed teenage prostitute Doris Svedlund. The main characters are common staples of Bergman's troubled-youngster period, where the weight of the world crushes souls and only regressive isolation provides refuge -- in the picture's most intriguing suggestion, their moments of happiness together are linked to cinema's own infancy, as Malmsten and Svedlund, holed up in a cluttered attic, delight to a piece of hand-cranked, faux-Méliès slapstick. Unrelentingly gloomy (the Swedish title means Prison), the film is all too obviously a purgative for the young filmmaker's tensions, neuroses, and other undigested baggage, though Bergman's despair here toes close to a kind of morbid egotism, facilely, selfishly anguished. Already cumbersomely tricked out with self-reflexive paraphernalia, the film thinks nothing of offering Svedlund as sacrificial lamb to the cruelty of the world while indulging in grabby expressionism (with a dream sequence a torrential of Germanic symbolism) and the tortured complacency of its hero. With Eva Hanning, Stig Olin, and Irma Christenson. In black and white.

DVD Times Noel Megahey

VideoVista Jonathan McCalmont

The New York Times (A.H. Weiler)

DVDBeaver.com [Per-olaf Strandberg]

THIRST (Törst)

aka: Three Strange Loves

Sweden (83 mi) 1949

DVD Times Anthony Nield

As Tartan’s Ingmar Bergman collection continues, we are finally beginning to see them turning towards some of his lesser known, and more importantly lesser seen, forties work, both as writer and director. Three Strange Loves (aka Thirst), on which he served as the latter (the screenplay was written by Herbert Grevenius, adapting four of Birgit Tengroth’s short stories), was his final film of the decade, concluding a run of interesting, if not quite classic, pictures. Looking at the film from the perspective of his career as a whole - as many who purchase this disc will do - Three Strange Loves offers nothing new, so to speak. The central theme here is the slow dissolution of a marriage, one familiar from, most obviously, Scenes from a Marriage, but also Summer With Monika. Of course, this latter work is generally considered to be Bergman’s last masterpiece, so how does this particular work, made three years earlier, fare?

In the most general of terms Bergman is on good form. His assuredness behind the camera is especially clear, even if Three Strange Loves isn’t as formally inventive as Persona, say, or Hour of the Wolf. Moreover, he overcomes some of the stiltedness inherent in Tengroth’s dialogue to provide a fascinating female lead (his first in fact) as, for all the technical proficiency, it is in his handling of the plotting where the quality lies.

The couple whose marriage is in question are at the end of a Swiss vacation. First we see them on the morning of the departure in their hotel room, and then later during the first day and night of their two day journey through Germany on their way back to Sweden. Through their occasionally one-sided dialogues we see the cracks gradually appear, cracks which take on a further dimension through two other narratives, each detailing a previous relationship of theirs. The first, the woman’s, is a flashback to a dalliance with a married man, one that survives his wife’s discovery of the affair, but not her getting pregnant. The second takes place concurrently, and details the post-relationship activities of a widow with seeming mental problems whom the husband had a previous fling with.

Understandably it is the central relationship which is key to Three Strange Loves as well as being the richest. Indeed, Bergman gives it a greater degree of attention, drawing out a number of subtle nuances. Most prominently he creates a sense of asymmetry between the couple: when one is being aggressive, the other is passive; during the train journey a child reacts in opposing ways to each; at another time the husband is unable to open a window, yet the wife has no problem whatsoever. It’s an intriguing device and one that never draws attention to itself, but undoubtedly creates an uneasy edge to their interactions as well as making you question why they are together in the first place. Further tension is added by the events of the flashbacks. The details of the wife’s past are revealed in tiny drips, each one acting as a potential forewarning to her current marital situation even if there are few direct connections.

It’s a quality that sadly doesn’t exist, or at least not with an equal force, in the second parallel narrative. Without such a bearing on the main focus it becomes more difficult to pin down, whilst it also detracts attention from the wife (easily the most interesting character on show). It’s nevertheless not without interest - and is also now uncut, its lesbian relation having been previously censored - but also quite prominently displays Three Strange Loves’ origins as a collection of short stories rather than a fully cohesive whole. Of course, given its structure the film never feels like a portmanteau (Robert Altman’s Short Cuts, which similarly adapted a number of related tales, is perhaps a little closer to the mark), but during these moments it is questionable as to whether Three Strange Loves is more than a sum of its parts

Given its age it is perhaps to be expected that Three Strange Loves can’t quite live up to the quality of some of Tartan’s other Bergman releases (The Seventh Seal, say, or Persona). This isn’t to say that is by any means unacceptable though be warned that there are signs of grain and the occasional flicker. The soundtrack, in the original Swedish mono (with optional English subtitles), fares better, remaining clean throughout. Sadly, the special features are limited to filmographies for Bergman and the two leads, plus trailers for Autumn Sonata and Persona.

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

Kamera.co.uk Colin Odell and Michelle Le Blanc

Channel 4 Film

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

DVD Talk - Eclipse Series [Jamie S. Rich] 5 Bergman Films

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze] 5 Bergman Films

TO JOY (Till glädje)

Sweden (98 mi) 1950

Time Out

Although veteran film-maker Sjöström's performance in Wild Strawberries is well known, he first appeared before Bergman's camera as the wise old conductor of the Helsingborg symphony orchestra. Taking its title from Schiller's Ode to Joy (as used in the choral finale to Beethoven's Ninth Symphony), the film follows the fortunes of orchestral players Nilsson and Olin, as they take the rough with the smooth in setting up home together. The framing of the story lets us know very early that she will lose her life in a tragic fire, leaving the question how her widowed husband will draw on his experiences to find the will to continue. Frankly, it's a crude device, barely worthy of the film's wise portrait of domesticity in all its facets, but it does play effectively against Sjöström's resonant description of Beethoven expressing 'a joy beyond all understanding'. As the couple's young son listens intently to the symphony rehearsal which closes the proceedings, Bergman's investment in a lesson to be learned is self-evident.

DVD Talk - Eclipse Series [Jamie S. Rich] 5 Bergman films

It's fitting that the Early Bergman boxed set would be capped with To Joy, because of the five films here, this is the one where Ingmar got everything right. It opens with a concert violinist being pulled from rehearsal to be told that his wife and daughter have died in a freak accident. Overcome by grief, he ponders over the seven years they had together. Beginning when he was a young and socially awkward loser who had to be pushed to see the love staring him in the face, through marriage and children, his professional failure and cold-hearted infidelity, and full circle to him discovering love all over again right where it had always been, the flight of memory ends as fate deals the man the rotten cards the opening scenes showed us. The deaths are a foregone conclusion that hangs over the film, and what will be done once they come is the big question mark. Bergman's script is passionate, romantic, and unflinchingly honest about the foibles of the scenario's lead figure, Stig, played by one of the director's regular collaborators, Stig Olin. The violinist's priggish obstinacy is smoothed over by the tender grace of his wife, Marta, depicted with warmth and beauty by the lovely Maj-Britt Nilsson. She stands strong, and it's with that strength that she pulls Stig back from the brink.

When you consider that Bergman had recently gone through his second divorce, To Joy reveals itself to be painfully close to real life. His portrayal of Stig is almost like an act of self-immolation, the director laying his own difficult artistic temperament on the table to be dissected. Stig consistently acts selfishly. His failure as both a musician and as a husband can be related directly to his inability to give completely of himself, to ever be so lost in a moment as to not be thinking about how it might advance his image as a genius. In a bitter bedroom scene where his affair is brought to light and Marta begins to cry, he tells her to cut it out, there is no one else to hear her sobs. He has no concept that anyone could genuinely feel, it must all be for show. If Stig ever wants to have anything good in his life again, he's going to have to learn otherwise.

Any sense of tentativeness in Bergman's direction is gone by To Joy. He understands every move he needs to make in the film, from the heavy moments where Stig's ugliness really comes to bear all the way to the playful moments, slipping on different narrative voiceovers or showing the affection and humor that allows Stig and Marta to stay together. It's a direct precursor to the couple that featured in Scenes from a Marriage and Saraband decades later. This is also an early instance of Bergman taking us backstage, showing us the secret lives of performers, which would show up again in films as far apart in years as Smiles of a Summer Night and Fanny & Alexander. Even Stig's artistic mentor, the old conductor Sönderby is a hint of things to come, as the role is filled by Victor Sjöjström, Bergman's own real-life mentor and the star of one of his best films, Wild Strawberries. Perhaps it was the personal nature of the script, or maybe it was just down to having eight features under his belt, but when Bergman called a wrap on To Joy, he had a truly great motion picture in the can.

Picture/Sound: To Joy is nearly on par with Thirst as far the quality of the DVD. It has a few more snaps, crackles, and pops than that disc, but it's a well-scrubbed fullscreen presentation nonetheless. The soundtrack has also been mixed really well, which is essential to this film given the many orchestral performances that track the misfortunes of the protagonist.

Though these five movies lack the formalism and assured direction that would eventually make Ingmar Bergman one of cinema's most distinctive directors, his main thematic interests are already starting to emerge in Early Bergman. Throughout his career, he has always been fascinated by what drives people together and tears them apart. Be it the interpersonal relationships of women or the special dynamics of marriage, a Bergman film is almost like a game of Jenga where the building blocks are human interactions. By removing one element at a time, he finds what pieces really matter, what aspects of each personality allows their relationships to stand and which ones create the inevitable downfall. Amidst this turmoil, his characters step up to some line, are forced to confront issues of faith and identity, and test their strength. Sometimes they end up okay, sometimes it all goes to hell, but the movies almost always ring utterly true.

If the styles of the films given here seem hesitant or all over the place, it's only because we are seeing an artist change his career focus from one medium to another, learning a new craft and trying to find his personal voice. That's the fun with a collection like Eclipse's Early Bergman: by putting these films together, it allows the viewer a greater understanding of how an artistic vision can come into focus.

The debut release from Criterion's new Eclipse series, Early Bergman is the portrait of a filmmaker in development. Using five movies spread over five years, the playwright and theatre director went from stage to screen, beginning as a screenwriter and easing straight away into captaining his own features. Trying on a number of genre trappings and experimenting with the language of film, Ingmar Bergman created his own style of interpersonal dramas, tracking the conflicts of conscience and the struggles of individuals against larger institutions--be they physical (school, bureaucracy), personal (marriage), or grand (religion, life itself). Some of elements work better than others, but by the fifth movie, the auteur emerges, and the journey from baby steps to running a real marathon is an education for film fans that also manages to be involving, thought provoking, and entertaining. As an experiment in presenting a moderately priced (about $16 a movie at full retail) package of films minus the bells and whistles, I deem it a success. Not every film in history needs to be combed over and celebrated with documentaries, commentaries, and other bells and whistles. Eclipse and Early Bergman are all about the movies, and that's just all right with me. It doesn't always have to be bigger, brighter, faster, more...you know?

Channel 4 Film

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze] 5 Bergman films

SUMMER INTERLUDE (Sommarlek)

Sweden (96 mi) 1951

The first film where Bergman felt comfortable as a director with the rhythms and musical nuances of filmmaking, as expressed in Marie Nyreröd’s documentary, BERGMAN COMPLETE.

Time Out

Told in flashback as the memories of a ballerina approaching the end of her career, this sensitively observed story traces a teenage love affair which took place one idyllic summer on the archipelago near Stockholm. Bergman's preoccupation with the transition from youthful innocence to adult experience is already clearly marked here, as is the double movement of a journey backward into one's own past which nevertheless marks a spiritual progression. For it is through her re- living of her past that the heroine comes to embrace the tentative possibilities for her future. The translation of the title, incidentally, is incorrect and misleading. Sommarlek means Summer Games, and Bergman's concern is with the transience of playful youth.

Summer Interlude Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Often cited as the director's first mature work, and effusively admired by many (Jean-Luc Godard has declared "I love Summer Interlude"), this remarkable early Bergman anticipates Wild Strawberries with its poignant, evocative, reconciliatory exploration of love, loss, and acceptance of the past. Maj-Britt Nilsson is Marie, a tired prima ballerina approaching the end of her career who is unable to return the affection of the man who loves her. The discovery of a diary leads her to recall, in flashback, her ill-fated first love affair as a teenager many years before. "Bergman found his style in this film, and it is regarded by cinema historians not only as his breakthrough but also as the beginning of 'a new, great epoch in Swedish films' ... This movie, with its rapturous yet ruined love affair, also has a lighter side: an elegiac grace and sweetness" (Pauline Kael). "One of Bergman's most deeply-felt films ... No other Swedish film can match the poetic, faintly mysterious, flavour of this evocation of past happiness" (Peter Cowie). "Of the Bergman films I have seen, Summer Interlude is the earliest in which one feels in the presence of a great artist" (Robin Wood).

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

People get old and die, and, to neophyte Ingmar Bergman, life's one certainty repeatedly clung him to doomed youngsters scrambling to ward off the decay of adult life. This testimonial for lost youth, open-air spontaneity leaking into expressionistic artifice, trades the early narcissistic brooding for a fuller acceptance of being alive, marvels and horrors and all; as important a work as The Naked Night, consequently. The female psyche takes center stage, namely Maj-Britt Nilsson's star-ballerina, in her late twenties but whose face, caked-up with stage paint and sliced in half close-up by the frontal camera, is already a mask of death. A diary sends her through the director's beloved flashback structure, gazing achingly back at the idyll she spent with callow college student Birger Malmsten, her first love. Strawberries picked by the side of a lake, fireworks at a dance, doodling on a record's cover magically animated into a stick-figure flipbook -- summer vibrancy segues into autumnal grayness, yet the film remains sensitive to the young heroine's fickle ardor and to her older aunt's muted pain alike. Nilsson's rapture wavers from mindless flirtation with lecherous uncle George Funkquist to a sudden awareness of mortality triggered by an owl's distant cry, but the purity of Nature (later questioned in Summer With Monika) and her innocence come crashing down with her beloved, dead on the rocks following a show-off dive. Afterwards, a protective wall rises around her, so thick "even the Devil can't break through," although the sudden trip down memory lane proves therapeutic -- revisiting her past, Nilsson is able to vanquish her own Dr. Coppelius (actually ballet instructor Stig Olin, in full beaked-clown costume) and finally open up to her suitor (Alf Kjellin). "Compromise with life" is what the filmmaker dubbed the theme, though here learning to take the warts along with the beauty marks doesn't prevent the heroine from experiencing a lovely opening-night epiphany, tongue stuck out at her mirror image, what's taken place behind her, and what lies ahead. Cinematography by Gunnar Fischer. In black and white.

Summer Interlude Johan Fundin from 10k Bullets

“Bergman’s most beautiful film. I love Summer Interlude.” – Jean-Luc Godard

Widely regarded as Bergman’s first great film, Summer Interlude tells the story of Marie (masterfully played by Maj-Britt Nilsson) who is a talented ballerina student at an Opera house  – in a kind of 1950s-style “Suzy Bannion at the dance academy” seen from the psychological point of view.

Take Argento’s Suspiria minus the gore – and add a multi-layered personality study instead, then you will get Summer Interlude, in the same claustrophobic setting defined by a dance academy, and metaphorically the two films are correlated through the classes of stunning ballerina ladies in this very confined space. Though Bergman’s film is more complex in terms of timelines.

At the end of the academic year, the attractive Marie gets acquainted with Henrik who is a shy secret admirer of her. Later they meet in the sunshine-drenched archipelago of east Stockholm, they fell in love and become very happy. Until the catastrophe strikes. Henrik dies in a diving accident and suddenly Marie’s life is turned up-side-down. She sinks into deep depression. Several years later, Marie is an established prime ballerina at the Opera. The day before a major premiere she receives a package containing the diary that Henrik wrote during the hot summer they spent together…

Gunnar Fischer is the most important cinematographer in the Bergman canon of movies along the late Sven Nykvist. Fischer here is delivering a continuous sequence of stunning imagery, on par with his work on The Seventh Seal, Wild Strawberries, The Summer with Monika, Smiles of a Summer Night, or The Devil’s Eye. Fischer is to Summer Interlude what Nykvist is to Cries and Whispers.

While Argento’s 1977 horror show twenty-six years later allows for a spatial transfer of the female protagonist from the academy to a cityscape (Suzy’s trip to the urban center of Freiburg, shot at the BMW site at Munich, Germany), Bergman, on the other hand, in Summer Interlude, takes Marie to the physical isolation of a deserted beach where her voyage into the exploration of true love explodes into a series of images that hit hard in the guts of any viewer who has ever been in love him- or herself.

In his first great picture - at the age of only 33 - the prospective master director is staging the vis-à-vis set pieces in the typical Bergmanesque atmosphere of bleakness that would become his trademark for the next fifty years. This is the movie that the immensely influential Jean-Luc Godard counts as one of his favorite pictures of the 20th century.

Channel 4 Film

SECRETS OF WOMEN (Kvinnors väntan)

aka: Waiting Women

Sweden (107 mi) 1952

Time Out

A film of marvellous moments, which linger rather longer in the memory than the structure holding them together. The framing device almost looks like a pretext: three women friends recall significant moments in their marriages as they await the arrival of their menfolk on an island summer home, while the elopement plans of a younger generation adds counterpoint. Björk's episode, which simmers into confrontation between a frigid spouse and dullard husband, is the least of them, but the final story, which finds sniping Dahlbeck and pompous Björnstrand realising a few serio-comic home truths when they get stuck in a lift overnight, may well be the most amusing 20 minutes in the whole Bergman canon. Possibly even more striking, however, is the film's emotional centrepiece, where Nilsson reveals how she reassessed her feelings for artist husband Malmsten as she lay in theatre about to deliver their first child. This largely wordless passage, gracefully eliding time through the fog of anaesthesia (and taking in a Parisian idyll which casts its shadow as far as the screenplay for Faithless), shows a masterful control of mood and an actress at her intuitive best. The bounty of Bergman's many superb female performances notwithstanding, it's a shame he never worked with Nilsson again.

Secrets of Women Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Providing "the first evidence of Bergman's gift for comedy" (Peter Cowie), the anthology-like Secrets of Women was a commercial project designed to showcase the talents of some of Sweden's best actresses. While four women wait for their husbands to join them for the summer, three relate stories about decisive events in their marriages. Episode one has Rakel (Anita Björk) recalling the adulterous encounter that shook up her stagnant marriage. In episode two, an experiment in visual storytelling with minimal dialogue, Marta (Maj-Britt Nilsson) tells of her affair with an artist in Paris. The celebrated third episode - inspired, Bergman has said, by Hitchcock's use of confined spaces - has an uncommunicative married couple (Eva Dahlbeck and Gunnar Björnstrand) trapped together in an elevator. "A good example of Bergman's early concern with relations between the sexes, particularly from a woman's point of view. The first two tales belong on the dark side, but the last episode is a sardonic comedy, beautifully written and delightfully played by Dahlbeck and Björnstrand" (Bloomsbury Foreign Film Guide). "A film of marvellous moments ... [the final story] may well be the most amusing 20 minutes in the whole Bergman canon" (Time Out).

DVD Times Noel Megahey

With the Swedish film industry in a bit of a slump in 1951, Ingmar Bergman took to making a series of commercials for a soap called 'Bris' to save himself from financial ruin. It was the same necessity to make money that drove Bergman to make more commercial films and comedies, but it also afforded the director the opportunity to explore other filmmaking styles and moods. Made up of three stories, one of them Bergman's first attempt at comedy, Waiting Women was one of those films created to be commercially appealing and make money for himself and for the film studio.

A group of women, all sisters-in-law married to men from the Lobelius family, are waiting on their small offshore home for the regular return of their husbands from work. Although they still love their husbands, they bemoan the lack of real communication and intimacy that now exists between them. Annette finds no warmth in the basic social interaction she has in her marriage to Paul – a hello, a goodbye and social functions with the neighbours – she feels they are nothing more than “a couple of bowing puppets”. The other women have similar stories to tell of the moment when they came to a realisation of the true nature of their relationship with their husbands.

Rakel (Anita Björk) tells of how, dissatisfied with her sexual relationship with her husband Eugen (Karl-Arne Holmsten) and longing for excitement and passion in her life, she submitted to the seductive charm of her childhood boyfriend Kaj (Jarl Kulle) once again, but was unable to handle the moral implications of her actions. When her husband finds out, they have to find a new means of accommodation with each other. Although not a very original or developed scenario, this is very much like the kind of situation that Bergman would delve into in much deeper psychological detail in the films like Scenes From A Marriage (1974).

For Marta (Maj-Britt Nilsson), it was while she was heavily pregnant that she came upon the defining moment in her relationship with Martin (Birger Malmsten). While waiting alone at the hospital and about to go into labour, she recalls the period when she and Martin were in Paris before her marriage, her scandalous behaviour in a French Can-Can club and how, following the death of his father, she doesn’t tell him about her pregnancy. The depiction of their romance and the Parisian episodes seem much more conventional and untypical of Bergman material, but through a series of drug-induced dream sequences and overlapping impressions, Marta’s decisions on the direction of her life are a little more complicated - less rational and more emotional or impressionistic, and not so far removed from the powerful dream sequences to come in Wild Strawberries (1957).

For Karin and Fredrik, trapped in an elevator one night, the situation is certainly more contrived and familiar, but Bergman makes it much more interesting than it could have otherwise been with some nice visual tricks involving mirrors and flickering lights and simply through the wonderful interplay from the fine double-act of Eva Dahlbeck and Gunnar Björnstrand. The scene is a fine little précis of the material and technique they would revisit in Bergman’s A Lesson In Love two years later, although Dahlbeck’s Karin breaking down Fredrik’s self-satisfied composure over his affairs with other women works much better in this shorter format.

Although the film is broken down in this way into a series of vignettes, like the earlier Three Strange Loves, the director tries to keep up the continuity through slight overlaps in the family relationships and at the same time keeps a variety to the common experiences of each of the women. While all this is going on - or has gone on since reflections are all flashbacks on an essential aspect of their relationships - the youngest girl Maj (Gerd Andersson) is creating her own defining moment, planning to run off with the youngest Lobelius, Henrik (Björn Bjelvenstam), keeping the theme current, running in between each of the stories. It’s this fine detail in the structure and the strength of the narration – Bergman finding inventive and varied ways to describe the failure of human beings and married couples to communicate meaningfully with each other – that make this one of Bergman’s more interesting early films.

An intriguing series of little vignettes made for purely commercial reasons, Waiting Women flirts with different filmmaking approaches and themes but never quite has a consistent enough tone, purpose or even sufficient originality. While it is never on the scale of great Bergman, there are nonetheless signs of a director stretching himself and plenty of tantalising hints of what is to come from Bergman in the themes and methods employed here. The quality of the transfer on the Tartan DVD is superb, making this rarely seen film a fabulous addition to their other releases of the early Bergman back catalogue.

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

DVD Monsters and Critics [Andy McKeague]

Channel 4 Film

TotalFilm Philip Kemp

The New York Times (Bosley Crowther)

MONIKA (Sommaren med Monika) A- 94

aka: Summer with Monika

Sweden (96 mi) 1953

Time Out Nigel Floyd

A tender yet unsentimental account of a love affair that turns sour. Harriet Andersson gives a precociously assured performance as a wild, feckless girl from Stockholm's poorer quarter who falls in love with a 19-year-old youth. During an idyllic motor-boat holiday among the islands of the Stockholm archipelago, the girl becomes pregnant and the couple, forced to marry, set up home in a tiny, cramped flat. Very soon, love gives way to distrust and hostility, and they agree to part. Bergman's sympathetic eye and Gunnar Fischer's atmospheric photography invest the locations with a poetic significance, the light and open spaces of the holiday islands contrasted tellingly with the dark claustrophobia of the city, where the flame of the couple's love is slowly extinguished by the lack of air.

Summer with Monika from the Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

A sensuous, sympathetic and admirably unsentimental tale of young love turned sour, Bergman's Summer with Monika features a fiery, first-rate performance from Harriet Andersson in her first of many Bergman roles. She plays the eponymous heroine, a seductive, impulsive shop girl whose whirlwind summer romance with a young man ends in pregnancy, forced marriage, and unhappy domesticity. Atmospherically shot by Gunnar Fischer, Bergman's cameraman of choice before Sven Nykvist, the film's visual design effectively contrasts the idyllic and airy locales of summer romance with the dark, dingy, drab reality of working-class life in the city. "The most important thing in the film is the extremely complex and detailed treatment of Monika... her splendid energy, her animal vitality and sensuality... She brings a whole new range of possibilities to Bergman's work" (Robin Wood). "[A story] perfectly wedded to the climatic dictates of the Swedish year: uninhibited sex in the archipelago beneath a cloudless sky, then the return to Stockholm as the winds of autumn gather strength... [Andersson] emerged from the film not only as a ready-made star, but also as Bergman's companion for the next few years" (Peter Cowie).

CINE-FILE: Cine-List - CINE-FILE Chicago Elspeth J. Carroll

That the story of a willful teenager and her summer romance was picked up by Kroger Babb (the man behind such titles as SHE SHOULDA SAID NO) and distributed in the U.S. as an exploitation film should come as no surprise. The film was recut, with emphasis on Harriet Andersson's scandalous nudity, and retitled MONIKA: THE STORY OF A BAD GIRL. "Naughty and Nineteen" promotional posters declared. Monika is a rebellious, sexually experienced teenager who winds up pregnant. We even see her ass. It's not a tough sell. But this is Bergman. Andersson’s Monika isn’t offered up to the audience as an object for its salivation and sanctimony. She is never really punished for her "sins"—not cowed into domesticity or subjected to whatever horrors typically await "bad girls." She is triumphant to the end. It is she who chooses Harry Lund, as if at random, to provide her with a light and a date to the cinema that first night. "I’m crazy about you," she says, addressing Harry but gazing at her own reflection. She is a fervent consumer of love on screen and in print, and she has decided to embark on a summer romance of her own. Harry Lund, a shop clerk from a petit bourgeois home, is not exactly the stuff of dreams. Next to Monika, he is about as charismatic as a pat of butter. But he has a nice face and a kind demeanor, and, most importantly, he's game. Monika has enough life for the both of them. She commands the screen. Yes, we see her ass, but she also holds our gaze in a radically drawn out extreme close-up. At about 30 seconds, it’s long enough that we can’t help but feel her mind churning, blood pumping, and life bursting just below the surface. What are we to think of Monika? Is she really so bad? So she chooses to spend a summer on a boat cruising along the Swedish coast, bathing naked in tide pools and dancing on piers. Given the opportunity, what sort of soulless monster would do otherwise? And what's her alternative? To work in some cold cellar, selling dry goods to leering customers. What we see of her life in working class Stockholm puts into sharp relief the couple’s idyllic summer days (captured in all their sun-dappled glory by Gunnar Fischer). Her romanticism won’t allow her to accept the everyday drudgery that’s her lot. She is, at times, vulgar and petulant, self-absorbed and needlessly cruel—a typical teenager. But even at her worst, she's captivating. Monika is as much Andersson’s creation as she is Bergman’s. For the director no other actress could have played the part. No other girl “could be more Monika-sh.” Andersson imbues the role with an energy that is both preternatural and wholly organic. When Harry jumps and shouts and acts wild, it’s a performance. He is playacting rebellion. Monika seems at home in that wildness. Freedom suits her. However we might judge her final act, it’s impossible to spend an hour and a half watching her live, so naturally and irresistibly, and wish to see that freedom tempered.

Senses of Cinema (Hamish Ford)

Summer with Monika is a standout early film in the massive oeuvre of Ingmar Bergman, surely the 20^th century's quintessential 'art cinema' filmmaker. Between 1946 and 1983 Bergman wrote and directed such international art-house staples as The Seventh Seal and Wild Strawberries (both 1957), Persona (1966), Cries and Whispers (1972), and Fanny and Alexander (1982), to mention only the most famous of almost 50 theatrically released films.

Along with Summer Interlude (1951) and Sawdust and Tinsel (1953), Summer with Monika represents the very best of Bergman's first decade. He initially had trouble getting the film approved, largely due to a script with morally suspect elements (most notably adolescent sex and premarital procreation). Svensk Filmindustri finally approved a cheap shoot, however some scenes were later censored (notably a scene featuring drunken sex by the sea).

Harriet Andersson's performance as Monika is as responsible as Bergman's direction for this film's impact through the years. The endlessly reprinted (most recently as the cover for the UK DVD release) low-angle image of the adolescent Monika, sitting on a sun-drenched rock with eyes closed and cardigan draped well below her shoulders, encapsulates what would become a cliché for Scandinavian cinema's women – uninhibitedly sensual, assertive and 'real', compared to their Hollywood counterparts. Monika's unshaven armpits, lack of make-up (in the island sequence of the film at least), and rebellious behavior importantly influenced the rendering of femininity in the cinema (especially in France), and Andersson's performance prompted a very different idea of stardom.

Monika also plays out a textbook existential fantasy of revolt. Interestingly, this is figured not through an artist or intellectual, but working-class subjects and their milieu. The film portrays Monika's attractive protean energy and raw sexuality as inextricably linked to a nihilism which drives her affirmations and rebellion, and which also comes to consume that which her boyfriend, and mainstream culture (including Monika herself), presume to be the goals of an aspirational bourgeois life.

The confronting depth of Monika's character emerges slowly. At first she seems appealing in an unpretentious, erotically assertive way. Her unselfconscious sexuality is highlighted from the start of the film, when Monika perfunctorily checks herself in a mirror before walking into a grimy café, on the way nonchalantly adjusting her underwear from behind.

One also notices early that the urban scenes are largely studio-bound and carefully stylised, Bergman broadly rendering the idea of post-industrial working class life, rather than claiming to offer a precise sociological insight into such a milieu. The film thus emphasises the absurd 'unreality' of everyday existence in a drab socio-economic real. Performed within these theatrically rendered everyday spaces, Monika and Harry's courtship is a broadly etched playing out of mimetic tropes. After their first date, Monika tries to copy the actors in the American melodrama they have just seen, proclaiming/pleading to Harry “we're crazy about each other, aren't we…?” Monika's exaggerated enthusiasms seem centred around trying to transform herself and her situation through carrying out Hollywood fantasies of love and escape from a drab reality. (She is violently molested by her male co-workers, and lives in a hellish set-up with screaming younger siblings and a drunken father.) This foregrounding of Monika's romantic behaviour as emanating from her intimate relationship to commercial cinema is a central element of the film's reflexivity.

The most famous reflexive moment is when Monika sits in a café near the end of the film, having seemingly – almost inadvertently – rejected the conventional moral codes of the time (familial responsibility, monogamy, motherhood and a broadly Christian social contract). Godard and Truffaut, who would both later copy this image and the iconic narrative arc of the film, were enraptured by Monika as she sits smoking a cigarette, then slowly turns towards the camera to stare straight out at us. This shot is indeed radical in a fairly classical film, yet it merely makes explicit what pervades all of Monika's Stockholm scenes. It contains both the film's surface (but reflexive and stylised) realism, then directly forces on the viewer the means of that textual construction via the stare straight to camera. Then Bergman theatrically blackens out a background world we thought was real, leaving only the abstracted surface of a woman's face looking right at us in the dark.

Perhaps most importantly, the direct gaze at the audience raises a difficult complicity. We might have looked down on Monika's naïve investment in the Hollywood melodrama and her attempts to act it out in the real world, but when she looks directly at us watching 'our' film, the viewer's belief in Monika's diegetic reality is humbled. And the radical energy and nihilism that fuels her character is here emphasised as having been there all along, our romantic and erotic investment in Monika's persona and fictional gestures notwithstanding.

Despite the formal-thematic interest of the Stockholm sequences, the experience of Summer with Monika is probably dominated by the lengthy island sequence in which Monika and Harry's affair goes from rebellious euphoria to the chilly awakening from what he finally says has been a dream. It is perhaps best to resist describing the largely wordless rendering of this fantasy-idyll, wherein all Bergman's Scandinavian ambivalence about nature and summer is intricately articulated by the multiple dissolve cuts and non-narrative compositions which make this film so visually sumptuous.

The island sequence is famous enough, but the journey to and from this sublime time and space also receives important attention in the film. We experience at some length the characters' gleeful travelling from the city, and then following the end of summer, their doom-laden return. These sequences along the waterways of Stockholm (accompanied by each trip's contrasting soundtrack) that bookend the island sequence, emotionally and aesthetically suture the viewer into the film's world, further sealing our complicity (enforced by the later direct stares to camera) in the performances, desires and tragedies played out on-screen throughout.

Viewers who are uncomfortable with the more recognisably 'Bergmanesque' intensities of his most famous cinema might find much to enjoy in this film. There is here a powerful formal and thematic simplicity Bergman was rarely to achieve again. A still very fresh and subtly masterful work, Summer with Monika is the result of the protean youthful bravura in Harriet Andersson's remarkable and iconic performance, and the disciplined clarity of Ingmar Bergman before he embarked upon his more ambitious masterpieces.

Full Review Noel Megahey from DVD Times

Westminster Wisdom Gracchi

VideoVista Paul Higson

Bergman's Bad Girl J. Hoberman from the Village Voice

DVDBeaver Per-Olof Strandberg

SAWDUST AND TINSEL (Gycklarnas afton)

aka: The Naked Night

Sweden (93 mi) 1953

Chicago Reader (Jonathan Rosenbaum)

A major early feature by Ingmar Bergman, also known as The Naked Night (though the Swedish title apparently means "The Clown's Night"). This 1953 film is perhaps the most German expressionist of Bergman's 50s works, as redolent of sexual cruelty and angst as Variety and The Blue Angel, but no less impressive for all that. The aging owner of a small traveling circus who left his wife for a young performer in his troupe tries to regain his lost family. Visually splendid, but you may find the masochistic plot pretty unpleasant. With Ake Gronberg and Harriet Andersson.

Time Out

Acknowledging the influence of Dupont's Variety - one of the keystones of German expressionism, in which marriage was seen as a perilous high-wire act - Bergman here employs the circus as a metaphor for the humiliating hoops through which men and women are put by their sexual dreams and desires. Heavily masochistic in its anguished account of the futile attempts of an ageing circus owner (Grönberg) and his steely young mistress (Andersson) to escape the dreary limitations of their mutually destructive involvement, it isn't exactly prepossessing in theme. But visually it is a treat, with Bergman's richly baroque compositions and persistent use of deep focus brilliantly exploiting the circus and theatre settings. And the performances are first-rate.

Sawdust and Tinsel from the Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Also known as The Naked Night (the Swedish title translates as "Night of the Clowns"), this dark, fantastical exploration of sexual dreams and desire offers one of Bergman's most pitiless dissections of male-female relationships. Setting the stage is an early, eerie, dreamy flashback sequence - "one of the director's most brilliant moments" (Bloomsbury Foreign Film Guide) - in which a clown is humiliated by his wife. The film then proceeds to relate the masochistic, mutually destructive relationship between Albert (Åke Grönberg), aging owner of a tawdry travelling circus, and Anne (Harriet Andersson), his young mistress. When Albert attempts to win back his estranged wife and family, jealous Anne allows herself to be seduced by Frans (Hasse Ekman), a suave but callous young actor. The film's highly baroque stylizations derive from German expressionism - in particular, Dupont's 1925 classic Variety, which had Emil Jannings as a cuckolded trapeze artist. A work of profound, powerfully felt pessimism (Pauline Kael calls it "one of the bleakest of Bergman's films"), Sawdust and Tinsel is now often cited as Bergman's first authentic masterpiece. "A landmark in Bergman's development... a film that reveals the director's maturation as a visual stylist as well as a philosophical artist" (Ephraim Katz).

The Criterion Collection #412: Sawdust and Tinsel Dan Callahan from The House Next Door

Ingmar Bergman made eleven films before his breakthrough, Summer with Monika (1952), where he seemed to be stimulated by filming his lover at the time, Harriet Andersson, a bluntly carnal brunette. Andersson is also crucial to his next film, Sawdust and Tinsel (1953), marketed in the US as The Naked Night. There’s no real nudity in the movie, though Andersson’s breasts often threaten to burst out of her period clothing and, as always, her big, wet, striated lips are so central to the images that they should have their own special billing. In the famous flashback that comes at the beginning of the film, Alma (Gudrun Brost), a coarse, aging blond desperately trying to prove that she’s still attractive, cavorts nude in the sea with a regiment of soldiers. Her clown husband (Anders Ek) pulls her out of the water, covering her nakedness with his body. But there’s no covering the nakedness of his emotions under his heavy clown make-up, and no possible way to cover up his wife’s disgrace.

Sawdust and Tinsel is Bergman’s first film where the idea of humiliation, specifically sexual humiliation, becomes crucial to his conception. It was a theme that obsessed him throughout his career, and it has no more painful expression than in this flashback of the clown and his big Fellini-esque wife, which is shot in a deliberately over-exposed way, as if harsh light was pounding down on everyone and everything. This flashback evokes Murnau, Eisenstein and even Welles; at bottom, it is an homage and an intensification of a German silent film like E.A. Dupont’s Variety (1925), with its strobe-like effects. You can feel Bergman finally realizing the full possibility of what a camera can do and, even more importantly, what sound and its absence can convey. We don’t hear any words when the people talk or shout on the beach, only the soldier’s derisive laughter on the track, and unsettlingly hollow, phallic canon bursts at irregular intervals. Looking at this scene and the best scenes in Sawdust and Tinsel is a little like listening to the modernist music of Stravinsky, or Alban Berg (the score by Karl-Birger Blomdahl is aggressively modernist and tense). Bergman’s new, bursting talent for Expressionist editing and composition helps distract us from the fact that the basic situation between the clown and his wife is more than a little bit corny.

Bergman is not always successful in masking the trite aspects of his screenplay when the story proper kicks in, as we watch the bull-like circus owner Albert (Åke Grönberg) laid low in tried and true Emil Jannings fashion by Andersson’s petulant, teasing mistress. Andersson walks down a street like she just loves being good-looking and looked at; very rarely has a film actress been so brazen about her own beauty. Bergman attempts to take her down a notch in her dealings with an aging, pretty boy actor (Hasse Ekman), but not before she makes him get on his knees and bang his head on the floor at her feet. Later, they have an arm-wrestling contest that he just barely wins; there is some black humor in this literal battle of the sexes. Bergman once called the theater his faithful wife, while the cinema was his “costly, exacting mistress.” When we watch him watch his mistress Andersson, we can only be glad that he paid the price for such pleasure, cinematically speaking.

Harriet Andersson has always been an odd woman out in the Ingmar Bergman gallery of females; she’s clearly a little slutty, a little low-class, and in Sawdust he has her mock the “pale, flat-chested actresses” that Ekman’s actor (and Bergman himself) is used to working with. As is his wont, Bergman drops a heavy dollop of Strindberg into this bit of sexual autobiography. The actor debases Andersson as she has debased him (Ekman holds her down on the floor at one point: as she struggles, never has the unshaved hair under a woman’s arms looked more enticing). With his lined, sneering face, Ekman personifies one of Bergman’s keener insights: the emotional vampirism of actors. But Bergman abandons Ekman and his sadomasochistic contest with Andersson and throws the whole ending to Grönberg’s circus owner. It’s difficult to feel much of anything for this standard, Germanic brute, even when Ekman is kicking dust in his face in front of an excited audience. The ending is heavily symbolic and a bit pompous, with the clown longingly explicating a dream he had about curling up in his wife’s womb, but Sawdust and Tinsel is still a key early Bergman film that anticipates his major works of the sixties.

Channel 4 Film

A LESSON IN LOVE (En lektion i kärlek)

Sweden (96 mi) 1954

A Lesson in Love Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Anticipating the delights of Smiles of a Summer Night, the director's international breakthrough two years later, this warm, witty sex farce is "the most natural, robust and heartily funny of Ingmar Bergman's comedies" (Time). Gunnar Björnstrand plays a jaded gynaecologist whose affair with another woman ("I want your fire to burn away my apathy") has his jilted wife (Eva Dahlbeck) seeking comfort in the arms of a former fiancé ("A mature grown man is a rarity, so one has to find the child who suits one best"). Told largely in flashback, and beginning with an hilarious chance encounter that sets the estranged couple to reviewing their troubled relationship, A Lesson in Love is deliciously laden with irony, innuendo and comic cynicism about the battle of the sexes. "It is certainly not too far off the mark to picture Bergman as attempting a Hollywood genre comedy in [this] film. Björnstrand is his Cary Grant, Dahlbeck his Ingrid Bergman" (James Monaco). "Notable among Bergman's work for its freedom and spontaneity of invention, its emotional richness, warmth and generosity... The popular image of Bergman as a frigid intellectual can scarcely survive a viewing of A Lesson in Love" (Robin Wood).

DVD Times Noel Megahey

A master of delineating the internal tensions that give rise to conflicts in relationships, Ingmar Bergman was not quite so assured when called upon to work in the field of comedy. Pondering this in his book Images: My Life in Film, Bergman recalls his early failures at comedy skits - "I brooded a good deal over how others could so easily make people laugh. Even if my life depended on it, I couldn't figure out how they did it." Unfortunately, commercial considerations meant that his life quite literally did depend on being able to be funny and entertaining. Bergman's first attempt in the genre came about in one segment of Waiting Women, based on a real-life experience of being trapped in a lift with his wife. Bergman expanded on the success of this little farce and brought back Eva Dahlbeck and Gunnar Björnstrand to work the same magic over a full-length film, but quickly (and justifiably) got cold feet about his ability to make the material of one scene work. Prepared to abandon the film, he neverthless left it to Dahlbeck and Björnstrand to show him how the scene could work and, putting his trust in the skills of the actors, Bergman went on to make his first comedy.

Björnstrand plays Dr. David Erneman, an eminent gynaecologist who has been married for 16 years to Marianne (Dahlbeck). Although he enjoys the comforts and security of married life and sees scores of women in an intimate manner on a daily basis, he still can’t resist the fire of attraction when he meets a beautiful young girl. He is currently conducting an affair with Mrs Verin, but when he finds out that his wife Marianne also has a lover – Carl-Adam, the man she once left at the altar for him – it’s a blow to his pride and his security.

The whole theme of love, attraction, sex, marriage and divorce is a subject that Bergman has visited many times and once or twice in a similar playful sex-comedy manner, but A Lesson in Love, notwithstanding the success of the double-act pairing of Dahlbeck and Björnstrand in the earlier comedy segment of Waiting Women, is not one of his better forays into the subject. Unlike the lightness of touch the director would employ to bring out the natural pleasures and warmth arising out of the situations in Smiles of a Summer’s Night (1957), Bergman here in his earlier film strives to adopt a clever, witty tone he would also later employ in All These Women (1964), and similarly fail to convince.

In many ways though the film A Lesson in Love (‘En Lektion I Kärlek’) most closely resembles is Bergman’s 1973 TV-series Scenes From A Marriage, which similarly features an apparently idyllic married couple – the wife is also called Marianne – who are also unable to reconcile the comforts of married life with the desire to escape from its suffocating complacency. Like Johan, Dr. Erneman is a pathetic character, struggling to justify his infidelities with clever theories, bemoaning his weakness, while at the same time seeking comprehension from his wife and maternal direction. Both couples also have to consider the effect the break-up of their marriage would have on their children and how they are going to tell their parents about it. A Lesson in Love seeks to expose the hypocrisies of bourgeois marriage and society’s attitudes to affairs, relationships and marriage and to some degree it does hit on some truisms about male/female relationships, albeit in a generalised and much too neatly packaged manner. A Lesson in Love has none of the keener sense of realism, acuity and, probably more importantly, experience that the director would be able to bring to the subject 20 years later.

Even regulars from Bergman’s troupe of actors fail to give the film any weight or even charm here. Gunnar Björnstrand is equally good at serious and comedy roles, but the farcical nature of the material here doesn't really give him a lot to work with. Harriet Andersson, usually so reliable, overplays in trying to convince as the couple’s brattish 15 year-old daughter, Nix. Most of what is good about A Lesson in Love comes from Eva Dahlbeck’s Marianne, displaying a fiery temperament that is unimaginable from the elegance of her external appearance and suave demeanour. Her furious reactions to David’s behaviour give rise to the few explosively funny moments that make the film worth more than all the clever philosophising and moralising.

A Lesson in Love is an interesting early example of Bergman trying to find a comfortable style to present his thoughts and philosophies about relationships and make commercially appealing films - but the two just aren't compatible as far as Bergman is concerned. The film has some good moments and observations and looks terrific, but it is all too neatly packaged and is neither as clever nor as witty as it thinks it is. The DVD, barring a few minor niggles, looks as fabulous as most of Tartan’s Bergman Collection releases, particularly for a film this old, though apart from informative film notes, there is little in the extras that is relevant to the film.

The New York Times (Bosley Crowther)

DREAMS

aka: Journey Into Autumn

Sweden (87 mi) 1955

Time Out

Bergman's movies in the '50s tend to lack any real perspective on their obsessive themes; each film looks like a more or less strained effort to find a 'dramatic' solution to the 'problem' of the ideas it contains. Journey Into Autumn tries for irony, but still ends up looking more forced than measured as fashion editor Eva Dahlbeck and model Harriet Andersson dream of reconciliation with former lovers, only to face disillusionment.

Dreams Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Bergman's fifteenth feature was an engaging and enjoyable work in one of his trademark modes: the insightful, well-observed, well-acted "women's picture". Dreams (the Swedish title translates literally as "Women's Dreams") has two stylish Stockholm women travelling to a fashion shoot in Gothenburg, where each will have a Bergmanesque encounter with the vicissitudes of male-female relationships. Eva Dahlbeck is chic Susanne, head of a fashion photography studio, who hopes to rekindle her affair with an ex-lover who is now married. Harriet Andersson is Doris, a young model who has just broken with her fiancé and who soon finds herself being extravagantly wooed by a wealthy and much older diplomat. Bergman contrasts and compares the two affairs, and details the various humiliations and disillusionments endured within them by his two heroines. "One of Bergman's most diverting and characteristic films ... The psychological analysis of the characters is piercingly accurate" (Peter Cowie). "By turns sunny and dark, the film shows Bergman moving from his spring into his summer" (Bloomsbury Foreign Film Guide). Smiles of A Summer Night, his next feature, would be prove to be his international breakthrough.

DVD Times Noel Megahey

After the failure of Sawdust and Tinsel for the Sandrew’s Film Company, Ingmar Bergman promised the head of the studio a comedy for his next film Dreams (also known as Journey Into Autumn), but just as the spectre of jealousy taken from Bergman’s own life hung over the previous film, so too would Bergman’s troubled relationship with his leading actress Harriet Andersson heavily influence the tone of Dreams.

The film examines the flaws in the amorous relationships of two women and, not very originally, finds flaws on all sides. One of the women, Susanne Frank (Eva Dahlbeck), is a top fashion designer who has recently broken-up with a married man she has been having an affair with. The break-up however was more to do with being unable to convince him to leave his wife and she still has strong feelings for him. Knowing that he is in Gothenburg, she travels there for a fashion photo-shoot, prepared to accept the little part of his life he is willing to share with her. The trip has an adverse effect on one of the fashion models, Doris (Harriet Andersson), a single-minded young woman who refuses to be dictated to by her boyfriend Pelle (Sven Lindberg), and she consequently breaks-up with him to go on the trip.

In Gothenburg, both women have illusions about their relationships, but they are soon shattered. Doris meets up with a distinguished gentleman, a consul (Gunnar Björnstrand), who buys her an expensive ball gown and a precious necklace, but she comes to realise that she is being bought as a substitute for the consul’s wife who has lost her mind. Doris realises she has been young and naïve and that the genuine love she had with Pelle cannot be bought. Susanne is not so young, but she too realises that she has been just as foolish, falling for an illusion and the half-measure that Henrik (Ulf Palme) is willing to offer.

Weak women, heads filled with illusions about their relationships, and pitiful middle-aged men looking for the easiest way to keep their comfortable lifestyles while satisfying the vanity of their charm, the theme of Dreams is a familiar one in Ingmar Bergman films, from the sex comedy of A Lesson In Love (Berman’s preceding film for Svensk Filmindustri, a light comedy that this one was no doubt meant to emulate), through to the intense relationship drama of Scenes From A Marriage. Although it has a few moments of both dramatic intensity and light-heartedness, there is a curious lack of balance and consistency in Dreams, with neither the horror endured by Björnstrand’s consul on a ghost train, causing him a flashback to his wife’s suffering from mental illness, nor Susanne’s suicidal impulse on the train, nor the playfulness of Andersson’s model, drunk on champagne and glamour, really having any convincing depth of feeling or strength of performance. Only the appearance of Henrik’s wife Marianne (now there’s a familiar Bergman name for the long-suffering wife), coldly delivering a few home truths, really hit the mark, but even those are lacking the dark bitterness of relationship troubles that Bergman would come to depict in his later films with far more precision and force.

Acknowledged by Ingmar Bergman himself as being a troubled production, the director’s personal troubles do unfortunately seem to drag Dreams down. Bergman has dealt with the subject of relationship problems much better elsewhere, with both a comic lightness of touch and with visceral force when required. Dreams attempts to balance both approaches, but caught up in his own drama, the director seems unable to strike the necessary distance that is required to examine the powerful emotions the film’s situations give rise to with his customary precision and insight.

Erasing Clouds - review Dave Heaton

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

The New York Times (A.H. Weiler)

DVDBeaver.com [Arvid Sollenby]

SMILES OF A SUMMER NIGHT (Sommarnattens leende) A 98

Sweden (108 mi) 1955

One of the finest romantic comedies ever filmed, erotic and lyrical, wise and beautiful, allegedly written during one of Bergman’s darkest depressions, so it didn’t come easy. Set in the turn of the century Sweden with aging actress Desiree, Eva Dahlbeck, inviting her former lover Fredrik, Gunnar Bjornstrand, and his pregnant 30-years younger wife Anne, Ulla Jacobsson, a still unconsummated marriage after several years, also their young man/son Henrik who turns out to be madly in love with love, also inviting her current lover, basically a married man in a uniform, and his present wife, Margit Carlquist, to her mother’s country estate for some fun in the sun, bringing along the hired servants, including the sultry Petra, Harriet Andersson, in one of her sexiest performances on film.

Michael Tapper from 1001 MOVIES YOU MUST SEE BEFORE YOU DIE:

The first international success by Ingmar Bergman might in retrospect look like the anomaly in his career. In interviews Bergman often claims to have no talent for comedy, and his later work in the genre – The Devil’s Eye (1960), and All These Women (1964) – would seem to confirm this sentiment. However, with Waiting Women (1952) and especially A Lesson in Love (1954), he found a successful formula for witty, sophisticated comedies featuring two excellent actors Gunnar Björnstrand and Eva Dahlbeck (lovingly referred to by the director as “The Battleship Femininity”) as a middle-aged couple playfully tormenting each other.

Smiles of a Summer Night is a variation on this formula, transposed into a 19^th-century moral comedy and with a theatrical plot heavily influenced by Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Here the Björnstrand character is a middle-aged philistine and Dahlbeck’s an aging actress. Both are vain and self-important, living in separate relationships that have proved to be even more frustrating than their own former liason. Egged on by an aphrodisiac wine and the magical twilight of a midsummer night, their – and their spouses’ – true feelings are revealed. Everybody finds his/her true mate. But this new equilibrium of bourgeois complacency was later to be disrupted by Bergman with a vengeance in his hellish versions of marriage and midlife crisis in Scenes from a Marriage (1973) and From the Life of the Marionettes (1980).

Time Out

Bergman's first major success, inspiration for both Stephen Sondheim's A Little Night Music and Woody Allen's A Midsummer Night's Sex Comedy, this enchanting comedy of manners assembles a team of couples, ex-couples and would-be couples, and puts them through their paces in a game of love at a country house party during one heady midsummer weekend in 1900. Ruthless towards its characters' amorous pretensions, but extending a kind of ironic tenderness when they get hoist with their own petards, it is a wonderfully funny, genuinely erotic, and quite superbly acted rondo of love. Dig too deeply and it disintegrates, but its facade - decked out in elegant turn-of-the-century settings and costumes - has a magical, shimmering beauty.

DVDBeaver.com - Review [Gary W. Tooze]

After fifteen films of mostly local acclaim, the 1956 prize-winning comedy Smiles of a Summer Night at last ushered in an international audience for director Ingmar Bergman. Set in turn-of-the-century Sweden, four women and four men attempt to juggle the laws of attraction amidst their daily bourgeois life. When a weekend in the country brings them all face to face, the women ally to force the men's hands in their matters of the heart, exposing their pretentions and insecurities along the way. Chock full of flirtatious propositions and sharp-witted wisdom delivered by such legends of the Swedish screen as Gunnar Björnstrand, Eva Dahlbeck, Harriet Andersson, and Ulla Jacobsson, Smiles of a Summer Night is one of film history's great tragicomedies, a bittersweet view of the transience of human carnality.

Smiles of a Summer Night from the Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Bergman's much-belated international breakthrough came with Smiles of a Summer Night, his sixteenth feature, a sophisticated comedy of sexual manners inspired by Mozart, Marivaux, Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream, and Renoir's Rules of the Game. The film is set at a turn-of-the-century country estate, where eight men and women have been invited for a summer weekend. A riotous round of sexual intrigue and deception ensues, as couples, former couples, and would-be couples variously pair off, break up, and exchange partners. The work was honoured with a special prize for "poetic humour" at Cannes in 1956, much to Bergman's surprise: "I was sitting in the shithouse reading the papers. And then I read: SWEDISH FILM GETS PRIZE AT CANNES, SWEDISH FILM CAUSES SENSATION, or something of that sort. What the devil film can that be, I wondered. When I saw that it was Smiles of a Summer Night, I couldn't believe it." "Bergman's finest comedy. . . A film of opalescent, quicksilver beauty" (James Monaco). "One of the few classics of carnal comedy: a tragicomic chase and roundelay that raises boudoir farce to elegance and lyric poetry" (Pauline Kael). "Wonderfully funny, genuinely erotic, and quite superbly acted" (Tom Milne).

CINE-FILE: Cine-List - CINE-FILE Chicago Kyle Cubr

Falling on the lighter side of Ingmar Bergman's oeuvre, SMILES OF A SUMMER NIGHT is atypical of his darker, religiously symbolic films that followed. Deeply personal with latent sexually frustrated undertones, it alternates between comedy and romance. Lawyer Fredrick Egerman (Gunnar Björnstrand) lives with his much younger virginal second wife, Anne (Ulla Jacobsson), his seminary school enrolled adult son, Henrick (Björn Bjelvenstam), and their promiscuous maid, Petra (Harriet Andersson). Fredrick's former mistress, Desiree (Eva Dahlbeck), comes back into his life, and the two quickly rekindle their old flame. It is found that she is currently the mistress to another married man, Count Carl-Magnus Malcolm (Jarl Kulle). All of the aforementioned characters come together at Desiree's mother's house for a dinner party where a tangled web is woven. SUMMER NIGHT calls to mind Renoir's THE RULES OF THE GAME wherein their respective high society aristocrats frequently cheat on one another and everyone wants to be with someone else. They are the antithesis of what is expected of them. Fredrick and Malcolm's terse rivalry pits the two against one another for Desiree's affections. Both men's virility is compared to an animal—Fredrick, an old wolf and Malcolm, a tiger. Their prey are any of the nubile women around them, and both men are ravenous. The crescendo occurs at the film's climax when a game of Russian Roulette is decided upon as the only way to solve their quarrels. Bergman brilliantly likens sexual release to the gun firing, as one man lands the object of his affections and the other is left emasculated. SMILES OF A SUMMER NIGHT is a masterwork on sexuality, interpersonal relationships, and virtues versus vice; it is the personification of summer turning to fall.

100 films Lucas McNelly

Successful lawyer Fredrik Egerman (Gunnar Björnstrand) has a young wife (Ulla Jacobsson) he hasn’t slept with, a son (Björn Bjelfvenstam) who lusts after his father’s wife and maid, and a dormant love affair with a well-known actress (Eva Dahlbeck). After a visit to the theatre, he meets his former mistress’s new love–a jealous military man (Jarl Kulle) prone to dueling and boastful claims of infidelity. But few in this arrangement seem content with the cards they’ve drawn, so the women begin planning the means by which they can get the men they truly love. Naturally, this involves several underhanded techniques, including a wife wagering her husband that she can seduce Egerman in under fifteen minutes, and a button that moves a bed from one room to the next without waking the occupant. [This had been previously used by a King so that he may “frolic” with another man’s wife, one of the many benefits of royalty.]

All of this is filmed with tongue firmly in cheek by master filmmaker Ingmar Bergman, thus making Sommarnattens leende a traditional comedy, a bit of a departure for Bergman as we know him, but perfectly normal for a young director largely unknown outside his native Sweden. Bergman had yet to make the masterpieces Det Sjunde inseglet (1957), Smultronstället (1957), and Nattvardsgästerna (1963) [For those of you who don’t speak Swedish, that’s The Seventh Seal, Wild Strawberries, and Winter Light, respectively], had yet to plumb the depths of despair or question the nature of God or inspire the term “Bergmanesque” for generations of film buffs the world over. [Naturally, you can see all of those things in his earlier work, but he had not really entered the radar of the English-speaking world yet.] Still, this is Bergman, so Sommarnattens leende is a comedy not so much because it includes humor, but more because it lacks that all-encompassing sense of desperation we come to expect. It’s like calling fifty degrees balmy in the middle of winter.

Oh, but what a lovely fifty degrees it is. Beyond a token pratfall, the humor comes in sharp little jabs meant to be both devilish and witty at the same time. The film is dark, sadistic, amoral, and a lot of fun. Bergman’s main skewer is Fredrik’s son Henrik, a minister in training who spends long hours reading aloud the works of Martin Luther and preaching virtue, but is at numerous opportunities succumbing to the temptations of the flesh. For these indiscretions he is understandably tormented, but Bergman gets great delight not by showing his torment, but by ridiculing it as the idealism of a foolish youth. There’s no mistaking that the film views Henrik as an idiot. He has the respect of no one, not even himself, and he loathes a father who, from what we can tell, appears to be a reasonable man. But Henrik cannot seem to strike a balance between his actions and his beliefs. In one scene he is sleeping with the maid, but the next morning when she attempts to seduce him, he runs away ashamed. In a world where infidelity is bandied about minus remorse, this makes him the object of scorn.

Probably the best way to describe Sommarnattens leende is as a vicious comedy of manners. The jealous military man, Count Carl Magnus Malcolm, declares before his wife, “I can tolerate my wife's infidelity, but if anyone touches my mistress, I become a tiger.”, then declares the reverse before his mistress, with little thought as to how either woman will react. Later, he challenges Fredrik to a duel of Russian roulette where between spins of the chamber, they toast to each other’s health. Essentially what Bergman does is take a normal, Victorian scenario and infuse it with his worldview, his fallacies, and his dark sense of humor. Sommarnattens leende is a comedy, but more importantly it is a vital piece of the Bergman filmography for it shows a side of him that we don’t often see, and rarely account for when we think of something as “Bergmanesque”, even though it fits the criteria perfectly. We tend to forget that Bergman had a sense of humor, which is a shame, because it’s razor sharp.

Turner Classic Movies Felicia Feaster

One of Swedish director Ingmar Bergman's most lyrical and charming works, Smiles of a Summer Night (1955) is an unexpected detour from the more typical existential gloom Bergman is remembered for. In fact, it's a comedy.

The characters in this delightful bedroom farce, which unfolds in turn-of-the-century Sweden, are all undergoing befuddling romantic crises. The middle-aged lawyer Fredrik Egerman (Gunnar Bjornstrand) has taken a very young girl as his second wife. But Fredrik finds himself unable to consummate his marriage to his childlike bride Anne (Ulla Jacobsson), who remains a virgin despite sharing a bed with her husband for 2 years.

Fredrik turns for advice about the situation to the glamorous and worldly Stockholm stage actress, Desiree Armfeldt (Eva Dahlbeck) who has the wisdom of long romantic experience behind her, including an affair with Fredrik. Desiree still harbors tender feelings for her former lover even as she chaffs at his cruel slights about her age and the ability of a woman in her "sordid" profession to raise her four-year-old child which she has, tellingly, named Fredrik.

More out of boredom than passion, Desiree has taken on a new lover, a pompous soldier Count Malcolm (Jarl Kulle) who is outrageously jealous to boot. The soldier in turn has neglected his young wife Charlotte (Margit Carlqvist) during lengthy visits with his mistress Desiree.

And there is even more romantic dissatisfaction in the Egerman family. Fredrik's son, the struggling, morally-confused theology student Henrik (Bjorn Bjelvenstam) is trying to decide between a life in the church or a romp in the sack with the Egerman's deliciously randy, seductive 18-year-old maid Petra (Harriet Andersson).

With an effervescent touch, Bergman brilliantly captures the tangled problems, jealousies and dissatisfactions that characterize marriage in this clever film about the war between the sexes and the quest for love. Bergman's dreamy, lyrical effect was influenced by Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream and went on to further influence the Bergman-obsessed A Midsummer Night's Sex Comedy (1982), directed by Woody Allen. Encapsulating the pull of life and death that underpins so many of his films, Bergman has said he wrote Smiles in order to be with his Swedish theatrical troupe during the summer and to lift himself out of a deep depression. "This was a terrible time in my life, and I was extremely depressed. So I said, 'Why not make a film just for fun?'" Bergman saw two alternatives: "write Smiles of a Summer Night, or kill myself."

Though the film is most often remembered as a comedy, Bergman has admitted that it "is much darker than it appears."

"Often one makes a tragedy in a good mood and, when in a bad mood, turns to comedy," Bergman noted. The film was made during a time of financial and romantic uncertainty marked by Bergman's troubled romance with Harriet Andersson. Bergman was already tentatively courting actress Bibi Andersson who was promised a part in Smiles which eventually amounted to a tiny part as another actress on stage with Desiree during a scene in the Stockholm theater.

One of the most notable features of Smiles is its bawdiness, exceptional considering the year of its release in 1955. Variety noted its "unusual lusty comedy manner." New York Times critic Bosley Crowther also noted its surprisingly sexual tone, remarking on how "French" and how un-Swedish the erotic content seemed. Even contemporary viewers may be surprised by details of the film like maid Petra's sexual promiscuity, exemplified at one point when she unbuttons her blouse in the middle of setting the dinner table to offer Henrik a sample of her buxom charms. Equally atypical is the randy dialogue like Fredrik's caution to his son Henrik "in love as in horseback riding, if you are thrown, remount before you become frightened."

Smiles of a Summer Night was a remarkable success at the 1956 Cannes Film Festival in keeping with Bergman's prediction that "I thought it was time for a box-office success, and though everyone disagreed with me, I was convinced that this picture would succeed."

-Pauline Kael Criterion essay

Epinions [metalluk]

DVD Journal Clarence Beaks

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Macresarf1 Epinions Review

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THE SEVENTH SEAL (Det sjunde inseglet) A- 93

Sweden (96 mi) 1957

When he broke open the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven for about half an hour. —Rev 8:1

This film is predicated on a manic, almost frantic fear of death which may attempt to capture the medieval mindset of disillusionment when death was so prevalent, and like the religious misgivings during the Holocaust, God was strangely nowhere to be found. There’s something about this film that has never quite sat right with me, despite the awesome yet unflinchingly somber power of some of the imagery combined with reflections on the philosophic meaning, or meaninglessness, of life, as it’s driven by the idea that religious suffering is inevitable, a part of man’s fate, a point which is driven like a stake through our hearts, which is so relentlessly melodramatic and over the top that it makes it easy to parody, thoughts which are in the mind of the viewer even as they’re viewing this for the first time, which diminishes the power or believability of the subject matter. Bergman may have opened Heaven’s gates to arthouse scrutiny, but Tarkovsky sealed the deal a decade later with his epic work ANDREI RUBLEV (1969), which actually transforms cinematic perception along the way. The film features an unusual amount of sadistic punishment and cruel humiliation, and is perhaps the darkest of all the Bergman films, certainly in terms of body count, as it takes place during the 14^th century when a devout Knight (Max von Sydow), a man who has searched for meaning all his life returns from a ten year absence fighting in the Crusades with his more atheistic, existential squire (Gunnar Björnstrand) only to discover a Black Plague is ravishing his homeland. His experience has devastated his outlook towards God, feeling God has abandoned him and His silence is deafening. In the opening sequence, before you can even get settled in your seat, the Knight encounters a horrible black-robed monk with a ghostly white face carrying a scythe, claiming he is Death (Bengt Ekerot) coming to claim him. In an almost jocular manner, the Knight challenges Death to a game of chess, hoping he may postpone his destiny and gain some insight into the meaning of life before he dies, a game which continues to be played throughout the film, which like the bullet in Jarmusch’s DEAD MAN weighs heavily over the head of the Knight, realizing his death is inevitable, that for the duration of the film he will wander under a cloud of certain doom.

One of the interesting features is a play within the play, as a traveling road troupe is working its way to Elsinore, providing entertaining music and dance along the way, even though a dying population seems to have less and less a use for their services. The idealized nature of their family unit is a key component to the film, consisting of an awkward, Roberto Benigni-like musician and juggler, Nils Poppe, and his beautiful wife, Bibi Andersson, along with their infant child, who comprise a sort of Joseph, Mary, and Jesus trinity, as the husband has visions of the Holy Mary with child, who may as well be his own wife, the kind-hearted and supportive Bibi Andersson who has never been more luminous in any film, accentuated even further by the bleakness that pervades the landscape. Their humane, moral presence, as evidenced by their marital stability, is a stark contrast to the bawdy, Chaucer-like depiction of the corrupt, unruly townspeople, as well as one of the other actors who is equally morally depraved, easily succumbing to any and all temptation, which is eventually used for comic purposes. One of their performances is suddenly interrupted, actually drowned out, by the thunderous noise of a march of flagellants, a parade of Church sanctioned religious zealots that are carrying a caged woman they believe to be a witch, who they intend to burn at the stake, fumigating the land with their holy smoke, hoping to convert the countryside into believers, reduced to using the fear tactics of pagan ritual.

The Knight enters a church to pray and make his confession, which he unwittingly makes to his black-robed chess opponent, who delights in the information gained and immediately takes an advantage in their chess game. The Knight gets sidetracked by the pastoral harmony of the traveling family, who in an idyllic moment offer him wild strawberries and milk. This lyrical scene plays out in brief, but utter perfection before the Knight decides to whisk his party through the dark forest at night, hoping to avoid plague-ridden routes, offering protection to his castle. Along the way they run into the mob-like uncontrolled hysteria of the witch burning, where at the moment of her death, the Knight offers the witch a pain-killing remedy before asking her what the devil knows about God. As a storm approaches, with Death trailing the entire group and the game nearly lost, the traveling husband shows a unique ability to see that the Knight is actually playing chess with Death, alerting him to danger. The Knight feigns clumsiness, accidentally knocking over the chess pieces, a diversion that allows the troubadour family to escape and survive the following morning, where the husband has another vision and sees the Knight on the horizon holding hands with the others being led in a Dance of Death, with Death still holding his scythe. In this film, only the players within the play survive, a reminder to those of us in the real world that perhaps art and faith in one another play a part in our survival, that every day we have with one another is one we should cherish.

Kim Newman from 1001 MOVIES YOU MUST SEE BEFORE YOU DIE:

The image of a black-robed, white-faced Death (Bengt Ekerot) playing chess on the beach with a weary, questioning crusader (Max von Sydow) is as deeply-ingrained in the collective memory of moviegoers as King Kong atop the Empire State building, Humphrey Bogard spurning Ingrid Bergman at the airport, Janet Leigh stabbed in the shower, or the Imperial Cruiser passing over the camera. This one scene from the Swedish arthouse release The Seventh Seal epitomizes the momentousness, the excitement, and the impact new types of cinema had at a point when Hollywood certainties were in recession: How else to explain the parodies or references that recur in films as varied as Roger Corman’s Masque of the Red Death (1964), Woody Allen’s Love and Death, John McTiernan’s Last Action Hero (1993), and Peter Hewitt’s Bill & Ted Bogus Journey (1991), in the last of which Death plays twister?

This scene has been spoofed frequently and it’s a shame that it has come to represent the whole of the film in popular imagination. There’s an unfair sense that writer-director Ingmar Bergman was being overly solemn, setting out to make something that could stand as an archetype of seriousness or artiness. Actually, The Seventh Seal, although rooted in the big themes of Bergman’s great period, is a very playful, frequently comic picture, a medieval fable influenced by Bergman’s enthusiasm for the samurai movies of Akira Kurosawa and as concerned with celebrating simple pleasures as indicting complicated torments.

Antonious Block (Sydow), returning after ten years on a bloody crusade that was started by a con man who now makes a living robbing corpses, feels that his faith in God is a disease that mankind should root out. With his squire (Gunnar Björnstrand), as much a debating partner as sidekick, Block encounters death in the form of a plague-ridden corpse before he meets the literal Grim Reaper. The game of chess played throughout the film between Death and the knight is not merely for the crusader’s life but for his feelings about God, religion, and humanity in the end, hope comes from an alternative Holy Family – a jolly juggler (Nils Poppe), his earthy sensual wife (Bibi Andersson), and their lively, innocent toddler – whom Block saves from the plague by willingly joining the dance of death that claims more venal, corrupted characters.

If the knight, who is constantly tormented by curiosities about God and the void (he even visits an accused witch on the point of being burned to ask her what the Devil knows about God), represent one side of Bergman and the simple showman gently upbraided by his practical wife (“You and your dreams and visions,” she says to him in the film’s closing line) another, seeking redemption through honest entertainment, and appalled when his innocent show is upstaged by the horrible, Church-approved spectacle of a crowd of penitents being lashed and tortured. Bergman is always angry and saddened by human evils, especially when sanctioned by supposed religion, but the film also celebrates physical and spiritual love, communal artistic expression, food and drink, and natural beauty.

Time Out Nigel Floyd (link lost):

Bergman's portentous medieval allegory takes its title from the Book of Revelations - 'And when he (the Lamb) opened the seventh seal, there was a silence in heaven about the space of half an hour'. In the opening scene, a knight returning from the Crusades is challenged to a game of chess by the cloaked figure of Death (Ekerot), and from this point onwards an air of doom hangs over the action, like the hawk which hovers in the air above them. The time of Death and Judgement prophesied in the Bible has arrived, and a plague is sweeping the land. Bergman fills the screen with striking images: the knight and Death playing chess for the former's life, a band of flagellants swinging smoking censers, a young witch manacled to a stake. Probably the most parodied film of all time, this nevertheless contains some of the most extraordinary images ever committed to celluloid. Whether they are able to carry the metaphysical and allegorical weight with which they have been loaded is open to question.

The Seventh Seal Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Bergman's follow-up to the internationally acclaimed Smiles of a Summer Night cemented his reputation as a Serious Artist, and remains one of cinema's most famous (and most parodied) works. A very modern meditation on the absence of God, presented in the guise of a medieval morality play, The Seventh Seal features Max von Sydow as Antonius Blok, a battle-weary knight who returns from the Crusades to find his native Sweden ravaged by plague. Observing the horrors around him - disease-ridden peasants dying gruesome deaths, religious zealots parading in orgies of self-flagellation, fear-crazed vigilantes burning "witches" at the stake - the once-pious knight begins to doubt the existence of a God who would permit such suffering. When the white-faced, black-robed figure of Death finally comes for him also, Blok gains a brief reprieve by challenging the spectre to a game of chess he must inevitably lose. The Seventh Seal has achieved iconographic status in the popular imagination, and contains of some of film's most unforgettable images. It was also something of a milestone in "intellectual" or "serious" cinema, and was instrumental in creating the art house vogue for Bergman's work. "Bergman's most ambitious film" (Georges Sadoul).

Heavy: The Seventh Seal Pauline Kael review from Union University

Ingmar Bergman's medieval morality play about man in search of the meaning of life is set in 14th-century Sweden. But it's a magically powerful film the story seems to be playing itself out in a medieval present. A knight (Max von Sydow), tormented and doubting, returns from 10 wasted years in the Crusades, and Death (Bengt Ekerot) comes to claim him. Hoping to gain some revelation or obtain some knowledge before he dies, the knight challenges Death to a game of chess. As they play, the knight observes scenes of cruelty, rot, and suffering that suggest the tortures and iniquity Ivan Karamazov described to Alyosha. In the end, the knight tricks Death in order to save a family of strolling players a visionary, innocent, natural man, Joseph (Nils Poppe), his wife (Bibi Andersson), and their infant son. The knight, a sane modern man, asking to believe despite all the evidence of his senses, is childlike compared with his carnal atheist squire (Gunnar Björnstrand). The images and the omens are medieval, but the modern erotic and psychological insights add tension, and in some cases, as in the burning of the child-witch (Maud Hansson), excruciation. The actors' faces, the aura of magic, the ambiguities, and the riddle at the heart of the film all contribute to its stature. In Swedish.

Rick Segreda from a_film_by: http://movies.groups.yahoo.com/group/a_film_by/message/43159

I just watched "The Seventh Seal" again and for the first time I noticed the obvious influence on the whole thing of Shakespeare's Hamlet. Indeed, this is made explicit at the beginning with the travelling players expressed intention to make it to...Elsinore! But it wasn't until I saw for what seems like the fifth time in my life
that I noticed not only this, but the parallels between Max von Sydow's doubt-ridden knight and the melancholy Prince, as well as the parallel use of travelling performers to serve as a Pirandellian commentary on the interplay between life and art.

"For in that sleep of death what dreams may come" is precisely the anxiety that Sydow's disillusioned knight experiences at that moment he and the soon-to-die witch (who evokes the Bard's Joan La Pucelle in "Henry VI") make eye contact. Also, the supernatural figure of death serves much the same function as Hamlet's paternal poltergeist, setting the drama in motion and popping up periodically thereafter.

Of course, Sydow's knight ultimately becomes a more morbidly passive, even spiritually masochistic, figure than Hamlet, which is more in line with Bergman's ouvre in general.

The Seventh Seal (review) Evan Pulgino from Camera Eye

Perhaps the most famous (or infamous) art film ever made, Ingmar Bergman’s The Seventh Seal is a grim, existential meditation on the question of God’s existence and the meaning of life.

Max von Sydow plays a weary knight returning home from the Crusades with his squire (Gunnar Björnstrand) during the time of plague. The knight’s time to pass has come and Death comes to collect him. The knight, constantly searching for knowledge, challenges Death to a game of chess and delays his own demise.

While the knight is inquisitive and soul-searching his squire is nihilistic and bleak. The two travel through the plague-ridden land encountering a number of characters, each representing a different approach to the question of life’s meaning. The group travels together through the forest at night and discovers that Death is interested in more than just the knight.

The film is episodic in nature and feels like a lose collection of meditations on the pain and joy of life and the elusiveness of God. Most of the interludes are bleak, but there are some wonderfully funny moments as well. The Seventh Seal finds Bergman at a dark, experimental, introspective and playful mood. It is his definitive film on the subject that has haunted his entire career: God’s silence.

Bergman depicts a world that is nightmarish and absent of God and then debates God’s existence from different perspectives within that forum. I used to think The Seventh Seal was a dry film, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. It is jarring and electric, a biting, raw and shocking work that rings with honesty, misery and hope.

The film is greatly helped by the gorgeous, sharp cinematography of Gunnar Fischer. The Seventh Seal is one of Bergman’s best looking films. The closing shot featuring the silhouetted souls of the departed dancing along the horizon and the opening chess playing scene are two of the most indelible images in the history of cinema.

The Seventh Seal is also peppered with numerous great performances. Max von Sydow plays the tortured knight with a terrifying, quiet desperation. Gunnar Björnstrand gives a wry and funny performance as the world-weary squire. Bengt Ekerot is both mysterious and matter-of-fact as Death.

This is a film, however, that is a pure and naked Bergman creation. The Seventh Seal is mysterious, dark poetic masterpiece that asks difficult questions and gives no easy answers. It is a constantly evolving, ever-changing film that can be filtered though and reinterpreted by every generation. It has and will remain to be Ingmar Bergman’s signature work as a filmmaker.

Talking Pictures [Howard Schumann]

"Come lovely and soothing death, undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, in the day, in the night, to all, to each, sooner or later, delicate death" - Walt Whitman, Ode to Death

In the magnificent 1957 classic The Seventh Seal by Ingmar Bergman, Antonius Block (Max Von Sydow), a knight returning home from the Crusades with his squire Jöns (Gunnar Bjönstrand) meets Death (Benkt Ekerot) on a lonely beach and challenges him to a game of chess. If he wins, he lives. While the game goes on, he gets a reprieve. It is the 14th century and suffering and pain abound. Penitents flog themselves, seminarians rob the dead, people go mad from fear, and witches are burned at the stake. It is the time of the Black Plague and Death has his hands full. As in the Greek legend of Kronos and medieval folklore, Bergman depicts Death as the Grim Reaper, a man clothed from head to foot in a black habit and hood. In The Seventh Seal, however, Death is not frightening or sinister, just an old man performing his job with a wry detachment.

The film opens and closes with the passage from Revelation from which it takes its title: “When he broke open the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven for about half an hour” (Rev 8:1). Bergman's message, however, is more about the silence of God on earth than in heaven. Block is tormented by the fact that God will not outwardly reveal himself. He says to a priest during confession, “I want God to stretch out his hand to me, reveal himself and speak to me. But he remains silent, I call out to Him in the dark but no one seems to be there". But Block still senses the God within him and is tormented. "Why can’t I kill God within me?" he asks. "Why does he live on inside me, mocking and tormenting me till I have no rest, even though I curse him and try to tear him from my heart” Block asks Death if he knows anything but he knows nothing. He even asks a woman being taken to the stake if he can see the Devil so that he can ask him about God but all she says is to look into her eyes. 

The Seventh Seal is not all heavy "significance", however. It has a good story with believable characters, wonderful performances, lots of comic relief and moves easily from drama to comedy as in the great Shakespearean plays. We meet an actor named Jof (Nils Poppe), his wife Mia (Bibi Andersson), and their infant son Mikael. Block looks with envy on the simple love of this family for their child. Both Jof and Block see visions of the spiritual world but Jof's visions are life affirming whereas Block sees only reflections of darkness. The film has unforgettable images such as a hawk floating in a cloudless sky, two horses standing in the surf, Jof's vision of the Virgin Mary caring for her child, and a frightening procession of plague-infected flagellants. 

Perhaps too melodramatic for modern viewers (it has been parodied), The Seventh Seal still touches the universal longing to see God. Some view the film as a complete denial of God, but it seems that God does show his face -- only Block and his squire cannot see it. It is there in the wild strawberries, the fun of watching a troupe of players perform, the innocence of the little boy, the eyes of the young lovers, and the haunting visions of Jof. The film ends on a note of affirmation including one of the most memorable scenes in the history of cinema, the Danse Macabre, the Totentanz -- a string of silhouetted figures dancing in a line with arms outstretched as they are about to enter the unknown. In the magnificence of his vision and the timeless beauty of his art, Bergman has answered the question about God's existence simply in the act of posing it.

Turner Classic Movies Jay S. Steinberg

As the product of a stern religious upbringing by a Lutheran minister father, the great Swedish director Ingmar Bergman has had a preoccupation with life's greater questions as a thematic constant throughout his prolific and distinguished body of work. By the late '50s to early '60s, his films were consistently steeped in queries regarding the existence of God and man's place in the universe. His most profoundly realized work of the period, The Seventh Seal (1957), became a global art house favorite and staked his claim amongst the giants of world cinema.

Throughout his life, Bergman had never forgotten the images of Death that he had seen rendered in the frescoes of the ancient churches he had visited as a boy. Indeed, what would become the scenario for The Seventh Seal sprung from a 1955 one-act play he had authored and produced entitled Wood Painting. Bergman had his doubts that he could ever have such a personal project financed, but he was enjoying the clout of his recent jury prize award at Cannes for Smiles of a Summer Night (1955). Bergman's producer Carl Anders Dymling agreed to back the shoot under the proviso that it would conclude in thirty-five days - a condition that Bergman, amazingly, fulfilled.

The narrative opens on the shores of medieval Sweden, where the noble knight Antonius Block (Max von Sydow) and his earthy squire Jons (Gunnar Bjornstrand) are slowly making their way home after an ultimately futile decade spent away at the Crusades. The dispirited travelers have returned to find the populace of the country becoming decimated by the Black Plague. Having stopped for a respite, Block is confronted by a cloaked, sallow-faced figure (Bengt Ekerot) personifying Death. The knight swiftly barters with the reaper for a delay of the inevitable, challenging him to a game of chess with his reprieve as the prize.

As they play, Block unsuccessfully tries to wheedle the truth regarding ultimate destiny from his opponent, with no success. The game becomes temporarily tabled, and Block and Jons continue on to the knight's castle keep. The story's focus then shifts to a trio of traveling entertainers who are finding declining interest in their services; the impish juggler Jof (Nils Poppe), his gently loving wife Mia (Bibi Andersson), and the undependable rake Skat (Erik Strandmark). Ultimately, circumstances bind their travels to those of the knight and squire, as they encounter ever more disquieting evidence of the physical and moral blight sweeping the land.

Despite the foreboding narrative of The Seventh Seal, Bergman is still able to leaven it with comic touches, as shown in the consequences of Skat's cuckolding of a blustering blacksmith (Ake Fridell), and the moving serenity of the sequence when Block gratefully responds to the entertainers' gracious sharing of their simple fare. Throughout the journey, Death sporadically appears to Block, continuing their play until he has him in check. Block implores Jof and Mia to depart, and his final acceptance brings The Seventh Seal to its now-familiar closing image.

Amazingly enough, this most famous of sequences was devised completely off the cuff in the span of ten minutes. The unit was setting up another shot when the skies shifted so dramatically as to inspire Bergman and cinematographer Gunnar Fischer to shoot the "Dance of Death" sequence. Fridell, who had injured himself the night before, was unable to go on, and a member of the crew doubled for him in silhouette.

According to the biography, Ingmar Bergman by Peter Cowie, "The opening scene by the seashore and a few other hillside sequences were shot at Hovs Hallar, on the southwest coast of Sweden. Lennart Olsson had spent two weeks searching for the right spot. Hovs Hallar, with its sense of mountains coming literally down into the sea, struck Bergman as being exactly right. He also liked filming in the province of Skane because the light was so much softer than in the northern parts of the country."

The Seventh Seal boasts multiple strong performances by the cast, many of whom would be regarded as Bergman's repertory company. Von Sydow, only 27 at the filming and projecting a gravity years beyond, became an international star due to his portrayal of the warrior struggling with his faith. The pragmatic Bjornstrand provides the perfect counterpoint. The stage comedian Poppe strikes the right notes as the near-childlike Jof, and Andersson (Bergman dedicated the script to her) is luminous in portraying the devoted spouse. Fischer, who would lens over a dozen of Bergman's efforts from the late '40s through the early '60s, proved masterful in shifting from the stark to the serene as the story demanded.

By his own admission, Bergman utilized the spectre of the plague as a metaphor for the anxiety of nuclear war, and it should come as no surprise that the highbrows of the duck-and-cover generation were so quick to embrace The Seventh Seal. "Essentially intellectual, yet emotionally stimulating, too, it is as tough-and rewarding-a screen challenge as the moviegoer has had to face this year," Bosley Crowther declared in the New York Times' review of the day; this assessment has continued to hold true over the generations since.

-Peter Cowie Criterion essay

Full Review Mike Sutton from DVD Times

Death and its discontents from Masters of Cinema

Epinions [metalluk]

The City Review [Carter B. Horsley]

Film as Art Danél Griffin

Epinions.com [Steven Flores]

ToxicUniverse.com (Tony Pellum)

eFilmCritic.com ("Dr. Isaksson")

MovieJustice (Dan DeVore)

The Seventh Seal (Det sjunde inseglet) Neil Young from Jigsaw Lounge

Erasing Clouds [Dan Heaton]

The Criterion Contraption [Matthew Dessem]

About.com - Seventh Seal, The Ivana Redwine

Death Plays Chess Gerardo Martinez

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Reel.com DVD review [Tor Thorsen]

DVD Movie Central Michael Jacobson

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

Movie Martyr (Jeremy Heilman)

not coming to a theater near you (Moira Sullivan)

CineScene.com (Chris Dashiell)

Close-Up Film [Matt Goddard]

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Dan Lopez)

Guardian/Observer

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times looks at the film in context with Bergman’s other great works

The New York Times (Bosley Crowther)

DVDBeaver Gary W. Tooze

WILD STRAWBERRIES (Smultronstället) A 97

Sweden (91 mi) 1957

Where is the friend I seek at break of day?
When night falls I still have not found Him.
My burning heart shows me His traces
I see His traces wherever flowers bloom
His love is mingled with every air.

—Old Swedish poem

A novel approach to a road movie, using an unusual cast of characters that all somehow blend together to create a fascinating portrait of a day in the life of an aging man, Dr. Isak Borg, perfectly embodied by Victor Sjöström (in real life, the so-called founder of Swedish cinema), who’s being honored by his alma mater after providing 50 years of distinguished service in the medical profession. While the film is parodied for black comedy in the 14-minute short, George Coe and Anthony Lover’s De Düva, it’s easy to see why, as the 78-year old Professor Borg, while compiling his memoirs, is taunted and humiliated by the inner thoughts of his own dreams and memories, which continue to flashback throughout the film. Rather than serve as a distraction, these are pleasant indicators that remind us all how important seemingly insignificant moments in our lives can be, petty squabbles or jealousies with siblings, that first crush, or deeply humiliating moments that take on different ramifications as we grow older. Always told with wit and charm, Sjöström’s cantankerous personality and wonderfully captivating performance leads the way with his catnaps and fretful night’s sleep, where his weird dreams seem to dominate his thoughts, opening with a dream image of a giant clock with no hands, as he walks down a mysterious street that is completely empty. Checking his pocket watch, it also has no hands. Finally he sees someone waiting on the street with his back turned. When he turns to see his face, it is a disfigured contortion with no eyes or mouth, a body that crumples to the ground as if dead, with blood streaming down the street. A horse drawn hearse leads a coffin down the street that mysteriously slips off the cart and lands at the professor’s feet, where a human hand points in the air from the broken coffin, a hand that comes alive and grabs his own, where the face in the coffin is also that of his own, blending the two faces together until he awakens with a jolt. While this is a particularly picturesque dream, they are all charmingly simple to figure out and are memorable for what they reveal about the true character of the dreamer. A bit like PERSONA without the other woman, this film dissects Professor Borg’s world, allowing alternate realities, daydreams, memories, dreams, suppressed emotions of all kinds to interfere with his life and expose his weaknesses and sensitivities, offering him a different view of himself that he wouldn’t have had if he were not a passenger on this crazy road trip.

Interesting that Bergman was 38 when he made this film, a hauntingly beautiful premonition of himself as an old man, and long before he was married to his last wife Ingrid, who he was married to for 24 years, dying 8 years before he did, but on Borg’s desk is a photo of his deceased wife that bears a striking resemblance to Bergman’s wife Ingrid. One also must make mention of Jullan Kendahl, Borg’s live in homemaker Agda, who has been with him for something like forty years, who is rudely awoken by the professor at the crack of dawn and shows the good sense to go right back to bed. But she’s pestered by the old man, which sets the stage for a long running relationship built on wise cracks and his general contentious disposition. Needless to say, the lurid nature of the dream alters the old man’s plans at the last moment and he decides to drive a car instead of fly to the ceremony, with or without Agda who sticks with the original plan. Daughter-in-law Marianne (Ingrid Thulin) is also wakened by the fracas and agrees to drive with the Professor, as she could surprise her husband at the ceremony. No sooner do they get on the road that the Professor falls into a short slumber and in a daydream, peers into earlier memories as they’re taking place, like an outside observer, moving from the present to the past and back again seemingly with ease, recalling events that happened at his family’s summer home during his childhood that become vividly real, the consequences of which, especially the lost opportunities, continue to nag at him to this day. Along the way, he decides to take a short detour to visit his 96-year old mother, a cold and disaffected woman whose icy nature has probably fought off death over the years. Marianne silently observes their dutiful but completely unaffectionate visit, which reminds her of the marital indifference shown to her by her own husband.

Changing the focus, the film instead veers into a completely different direction, picking up a series of charming hitchhikers. One, Bibi Andersson, whose effervescent personality gives this film a shot of needed adrenaline, has the same name as and plays the dual role of Borg’s young fiancé in his faraway youth, a girl who was similarly faced with the same dilemma about which boy to choose. Andersson is accompanied by two guys, a boyfriend (studying to be a parson) and a chaperone, a believer and a non-believer, who spend the entire film squabbling over the existence of God, which provides amusing comic relief, a far cry from the gloomy, near pretentious seriousness of his previous film, THE SEVENTH SEAL. In fact, this film’s glorification of life proves to be an antidote to the oppressive view of death lurking everywhere throughout that earlier film. Instead WILD STRAWBERRIES is a gentle stroll down memory lane with a cast of comical characters to enliven one’s journey. The three kids are charmingly seductive, the personification of youth with all their awkward unknowns, set against the surprisingly unsettled nature of the Professor who’s lost his bearings, feeling a bit more anxious the further along the road he travels.

They have a brief encounter with a wretchedly unhappy married couple, meeting them under accidental circumstances, where the entire group is traveling together for a short duration having to listen to the back and forth snide remarks between them becoming ever more crude and hurtful until eventually Marianne simply kicks them out and drives on without them. They seem to represent the extreme of a marriage gone wrong, which unfortunately reminds the Professor of his own guilt-ridden marriage, where in yet another dream sequence, he recalls his wife’s fury at his measured impassivity when she informs him of an affair, which still has lingering aftereffects of powerlessness and self pity, as he even conjures up humiliating images of flunking a medical exam that he’s never taken. Soon, however, the kids learn of the reason behind the Professor’s journey, becoming overtly congratulatory, basically making a fuss over him all of a sudden, to his absolute delight. The seamless editing, moving back and forth in time, always providing fresh insight into the present, is simply remarkable. And there’s nothing in Sjöström’s performance that ever suggests he’s acting.

But just before that transition, the Professor awakes at a stop where the kids are taking a break outside the car, where Marianne decides to tell the Professor the real problem behind her marital difficulties, the reason she left him temporarily and came to visit the Professor, as her husband didn’t want a child, even after learning she was pregnant. The full weight of this stark emotional bomb comes out of nowhere and contrasts against anything else in the film, as the power of her predicament is devastatingly real and suddenly becomes the new focus of the film, especially after she compares her relationship to the icy austerity between the Professor and his mother, afraid this could happen to her. By the time the trumpets sound at the university and the pomp and circumstance is in full regalia, beautifully shot, truly transporting us to another world, somehow all this laudatory recognition seems so secondary to what really matters in life. The title of the film reveals the seasonal nature of life, making reference to Sweden’s short summer seasons, where the bloom of youth, unfettered by responsibilities, ends all too soon. In this film that moves so easily between the interchangability of dreams and reality, much of what we see is open to interpretation, revealing later connections or understandings that may have gone unnoticed earlier in our lives, challenging what we believe we know, what our thoughts of love really are, what our life is worth, perhaps altering those perceptions as time passes. As the Professor’s reverie reunites him with the pastoral perfection of his youth, we realize that in the blink of an eye our reflections could so easily reach a differing outcome.

Geoff Andrew from 1001 MOVIES YOU MUST SEE BEFORE YOU DIE:

Arguably the warmest of Ingmar Bergman’s masterpieces, Wild Strawberries charts the geographical and spiritual odyssey traveled by the elderly Professor Isak Borg – his name in Swedish more or less means “icy fortress” – (played by Victor Sjöström). Borg drives, in the company of his daughter-in-law Marianne (Ingrid Thulin), from Stockholm to the University of Lund to receive an honorary degree. En route he gives a ride to three young hitchhikers – including the vivacious Sara (Bibi Andersson), who in name and nature reminds him of the love of his life – and a middle-aged couple. He visits his now-ancient mother, before trying to have a heart-to-heart talk with his son Evald (Gunnar Björnstrand), a cynical misanthrope whom Marianne has been planning to leave. The conversation Borg has with Evald is crucial, not only because it might save his son’s marriage but because it shows that the professor’s journey has brought him a degree of self-knowledge. He has become properly aware not only of his mortality but of his own emotional reticence – inherited from his parents, consolidated by life’s disappointments and his immersion in work. He has almost unwittingly passed it on, like a virus, to Evald.

The strength of Bergman’s account of this day in the life – or, rather, a life in the day, the long day’s journey bringing back all manner of telling memories – is the assured manner in which he combines the objective and subjective realities of Borg’s life. The inner and external details progressively throw more light upon the man. It is not only his dreams and memories that illuminate our understanding of him (and his understanding of himself) but also his various encounters and conversations. Marianne, although tactful and affectionate, is comparatively explicit in alluding to Borg’s failings. Sara reminds him of his more passionate youth. The arguing couple call to mind both his own grouchiness and the future Marianne may face with Evald.

Borg’s redemptive acquisition of self-knowledge affects those around him too, and the miracle of Wild Strawberries is that Bergman never infects this conclusion with sentimentality. Blessed with a radiant yet courageously uningratiating performance with Sjöström – himself Sweden’s greatest filmmaker before Bergman – in this remarkable, much imitated film, Wild Strawberries has an emotional honesty in keeping with the voyage undergone by its protagonist.

Time Out

One of Bergman's warmest, and therefore finest films, this concerns an elderly academic - grouchy, introverted, dried up emotionally - who makes a journey to collect a university award, and en route relives his past by means of dreams, imagination, and encounters with others. It's an occasionally over-symbolic work (most notably in the opening nightmare sequence), but it's filled with richly observed characters and a real feeling for the joys of nature and youth. And Sjöström - himself a celebrated director, best known for his silent work (which included the Hollywood masterpiece The Wind) - gives an astonishingly moving performance as the aged professor. As Bergman himself wrote of his performance in the closing moments: 'His face shone with secretive light, as if reflected from another reality...It was like a miracle'.

Wild Strawberries from the Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Winner of the Golden Bear at Berlin in 1958, and now often cited as one of Bergman’s greatest films, Wild Strawberries is an intensely moving, lyrical work of affirmation and reconciliation. Victor Sjöström, Sweden’s pre-eminent director before Bergman, gives "the finest performance in any Bergman film" (James Monaco) as Isak Borg, an aging, eminent professor travelling by car from Stockholm to Lund, where he is to receive an honorary degree. Accompanying him is daughter-in-law Marianne (Ingrid Thulin), whose marriage to Borg’s son Evald (Gunnar Björnstrand) is deeply troubled. A flood of memories, daydreams, and nightmares assails the elderly protagonist along the way, forcing him to take stock of his life, re-evaluate his relationships, confront his shortcomings, and accept his mortality. The drama unfolds over a 24-hour period; the dream sequences are amongst the most memorable in the Bergman canon, while the single-shot transitions, from present to past and back again, are impressive. "In every respect a great film... a profoundly modern work of art" (Eugene Archer). "The best Bergman film of the Fifties, much closer to a true philosophical tragedy than his more ambitious The Seventh Seal" (Georges Sadoul).

Chris Dashiell at CineScene

An aged professor (Victor Sjostrom) goes on a trip to receive an honorary degree, accompanied by his daughter- in-law (Ingrid Thulin). Along the way, his dreams and reminiscences confront him with the sorrows and failures of his past. He relives the young love that he lost (Bibi Andersson plays the girl in his past, and a hitchhiker that the travelers pick up in the present), his coldness and cruelty in his marriage, and other memories and images which weave through his journey, in which he develops an unexpected bond with his son's wife. Beautifully shot (Gunnar Fischer), with a masterful performance by veteran director Sjostrom, this film is a touchstone for many of Bergman's techniques and concerns. It seemed like something completely new in the world of cinema, for rarely had there been a film whose narrative arc was so completely in the realm of the subjective. The drama of Wild Strawberries lies in the professor's coming to terms with his past and present - and the means by which he does so lie in the symbolic unconscious. The psychological content of dreams, with their obscure and unsettling distortions, had never before been depicted with such boldness. Not everything works - some of the episodes involving people encountered on the journey are not so convincing. But if the film seems less striking today than when it was released, it is partly due to its immense influence on later work, which has made its technique more familiar. This is one of Bergman's most formally unified films. The gentle sadness and reflective quality of this work still retain their power.

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

78-year-old Isak Borg (Victor Sjostrom) has been a doctor in a small Swedish town for half a century. To commemorate this landmark, he is awarded an honorary degree by his old university, and travels by car to the far-off college city. He’s accompanied by his daughter-in-law Marianne (Ingrid Thulin), who’s trapped in an unsatisfactory marriage with Isak’s son Evald (Bjornstrand). Along the way, they pick up a trio of teenagers on their way to Italy, and then a married couple who feud so viciously the Borgs ask them to leave the car. As he drives, the crotchety Isak recalls episodes from his distant younger years, and pays a visit to his family’s old summer-house, which still has its evocative patch of wild strawberries…

The basic existential-road-movie structure of Wild Strawberries was later pinched by Woody Allen for Deconstructing Harry – and Strawberries also employs a specific trick which Allen put to famous use in Annie Hall: as Isak remembers scenes from his past, he imagines himself actually there in the old rooms, able to observe and, occasionally, converse with these figures from previous decades. It’s a startlingly imaginative use of cinema, justified here by having Isak show some early signs of senility – we also have Isak as narrator, guiding us through the processes of his memory in a very literary, over-explicit style.

But while the flashback process is innovative and effective, Bergman struggles with the visualisation of Isak’s memories – especially in comparison with Tarkovsky’s Mirror, for instance. The episodes we see are presented in a distractingly stilted manner, full of forced bits of humour, heavy-handed sentimental muzak, and, worst of all, very confusing characterisation. It’s often tricky working out who’s who (Bibi Andersson plays both Isak’s fiancee and one of the hitch-hikers), what their relationships to Isak are, and the specific causes of his regrets are: pretty crucial stuff in a film about a man ruefully picking over the fragments of his past. The dream sequences aren’t much better: too long, occasionally to the point of tedium, with some very heavy-handed symbolism along the way. The handling of Isak’s present is also distractingly uneven – the back-projection when he’s driving is often woeful, and the trio of ‘children’ (they look about 25) he picks up rapidly outstay their welcome, with their relentless, guitar-strumming, spirit-of-youth perkiness and bad acting.

Things move into a different gear, however, when Isak finally arrives at the cathedral where the degree conferral takes place. The arrival on the scene of the forbiddingly intense Bjornstrand provides a welcome change of tone, which deepens and darkens even further when the ceremony begins. The precision of Bergman’s images, his control of sound and light, the placing of actors in the frame, the use of Latin dialogue, the weird hat Isak is given to wear… it’s a remarkable sequence, prefiguring the tight-focus geometry of Bergman’s much more coherent and consistent The Rite from 1961. Wild Strawberries is a necessary step along the path to the Swedish master’s finer later work, even if it doesn’t match up to its exalted critical status as a great work of art. And, if nothing else, veteran director Sjostrom (the ‘founding father of Swedish cinema’) makes for an outstandingly sympathetic protagonist.

-Peter Cowie Criterion essay

Wild Strawberries: A Brief Note about Ingmar Bergman and Pauline Kael Daniel Garret from Offscreen

Turner Classic Movies Rob Nixon

Ingmar Bergman: Wild Strawberries Derek Malcolm from the Guardian

Images Movie Journal David Ng

DVD Verdict - Criterion Collection Mike Pinsky

Time Magazine Cinema: The New Pictures, July 13, 1959, (Page 2) also reviewing Preminger’s ANATOMY OF A MURDER

PopMatters Matt Langdon

Epinions [metalluk]

ToxicUnniverse.com [John Nesbit]

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Mark Zimmer)

Reel.com DVD review [Rod Armstrong]

Epinions.com [Steven Flores]

Movie Reviews UK Damian Cannon

About.com Home Video/DVD [Ivana Redwine]

DVD Movie Central Michael Jacobson

Epinions DVD review [Stephen O. Murray]

DVD Talk (John Wallis)

Strictly Film School Acquarello

Guardian/Observer

The New York Times (Bosley Crowther)

DVDBeaver.com [Mikkel Svendstrup]

BRINK OF LIFE

aka: So Close to Life

Sweden (84 mi) 1958

Time Out

Directly after The Seventh Seal and Wild Strawberries came this relatively minor Bergman. Expanded by Ulla Isaakson from one of her own short stories, it compares and contrasts the experiences of three patients at a Stockholm maternity hospital. Thulin's miscarriage is perhaps a reflection of her loveless marriage to Josephson; teenage tearaway Andersson fears her uncertain existence just isn't ready for a child; while Dahlbeck is hale, hearty and looking forward enormously to the happy event until the start of a harrowing labour. Deservedly, the trio of leading ladies shared the acting prize at Cannes, with Bergman taking the direction award for deftly wrongfooting the audience. We keep expecting flashbacks which never come. Instead, the action is confined to a couple of rooms, where the antiseptic surroundings only add to the women's anxieties. The resolution may be rather pat, but the film slowly turns the screws on emotional intensity and earns the right to be rather touching.

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

A modest work, tossed off amid friends perhaps to clear his mind in between The Seventh Seal and The Virgin Spring, Ingmar Bergman's brief stay at a maternity ward locates the writhing life missing in his medieval time-traveling. The mystery here is not Death but Birth, namely the babies gestating within women's bellies, and the souls of women within the bare walls of modern medicine -- the X-raying camera is the filmmaker's own medical instrument, visceral quality spun off Dreyer's Ordet and given to the virtuosic actresses to play with. Ingrid Thulin, terse and haggard, is wheeled in first, a plastic doll on the floor of the waiting room and bloodied sheets, the fetus having leaked out of her "like water" because it was never really loved; tears, anger and regret ooze in brutally unbroken close-up, her marriage to Erland Josephnson now bathed in a harsh light. Her piece spoken, Thulin cedes the stage over to her ward mates, bulging Earth mamma Eva Dahlbeck and ponytailed teenager Bibi Andersson, running away from home already after one previous abortion. Women as anguished life-bearers are at the center, combing each other's hair and helping apply makeup; the fumbling menfolk are husbands and surgeons, Max von Sydow and a male voice over the phone denying all responsibility for Andersson's pregnancy, along with head doctor Gunnar Sjöberg, as impotent in explaining the mysteries of life as the Winter Light pastor. Indeed, the various miscarriages and botched deliveries in Ulla Isaksson's screenplay are scarcely free of religious overtones -- Dahlbeck hops around the room in ecstatic pre-natal anticipation until a morbid Bible passage, suddenly remembered, halts her gushing, to be later followed by a harrowing Calvary at the delivery table. Drained after her cruel awakening, Dahlbeck wanly reaches for a cup of water, though her hand hardens into a chilly slap when Andersson tries to help, "as if all life had died." But no, life goes on, a close-up of a newborn feasting upon a breast for Bergman's celebration of tangible flesh, freshly born and, like Andersson strolling out the clinic's gates, miraculously open to the world. With Barbro Hiort af Ornäs. In black and white.

The New York Times (A.H. Weiler)

THE MAGICIAN (Ansiktet) A 95

aka: The Face

Sweden (101 mi) 1958

Max Von Sydow plays a wandering magician, Vogler, with his faithful assistant, Ingrid Thulin, who plays male and female roles. Also along for the ride is a traveling witch who literally cackles through most of her performance, uttering “I see what I see, I know what I know,” while Bibi Andersson plays a wonderful, flirtatious maiden in town who takes up with the coach driver and his “love potions.” They travel through a forest full of evil spirits until Vogler’s Magnetic Health Theater arrives safely in town whereupon they are immediately subject to suspicion and potential arrest. A group of leaders, led by scientific doctor Gunnar Bjornstrand, whose sole desire is to dissect Vogler after death, decide to investigate the rumors that mere hucksterism could potentially be actual magic, ordering a private performance in town. The struggle between the mockingly sarcastic doctor and the reticent magician results in the demystification of the magician’s act, creating circumstances where the doctor is allowed to dissect Vogler, believing him dead, but discovers instead his own house of horrors, which could be interpreted as an intellectual horror film, and as a symbolic self-portrait, a journey from magician to savior, then to con man, and finally back to an extraordinary artist summoned by the King of Sweden himself for his own personal audience with the magician. Very compelling, particularly the magician’s payback, his hall of mirror’s sequence, which is an interesting contrast of austerity of emotion, as the magician could not speak, using stark, original scenes juxtaposed against the gluttonous affair in town filled with excesses of food, sex, and drink. The final performance, which comes after the regularly scheduled performance when no one suspects, is truly supernatural.

Time Out

Widely underrated, probably because of its strong comic elements and a tour-de-force scene derived from horror movie conventions, Bergman's chilling exploration of charlatanism is in fact one of his most genuinely enjoyable films. Von Sydow is the 19th century magician/mesmerist Volger, on the run with his troupe from debts and charges of blasphemy, whose diabolical talents are put to the test by the cynical rationalist Dr Vergerus (Björnstrand); their clash results in humiliation, doubt, and death. Much of the film is devoted to wittily ironic sideswipes at bourgeois hypocrisy; more forceful, however, is the way Bergman transforms Volger's ultimately futile act of revenge into a sequence of nightmarish suspense.

The Magician from the Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Nothing is quite as it seems in Bergman's magical, mesmerizing, metaphysical The Magician, a semi-comic, highly gothic period piece that sets faith, art and illusion on a dangerous collision course with science, rationality and reality. Max von Sydow stars as the master conjurer and mesmerist who leads a troupe of illusionists, charlatans and snake-oil salesmen into mid-19th century Stockholm. Gunnar Björnstrand is the cynical, cold man of science who sets out to expose the magician and his cohorts as frauds. Careening from ribald low comedy to nightmarish suspense, and spiked with some startlingly grisly effects, The Magician is throughout a darkly stylish, deliriously diabolical defence of the spellbinding power of the artist - with Bergman, of course, as the film's true master conjurer. Fellini was a great admirer; the work won the Special Jury Prize at Venice in 1959. "Widely underrated, probably because of its strong comic elements and a tour-de-force scene derived from horror film conventions... one of [Bergman's] most genuinely enjoyable films" (Geoff Andrew, Time Out). "Rich in comedy and melodrama, as well as deep philosophical thought, and wonderful in its graphic details. It is a thoroughly exciting film" (The New York Times).

Kinocite Robert Hayward

Time after time, Ingmar Bergman unashamedly uses his films to document his own personal experiences. Sometimes they are symbolised by people, objects or events. Sometimes they are more straightforward. In The Magician (or The Face, to translate its Swedish title directly), Bergman throws together a mish-mash of his observations and feelings about people, places and situations, and what emerges is a delightful film, both coherent and authentic in spite of its unusual story line.

Eyebrows are raised when the titular magician, Albert Vogler (Max von Sydow), comes to town accompanied by his curious entourage. A spooky aura surrounds him, courtesy of his unerring silence, eye make-up, and a wig-and-beard combo that barely passes for a disguise. The reputation of his freak show precedes him, and he is cross-examined by a trio of sceptical and authoritarian rationalists, in whose insincere hospitality he proceeds to unleash a variety of confused emotions upon the household.

The tone is amiable and even comic in places. Vogler’s amorous spokesperson Tubal (Åke Fridell) keeps the servants in the kitchen on their toes, as does Vogler’s witty and insightful grandmother (Naima Wifstrand), who claims to be a 200-year-old witch, while Vogler’s wife (Ingrid Thulin) saunters around dressed as a man. The humour doesn’t disallow the exploration of a few themes, of course. Bergman bothers himself with attitudes towards disguise, authority, and the question of whether God exists, but The Magician is spectacular enough without its intellectualism. Indeed, one wonders what point, if any, the film is trying to make.

Nevertheless, this is Bergman at his most entertaining: intelligent, yet unassuming and accessible. The crew was in high spirits during the shoot, and it shows. The usual suspects are all present, giving their all in roles that suit them perfectly. Bibi Andersson is underused, but too impossibly gorgeous for anyone to care. While many films benefit from a little conflict on set, this is a wonderful example of how creative vision can sometimes be delivered to the camera without complication.

10kbullets - DVD Review John White

A travelling troupe calling itself the Vogler Magnetic Theatre is arrested and taken to the house of Consul Egerman. Once there, Vogler is subject to a humiliating examination from the scientific Dr Vergerius and sneering from the police commissioner. The troupe is requested to perform for their interregators and becomes subject to the fears and hopes of the Egerman household. When performing, the troupe is further humiliated and Vogler plots his revenge beginning with indiscretion from the Commissioner’s wife and an elaborate trick on Vergerius. When Vogler reveals himself the household does not appreciate his showmanship and defeat for his troupe seems inevitable until he is asked to perform the King.

Before the Faith Trilogy, Bergman’s trademark films were theatrical pieces with a large cast and poetic cinematography from Gunnar Fischer. Films like the Seventh Seal are heightened as examples of film drama with striking images and have their roots in Bergman’s background as a director in theatre. The Magician aka The Face comes from this period.

The Magician is a tale about superstition, faith, the artist as showman or creator, and the audience. The Troupe led by Von Sydow is a motley crew of a charlatan, a magical old woman, the believing Thulin and the faithless Von Sydow. The troupe is tired of their audience and sick of the demands their viewers placed on them, for Vogler this has driven him to the artifice of showmanship and tricks, and for Thulin she longs for when they were real magicians. Tubal the charlatan is looking to get out and Granny has visions which come true.

When the Troupe is examined by the Commissioner, the awful Vergerius, and the empty Egerman, they are subjected to having their “magic” exposed and being forcibly examined. Vergerius will not be satisfied until he has dissected Vogler and had Thulin. Vergerius is apparrently based on a real critic of Bergman’s who was married to Thulin at the time of this film. If so his representation here is savage and when Vogler fakes his death to give Vergerius a body, the dark revenge is richly deserved. But even this revenge is mere showmanship and Vogler vainly pleads to be paid for the show he has given his frightened uncomprehending audience. It is interesting that the critic’s scalpel can only fall on a dead drunken actor who longs to be picked clean, unlike the living private Bergman.

Unlike later Bergman, there is a degree of hope for belief in this film. Thulin still believes in what the troupe used to do and the purely scientific Vergerius is forced to accept that he can believe the “inexplicable” even if he can rationalise it away. Above all, the seemigly inevitable disintegration of the troupe is forestalled when the troupe is required to perform for the King. Bergman often gives his characters an escape or at least a moment of hope in these early films.

The Magician mixes dark humour, elements of horror and great theatrical flair. It is a fine film which places Bergman’s two best male leads, Bjornstrand and Von Sydow, in opposition and lets the audience enjoy the riches which come from their confrontation. Mightily recommended.

A Portrait of the Artist: Olivier Assayas on Bergman’s The Magician Criterion essay by Olivier Assayas, October 12, 2010

The Magician: Through a Glass Drolly Criterion essay by Geoff Andrew, October 12, 2010

Press Notes: The Magician October 21, 2010

Bergman in Berlin October 08, 2010

The Magician (1958) - The Criterion Collection

DVD Times Mike Sutton

Uncle Ingmar and Me Bilge Ebiri from They Live By Night, October 13, 2010

not coming to a theater near you (Leo Goldsmith)

Epinions [metalluk]

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

"I Am A Conjurer" (1960) Time magazine

The New York Times (Bosley Crowther)

THE VIRGIN SPRING (Jungfrukällan)

Sweden (88 mi) 1960

Time Out Nigel Floyd

Bergman won his first Oscar for this cruel but unsensational medieval allegory, a tale of superstition, religious faith, rape and revenge set in a 14th century Sweden where the populace is vacillating between Christianity and paganism. On her way to church, the 15-year-old virgin daughter (Pettersson) of peasant parents (von Sydow and Valberg) is raped by two goatherds. Later, in a bizarre twist of fate, the culprits ask for food and shelter at the house of the dead girl's parents. Discovering the truth when the goatherds offer to sell them their dead daughter's bloodstained clothes, the parents exact a brutal revenge. The formal simplicity and overt symbolism (light and dark, fire and water) undercut the potentially sensationalist elements of the material, Sven Nykvist's luminous black-and-white photography conspiring with the austerity of Bergman's imagery to create an extraordinary metaphysical charge.

The Virgin Spring from the Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Winner of the 1960 Oscar for Best Foreign Film, The Virgin Spring is one of the most powerful and important works in the Bergman canon, and stands as a natural companion piece to The Seventh Seal for its immaculate recreation of a barbarous and superstitious medieval milieu. Based on a 13th-century folk ballad, the film stars Max von Sydow as Töre, a wealthy landowner whose beloved virgin daughter is brutally raped and murdered while on a religious pilgrimage. A twist of fate finds the three killers seeking shelter at Töre's farm; when he discovers their responsibility for his daughter's death, he exacts a vengeance of Biblical proportions. The film ends on a hauntingly hopeful note suggestive of divine forgiveness; with his "faith" trilogy of Through a Glass Darkly, Winter Light, and The Silence, Bergman would soon forswear the existence of the divine altogether. The Virgin Spring won the International Critics Prize at Cannes, where it (and Buñuel's The Young One) was announced as "too good to be judged" in the competition for the Palme d'Or. It is also the work with which the great Sven Nykvist became Bergman's regular cinematographer. "One of Bergman's finest films, certainly a masterpiece" (James Monaco).

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

"Visceral" isn't the first word you'd use to describe Ingmar Bergman, but 1960's Virgin Spring was bloody-minded enough to inspire Wes Craven's Mansonian Last House on the Left. Craven didn't credit the original, but by then, even Bergman had washed his hands of the film. Though it won an Oscar in 1960, The Virgin Spring was attacked by some of Bergman's most ardent admirers, and its still-shocking violence was censored in the United States.

Wrestling, as always, with the problem of faith—at first spiritual, then personal—Bergman took on a loose adaptation of a medieval ballad in which a young girl is killed, her father avenges her, and then seeks to atone for his act, embodying the transition from eye-for-an-eye justice to Christian forgiveness. Maintaining that rough outline, Bergman muddied the waters so that almost every character occupies an uncertain moral standing. Even Karin (Birgitta Pettersson), the unsullied maiden of the title, is vain, boastful and naive—hardly characteristics worthy of her eventual violation and death, but enough to prevent her coming off as a spun-sugar saint. Karin's foster sister Ingeri (Gunnel Lindblom) is scowling and resentful, her tattered sack dress and pregnant belly contrasting sharply with Karin's fair-haired perfection. But it's not long before we start to share some of her resentments, and her sullen shell cracks when she believes that, by wishing ill on Karin, she has inadvertently caused her death.

The Virgin Spring's intensity pushes at, and sometimes past, the edge of parody—a term Bergman later used to describe Max von Sydow's performance as Karin's stern father Töre. But Bergman contrasts the dialed-up performances with Nykvist's stark, chiseled images, which often have the disconnected beauty of a Cocteau film. That's true even for Karin's horrific rape and murder, particularly when she stretches herself out across a thicket of gnarled tree branches in an attempt to escape her attackers. Bergman's murder ballad is a fairy tale as well. Though it hardly seems "explicit" in the era of Irréversible, the dreamlike setting only heightens the brutality of Karin's death. It's as if we, too, are in a nightmare from which we cannot escape—a sentiment reprised when the murderers are themselves trapped, having unwittingly taken refuge in Karin's home after killing her. After a grotesque Last Supper parody in which the killers dine with Karin's parents, the killers are locked in the barn and left until morning, when Töre commences his bloody work, though not before scouring himself with the branches of a fresh-cut tree. The shot of von Sydow struggling to uproot a solitary sapling is a potent symbol of his grief, and the fact that he waits until daybreak to exact his revenge perfectly anticipates his distraught cry, "God, you saw it!" Despite, or perhaps because of, its excesses, The Virgin Spring is one of Bergman's most engagingly ambiguous works; his weakness for speechifying is mitigated when he's not sure what he wants to say.

Slant Magazine [Eric Henderson]

The theory that Bergman would appear to disregard the place of The Virgin Spring in his own filmography based on the dearth of comments on the film in his autobiographies is perpetuated multiple times throughout Criterion's DVD package. The fact remains that it's also one of the only Bergman features to inspire a worthy remake, Wes Craven's 1972 grindhouse debut Last House on the Left. Oddly enough, it's the sleazy, pockmarked Craven film that holds up better today, and that's even taking into account Bergman's pre-mortem reputation upswing in cineaste circles. (Not to mention the fact that then-new Bergman collaborator Sven Nykvist's cinematography, unlike his previous lensman Gunnar Fischer's work, still looks fantastic even in faded university 16mm prints.)

Based off a medieval sonnet about the rape and murder of a farming family's only child and her parents' subsequent vengeance-cum-spiritual awakening, Virgin Spring presents a spare, pastoral setting in which a young girl's metaphoric, doomed journey through the forest primeval represents the terror of filial dissolution from the parents' point of view. Bergman and his screenwriter Ula Isaksson set this theme against Scandinavia during a period in which the region's religious identity was writhing in its own parallel domestic divergence, caught between Norse paganism and blossoming Christianity. (As we all know now, there was no place in Europe where Christianity established a more tenacious foothold, excepting perhaps Italy.)

According to Bergman scholars, Virgin Spring itself represents the primary nexus between Bergman's austere but accessibly recherché works of the 1950s and his downright ascetic 1960s cinema. In case you needed to know, Christianity wins hands down, across the spread. When Max Von Sydow's patriarch, upon discovering that the trio of herdsmen seeking refuge from the wintry elements in his guest shack have defiled and killed his daughter on her way to deliver sacred candles to church, kills the three murderers and finds her corpse in the forest, he spends 30 seconds contemplating God's cruel whims before declaring his intentions to build a stone cathedral on that very site. Quavering faith is scarcely in question, though—the titular spring gushes from the very spot where the dead girl's head rested as if in divine approval of Sydow's vow.

While an undeniably powerful conclusion, one can be forgiven for wondering if Bergman's taciturnity toward the film in print suggests he preferred cinematic ellipses and question marks, as well. Then again, Craven's film trades in morality wholesale, choosing instead to emphasize the young victims' adolescent naughtiness (they're making pilgrimage not to church, but to a metal concert), their attackers' complete nihilism and the parents' elaborate, almost spiritually satisfying vengeance. The result is less dogmatic but makes far more disturbing suggestions about the human race, even centuries after having supposedly transcended Virgin Spring-era barbarism.

-Peter Cowie Criterion essay

Senses of Cinema (Martyn Bamber)

Full Review Mike Sutton from DVD Times

Not Coming to a Theater Near You [Ian Johnston]

Epinions [metalluk]

Jungfrukallan (The Virgin Spring, Ingmar Bergman, ... Noel Vera from Critic After Dark

Epinions.com [Steven Flores]

Reel.com DVD review [Tim Knight]

DVD Verdict [Steve Evans]

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson)

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Mark Zimmer)

Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick)

Raging Bull [Mike Lorefice]

DVD Town (Christopher Long)

ToxicUniverse.com (John Nesbit)

Virgin Spring, The John White from 10kbullets

The Onion A.V. Club [Keith Phipps]

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

Film Threat [Matthew Sorrento]

Strictly Film School Acquarello

The New York Times (Bosley Crowther)

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

THE DEVIL’S EYE (Djävulens öga)

Sweden (87 mi) 1960

The MovieHamlet (Stefan Hedmark)

The Devil (Järrel) has a stye in the eye, caused by the innocence of a vicar’s daughter (Andersson); he sends Don Juan (Kulle) to the Earth to seduce her. Well, who else could do such a bang-up job? This is Bergman having a little fun the year he made the outstanding The Virgin Spring. It’s an amusing script about the naughty and the nice, what effect the sinful can have on the innocent; there’s a few surprising turns as well. The director never liked this film, but it looks great and the cast is excellent. The suave Kulle is perfect as the world’s greatest lover and Järrel is a lot of fun as a CEO-like Satan.

Time Out

Bergman's first earnest attempt to grapple with the question of theatricality in cinema. It retells the key incidents in the life of Don Juan, but its account of the seducer's shallow bravado and inner angst and his final despatch to hell is like Fellini's Casanova to the power of ten: a 'comedy' from which the laughs have all been drained. It's mounted as an overtly theatrical performance throughout: the episodes are introduced by Bergman veteran Björnstrand, who lectures the audience on what they're seeing and instructs them to view it as comedy. The episodes themselves are highly stylised, with (non-musical) hints of Don Giovanni foreshadowing Bergman's declared passion for Mozart opera. The dominant impression, though, as in so many early Bergman movies, is of a deep pessimism that is imposed rather than felt as necessary or productive.

The Devil's Eye Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

"A woman's chastity is a sty in the Devil's eye." So goes the "old Irish proverb" (invented by Bergman) that serves as the premise for this highly stylized, self-consciously theatrical light comedy, which baffled many Bergman admirers when it appeared, coming as it did between the high-minded seriousness of The Virgin Spring and Through a Glass Darkly. The Devil's Eye opens in Hell, where Satan is persuaded to dispatch Don Juan back to earth to deflower a country parson's virtuous daughter. Bibi Andersson plays the virginal Britt-Marie, object of the legendary seducer's dastardly mission, while Bergman veteran Gunnar Björnstrand serves as the stagey master of ceremonies, introducing the film's various episodes. "Bergman's story is a fanciful one, set in world of the comedy of manners, with the music of Scarlatti backgrounding. Although the film belongs to his lighter works, his favourite serious subjects, God, the devil and sex, play dominating roles. Gunnar Fischer's photography is tops ... the acting is superb" (Variety).

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

10k bullets Johan Fundin

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY (Såsom i en spegel) A 97

Sweden (89 mi) 1961

Geoff Andrew from 1001 MOVIES YOU MUST SEE BEFORE YOU DIE:

The first film in what later became known of Bergman’s chamber trilogy on the silence of God (though the director himself has here and there advised against any such formal approach to the films in question), Through a Glass Darkly begins somewhat misleadingly with four people – Kårin (Harriet Andersson), her husband Martin (Max von Sydow), her father David (Gunnar Björnstad). and her teenage brother Minus (Lars Passgård) emerging from the sea, as if out of nowhere, in peals of laughter suggestive of happiness and a sense of togetherness. They are on holiday – indeed this is the first of Bergman’s films to be set on the island of Faro, which he later made his home – and as the sun sets the mood is one of relaxed enjoyment; only gradually do we learn of the despair, doubts, and divisions within the family, as the film advances inexorably toward its dark conclusion, exactly a day later

In that time, Kårin will learn that the mental illness she has believed she was getting over has been found to be incurable; Martin will discover that all the love he feels for her cannot prevent her hallucinations; David will confess that he has tended to put his work (he’s a successful writer) before his family, and that for all his efforts he cannot change; Minus, already in teenage turmoil, will be sucked in to Kårin’s spiraling madness; and she, hoping that God will show himself and help them in their need, breaks down when He reveals his cold, stony face as that of a spider. This terrifying scene (we don’t see the spider, only her distraught reaction to His imagined visitation) constitutes both the dramatic climax and the logical thematic conclusion f an immaculately wrought drama virtually unmatched even by Bergman’s other films for its sheer intensity.

Influenced by Strindberg, Through a Glass Darkly – with its handful of characters, isolated setting, brief time span, and uncluttered visuals (apart from the characters, all we seem to see are their house, the sea, sky, rocky shore, and a wrecked boat in which Kårin first experiences her breakdown) – allows nothing to dilute the force of its emotional and philosophical thrust; no wonder Bergman saw it as the first of his films to pave the way toward the masterpiece that was Persona (1966).

DVDBeaver Gary W. Tooze

While vacationing on a remote island retreat, a family’s already fragile ties are tested when daughter Karin (Harriet Andersson) discovers her father has been using her schizophrenia for his own literary means. As she drifts in and out of lucidity, the father (Gunnar Björnstrand), along with Karin’s husband (Max von Sydow) and her younger brother (Lars Passgård) are unable to prevent Karin’s harrowing descent into the abyss of mental illness. Winner of the 1962 Academy Award® for Best Foreign Language Film and featuring an astonishing lead performance by Andersson, Through a Glass Darkly presents an unflinching vision of a family’s near-disintegration and a tortured psyche further taunted by God’s intangible presence.

Time Out Nigel Floyd

Preserving a strict unity of time and place, this stark tale of a young woman's decline into insanity is set in a summer home on a holiday island. It is the first part of the trilogy that comprises Winter Light and The Silence, films which are generally seen as addressing Bergman's increasing disillusionment with the emotional coldness of his inherited Lutheran religion. In particular here, Bergman focuses on the absence of familial love which might perhaps have pulled Karin (Andersson) back from the brink; while Karin's mental disintegration manifests itself in the belief that God is a spider. As she slips inexorably into madness, she is observed with terrifying objectivity by her emotionally paralysed father (Björnstrand) and seemingly helpless husband (von Sydow).

Through a Glass Darkly from the Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Through a Glass Darkly is the first entry in a devastating "trilogy of faith"' that includes Winter Light (1962) and The Silence (1963), and earned Bergman the Foreign Film Oscar for the second year running (The Virgin Spring won in 1960). A four-handed Strindbergian chamber piece set to the music of Bach, the film features Harriet Andersson as a schizophrenic woman summering on an isolated Baltic island with her doctor husband (Max von Sydow), vulnerable teenage brother (Lars Passgård), and writer father (Gunnar Björnstrand). None of these men in her life are even remotely able to offer her the emotional support and sustenance she requires; when she discovers that her father has been keeping a clinically-detached journal of her illness for the purposes of writing a novel, she breaks down completely. The film's most celebrated scene is a horrific hallucination of God as a spider. The theme of incest anticipates The Silence. "Full of some of Bergman's most unforgettable sequences" (Sadoul, Dictionary of Films). "A film which points to the styles and themes of the Bergman films of the sixties" (James Monaco). "The other pictures I have made have been only études. This is Opus I" (Bergman, 1961).

Edinburgh U Film Society [Spiros Gangas]

A family tears itself apart on a remote island, while the daughter Karin (Harriet Andersson) descends into madness. Her father, a cold, distant novelist (Gunnar Bjornstrandt), her brother, a boy alienated from women (Lars Passgard) and her agonized husband (Max von Sydow), prove helpless to do more than observe Karin during her disintegration.

This is the first part of a trilogy - the other two are Winter Light and The Silence - in which Bergman demonstrates his Lutheran past through a meditation on the existence and meaning of God. The legendary sequence with the half-crazy Karin being terrified by a spider because she believes it is God, represents Bergman at his most blasphemous. However, it is from such scenes where the film's weaknesses are derived. The exaggerated acting of Harriet Andersson in certain moments transcends the subtle line of full dramatic effect and enters the territory of parody.

The cinematography, as one would expect from the distinguished Sven Nykvist, is superb, matching perfectly the emotional isolation of the characters with the coldness of the landscape. Despite flaws in the acting, Bergman's attempt to build the four characters to their full potential is admirable and deserves a sympathetic audience.

CINE-FILE: Cine-List - CINE-FILE Chicago Kathleen Sachs

No one could accuse Ingmar Bergman of being a realist, but, as is evident in many of his films, he's keen to depict madness in the everyday. THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY especially relishes in the duality of the benign and the bizarre; the original title, AS IN A MIRROR, is the Swedish translation of the well-known Bible verse from which the English-subtitled version takes its name, and it perhaps best represents this secondary motif. (The first, of course, is the God question that permeates several of his films, including the other two that also comprise his Silence of God trilogy.) The film, which Bergman described as a chamber drama, opens on four figures emerging from the sea in a scene that's eerily similar to the Dance of Death sequence from THE SEVENTH SEAL. They're revealed to be a family: a father (Gunnar Björnstrand) and his son and daughter (Lars Passgård and Harriet Andersson, respectively), and her husband (Max von Sydow). The daughter, Karin, is schizophrenic, and has recently been hospitalized; her brother, Minus, is conflicted about his relationship with her and their narcissistic writer father, David. Just after all that's revealed, the four sit down to a seemingly normal family dinner. This dramatic dichotomy is reflected again at the end when, just after Karin's breakdown, Minus and his father are discussing Karin's condition and Minus suddenly asks if he can go for a run. “Off you go,” David replies. “I'll make dinner.” Bergman addresses the dilemma of his prominent God question in Images: My Life in Film, writing that, by the time he made THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY, his “own conflict with religion was well on its way out.” He said that the film “is mainly connected to [his] marriage to Käbi Laretei and their life together,” a fact that casts it in a different light, one that's in fact more earthly than otherworldly.

CineScene.com (Chris Dashiell)

David (Gunnar Björnstrand), a writer, is vacationing on an island with his mentally ill daughter Karin (Harriet Andersson), his teenage son Minus (Lars Passgård) and Karin's husband (Max von Sydow). Karin has just been released from a psychiatric hospital, but her condition is hopeless, and she struggles between lucidity and God- tormented visons, while the other three cope with their own difficult feelings about her and each other.

This film marks the point in Bergman's career when he began to reduce the number of characters in his films, the better to delve deeper into the spiritual and psychological complexities of their minds and relationships. With only four performers in the film, against the background of the rocky, austerely beautiful island of Fårö (which Bergman later made his home), Through a Glass Darkly has an intensity and focus that sets it apart from the Swedish director's earlier films. The photography (Sven Nykvist) is stunningly crisp and clear, arguably the most beautifully shot of Bergman's black-and-white pictures. And it boasts a world-class performance by Andersson, who dominates the film. She is thorougly compelling in a very difficult role. Even the best actors can have trouble portraying madness - Andersson is passionate, heartbreaking, scary, and luminous, making this troubled young woman seem real.

The film is the first in a trilogy about the problem of God (the other two being Winter Light and The Silence). In a postwar world cinema of irony and cool, Bergman seemed almost alone in his explicit concern with this theme. As a director, he was able to convey an appropriate gravity, along with a sensitivity to character and a skillful dramatic technique, in order to make religious conflict relevant and vivid. In this film, Karin's vision of God seems like a natural extension of her family's experience, a darkness that is both personal and cosmic.

David, the father, embodies the dilemma of the artist in Bergman's world view - his emotional distance, his use of the suffering of his daughter as grist for the mill, has terrible consequences, almost crushing him with guilt, and yet he somehow cannot do otherwise without ceasing to be an artist. The husband's answer to the God challenge is to be the perpetual servant, even though he feels his own selfless love to be ineffectual. The son seems in some ways to be the saddest character of all - yearning for connection with his father, his vulnerability invites hurt. Describing the dramatic architecture of the film makes it seem much more schematic than it is - Bergman knows how to use mood and atmosphere to present ideas nonverbally, which makes the eventual revelations of speech more powerful.

Through a Glass Darkly has not been one of the director's universally admired films. Some have been repelled by its bleak, minimalist aesthetic. Certainly it seems hermetic compared to the experimental works of his next phase. beginning with Persona (1966). Some of the element of struggle and contradiction in Bergman's own relationship to religion has been projected into the film's style, and I can see how he solved some of these problems with more insight in later works. Yet I never fail to be moved by this film, by its compassion, its respect for human failings, and its eerie evocation of the soul's twilight realm.

Long Pauses Darren Hughes

Images: As in most of Bergman’s b&w films, the interplay of darkness and light is a critical motif here, as seen most obviously in the images of Karin’s outstretched arms in the hull of the shipwreck and in her decision to wear sunglasses near the end of the film. The light motif is also realized in Bergman’s frequent shots of windows that open onto a distant horizon across the sea. My favorite instance comes after a bedroom exchange between Karin and Martin, when she turns her back to him, and the camera pans slowly to the right, fixing its gaze on the setting sun. The film is also notable for its strangely erotic subtext, created by a number of shots, among them: David’s hand on Karin’s shoulder as she drifts off to sleep; the stationary, low-angle shots of Karin alone in the wallpapered room; and, of course, the charged encounters between Karin and Minus.

The first of Bergman’s chamber dramas, Through a Glass Darkly concerns a family vacationing on the Baltic island of Fårö, where their alienation from one another is mirrored in the bleak landscape that surrounds them. The patriarch, David (Gunnar Bjornstrand), is a widower and best-selling novelist, whose life is marked solely by professional ambition and emotional detachment. His daughter, Karin (Harriet Andersson), is a schizophrenic plagued by rapturous voices that promise the imminent return of God. She is tended by her husband, Martin (Max Von Sydow), and by her younger brother, Minus (Lars Passgard), neither of whom is capable of offering her lasting comfort. Not surprisingly, Bergman constructs the film so as to allow his players to ruminate on his chief, career-long concerns: the struggle with inspiration in the life of an artist, the silence of God, and the potential redemption afforded by human love.

To begin at the end . . .

In the film’s final scene, David stands with his son before an open window, their faces mostly lost in shadow. Shaken by his sister’s most recent collapse and her subsequent evacuation by helicopter, Minus laments his loss of faith in God and man. The world has suddenly become torn open for the teenager, exposing its existential horror, and he can no longer imagine his place in it. “Give me a proof of God,” he begs of his father. David responds:

I can only give you an indication of my own hope. It’s knowing that love exists for real in the human world. . . . The highest and lowest, the most ridiculous and the most sublime. All kinds. . . . I don’t know whether love is proof of God’s existence, or if love is God. . . . Suddenly the emptiness turns into abundance, and hopelessness into life. It’s like a reprieve, Minus, from a sentence of death.

If we are to think of Through a Glass Darkly in musical terms, as Bergman encourages us to do, then David’s speech is a coda that resolves on a picardy third — that often surprising, but seldom satisfying moment when a piece in a minor key ends on a major chord. It’s one of only a very few instances in Bergman’s films that rings hollow to me. It feels, in fact, like a near desperate attempt to mask over the more honestly realized anguish and suffering that characterize the eighty minutes preceding. That the director was able to more satisfactorily resolve the problem a decade later in Cries and Whispers is perhaps evidence that here his ideas are still gestating, not yet fully formed.

What Bergman does get absolutely right in Through a Glass Darkly, though, is the very real horror of the existential crisis, the moment when Camus’s Sisyphus pauses, watching his stone roll once again down the mountain. In the penultimate sequence, Karin returns to the upstairs bedroom where, throughout the film, we have watched her communicate with the imagined harbingers of God’s return. Perhaps inspired by Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s story, Karin’s delusional conversations are mediated by the room’s tattered wallpaper and are charged (as is much of the film) with a discomforting eroticism. When David and Martin discover her, Karin is ecstatic, her glazed eyes fixed on the door through which God will soon appear. In a beautifully rendered scene, she falls to her knees and asks her stoic husband to join her. Von Sydow’s remarkable face is a conflicted mess of sorrow and love and humiliation and desire. But he kneels beside her, impotent in his attempts to calm her as she waits.

What follows is one of film’s most terrifying moments: God’s arrival in the form of the ambulatory helicopter, greeted by a grotesque dance of fits and shrieks from Karin. She throws her body into a corner, howling in agony and recoiling at the advances of her family, who look on, hopeless. If the finale of Carl Dreyer’s Ordet is a cinematic document of genuine Christian faith, then Karin’s rapture is its funhouse mirror reflection: a hopeless portrait of abject nihilism. Once calmed and quieted, Karin describes what she saw:

The door opened, but the god was a spider. He came up to me and I saw his face. It was a terrible, stony face. He scrambled up and tried to penetrate me, but I defended myself. All along I saw his eyes. They were cold and calm. When he couldn’t penetrate me, he continued up my chest, up into my face and onto the wall. I have seen God.

Camus demands that “one must imagine Sisyphus happy” — that in his very recognition of life’s absurdity Sisyphus has made a heroic gesture toward freedom — but Bergman, except in the aforementioned coda, refuses to offer even that promise. Karin puts on her sunglasses, shutting out the light that she has quite literally and so desperately sought throughout the film, and willingly surrenders herself to the medics. Despite David’s closing words, and the apparent reconciliation with Minus that they engender, I experience little catharsis from the film, knowing that Karin’s surrender is complete and, ultimately, fatal.

Strangely, it’s Karin’s plight, and that of so many like her in Bergman’s films, that draws me again and again to his work. There is, in that dramatization of the existential crisis, something of what Christian aesthetician Frank Burch Brown calls “negative transcendence”: “God appears only as the Absent One, as that which is signified only by the depth of the artfully expressed yearning.” I’ve become quite fond of that concept, applying it repeatedly to Bergman and sharing it often with friends who are struggling to make sense of their admiration for supposedly Godless films like Magnolia. In Through a Glass Darkly, I think, Bergman stages that crisis more brutally than anywhere in his canon, and the film is better for it.

-Peter Matthews Criterion essay

Epinions [metalluk]

Ted Prigge

DVD Movie Central Michael Jacobson

filmcritic.com Christopher Null

Real and Surreal Matt

iofilm.co.uk N. Medlicott

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

Strictly Film School Acquarello

Film Trilogy by Ingmar Bergman, A John White reviews the Trilogy from 10kbullets

DVD Verdict Brian Burke reviews the Trilogy

What Makes Ingmar Bergman The Best Ken Russell reviews the Trilogy from The London Times

The New York Times (Bosley Crowther)

WINTER LIGHT (Nattvardsgästerna)

Sweden (81 mi) 1963

Geoff Andrew from 1001 MOVIES YOU MUST SEE BEFORE YOU DIE:

The second part of Ingmar Bergman’s “Silence of God” trilogy – the other installments being the 1961 film Through a Glass Darkly and the 1963 film The Silence – centers on the pastor (Gunnar Björnstrand) of a small parish. Ever since his wife’s death he has become increasingly anguished and embittered by his growing uncertainty as to God’s existence. His faith is further put to the test by a teacher (Ingrid Thulin) who suffers from eczema and tries to persuade him to marry her, and by a depressive (Max von Sydow) who needs help in coping with his suicidal fears of nuclear conflict.

Winter Light is Bergman at his most intense. The narrative is pared down, terse, wholly to the point. The cast is shot largely in magnificently illuminating close-up by Sven Nykvist, affording performances of great restraint, subtlety, and power; the simple, chilly gray sets and locations add to the overall aura of rigorous austerity. The film lacks the leavening hints of hope, or at least of resigned acceptance, that arise in some of Bergman’s later films, which means that it is not the most heartening account of human experience. That said, the sheer artistry on view is, in its own strange way, thrilling in itself.

Time Out

The middle part of Bergman's trilogy about God's silence - it is flanked by Through a Glass Darkly and The Silence - and the most austere, Winter Light focuses on a small group of parishioners found at the beginning of the film attending Holy Communion. The village pastor (Björnstrand) is realising he has become an atheist since his wife's death. His faith is further tested by an offer of marriage from a schoolteacher (Thulin) tortured with eczema, and the solace demanded by a man (von Sydow) suicidally depressed by the threat of nuclear war. The pastor fails on both counts, and Bergman gives us an ambiguous ending back in the church service - what he himself called 'certainty unmasked'. Never a comfortable film, it's finely acted by a familiar Bergman ensemble, and the awesomely cold vistas form a perfect counterpoint to the spiritual freeze.

DVDBeaver.com [Per-Olof Strandberg]

"The middle part of Ingmar Bergman's faith trilogy (bookended by THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY and THE SILENCE) is probably his most clear minded examination of how a lack of faith can test orthodox religion. Nary a smile is evident in this succinct (80 minutes), bleak, and focused chamber piece where each character has a fraught relationship with God and over the course of the film desperately tries to come to terms with the nature of this relationship. Far from the dull mess it could have been, this film is a tour de force on every level by a filmmaker at his peak. A remarkable achievement, with tight direction, crisp cinematography, career-best performances and a sure-footed freshness. Its existential soul-baring can be hugely rewarding." —Nick Wrigley

Winter Light from the Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

The silence of God resounds with a deafening, despairing clarity in Bergman's masterfully minimalist Winter Light, one of the director's most anguished and overwhelming explorations of spiritual emptiness. The middle work in a "trilogy of faith" that includes Through a Glass Darkly (1961) and The Silence (1963), the film stars Gunnar Björnstrand as a village pastor who has suffered a complete loss of faith since the death of his wife. His performance of the liturgy has become nothing more than a series of hollow gestures, and when a parishioner (Max von Sydow) with a suicidal dread of nuclear warfare comes seeking spiritual comfort, he is utterly unable to provide it. "The austerity of Bergman's relentless spiritual probing becomes almost unbearable ... Much of Winter Light is constructed from extreme close-ups of the characters' faces, a technique Bergman came to use more and more as a means of suggesting psychological torment" (David Cook). "It's finely acted by a familiar Bergman ensemble, and the awesomely cold vistas form a perfect counterpoint to the spiritual freeze" (Time Out). "It is satisfying to see Winter Light after a quarter of a century. I believe that nothing in it has eroded or broken down" (Bergman).

Slant Magazine [Keith Uhlich]

Winter Light is one of cinema's great comedies, consistently producing the kind of hard, hearty laughter that nourishes the soul through its deceptively dour deadpan—imagine Robert Bresson directing a Buster Keaton feature and you'll have an inkling of its brilliance. Perhaps the most humorous aspect of Winter Light is that, to my knowledge, most view it as yet another bleak and drab entry in writer-director Ingmar Bergman's quintessentially Swedish examinations of faith, a clear indication that his universal comic aptitudes (see especially his early career masterpiece Smiles of a Summer Night) are sorely undervalued by critics and cinephiles alike.

Winter Light is the middle (I think best) film in Bergman's self-proclaimed faith trilogy that includes the earlier god-as-spider thriller Through a Glass Darkly and the subsequent surrealist psychodrama The Silence, and its comedic possibilities should at least be hinted at by the seasonal setting (how bizarre, say those familiar with the director's preferred working methods, for Bergman to be making a film in the harsh Swedish winter!) Yet by positing Winter Light as a comedy, I mean in no way to devalue its seriousness—to my mind it is one of the most profound examinations of Christianity and its imprisoning tenets, save that it arrives at its thematic conclusions through a stripped-down, theater-of-the-absurd aesthetic that stands proudly alongside (and many times one-ups) the no-exit theatrical confrontations of Bergman's generational parallel, Samuel Beckett.

Setting the comic stage is the film's opening close-up of the sickly and apathetic Pastor Tomas Ericsson, played by Gunnar Björnstrand, a frequent Bergman collaborator on stage and screen with a remarkable ability for accentuating character through the use of makeup and wardrobe. Note his holy trinity of physical choices in this introductory image—melding Keaton's stoneface with Charles Chaplin's shiny, salt-and-pepper locks, then topping it off with Harold Lloyd's characteristic black spectacles. No mistake that Björnstrand's corporeal accouterments are inspired by silent-film comedians (as my Christian upbringing taught me, there is perhaps no more preposterous figure of fun than a dumbstruck, four-eyed priest), but the actor brilliantly completes the portrait with his vocal intonation: a dull, rhythmless monotone that complements his physicality as surely as, in the best of cinema, sound complements image.

Moving on from this dazzling character introduction, Bergman details the Pastor's afternoon church service to absurd specifics—for the film's first 10 minutes the dialogue is entirely liturgical, and it suggests that the best comedy often comes from an artist's examination of everyday ritual. Working with his superlative cameraman Sven Nykvist, Bergman observes both the church's tacky décor (with a hastily carved, crucified Christ—held aloft by a Punch-and-Judy like Holy Father—as the tawdry centerpiece) and the individual dramas of Ericsson's few, distracted parishioners. Among the attendees (with particular sideline highlights provided by a bored, tongue-smacking child and a going-through-the-motions organist) are a suicidal fisherman (Max von Sydow) and his pregnant wife (Gunnel Lindblom), and Ericsson's former mistress, the schoolmarm-from-hell Märta Lundberg (Ingrid Thulin).

It only helps with Bergman's cinema to familiarize oneself with the performance tendencies of his stock company. As Björnstrand depends primarily on external appearance in his creation of character, so Ingrid Thulin projects her eccentricities of being from a temperamentally masochistic interior. As Märta, her mousy wardrobe and makeup (which has the interesting effect of elongating her lips into a death's-mask grimace) seems less an actor's choice than an inevitable result of a kind of Method immersion in character. In her celebrated fourth-wall breaking monologue, where she recites a particularly inflammatory letter to Pastor Ericsson in extended close-up, Thulin's eyes widen ever-so-subtly as the minutes and syllables pass; by the end she looks like one of Tex Avery's ravenous wolves, ready to kill and devour her lover because of some misguided amorous desires. It's a sequence of increasing hilarity, culminating in a shock-cut back to Pastor Ericsson as he desperately tries to fold up and organize the letter's many, many pages (Märta is nothing if not committed to her masochism.)

In a later schoolhouse-set dialogue between Märta and the Pastor, the characters' relationship reaches its apex and Bergman's film reveals its true colors as a pitch-black romantic comedy. Pastor Ericsson has just come from the scene of a suicide, having been called to identify and attend to the shotgun-blasted body of von Sydow's fisherman, to whom he ineffectively ministered. (With its river-rapids setting and in its languorous rhythm of performance—Björnstrand silently standing over von Sydow's body as if attending to his own excrement—this sequence anticipates the pokerfaced, malaise-ridden comedies of the great Taiwanese director Tsai Ming-liang.) Now inspired to a vicious exchange with Märta, Pastor Ericsson unburdens his soul, unleashing his former lover's sorrowful tears with raw, emotional accusations. Her hysterical reply is to offer him aspirin (Märta truly being the headache made flesh.) Ericsson, fed up with her schoolmarm shenanigans, makes for the door so that he can attend his evening church service, but halts just before his exit. Turning around and shuffling back with a vaguely Chaplinesque gait, he sits down dejectedly and asks if she'd like to come with him.

Bergman uses the subtle tenets of film comedy to strip down clichéd notions of love and faith to their bare essence, revealing them, at heart, to be potentially imprisoning, yet necessary human ideologies. Märta and Ericsson's mutual faith and love—one to the other—is the antidote to Christianity's deistic figurehead, who (if he exists) appears content to remain at a quiet remove from his creatures' affairs. Bergman has stated numerous times that he doesn't believe in God, but Winter Light's climax (where Ericsson, in Märta's company, begins his evening sermon before an otherwise empty church, in a nonetheless beatific close-up that parallels the final image of Chaplin's titularly similar City Lights) suggests that the director does believe in the essential goodness of the human spirit, the soulful desire to carry on with our many rituals of existence because of the knowledge that somehow, some way, our actions always manage to touch and to inspire at least one other.

-Peter Cowie Criterion essay

Senses of Cinema (Dan Harper)

Long Pauses Darren Hughes

eFilmCritic Reviews Dr. Isaksson

filmcritic.com Jake Euker

Westminster Wisdom Gracchi

DVD Movie Central Michael Jacobson

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

Psychologically Significant Movies [Aleksandar Novakovic]

Strictly Film School review Acquarello

Film Trilogy by Ingmar Bergman, A John White reviews from 10kbullets

DVD Verdict Brian Burke reviews the Trilogy

The New York Times (Bosley Crowther)

THE SILENCE (Tystnaden)

Sweden (96 mi) 1963

The Silence Nigel Floyd from Time Out London

The final part of Bergman's trilogy (after Through a Glass Darkly and Winter Light) is a bleak and disturbing study of loneliness, love and obsessive desire. Sisters Ester (Thulin) and Anna (Lindblom), together with the latter's young son, book into a vast but virtually empty hotel - the only other guests are a troupe of dwarf entertainers - in a country seemingly occupied or threatened by war. Once again exploring the conflicts between physicality and spirituality, Bergman candidly portrays Ester's latent lesbian desire for her sister, as well as Anna's own compulsive sexuality (she picks up a waiter and brings him back to the hotel). Despite the overt eroticism, the sisters' craving for emotional warmth is filmed in a cold, objective style; in this way, Bergman's severe symbolism emphasises both the seeming impossibility of, and the absolute necessity for, human tenderness in a Godless world.

The Silence from the Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

The Silence is one of Bergman's most perfectly realized, most unsettling, and most controversial works. Ingrid Thulin and Gunnel Lindblom are, respectively, Ester and Anna, two sisters travelling, with Anna's young son, in a war-torn foreign country where the language - and, in the film's amazing aural design, even the natural sounds - are utterly incomprehensible to them. The isolated trio checks into a largely (and ominously) deserted grand hotel, where the only other guests are a troupe of dwarfs. There, the two sisters have a desperate sexual encounter with each other. Following Through a Glass Darkly and Winter Light, The Silence concludes Bergman's powerful, shattering "faith" trilogy - three stark, darkly metaphysical works about the search for meaning in a senseless, Godless universe. The film's explicit, compulsive eroticism and theme of lesbian incest shocked audiences, incited rancorous debate about censorship, and resulted in huge box-office: one-eighth of Sweden's population is said to have seen The Silence in the first two months of its release. "One of Bergman's greatest works" (Peter Cowie). "Brilliantly photographed by Sven Nykvist ... For Bergman, as for Antonioni, it seems that modern alienation has reduced human communication to a series of desperate sexual encounters that can only end in chaos" (David Cook).

filmcritic.com Christopher Null

The Silence would be a fine title for pretty much any Ingmar Bergman movie, but this film truly does earn its moniker, with long stretches of film with no dialogue at all.

The Silence is spare, but not in the desolate wasteland sort of way of many Bergman films. In fact, the movie takes place in a city, mostly within a posh hotel. Two sisters get off a train when one of them, Ester (Ingrid Thulin) is too sick to go on. Her trollop sister Anna (Gunnel Lindblom) checks sis into a hotel, drops off her young son, and spends the hours cruising for men (which she finds). Eventually, Anna and the kid decide to continue on their journey, leaving Ester in the hotel, apparently to die alone.

Silence indeed.

The Silence still packs quite a punch in its few words, as a tale of deep resentment is crafted between Anna and Ester, who is obviously holding her back. The remainder of the film is vintage Bergman, told largely through the eyes of the child Johan, as he wanders the hotel, visits with a troupe of dwarfs, pesters the hotel staff with a cap gun, and coldly observes Ester as she approaches death. It's a film, masterfully told but reliant on your patience, about isolation, indignation, and unspoken resentment of family obligations. You may not see your personal situation in Ester and Anna's set piece, but sometime in your life you'll find yourself identifying with one of them.

A new digital transfer appears on this new Criterion Collection edition of the film, along with a printed essay and an enlightening video interview with Bergman biographer Peter Cowie.

DVD Movie Central Michael Jacobson

The Silence is a bleak, nihilistic masterpiece of loneliness, failed communication, unfulfilled existences and spiritual bankruptcy. Of the three films crafted by Ingmar Bergman as a trilogy on faith, this is easily the least hopeful, most depressing, and most important.

He has expertly crafted the kind of world Paul Simon would sing about…people talking without speaking, people hearing without listening. It begins with the three main characters rolling into a strange town on a silent train trip: the mother Anna (Lindblom), her small boy Johan (Lindstrom), and her ailing sister Ester (Thulin). As they enter the town, Johan watches through the window and sees rows of tanks. There is obviously conflict here.

None of them speak the language. Attempts to communicate are futile. Gestures are offered and appreciated, but connections never happen. They stay in a hotel that seems unusually quiet and free from activity…not the center of bustle and human movement you might expect. They stop there on their way home, wherever that is, because Ester is too ill to keep traveling.

The silence, as suggested by the title, is everywhere…comfortless and oppressive. Ester, though a translator with a vast knowledge of languages, can’t break the barrier of communication in this place. As she tries to make herself known to a kindly old hotel attendant, the effect is compounded visually by placing her in the same frame via a mirror. The two don’t really connect.

Anna, on the other hand, is withdrawn and restless with her sister but finds communication through sex. She picks up a stranger in a theatre and sees him several times. They make love, but they don’t talk. That is, Anna says a few things, but because of the language difference, she’s really only talking to herself.

Part of the structure of the picture involves seeing the world through the eyes of the child. We don’t understand this place any more than he does, and when we follow him through the grand halls and corridors of the hotel, we don’t discover much to connect with. The old attendant offers him warm affection, but nothing he can understand, as he sadly shows him some pictures of coffins and such…are these people lost to him because of the war the imagery has hinted at? We sense his emotion, but we, too, are helpless to comprehend.

In Through a Glass Darkly, a mentally ill young woman believes God is about to appear, only to be disappointed and spiritually broken by what she finally sees. In Winter Light, a clergyman has questioned his faith ever since losing his wife, and whether going through the motions means anything to him or his congregation. But in those films, one could possibly argue that hope is there, even in small form, at their conclusions…a hope that God does in fact exist and work through us even when all seems pointless.

There is no such safety net in The Silence. God is really only mentioned once in the content of the film, and it’s when Ester prays that she might be allowed to make it home and die there instead of in that sad, lonely and impenetrable city. The fact that her prayer is not answered might just be Bergman’s final assessment of the subject.

But is the spirit of God represented in this movie? Is he the little boy Johan, who observes, feels, reacts, but hasn’t the ability to intervene? Is he the kindly old attendant, who treats us lovingly and tries to care for our needs, but whom we have no capacity to understand? Is he a timekeeper, keeping track of the precious seconds of our lives like when the old man winds his watch at the foot of Ester’s deathbed? Or is that more indicative of the Deist tradition that suggests God is like the great watchmaker, who made it all and then entrusted it to our care while taking himself out of the equation? Were we given everything we need to glorify our world and nurture one another and we just evolved in the opposite direction? Is the film in the end more about the absence of God or the failure of humanity?

I think the last idea merits the most consideration. After all, despite their situation, Anna and Ester are able and should be in communion as sisters. But they’re like the churchgoers at the beginning of Winter Light, seeking communication everywhere but with one another. Anna wears her resentment of Ester openly, complaining in a late, bitter scene that Ester always had to ascribe meaning to anything and everything. The challenge is clear…like the young heretic in The Seventh Seal, Ester is facing eternity. What has meaning now?

It’s fascinating to me to consider that this film was considered a bit taboo for its overt sexuality in its day. It may have been a little more forthcoming in content than other movies at the time, but to call this a sexual film is to miss the mark. Even Bergman commented that he felt the publicity was bringing the wrong audiences to his picture. There is some nudity and at least one strong depiction of sex, but they are joyless in the eyes of our protagonists. Anna may be sexually liberated, but not emotionally so. Her confrontation with her sister while in bed with her lover ends with her deranged laughter leading to tears, while the man who doesn’t understand a word he speaks goes about his business…what else could he do?

Unable in the end to overcome her difficulties with her sister, Anna makes the exit trip alone with her son. In a long, lingering scene, we share Ester’s fear and isolation. She will die alone. Though the attendant administers to her with compassion, her thoughts on death fall on our ears alone. The final shot of Johan softly and sadly reading the “words in a foreign language” she had written to him ends the film on the right, somber note, as Johan attempts to connect to his departing aunt by reading words he doesn’t understand. The irony is compounded because we were getting the sense that maybe Johan, who seemed distant toward Ester early on, was finally finding some common ground with her on the basis that both felt abandoned by Anna. The foreign language letter creates the concept of a permanent irresolution.

This is a horrifying depiction of what might best be described as a hell of our own making. The relentless heat of the setting is only one aspect that makes us think so. I’ve heard at least one priest describe hell as simply the final and complete separation from God, and that’s what this film feels like. But the tragedy is that, for me, it seems more like humanity has turned away from God instead of the other way around. If we can’t connect to one another, how can we hope to ever connect to something greater than ourselves?

At least that’s one interpretation. The beauty of a Bergman film is that he leaves space for our own thoughts and feelings to take part in the creative process. Being that he was a confessed agnostic, maybe my ideas are way off base. Maybe one could argue that the film starts with the removal of God and then the unraveling of everything else. Maybe The Silence really is the silence of God instead of the silence of man.

These are all significant thoughts to ponder, which is why this movie, despite its sensation of hopelessness, is one of Bergman’s best offerings. He has shown us a depiction of life and death that we don’t want applied to ourselves. How we best go about avoiding that is up to us.

The Silence merits a whole hearted if awkward recommendation. The deliberate pacing, restricted settings, passages of little or no audio and an ultimately pessimistic look at man’s relationship with each other and with God make this a challenging and difficult film to fully digest. But the craftsmanship, performances and thoughtfulness make this the kind of film that needs to be experienced because of how it confronts us rather than caters to us. At the very least, it paved the way for Ingmar Bergman to explore similar relationship themes in his later work, such as Cries and Whispers. Many may not agree, but I’d consider this one of his best.

-Leo Braudy Criterion essay

Nick's Flick Picks (Full Review)

Strictly Film School review Acquarello

Film Trilogy by Ingmar Bergman, A John White reviews from 10kbullets

DVD Verdict Brian Burke reviews the Trilogy

The Silence Gary W. Tooze from DVDBeaver

ALL THESE WOMEN (För att inte tala om alla dessa kvinnor)

Sweden (80 mi) 1964

Chicago Reader (Jonathan Rosenbaum)

One of the rarest things in contemporary cinema--an underrated Ingmar Bergman film. Made in 1964, after The Silence, this color comedy (also known as Now About These Women) follows the mishaps of a music critic who visits a famous cellist he's writing a book about. Ostensibly Bergman's revenge against critics, as Pale Fire was for Vladimir Nabokov, this odd venture features Jarl Kulle, Georg Funkquist, and many of Bergman's best actresses: Eva Dahlbeck, Harriet and Bibi Andersson, Karin Kavli, and Gertrud Fridh.

DVD Times Mike Sutton

Although Ingmar Bergman isn’t a director one instantly associates with comedy, he’s done rather more work in the genre than might be expected, including films such as Secrets Of Women and Lesson In Love. Most famously, Smiles Of A Summer Night is a richly comic, if also poignant, examination of the sexual mores of all-too flawed human beings and this film forms the culmination of what Bergman has described as his ‘rose’ period. Some of his later work also contains comic elements, notably Wild Strawberries and Fanny and Alexander where the comedy combines seamlessly with the more ‘Bergmanesque’ elements. Indeed, one of Bergman’s ‘blackest’ films, The Seventh Seal has a vital stream of life-enhancing comedy in the form of Gunner Bjornstrand’s warm and humorous performance as the Squire.

Yet All These Women still comes across as, for want of a better word, as an anomaly. It’s understandable that Bergman should have wanted to lighten up after his trilogy of faith, his most negative statements about the state of the world up to that time. It’s also interesting to note that this was his first film in colour and possibly he thought that colour was more suited to the frivolous style than to an intense study of God’s absence. But the comedy in the film is very different to the comic elements in his previous films. Granted, Smiles of a Summer Night is basically a sex comedy but it’s also a reflective and gently sad film which reminds us that time’s winged chariot is always hurrying near. All These Women, on the other hand, is sex farce in which any sense of human reality seems to be deliberately seconded to broad humour and a headlong rush to the finish. In itself, this isn’t necessarily a bad thing but from Bergman we perhaps have the right to expect a bit more than we’d get from a French boulevardier comedy. Possibly puzzled by this lack of depth, Bergman scholars have made numerous efforts to place the film within his filmography by emphasising elements which, if they are there, exist only parenthetically.

The film concerns the efforts of a pompous music critic named Cornelius (Kulle) to interview Felix, a famous cellist for whom he is to be the official biographer. His attempts to interview the maestro are continually frustrated by the group of women who live in the house; the wife and the various mistresses. It begins as if constrained by a proscenium arch, with the dead maestro in his coffin and the other characters introduced into a static scene narrated by two male servants. The deadening effect of this prelude is such that you begin to dread the film. It’s obvious that it’s supposed to be funny but the performances of the footmen and the biographer are uncomfortably broad right from the start. A burst of ragtime jazz takes us three days into the past and the story begins to unfold. One’s initial doubts are compounded with a lengthy series of misunderstandings in which Cornelius mistakes the valet and chauffeur for Felix. Jarl Kulle’s performance is a classic example of how not to play comedy. Kulle was very effective in Smiles of a Summer Night, where he was under the strict control of a director who knew exactly what he wanted, but he’s a disaster in this ill-advisedly freewheeling film. He has no idea of how to underplay a line and the more he mugs and preens, the more irritating he becomes. Cornelius is meant to be a smug idiot but Kulle’s performance suggests that he’s somehow mentally deficient. Because everything is overstated, the attempts at more subtle comedy – the Eric Morecambe style of talking rubbish in confidence as if it were a great secret, for example – don’t work. Kulle is certainly game and he undergoes his humiliations with energy and a certain physical grace, but the total lack of reality in the character and the broad overplaying keep Cornelius too distant from us for his increasing delirium to be shared with the audience. By the time he’s been reduced to wearing women’s clothing and dodged fireworks, the plot seems to have gone so far out of control that Kulle’s panic looks less like acting and more like the desperation of an actor who knows that the film he’s in seems to be collapsing around his ears.

Ignoring the mindless plot and the dire performance of Kulle, there are things to admire in All These Women. The performances of the women are generally far superior to those of the men and there are memorable moments from two Bergman regulars: Harriet Andersson – so memorable in Through A Glass Darkly - and Bibi Andersson – who would reach her zenith as a performer in Bergman’s next film, Persona. Indeed, on a technical level, the visuals are often beautiful. Although the camera is a little static at times, Bergman’s framing remains a thing of wonder and he can get more out of a one-set scene than some directors can get out of six weeks on location. It’s also stunningly well photographed by Sven Nykvist, working with colour for the first time. The delicate shades of blue and pink are beautifully handled, giving the film a soft, sensual appearance which promises a comic grace that is never delivered.

Yet the film has to be counted as a major failure and one of the few Bergman films which doesn’t work on any level. It’s easy to forgive comedy for not being funny, particularly when it seems to be rooted in a national context that is pretty much alien to us. But it’s hard to forgive a film which is so badly paced and overplayed. Ingmar Bergman seems to hate the film. In “The Magic Lantern”, he describes it as “a complete and well-deserved fiasco” and calls it an “superficial and artificial comedy”. It may well be that the film didn’t receive the full attention he had given his previous work, The Silence, because of Bergman’s personal circumstances at the time. In December 1962, he became Managing Director of the Royal Dramatic Theatre and found himself in charge of a theatre “in an advanced state of disintegration” (p.44, ‘Images’) which required a good deal of his time and effort. His decision not to abandon All These Women was taken out of loyalty to his long time partners at Svensk Filmindustri but it was one that he regretted – especially since the commercial and critical failure of the film came during the same week that his theatrical production of “Three Knives From Wei” was panned by critics and ignored by audiences. The melancholia and reflectiveness that some writers have claimed to find in the film seem to me to be wishful thinking at what might be there if it were a better film, than analysis of what can be found by looking.

I don’t think that Bergman’s style necessarily mitigates against comedy. Smiles of a Summer Night is one of the most beautifully comic films ever made, so evanescent that it can barely be grasped by the mind before it drifts away on the wind. In that film, the material of bedroom farce is transformed into poetic comedy which owes as much to Shakespeare as Feydeau. If only this tone could have been recaptured in All These Women then we could have had an ironic comedy of sexual manners which makes fun of the pretensions of mediocrities who snap at the heels of celebrity without ever finding a knowledge of themselves. Instead, Bergman encourages his cast to scream, shout, giggle and generally behave as if they’re engaged in something irresistibly amusing. The effort is superfluous, sadly, because All These Women never even gets off the ground.

Cinepassion Fernando F. Croce

Kamera.co.uk Colin Odell and Michelle Le Blanc

Channel 4 Film

Cleveland Press (Tony Mastroianni)

The New York Times (A.H. Weiler)

PERSONA A 100

Sweden (83 mi) 1966

a form of seeming rather than being

One of Bergman’s best, a small film, basically an expanded chamber drama, a film with one of the more unique opening credit sequences ever, which features, among others things, a carbon lamp lighting celluloid as it passes through a projector, and images are born onscreen. At the same time, similar to the opening from Tarkovsky’s MIRROR (1975), the subject of communication itself seems to be the issue, as early archival prints are shown, perhaps even the Keystone cops, as well as a young boy who awakens to an illuminated wall that is projecting an image of a face, like a mother, that he reaches out to embrace. Also, like Polanski’s REPULSION (1965), there is extraordinary use of offscreen sounds, which enhances jarring images that are meant to incite the emotions of the audience, as they are utilized with abstract images onscreen meant to jolt the senses of the viewer. It’s an effective technique, especially as the storyline includes an actress who has a personal breakdown onstage, suddenly aware of and disgusted by all the misery in the world and the artifice in her own life, who hasn’t spoken in three months (Liv Ullman in her astonishing film debut), and her nurse (Bibi Andersson) who makes startlingly personal confessions that seem to fall on deaf ears.

After a very direct appraisal from Ullman’s doctor (Margaretha Krook), she sees no need to keep the patient in the hospital and sends her to the doctor’s private seaside retreat, which evolves into dramatic shoreline shots of what eventually became Bergman’s own home on Fårö Island, which he utilizes brilliantly in one endless tracking shot that recalls the loneliness and personal isolation of Antonioni’s L’AVVENTURA (1960). Of interest, Andersson is the director’s former lover, and Ullman becomes the new love of his life, so of course Bergman sets them opposite one another. Both offer phenomenal performances, enhanced even further by the spare minimalist structure of the film, which is surgically precise, especially the use of archival prints, which include Ullman’s silent horror witnessing a televised newscast of a Buddhist monk setting himself on fire to protest the American incursion into Vietnam, and later she is aghast as she looks at another war photograph of Nazi soldiers pointing their guns directly at children, where the camera zooms in on close-ups of the terrifying faces. Faces are prominently featured in this film, projected like masks hiding who they really are inside as they stare blankly at the camera, joined by one another, where like a lava lamp they merge, co-mingle as one, perhaps representing an unrecognizable mixture of dreams and reality, art and humanity, and then converge into a completely new identity. Andersson’s lyrical, rambling monologues are incredible, but like Ullman, she reaches a point of recognition where she becomes acutely aware of the role she’s playing, where the roles reverse and she herself becomes the patient, observed and evaluated by Ullman, which comes as a shocking revelation. The celluloid itself appears to burn out at this point midway through the film and everything must start anew with a reawakened understanding.

Perhaps Bergman’s most radical film, and among his shortest and most economical as well, this film exposes even the film crew itself at one point and challenges the viewer to examine the artifice in their own lives and relationships, perhaps best represented by a revelatory scene about their aversion to motherhood, and even marriage, that repeats itself from both women’s perspectives, as the actress and the professional are too wrapped up in their own careers to offer themselves over completely to such an all encompassing new role. Both unmarried and childless, though Andersson is seemingly happily engaged, she begins to even question her role in that relationship, as both women are seen as somehow less than whole, incomplete, even inadequate, until they can lose themselves completely in the love of an “other,” something neither of them has ever been able to do. The film asserts that the jagged pieces of our lives require reassembly, reevaluation, coming clean with one’s own conscience, never really offering any clues on how this might be done.

Michael Tapper from 1001 MOVIES YOU MUST SEE BEFORE YOU DIE:

As with other prominent examples of 1960’s European art-cinema narration, much of the critical discussion of Ingmar Bergman’s Persona has portrayed it as obscure and beyond words. True, the director wanted his film to be a visual poem, and he composed the famous opening credit sequence to underline this. However, even in this dense, associative montage, most of the images are recognizable as references to familiar Bergman motifs: the Spider-God (spider), the Christian legacy (crucifixion, lamb to slaughter), art/illusion as construction (the film’s title, details of a film projector, the film-within-the-film from the 1949 film Prison), the cold womb (a morgue interior with a young boy from the 1964 film The Silence naked and reaching toward a cold and distant “mom”). This sequence functions as a prelude summoning up Bergman’s artistic profile, as if he wished to take stock and then clear the slate for a fresh artistic start. Indeed, the whole film can be seen as a journey to an existential and aesthetic dead-end, one where identity, meaning, and language finally collapse, destroying Bergman’s art itself as the film strip stops in its tracks, melts, and breaks before starting again.

Superficially the plot of Persona is constructed as a variation of a female power game in August Strindberg’s chamber play The Stronger. Initially, the stronger of the two women in the film appears to be the psychiatric nurse Alma (Bibi Andersson), especially as she appears certain of herself and does all the talking—thus taking control over her silent counterpart. But faced with this enigmatic patient, famous actress Elisabet Vogler (Liv Ullman), in an isolated summer cottage on a remote island, Alma’s own seemingly stable, down-to-earth world-view begins to crumble. Her therapeutic talks turn to confessions of her own hidden secrets and desires. Gradually she is stripped of her own persona, the mask of lies and self-deception that makes up her identity and provides her life with a sense of meaning.

Persona’s climax comes in the famous scene where the two women sit opposite each other dressed in identical black clothes. Alma begins to talk about Elisabet’s rejection of motherhood and marriage, but soon finds herself talking about her own doubts concerning the family life she has previously envisioned with naïve enthusiasm. Realizing this, she struggles to regain control with new words of certainty, but even her construction of language breaks down and she can only utter incoherent phrases. It is at this point that Bergman uses the optic effect of fusing the two women’s faces into one haunting image, a horrific vision of identity in a total state of decomposition.

The film logically ends with Alma doing the only thing she can to reconstruct her life and sense of self; she returns to the ordinary world that defines her and rejects Elisabet as the Other. In their final scene together we are back at the hospital from the opening scenes of the drama. Alma, now back in her old uniform and persona, forces Elisabet to repeat the word “nothing.” Cut back to the boy at the morgue—Elisabet’s unwanted child? Alma’s aborted fetus? —and then the projector stops. Darkness.

Michael Wilmington of the Chicago Tribune (link lost):

One of the screen's supreme works and perhaps Ingmar Bergman's finest film, "Persona" is also his most radical in form and technique. Bergman, the great classicist, here uses a whole '60s arsenal--electronic music, shock cuts, abstraction, symbolism and a jarringly experimental narrative structure--to explore the relationship between two women with hauntingly similar faces: an actress who never talks (Liv Ullmann) and a nurse (Bibi Andersson) who never seems to shut up.

"Persona" was made at least partly in response to the experimentalists of the '60s, who had dismissed Bergman as an old fogy, artistically and politically. Shockingly, with this one film, he surpassed them all.

Time Out

Bergman at his most brilliant as he explores the symbiotic relationship that evolves between an actress suffering a breakdown in which she refuses to speak, and the nurse in charge as she recuperates in a country cottage. To comment is to betray the film's extraordinary complexity, but basically it returns to two favourite Bergman themes: the difficulty of true communication between human beings, and the essentially egocentric nature of art. Here the actress (named Vogler after the charlatan/artist in The Face) dries up in the middle of a performance, thereafter refusing to exercise her art. We aren't told why, but from the context it's a fair guess that she withdraws from a feeling of inadequacy in face of the horrors of the modern world; and in her withdrawal, she watches with detached tolerance as humanity (the nurse chattering on about her troubled sex life) reveals its petty woes. Then comes the weird moment of communion in which the two women merge as one: charlatan or not, the artist can still be understood, and can therefore still understand. Not an easy film, but an infinitely rewarding one.

All Movie Guide [Michael Hastings]

A watershed film in its economy, symbolism, and frank sexuality, Ingmar Bergman's Persona ranks as one of the director's most personal pieces, breaking from his earlier, more explicit work in favor of the abstract, intuitive style that he would continue to develop in such films as Hour of the Wolf (1968), Shame (1968), and Cries and Whispers (1973). Bergman started work on Persona after a long hospital stay, and he described the seemingly random images that begin the film as a "poem," a proclamation of his renewal as an artist. The opening sequence sets the tone for the film to come, in which the characters are at the mercy not just of fate and desire but of filmmaking itself. When Bibi Andersson's nurse Alma comes to the bedside of Liv Ullmann's Elizabet one night, the mere suggestion of their hallucinatory encounter is enough to shake the film off its sprockets -- the celluloid literally breaks and melts on screen, before our eyes. At no other time in his career had Bergman seemed more trusting of his performers; he purges Persona of any narrative conventions but its two characters and their seaside setting. The final shot pans around to expose the crew and equipment making the movie, a self-reflexive gesture, as in the later A Passion (1970), which suggests that not even filmmaking can completely dissect the mysteries of the human heart.

Persona from the Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

A key work of modernist cinema, Persona just may be Bergman's masterpiece, and is certainly his most formally innovative work: a deeply disturbing, endlessly fascinating rumination on the illusory nature of human personality - and the equally illusory nature of cinematic reality. Liv Ullmann is Elisabeth, a prominent stage actress stricken with a mysterious inability to speak - as if her only alternative to role-playing, in art or in life, is silence. Bibi Andersson is Alma, the nurse assigned to care for Elisabeth as she recuperates at a remote seaside cottage. Alma is outwardly happy and healthy, but her incessant talk to the silent Elisabeth gradually takes the form of a painful confession. It is soon apparent that Alma's personality is itself a façade, and the identities of the two women begin to merge - a process expressed in one of the film's most famous images, in which the faces of the two principals merge into a single composite. Bergman cracks the persona of classic narrative cinema by punctuating the story with scenes of a film running through a projector - a sometimes shocking Godardian reminder that this is a film we are watching, this too is illusory and subject to breakdown and negation. "Bergman at his most brilliant... infinitely rewarding" (Tom Milne). "Bergman's most important film . . . at once his most personal film and his most intelligent" (James Monaco).

Edinburgh U Film Society [Spiros Gangas]

Few films by Bergman can match the aesthetic qualities and the psychological depth of Persona. It remains one of the most classic examples of his work but at the same time one of the most difficult, both in terms of form and content. There's very little to be said about the plot which is again a vehicle for Bergman's inquiry into the human psyche.

The film is about the symbiotic relationship between an actress (Liv Ullman) who descends into schizophrenia and her nurse (Bibi Andersson). One gets the impression that the actress' breakdown is due to the horrors of our world - some documentary footage is used to convey this possibility - a frustration enhanced by the fact that the nurse troubles her with a confession of her petty problems...

Bergman tackles here several themes - sexuality and madness among others - but in essence, the film explores the difficulty of true communication between people as well as the self-contained world of the artist. He films in luminous, elegant shots, moving his camera voluptuously over the beautiful faces of both actresses capturing splendidly the emotional anguish and turmoil of the characters. There is an extraordinarily intense moment where both women switch identities or merge into one person which may be taken as a statement as to the possibility of interpersonal communication through empathy. But nothing is as enigmatic as the sequences of the child staring in front of a screen - Bergman sees himself and a reference to art? Liv Ullmann and Bibi Andersson are exquisite in their roles and the whole film has more the qualities of a dream (or a nightmare) rather than of reality.

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

Bergman’s movies all have their moments – moments of inspiration, surprise and emotion. But they also all have other kind of moments – moments of ineptitude, pretentiousness and tedium. And plenty of them. Persona is a case in point. A prominent, thirtysomething actress named Elisabeth (Liv Ullmann) suffers a severe crisis on-stage. Suddenly disgusted with any kind of artifice or falseness, she withdraws into muteness and is looked after by a nurse in her mid-twenties, Alma (Bibi Andersson). As she convalesces in a beachfront house, Elisabeth listens to Alma as she talks about her life, her dissatisfactions, her desires.

Gradually the tone shifts from realistic to something more mysterious. We aren’t sure whether what we’re watching are dreams, fantasies, or psychological projections. Are the two women’s personalities (or rather their “personas”) fusing into one? Does the nurse actually exist? Does the actress? Why, when the actress’s husband (Gunnar Bjornstrand) comes to visit, does he address the nurse as his wife?

Of course, Bergman has emphasised from the very start that nothing we see over the course of the movie is actually ‘real’. The film begins with a jarring, first-year-film-studentish montage of clips making this point in various ways. The very first image is of the inside of a cinema projector as it slowly heats up and starts casting out its images. We see a nail being driven into a man’s hand – presumably a prelude to crucifixion – and what looks like a sheep having its throat cut. A cartoon plays, then freezes, then starts again. Halfway through Persona itself the film seemingly ‘catches’ in the projector and appears to break up before our eyes. At the end we’re back inside the projector again, this time as it cools into darkness.

Why say the same thing in so many different ways? Surely nobody watching Persona, or any other fictional film, mistakes what they’re seeing as actually real. What, if anything, is Bergman trying to say here? By the end of the film his intentions, if he has any, remain frustratingly opaque. All we end up taking away is the impact of Andersson’s terrific performance – the actress pretty much is the movie, with Ullmann’s affected silence as grating to us as it is to Alma – and the distinct impression that we’ve witnessed a rather tiresome, self-indulgent, pseudo-intellectual exercise.

eFilmCritic.com ["Dr. Isaksson"]

Ingmar Bergman's 1965 masterpiece "Persona" is like stepping into a dream. A massive web of thoughts and feelings encompass you, some good, some bad, some utterly confusing. Yet like dreams, things are never what they seem.

A director for over 40 years, Ingmar Bergman has given the world a great choice of classic films, all somewhat obscure to the modern filmgoer but highly important to the world of cinema. In all of his films you can find his trademark, whether it be a camera angle or an important line. But just when you thought you had his style down, Bergman becomes a chameleon, changing the colors of his films in subtle, amazing ways. When he began writing and directing in the late 40's, there were limits on what could be said and done but as those constraints slowly lifted so did the restrictions in his films. Nowhere is that more noticeable than in Persona. Bergman's most fearlessly original work ever.

This puzzlebox of a film is one of the most thought provoking and intense studies of human nature I have ever seen. The movie begins with a young nurse named Alma (played by Bibi Andersson) assigned to care for an actress named Elisabeth Vogler (played by Liv Ullmann) who has gone mute for no apparent reason. The doctors at the mental hospital where Elisabeth is staying do not know what to think of their patient because she is capable of speech, but chooses not to say a word. The head therapist (Margaretha Krook) does not see the need to keep Elisabeth in the hospital any longer.

So Nurse Alma and Elisabeth head off to an island retreat to help Elisabeth regain her senses and strength so that she can return to the real world again.(Her world of acting and parties). During their idyllic stay, Alma begins to feel a closeness towards her patient and draws near Elisabeth who she admires and finds fascinating. Alma begins to share with Elisabeth her own deepest feelings and the doubts concerning her fiancee and her future with him. Also, Alma reveals a painful memory of her first sexual experience which resulted in a terrible secret she has never confessed to anyone. But with Elisabeth, Alma feels as though she could relate such painful events to her, for Elisabeth was now her dear friend.

One afternoon, Alma offers to mail letters Elisabeth has written to friends. While driving to the post, Alma sees that one letter has mistakenly not been sealed. She reads the contents of this letter and is completely devastated with what Elisabeth has written. A complete betrayal of trust has occurred.

It is here that Persona breaks in half, (literally.) The film slashes itself in two and melts away. Alma cannot contain her anger and it rises and rises until finally she releases her rage torwards Elisabeth, with shattering results. A face to face meeting of the minds occur between the two women and Alma now turns the tables on Elisabeth, pulling out the secrets Elisabeth has been hiding under. In one jarring scene of harsh revelation, the answers to her total silence is revealed. And as the film comes to it's close the viewer must ask themselves. "What of this has been true and what has been just a trick of the mind?"

Ingmar Bergman's Persona is a thrilling, chilling, thought provoking masterpiece. His direction is stellar, perhaps the best of his career, and the imagery he captures of the two women and the island location is so beautiful that it looks as though it were filmed through a frosted glass lens. The cinematography of Sven Nykfst is entrancing. His fearless close-ups and dream like sequences are mesmerizing to behold. This praise also deserves to be lauded on the performances. Bibi Andersson is perfectly commanding and yet vulnerable as Alma and Liv Ullmann is nothing short of brilliant as Elisabeth. She portrays many varied emotions without the aid of words in a masterful way. After a couple viewings of Persona, I became aware that as a viewer I became so lost in her performance that I did not even notice that she had not spoken a word, yet I somehow always knew exactly what she was thinking of. Amazing.

Persona has been described as the "Ulysses" of the movie world. So intricate and layered that it might never be completely understood. But after seeing it several times I am slightly convinced that they may be right. Perhaps I will never understand the full grasp of it's meaning. I don't think Ingmar Bergman wants me to.

Ingmar Bergman has been one of the most enigmatic of all film directors. But nothing can prepare you for the ultimate trip into the human psyche that is "Persona".

digitallyOBSESSED.com [Robert Edwards]

The plot is simple: renowned stage actress Elisabet Vogler (Liv Ullmann) fell silent during a performance of Elektra, and has since stopped speaking completely. She's been evaluated by a psychiatrist (Margaretha Krook), who declares her physically and emotionally well. Alma (Bibi Andersson), a young nurse, is assigned to her, but after Elisabet's stay in the clinic fails to improve her condition, she and Alma move to a summer cottage by the sea. There, Alma opens up to Elisabet, telling her secrets about her past, stories she hasn't shared with anyone. But Alma's frustrations at Elisabet's continuing refusal to speak increase, and the two become confrontational.

On this simple, almost skeletal plot, Swedish director Ingmar Bergman hangs one of the most complex, intriguing, beautiful films in the history of cinema. In the late 1950s and early '60s, Bergman had explored themes such as alienation and the relation of God to Man, but by the mid-1960s, his concerns had changed to subjects such as identity and the impossibility of existence in the modern world. By this time, he had been working for several years with cinematographer Sven Nykvist, who would add a distinctive look to not only Persona but most of Berman's later films, and had used Bibi Andersson in several film roles.

Persona is a film that works simultaneously on multiple levels—narrative, visual, intellectual—to create a fascinating whole, one that demands, but rewards, multiple viewings. There are mysteries to fathom, themes to explore, and cinematic techniques to interpret and understand. As one of the most appreciated films by a director who was at one time the most famous in the world, reams have been written about it, with varying (and often contradictory) interpretations. And rightly so, because it's open to multiple avenues of exploration and approach, but the film itself resists a definitive explanation.

Communication as Artifice

One of the mysteries of the film is simply stated: Why has Elisabet stopped speaking? Obviously, we don't get any clues from the mute Elisabet, and Alma's prime concern is not to determine the cause of her condition, but rather to get her to start speaking again. The film points towards two potential answers that are related, yet not completely reconcilable. First of all, Elisabet's psychiatrist tells her that she understands the cause, that Elisabet wants to be who she really is, and not who she is to other people, to strip off the façade of language and get to the truth, to remove her persona (Greek for 'mask') and bare the person beneath. The doctor's explanation is long and detailed, but it doesn't sound very scientific—it's more of a philosophical than psychological interpretation of Elisabet's refusal to speak, and thus may be suspect, but Alma echoes the psychiatrist's words later, asking Elisabet if it is really so important to tell the truth and not lie.

The other clues are presented visually, and may thus be more reliable than the verbal explanations. Elisabet clearly enjoys her life in the near-isolation of the seaside cottage, cut off from the outside world, where she can avoid the complexities of modern living. Early on in the film, Elizabet watches television in her room at the clinic, and is filled with revulsion and horror at the (in)famous footage of Buddhist monks practicing self-immolation in protest of the Vietnam War. As their bodies, engulfed by flames, slowly crumble to the ground, Elisabet emits a silent scream, withdrawing into the corner of her room, distancing herself as much as possible from the images before her. And later, Elisabet closely examines a World War II photo of a little boy in the Jewish ghetto as soldiers point their rifles at him. Although it's more with curiosity than disgust that she looks at the picture, both the picture and the footage of the monks are the only significant examples of the outside world intruding on Elizabet's isolation, either in the clinic or on the island. It's as if Bergman is hinting to us that that Elizabet's refusal to speak is a reaction to the horror of the real world, that if she avoids words she will no longer be implicated in the evil of modern life.

Duality and Transference

Bergman also explores the theme of identity to great effect in Persona. Although they share a few things in common, Elisabet and Alma are about as different as night and day (in that order). We assume that as a famous actress Elisabet has attained a certain level of sophistication and knowledge. Alma, on the other hand, just two years out of nursing school, is naïve and has a limited level of experience. But as the film progresses, the two protagonists begin to overlap and merge. It's not a matter of their personalities coming to resemble one another (although Alma does lose some of her naïveté), but more of a spiritual merging, expressed both in dialogue and visually. In one of the most famous scenes in the film, Alma has fallen asleep drunk on her bed. Behind her, a corridor and another room are swathed in light. Elisabet appears in the corridor, spectral and silent, moves across to the other room, and nearly disappears into its whiteness. Alma sits up, the two hug, and both face the screen, looking directly at the viewer. The lighting and composition serve to emphasize the physical resemblance of the two actresses, and as their faces overlap, it's almost as if they are merging and becoming one. Emphasis is added later in the film with a freeze frame that carefully combines the left half of Alma's face and the right half of Elizabet's into a whole—so indistinguishable are the two halves that each of the actresses, upon seeing Bergman's craftwork in the screening room, thought the picture was not a composite, but rather the face of the other actress.

But the ultimate fusion, that of two souls into one, is never achieved, despite Alma's claim early in the film that "I think I could change myself into you." Her frustration with Elisabet's silence grows, and she increasingly identifies with Elisabet, to the point of having a dream—or is it?—where Elisabet's husband mistakes her for Elisabet herself. Her revulsion towards Elizabet grows, and after she tells Elizabet, in a four-minute monologue, the story of Elizabet's horror at having a child, her rebellion is complete, she exclaims, "I'm not like you!" and "I'll never be like you!" and reaffirms her own independent existence.

Modernity and Melodrama

Bergman has always been a director of self-conscious films. Rather than presenting themselves as reliable representations of reality, his works call attention to their artificiality in various ways. In the 1960s, a time of turbulence not only socially and politically, but also in the arts, Bergman fully embraced this questioning of values, experimenting openly with modernist techniques such as distanciation. He was certainly not the first nor the last director to use filmic devices to render obvious the status of his films as constructed objects, but he used the techniques effectively, and never more so that in Persona.

Indeed, the first few moments of the film not only lay bare the whole process of film projection, but make us wonder whether we're going to see a narrative film at all. In the opening shot, two indistinct shapes against a black background begin to glow, becoming progressively whiter, until a spark jumps between them and glows—it's a carbon arc lamp of the type used in film projectors of the day. We see spinning reels, a strip of film winding its way through a projector, and the 'START' and upside down numbers typical of film leaders. Soon we're into the film itself—except what we see on the screen is a piece of film, complete with sprocket holes. Following are brief shots of a spider, a silent comedy, corpses, and a boy who tries in vain to cover himself with a too-small sheet.

With this opening, Bergman is in effect telling us two things: first, by showing us the very mechanism that's being used to project the film that we're seeing, he makes evident the fact that what we're seeing on the screen is in no way to be interpreted as reality. The image is not objective, but something created, whose content has been mediated and selected consciously. And the seemingly-unrelated selection of images that follows makes us, as an audience, realize that the content we're seeing is in a sense arbitrary, that the director could have chosen from an infinitude of stories and images.

The use of distanciation devices continues throughout the film. Bergman gives us shots that are out of focus, characters that talk directly to the camera, jarring narration, a four-minute monologue that's repeated from two different points of view, an actress who points her camera at the audience and snaps a couple of pictures, and, when Alma breaks with Elizabet, the film tears, jams, and burns before our very eyes.

One critic has complained that Persona doesn't really work because Bergman has merely tacked these modernist techniques on to a film that is essentially melodramatic in nature, and that as soon as they disappear from the screen, the audience is immediately encouraged to react to the emotions, and identify psychologically with the characters. Certainly, the emotions being expressed are strong and affecting, at times painful, but Bergman never allows us to experience them as reality, never gives us time to actively react or respond in any meaningful way. There's always a composition, a lighting scheme, discordant music on the soundtrack, or some other device to remind the viewer that the object before him is a film, and not real life.

But That's Not All

Persona is also a visually stunning film, both in terms of its mise-en-scène and its framing and camerawork. Shot after shot is strikingly lit, almost expressionistically, often with pools of light against near-black backgrounds; but almost as prevalent are other sequences that give us no more than subtle shades of gray. The camera is usually static, in some scenes remaining coolly distanced from the characters it's observing, but often emphasizing emotion and expression via close-ups, some of them extreme. When cinematographer Sven Nykvist's camera does move, the contrast is to great effect, adding visual richness and complexity.

And what beauty Nykvist has before his camera. In what's essentially a two-character film, both Liv Ullmann and Bibi Andersson contribute excellent performances. In her first performance for Bergman, Liv Ullmann wordlessly conveys anger, indifference, pleasure, and even erotic desire. But it's Andersson who shines, in a sustained (nearly one and a half hour) performance of depth and occasional great subtlety, as she captures the simplicity, then growing frustration, confusion and anger as she's first drawn closer, then wrests herself away from Elisabet.

It's not easy to state that a film is a great work of art. It leaves the reviewer open to charges of hyperbole, uncritical thinking, and even naïveté. But in Persona, all of the elements that contribute to the richness of cinematic art—narrative complexity and intrigue, thematic depth, expressive lighting and camerawork, use of distanciation devices exclusive to film, expressive editing, and outstanding performances—work seamlessly together to create a work of great depth, beauty and sophistication. So I'll say it: "Persona is a great work of art."

Sontag on Persona.pdf - Thomas-Hersey essay from Sight and Sound, Fall 1967 (pdf format)

Persona - A Shining Brainless Beacon The Pitfalls of "Good Taste,” student response to the Sontag essay from A Shining Brainless Beacon

bergman's persona - Scribd Ingmar Bergman’s Persona, edited by Lloyd Michaels, October 18, 2010 (pdf format)

Kinoeye [Daniel Shaw]

Epinions [metalluk]

24 October 2008: Film Notes – Persona « Vagrant Journalism Christina Nersesian

Lolita's Classics: Persona (1966) May 7, 2010

Erasing Clouds [Dan Heaton]

Movie Vault [Timotei Centea]

not coming to a theater near you (Moira Sullivan)

Ted Prigge

Bergman, A Tribute Baradwaj from Blogical Conclusion

ToxicUniverse.com [Tony Pellum]

About.com Home Video/DVD Review [Ivana Redwine]

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson)

Deep Focus (Bryant Frazer)

VideoVista [Gary Couzens]

eFilmCritic.com Slyder

CineScene.com (Michael Buck)

100 films Lucas McNelly

PERSONA Mardecortésbaja

Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick)

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

Talking Pictures [Alan Pavelin]

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

Strictly Film School Acquarello

Guardian/Observer

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times in 1967:

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times in 2001

New York Times (registration req'd) Bosley Crowther’s 1967 review

DVDBeaver - Review [Brook Kennon]

DVDBeaver.com - Graphic Review [Gary W. Tooze]

HOUR OF THE WOLF (Vargtimmen) A 97

Sweden (90 mi) 1967

The hour of the wolf is that hour in the morning just before the sun rises, the hour most people die, and the hour most people are born, also the hour most are subjected to their own personal nightmares. In this case, the story is taken from the personal diary of a painter, Max Von Sydow, who became lost on a remote island along with his pregnant wife, Liv Ullman, while on vacation. The painter becomes haunted by visions of man-eating men, insects, necrophilia, homosexuality, and other ghouls and demons from his imagination while at the same time his wife begins reading his diary and becomes jealous of a mistress, delightfully played by Ingrid Thulin, who she discovers is also on the island. So when they are invited to a nearby castle for dinner, the pressures on the painter become unbearable and he tries to shoot his wife, and then simply disappears as the film abruptly ends, apparently suggesting the abrupt ending of the diary, which never really ends, it just stops, replete with images of the death of his child, which is cast in an ultra-white light as the painter fishes on the shore, shirtless, while the child, also shirtless, stands behind him. The child bites him on the neck from behind, climbing on his back, trying to strangle him, but the painter rams the child into the rocks, then stones him to death before throwing him into the sea. These scenes have marvelously spooky electronic music, also an eerie landscape to show the painter’s descent into madness, aided by a Fellini-like family on the island that assaults him with ravenous, carnivorous, flesh-eating requests for personal information, including his scandalous affair with another woman on the island, creating a carnival-like three-ring exhibition, questioning his sanity and his world of visionary horrors, forcing the audience to decide whether the artist possesses or is possessed by his demonic creations, a film that uses dreams under the surface to rise to the surface in an examination of the creative forces within.

Michael Tapper from 1001 MOVIES YOU MUST SEE BEFORE YOU DIE:

The original 1964 script was entitled The Cannibals and was conceived as an expensive, monumental film. But due to a serious bout of pneumonia and the decision upon hospital recovery to make the low-budget project Persona (1966), writer/director Ingmar Bergman reworked the scenario into a companion piece to the latter film on a much smaller scale than originally intended. In Hour of the Wolf the artist’s spiritual torment is not witnessed as an enigma from the outside, as in Persona, but conveyed to us directly from the artist’s own thoughts by way of the film’s staging of texts from his diary. Clearly inspired by the uncanny writings of E.T.A. Hoffman – even down to the names of the characters – this is an all-out horror film about a sensitive (if not sympathetic) artist spiritually torn to pieces by his demonic critics and audience.

Reversing the vampire metaphor from Persona, in which nurse Alma (Bibi Andersson) dreams about actress Elisabet Vogler (Liv Ullman) sucking her blood, painter Johan Borg (Max von Sydow) in Hour of the Wolf sees his feudal and bourgeois benefactors at Baron von Merken’s (Erland Josephson) castle as living-dead creatures of the night in vampiric need of an artist to prey on. For their sadistic amusement, they invite him to a party only to treat him like a court jester. His pretensions to artistic freedom are openly mocked as the tormentors adoringly present a toy theater version of Mozart’s The Magic Flute (later to be staged and filmed by Bergman) and then praise it as a commodity, suggesting that its value stems from the fact that it was a commissioned piece. The ultimate humiliation comes in a scene where Johan finds himself wearing clown/female makeup and being teased by his mistress Veronica Vogler (Ingrid Thulin) while his tormentors laughingly watch in the dark.

However, Bergman also hints that Johan as a narrator is not to be trusted. His tormentors possess supernatural qualities and an uncanny insight into his psyche that ultimately reveal them as projections of destructive forces from within himself. The makes the film yet another variation of Bergman’s recurring motif concerning the predatory relationship between the artist and his audience.

Hour of the Wolf Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

"A dazzling flow of surrealism, expressionism and full-blooded Gothic horror" (Tom Milne), Bergman's Hour of the Wolf is a harrowing, hallucinatory, Hieronymus Bosch-like account of an artist's descent into madness. Max von Sydow is Johan, the guilt-plagued protagonist overwhelmed by his creative demons. Liv Ullmann is Alma, the loving wife who cannot prevent his decline. The film's wealth of references and allusions include Hitchcock, E.T.A. Hoffmann, classic Hollywood horror, and Mozart's Magic Flute. "The Hour of the Wolf is the time between night and dawn. It is the hour when most people die, when sleep is deepest, when nightmares are most palpable. It is the hour when the sleepless are pursued by their sharpest anxieties, when ghosts and demons hold sway. The Hour of the Wolf is also the hour when most children are born" (Ingmar Bergman).

Time Out

A brilliant Gothic fantasy about an artist who has disappeared, leaving only a diary; and through that diary we move into flashback to observe a classic case history of the Bergman hero haunted by darkness, demons and the creatures of his imagination until he is destroyed by them. The tentacular growth of this obsession is handled with typical virtuosity in a dazzling flow of surrealism, expressionism and full-blooded Gothic horror. First the hour of the wolf, the sleepless nights of watching and waiting, when the artist (von Sydow) describes - but we do not see - the horde of man-eating birdmen and insects who have invaded his sketch-book. Then the daylight encounters when a car crawling over the horizon, a girl picking her way through the rocks on a sun-bleached beach, look momentarily like weird, threatening insects. Finally, the full nightmare of the soirée at a château gradually transformed into Dracula's castle as its aristocratic inhabitants become werewolves and vampires, and the artist flees into a forest of blackened, clutching trees, pursued by monstrous birds of prey. In its exploration of the nature of creativity, haunted by the problem of whether the artist possesses or is possessed by his demons, Hour of the Wolf serves as a remarkable companion-piece to Persona.

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

Nearly all reviews of The Hour of the Wolf  give a strangely misleading indication of the film’s emphasis. The standard synopsis generally runs along the lines of “tormented artist Johan Borg (Max Von Sydow) declines into madness on a remote island.” This isn’t necessarily inaccurate, but it isn’t what Hour of the Wolf is really about – Borg isn’t even the main character. The film begins and ends with straight-to-camera monologues from his wife, Alma (Liv Ullmann), and she is the real focus – the script, as the opening titles inform us, is supposedly constructed from Borg’s diaries, and Alma’s memories.

Just as Bergman is careful never to show us Borg’s canvases, our only access to his ‘dagbok’ is filtered through their reader, Alma, who visualises the surreal episodes which make up a large proportion of The Hour of the Wolf’s running time. So whatever we know of Borg comes through or from Alma (the name means “soul”). The film is partly a portrait of Borg, partly a chronicle of a marriage in crisis, and, even more so, a portrait of Alma – this much can be said with a reasonable degree of certainty. All else is speculation – because The Hour of the Wolf only makes sense on a psychological level. The ‘reality’ underpinning its enigmatic events is a matter of subjective interpretation – it’s entirely possible, for example, to even interpret Borg as a projected figment of Alma’s imagination.

Apart from the opening and closing monologues, everything we see and hear hovers between phantom zones of memory, dream, fantasy and psychosis. Borg and Alma pay two visits to a mysterious castle on another part of their island, where they meet the local count and his circle of sinister cronies – in stylised sequences, the aristos loom in nightmarish close-up, archly addressing the camera like the decadent denizens of 8 ½ - Fellini’s own bewildering, monochrome journey into the artistic subconscious. Bergman’s film is more satisfying, however: a dazzlingly weird, visually enticing, hallucinatory experience: “the most beautiful, unsettling music” indeed.

DVD Times (Noel Megahey)

It should come as no surprise that Ingmar Bergman can effectively create a ghostly and eerie atmosphere that feels naturalistic – relating to a particularly disturbed state of mind rather than any supernatural apparition. He had used various techniques to uncanny effect in early films such as The Seventh Seal, where Death walks incarnate alongside a troupe of wandering actors, in Wild Strawberries, where an old man encounters a premonition of death in a surrealist dream – right through to later films, as in Fanny and Alexander when the children encounter the mournful figure of their dead father. Similarly, Bergman films often plumb the depths of a mind disintegrating into madness, but no Bergman film explores a fractured state of mind to such nightmarish effect as Hour of The Wolf.

The aura of strangeness and horror is conjured immediately by the opening titles of the film relating how that the story to be told is based on the diary of an artist, Johan Borg (Max von Sydow), who mysteriously vanished into the woods. Johan’s wife, Alma (Liv Ullmann) - edgy and uncomfortable, relates directly to the camera the state of mind of the painter leading up to the events depicted in the film. Arriving on the small isolated island, Alma and Johan seem happy and in love – the painter fired up with artistic inspiration – but soon his spirits sink. Wandering around, he is assailed by the island’s strange inhabitants, who he depicts in his drawings as twisted deformities of animals. Alma, pregnant, is concerned about her husband’s deterioration, but she too sees the strange apparitions. In one of them, an old lady who at first claims to be 216 years old delivers a warning to Alma, advising her to read the diary Johan keeps with the drawings. Alma finds out events from Johan’s past that still seem to haunt his memory.

Hour of the Wolf (Vargtimmen) carries themes that are explored in many of the director’s earlier films and a visual style that presages the gothic grotesquery of later films such as The Serpent’s Egg and From The Life of the Marionettes. This film however retains a character of its own, plunging much further into a soul in bitter torment, building up an oppressive atmosphere that culminates in a series of extraordinary images that only David Lynch could rival. Like Lynch, Bergman uses one of the most effective and invisible ways of creating a sense of unease – through sound, through speech distorted by noise and howling winds, silent shrieks and discordant music. Never one to rely on the one bag of tricks, cinematographer Sven Nykvist’s photography also adapts to the theme, matching the action and sound, cutting furiously, pulling sudden zooms into punishing close-ups and pushing film speed to create excessively grainy, high-contrast images. The effect is profoundly disturbing.

Hour of the Wolf is an interesting Bergman film in many respects, containing many powerful scenes and images, but there is no light and shade here. The film is pitched at hysteria level from the start and it doesn’t really vary from that. It’s relentlessly dark and almost as bleak as Winter Light – perhaps Bergman’s most harrowing film, but the fine actors have less to work with here and are unable to demonstrate any real range. In terms of subject, Bergman expands on earlier themes, extending the internal conflict of a character to an artist who is trying to grapple with truth and inner turmoil while having to present his work and “perform” for a public who are the cause of those terrors. Haunting, disturbing, experimental, yet cold and cerebral, Hour of the Wolf doesn’t really work as successfully as a psychological horror as some of his work, the terrors remaining largely abstract and barely defined but it is pure Bergman, which means it’s quite unlike anything else and consequently unlikely to be to everyone’s taste.

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Robert Edwards)

Swedish director Ingmar Bergman followed up his 1966 masterpiece Persona with Hour of the Wolf, one of the strangest works in his (or any other director's) oeuvre. The film begins in "true historical documentary" style, with a few text screens describing the disappearance of artist Johan Borg (Max von Sydow) from his home a few years earlier, and explaining that the present film is based on his wife Alma's (Liv Ullmann) accounts and his diary, which she has left to an unidentified "me". After the main titles, there is Alma on the screen, speaking directly to us of their trips to the island, and her husband's illness, his sleeplessness, and his increasing fright.

But Johan is not the only one who's frightened. Alma is too, when he shows her his sketches of an old lady who removes her face along with her hat, a bird man, the "meat eaters," and other demons haunting him, during one of his nightly vigils. And she's soon visited by a mysterious old lady who reveals things that she couldn't possibly know, such as the fact that Johan keeps a diary under his bed, the contents of which will prove to be revealing and deeply disturbing.

In Hour of the Wolf, Bergman draws on German expressionism and classical Hollywood horror films to create a universe that's sinister and darkly menacing. There's a crumbling castle, populated by strange aristocratic characters who are mysterious and threatening, who seem to be trying to separate Johan and Alma for purposes unknown. There are multiple hints of vampirism (indeed, one of the characters not only physically resembles Bela Lugosi, but is also lit in such a manner as to reinforce the resemblance), unhealthy sexuality, and a sort of power that enables these mysterious personages to see and perceive events beyond reality.

But Bergman isn't interested in creating another "classic" horror film; rather, in common with his other films from the second half of the 1960s, he's exploring the abnormal psyche and its eventual breakdown. Johan is deeply troubled, and it's apparent (or is it?) that these characters, and many of the events in the film, are merely manifestations of his own inner demons. But at the same time, they gain some sort of reality, because Alma shares some of Johan's nightmarish encounters, and even has one experience (her encounter with the old lady described above) which can only be seen as objective and not a projection of Johan's mind.

In a film that's filled with bizarre sequences, one stands out as more implicitly disturbing than the rest. (Warning: this paragraph contains a "spoiler." ) Johan tells Alma that he lied when he told her he was bit by a snake, and reveals that in fact he's guilty of a serious crime. He recounts the events (true or imagined?) in a flashback filled with overexposed whites, reminiscent of the look of the orthochromatic stock used in silent films. Other than Johan's description, there's only music on the soundtrack, and later, muffled laugh/moans. Johan is fishing on the cliffs when he's approached by a boy in a swimsuit, who curiously examines his paintings, then peers into his boots. The boy stands behind Johan, a bit too closely for comfort, as he reels in his line, lifts his fishing pole, and spins it in his hands, wrapping the line around his pole. The boy lies down on a rock, stretched out in a pose that can only be described as provocative, as Johan hurriedly puts on his shirt and boots. Johan approaches, starts struggling with the boy, and suddenly the boy bites his neck. Their struggles draw blood, which run downs the boy's back. This single sequence, which mingles an implied sexuality with the vampirism of classical Hollywood horror films, is almost overwhelming in its strangeness and implied perversion.

Sven Nykvist, Bergman's cameraman and close collaborator through most of the latter half of his career, is given full rein here, and the results are striking. The expressionistic lighting, framing and camera placement, and movement work together to create a universe that is exhilarating in its effectiveness. Practically every scene is a tour de force of the cinematographer's art, from Johan and Alma's dinner at the castle, where the camera swoops around the table, jumps from face to face, then abruptly stops in extreme closeup; to the simple scene where Johan's former mistress suddenly approaches him (again, we're not sure if it's a dream), and the camera quickly pans up and catches the halo of the sun ray's, mingling with her long blond hair, as she moves to him.

The cinematography isn't the only element of the film that calls attention to itself. In Persona, Bergman used such elements as Brechtian distanciation to lay bare the status of the film as a created object, rather than a representation of reality, and he continues in this modernist mode in Hour of the Wolf. The opening titles describing Johan's diary and the onscreen interviews with his wife Alma call attention to the fact that what we're seeing is a filmed version of supposedly "true" events, and not the events themselves. Bergman even includes the sounds of sets being built and other activity in a movie studio, including his own voice, behind the opening credits (which are displayed as simple white titles against a black background), and once we hear the words "And begin," the movie proper starts.

Although it's been called a horror film, Hour of the Wolf is a horror film as only Bergman could imagine one. The mixture of strange sequences, the ambiguity as to what's real and what's occuring in Johan's mind, the incredible cinematography and the great performances work together to create a film that is fascinating and unique.

Bright Lights Film Journal Gordon Thomas

DVD Times Mike Sutton

Alternative Film Guide (Dan Schneider)

not coming to a theater near you (Leo Goldsmith)

Hour of the Wolf Johan Fundin from 10kbullets

JackassCritics.com (Matt Fuerst)

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson)

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

DVD Verdict Erick Harper

Cinepinion [Henry Stewart]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Renata Adler)

SHAME (Skammen)

aka: The Shame

Sweden (103 mi) 1968

Geoff Andrew from 1001 MOVIES YOU MUST SEE BEFORE YOU DIE:

Of the films Ingmar Bergman made in the mid-to-late 1960’s with Max von Sydow and Liv Ullman on his beloved island of Faro, Shame is perhaps the greatest. Not that Bergman, reconsidering the film in his book Images: My Life in Film, was too happy with it. He felt that the script was uneven, resulting in a poor first half and a better second half. He also felt that he had perhaps taken on too much in attempting to depict war. Such an assessment seems far too harsh. This study of the devastating effects of war on a couple is one of the most persuasive accounts of a relationship transformed by forces over which it has little to no control. Bergman may not have had Hollywood’s resources on hand to stage spectacular destruction and carnage, but he more than compensated for such material constraints with the boldness, assurance, and conviction of his drama and the acuity of his psychological, emotional, and social insights.

Ullman and von Sydow play a couple, their love flawed by weakness and complacency but able to sustain itself. But when the war they have managed more or less to ignore finally turns up on their doorstep, it forces them to look at themselves, each other, and their relationship with a new, cruel honesty. The violence, death, and betrayals around them are both arbitrary and terrifying, but perhaps no more so than these more intimate and, indeed, more shocking revelations. All par for the course, perhaps, in Bergman’s corrosive chamber dramas. But here they are lent added force by the wider context of a world in conflagration. Sven Nykvist’s typically magnificent black-and-white cinematography, eloquent in its close-ups of faces as in its shots of trundling tanks, burning trees, and scarred landscapes, and the performances do amply justice to Bergman’s magisterial conception. The two leads are memorable in the justly famous scene of a last, brief moment of sunny, domestic happiness just before the conflict arrives at their farm. But also is Gunnar Björnstrand, as a well-connected friend who helps them out, only to abuse his privileged position later on. Grim, hauntingly beautiful, and still, of course, scarily relevant.

Time Out

Bergman's magisterial confrontation with war, set in a characteristically ambivalent decor, either a peaceful farm somewhere in Sweden or a landscape from Goya secreting intimations of disaster. Here live a man and wife, indifferent to the war until it arrives on their doorstep to strip their lives to the bone. Presenting war with shattering power as a blindly destructive force, Bergman uses it brilliantly as a background to the real pain: the way the couple are forced to look at each other, and to realise that the only honest feeling they have about their relationship is shame. It ends with one of the cinema's most awesomely apocalyptic visions: not the cheeriest of films, but a masterpiece.

The Shame from the Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Set in the near future, in an unnamed country in the throes of a protracted civil war, The Shame is "one of Bergman's greatest films ... [and] one of the least known" (Pauline Kael). Liv Ullmann and Max von Sydow are wife and husband Eva and Jan, former musicians living a relatively peaceful existence on an island that has so far escaped the turmoil engulfing the mainland. Their detachment from the surrounding conflict ends when their island is invaded, and they are accused by both sides of collaborating with the enemy. The vague dissatisfactions of their marriage erupt, and they react in very different ways to the violent crisis now confronting them. The Shame's harrowing portrait of war is lent a harsh documentary authenticity by Sven Nykvist's stark black-and-white cinematography. The film's final images, of a boat of refugees adrift in a sea of dead bodies, are among the most despairing in the Bergman oeuvre. A major influence on Tarkovsky's The Sacrifice (also shot by Nykvist), this is "one of the cinema's most awesomely apocalyptic visions ... a masterpiece" (Tom Milne).

All Movie Guide [Tom Wiener]

The middle segment of Ingmar Bergman's late '60s trilogy of films set on the island of Fårö, Shame is less enigmatic than Hour of the Wolf and more harrowing than The Passion of Anna. It's impossible to think that Bergman wasn't in some way affected by the worldwide debate over American involvement in Vietnam when he wrote the script for Shame, though its politics are neutral. Bergman is much more interested in exploring the inability of civilians to get out of the way of a war and what the consequences are when it does touch them. Precisely because Jan and Eva Rosenberg take no sides in the civil conflict they are trying to avoid, their basic reaction to danger is one of pure survival. Whatever side is winning is the side they are on, whether it means granting sexual favors or killing an old friend. With those two acts, the Rosenbergs betray each other and leave themselves morally stripped bare. By the final scenes, on a boat moving through waters choked with corpses, Jan and Eva are almost zombies. When Eva tries to recall a remark that would comfort her, her memory fails her; it's one of the most powerful scenes in the career of one of the world's greatest filmmakers.

Edinburgh U Film Society [Spiros Gangas]

A film which has exerted considerable influence on the work of Andrei Tarkovsky, especially in The Sacrifice, The Shame may be regarded as one of Bergman's most intense films. It refers again to the moral universe which Bergman brings up in every single one of his films but this time his characters face holocaust.

A childless middle class couple (played by Liv Ullman and Max von Sydow) is confronted with the outbreak of war in the region they live. The panic builds up slowly in the relationship between the man and woman and the devestatingly destructive power of war forces them to look bluntly at the true feelings they have for each other. As they unsuccessfully try to break out of the war zone they are confronted by the frightening outcome of war in a scene that has become a classic in the history of cinema...

Bergman transforms the Swedish countryside into a misty and nightmarish landscape matching it with the psychological panic of the two characters. The imagery remains as disturbing as ever in scenes like the one where Liv Ullmann spots the body of a little girl lying dead - possibly poisoned by radioactivity - on a riverbank. Bergman remains a pessimist questioning the issue of whether children deserve to be brought into such a world. A film with agonizingly intense performances by the two main actors, The Shame provides the stalling point which Tarkovsky almost twenty years later attempted to resolve in The Sacrifice. A very bleak film but also an amazing achievement of contemporary cinema!

not coming to a theater near you [Leo Goldsmith]

Where Hour of the Wolf serves as Ingmar Bergman’s most intense portrait of a character’s interior world, his next film, Shame, is among his most externalized films. In contrast to the previous two films, where Johan Borg and Elisabet Vogler physically and emotionally isolate themselves from their loved ones and from the world, the war-torn world of Shame cannot be escaped. It is a force that breaks into the lives of the protagonists, destroying their homes, severing their relationships, and depriving them of their humanity. In this way, Shame is Bergman’s bleakest film. Its protagonists, Jan and Eva, have no choice in their fate, and their dehumanization, humiliation, and defeat come not from their own fears and neuroses, but from obscure forces under which they have no control.

These obscure forces and the violent political situation they bring about are never fully explained in the film. Shame is the rare war film that empathizes not with the combatants on the front lines, but with the unwilling victims caught in between who, through their fear, weakness, or ignorance of their situation, are perpetually overlooked or carelessly exterminated.

Jan and Eva Rosenberg, like many of Bergman’s characters, are artists, former concert musicians who, in their struggle to survive in a chaotic and unpredictable situation, have given up their art to raise berries in their small greenhouse on yet another small island in the Baltic. In this environment, their talents will be wasted, as art itself becomes an insignificant reflection of a remote and idealized past, and the artifacts of that past (Lobelius’ precious Meissen figurines, Jan’s Pampini violin) are left broken in the wake of the violence. And when it is used at all, art becomes another weapon of war. The cinema is appropriated as a propaganda tool, and Eva’s interview (conducted, in a witty cameo, by I am Curious director Vilgot Sjöman) is re-dubbed into a message of support for the forces that are invading (or “liberating”) the tiny island. Thus, Jan and Eva must not only navigate the physical trials of an island under siege, they must also find their way amid the conflicting ideologies, the labels of “patriot” and “traitor” thrust upon them, and the politics of “you’re either with us or against us.”

In his previous films, Bergman established that close relationships are ultimately impossible because human beings are incapable of understanding one another. Here, it is the influence of the outside world, of a chaotic situation that intercedes in one’s life, forces one to undergo and perform terrible things, that makes human life and relations unsustainable. As Bergman sees it, life, under these terms, is no life at all. The film ends with a stalemate, with Eva, Jan, and a small boatful of refugees, adrift in a sea of bloated corpses, floating toward an uncertain future.

As grim as it is, Shame is the most passionately political film from a director who, by his own admission, is apolitical. In a 1968 interview for Swedish television, he stated: “I do not know of any party that is for frightened and terrified people who are experiencing the period of dusk and the fact that it has kind of begun and the plane is definitely inclined downwards. I cannot really engage myself in any political activity.” Nonetheless, Shame is a powerful political statement, and a deeply humanistic one, without sentimentality or banal heroics. It forcefully appeals for the “frightened and terrified people” of the world and continues to resonate with the situations in Congo, Chechnya, Afghanistan, Iraq, and Haiti.

filmcritic.com Jake Euker

Most of us in America never felt the recent war in Iraq in a tangible, day-to-day way. There are those of us who lost loved ones, of course, but what I refer to here is the daily, nagging toll that war takes on all of those – military and civilian – living in its midst. We do not, say, suffer interruptions in our fresh water supply, nor are we compelled to guard our speech and conduct or to stockpile food and supplies. Part of the genius of Ingmar Bergman’s great 1968 film Shame (now available on DVD) is that it brings these stark, quotidian horrors – and those that these escalate into – home to the viewer. That alone would be an achievement, but Shame moves in deeper waters still: It shows, in the bleakest and most uncompromising terms, that the worst that war has to offer is the wounds it inflicts on the human mind. Together with René Clément’s Forbidden Games (1952) and Jean Renoir’s Grand Illusion (1937), it stands as one of the great pacifist statements of the modern day.

The plot is simplicity itself. The Rosenbergs (played by Liv Ullman and Max von Sydow) are a youngish couple enjoying average happiness on an island that’s part of a larger, unnamed country. (The fact that Bergman chooses not to specify the film’s setting, nor to clarify the conflict that follows, contributes to the film’s surreal yet universal feel.) Both are musicians; they farm a little, too, and they drive their ailing truck into town to sell their produce. It’s not an idyllic existence, exactly; the two are not above bickering, for instance, and in their discontented moments they may feel that they’ve settled for something. But it’s essentially (and believably) a happy life.

A war that arrives on the island changes this. It looms into the Rosenbergs’ life slowly at first, and then with startling speed. The two are detained first by one side – Ms. Rosenberg is filmed by them in an interview – and then captured by the other. Among the film’s most frightening scenes is one in which the Rosenbergs are later shown the film; the face is that of Ms. Rosenberg, but the words she speaks – rebel, propagandistic sentiments – are not hers. Beginning here, Shame acquires a forceful surrealist inevitability. We marvel, along with the Rosenbergs, at the way logic is turned on its head, and we feel with them the tenuousness of decency and civilization. Few shots are fired onscreen in Shame, and there’s little overt violence. Yet by the time the two take to the sea in a small boat to escape the war near the film’s end, we’ve seen some of the worst of what humanity has to offer.

Shame’s look and feel match these proceedings with eerie precision, and Sven Nykvist’s clear black-and-white cinematography is evocative yet properly detached. But real and lasting credit goes to Ullman and von Sydow, whose performances here are among the best this writer has ever seen. Bergman wants us to know that war does more than endanger our lives: it robs us of our dignity as humans. As their allegiances to one another are tested – as they are forced to choose between love and survival – Ullman and von Sydow plumb depths seldom touched in film. Their performances are transcendent and wholly, heart-breakingly alive.

The final passage of Shame – in which the Rosenbergs, afloat in the sea and enveloped in deep fog, make an unexpected, appalling discovery – is among the most indelible in all of film. These final images are horrific, but they’re not designed for easy sentiment, as they might be by Spielberg, and they don’t carry the weight of a message, as they might in any other director’s work. It was Bergman’s gift and burden that he took his films as deep as he could, both emotionally and intellectually. At the end of Shame he shows the viewer the very depths of war, and he doesn’t offer an easy way up.

eFilmCritic.com Dr. Isaksson

As the turbulent 1960's came to it's close, Sweden's best known director decided that after opening up Pandora's Box on the highly personal 'demons' which had attacked both himself and his lead character in 1966's "Hour of The Wolf", it was time for a complete turn around. Instead of swirling dreams and visions of terror inside a man's collapsing mind as he looses his battle with sanity, Bergman brought forth the real flesh and blood demonic force known as war.

1968's Shame slips in quietly into the lives of a married couple of concert violinists named Jan and Eva (played by Bergman mainstays Max Von Sydow and Liv Ullmann.) We awaken with them from the start of the film and witness the simple day to day rituals of the two. (This was the first shades of the future films Bergman was to write and direct based on the events and emotions of a married couple's life.) Only here, the dull drum morning is quickly interrupted when Jan speaks suddenly of the 'war'. Our first inkling that these two are well aware that outside of the small island that they have fled to, there is a fued waging on the main land. Even with this knowledge of what is happening on the outside, the pair have seemed to keep a life of contented solitude on the island which they have filled with calming beautiful things. The two raise chickens, grow vegetables and even have a greenhouse in the small farm-like environment that is their home.

However, all of this peace is shattered in an instant when an unexpected fighter plane is shot down on the outskirts of their farm and among the crashing and burning metal, strange, unknown fighters make their way up to Jan and Eva. Filled with questions and interested in any possible involvement with the other opposing force, the fighters drop their brutal attacks down on the innocent couple. Without warning the two are unwillingly entangled in the web and find there is no escape from this war that, at one time, seemed so far away.

Suddenly the action comes fast and furious as Eva and Jan become unwilling participants in the bloodshed between the two armies who remain strangely ambiguous and unidentified. We the viewer are lead into the hour by hour account of how the human race must face a war that has no mercy for those who are not to blame. There is an intense hanging aura of doom that permeates the film throughout, which is a welcome change from the typical Bergman style of internal struggles. This time the struggle comes from both spectrums of the human experience. It gives Shame a highly intense atmosphere that easily shifts from one extreme of the outside world to the horrified extreme of the inside emotions of those afflicted by this raging outside world.

Ingmar Bergman directs the transitions from the external and internal without any loss of flow or feeling. A wonderful feat for a director who has always been so well known for his 'quiet moments'. Shame is filled with huge explosive scenes and the camera captures the destructive force of bombs and gun fire with amazing effectiveness. If you were to think the concept of Shame over, you would think Bergman would be out of his element but he handles it all with his usual crafty and beautifully visual hands and mind.
.
It's safe to say that Bergman was always a great internal director, but here he proves that he is capable of creating a film filled with moments of explosiveness as we see planes dart overhead and endless exploding bombs tearing apart the quiet, lush landscapes. Then without even knowing it we are led down into the deep internal conflicts and decisions his characters must face and Bergman desplays this all with his trademark deep and agonizing exposure of the tortured soul that lies behind the face. Bit by bit he gives us a first hand account of the ravages of conflict which in most ways can and will only encompass, erode and control the lives of poor Jan and Eva, with horrifying, tragic and disastrous results.

Not shockingly, the performances by Liv Ullmann and Max Von Sydow are among the best these two have ever given. There's a great deal of emotion to expose here and they do not fail in their attempt to show us everything they are capable of. What was particularly surprising (and nice to see) is the turn Von Sydow gives in his performance as Jan, making him cowardly weak and vulnerable, which poses a huge contrast to Eva's more determined and compassionate demeanor. They both succeed in bringing forth two very poinant, empathetic characters which only compliments the amazing writing and directing.

Shame plays out in a sinister and eerie fashion. Just like the bite of a poisonous snake, the brutality of war poisons the souls of Jan and Eva, slowly and relentlessly erasing their dignity and their hope. There seems only to be a feeling of no turning back, no chance to escape and no where to run. Those obstacles permeate the film's core and leaves the viewer stunned and profoundly moved by the terror and hopelessness felt by those who must stand silently among the wreckage of what has destroyed their lives and decide whether to go on and push through the insurmountable odds or simply lie down and let it swallow them up forever. Amazing work.

Shame is an unforgettable account of the devastation of war with top quality writing, acting, directing. A must see for Bergman fans. ***** 5 Stars

digitallyOBSESSED! [Robert Edwards]

Epinions [metalluk]

Milk Plus: A Discussion of Film Rodney Welch

DVD Verdict Dan Mancini

Edinburgh U Film Society [Keith H. Brown]

New York Times (registration req'd) Renata Adler

THE RITE (Riten) – made for TV

aka: The Ritual

Sweden (72 mi) 1969

Time Out

All Bergman's films around this time centre on isolated social groups (often the partners of a marriage) and show them under attack from both inside and out: Laingian fissures and cracks open up between the characters, and their precarious security is challenged by irruptions from the outside world. Bergman preserves and extends his private mythologies (witness the way that images and names recur from film to film), but in a broader (less precious, more honest) context: The Rite, with a trio of actors under examination by a judge on charges of obscenity, tries to expose the bonds that tie an artist to his audience, and pushes towards a theory of non-communication. A bold step forward in Bergman's analysis of human isolation.

Channel 4 Film

Innovative made-for-TV drama written and directed by Ingmar Bergman. A complex and highly stylised allegory on the nature and purpose of art, a travelling theatre troupe is interrogated over the contents of a supposedly obscene play

The Rite (aka The Ritual, Riten) was Bergman's first film for TV, but it makes no concessions to the medium. In fact it's one of his most intense and claustrophobic pieces, concerned on the one hand with gender politics, and on the other with the uncomfortable relationship between art and the State.

Sebastian (Ek), Hans (Björnstrand) and his wife (Thulin) are a trio of actors accused of obscenity in their play 'The Rite'. Brought before the Judge (Hell) each is required to justify themselves and their work. The interrogation is ruthless but it enables the characters to articulate some deep-seated anxieties. Underscoring this are the troupe's own personal problems, and as the film progresses it's revealed that Thea is having an affair with Sebastian, and that for Hans the whole business of art, or 'artistry' is "meaningless, disgusting, absurd".

Highly theatrical in style, The Rite a film concerned primarily with ideas. At its heart is a question about the trade-off required of artists between their life and their work. The conclusion, with its themes of isolation and futility, is deeply pessimistic but the rigour of Bergman's analysis ensures this is one of his most powerful dramas about the nature of drama.

Powerful and thought-provoking allegory that mixes politics, sexuality, myth and art. Though bleak in tone Bergman addresses the issues with great ingenuity and with his usual flair for striking visual imagery.

Kamera.co.uk Colin Odell and Michelle le Blanc

After nearly a quarter of a century writing and directing for the big screen, Ingmar Bergman turned his hand to the more intimate medium of television. This might seem a strange move - after all Bergman was at the time one of the undisputed giants of auteur-led world cinema, with a string of critical hits and even Academy recognition. At the time, Bergman was the head of the Swedish Royal Dramatic Theatre and had been criticised for some of the performances. This should come as no surprise, Bergman's film work has always been unapologetically frank in regards to sexual and psychological politics.

The Rite is Bergman's response to his critics and where better than via the most accessible medium possible. What is so striking is the way in which Bergman has an uncanny affinity with a very different way of presenting ideas. Rather than recreate film conventions The Rite is claustrophobically televisual in its outlook, there are few medium shots, let alone establishing ones (perhaps trying to echo Dreyer's trial film The Passion of Joan of Arc), which is both disorientating but specific.

Three travelling actors are interrogated by a magistrate on the grounds of obscenity and public lewdness. The film is split into nine distinct scenes, emphasising the theatrical bent of the work and its relationship with both Bergman and the viewing public, each set in one distinct location. Each alternate scene is set in the interrogation room as the inquisitor takes it in turn to try and break down the psychological and sexual motivations of the three players and their bizarre, unconventional love triangle where their art and public face seem to blur. The judge is informed that Thea suffers fits causing her to become lewd and clearly the evidence shown reveals her to be sexually disturbed - she is nymphomaniacal to the point of hysteria but blanks out at crucial moments making it difficult to ascertain how much of the inquisitor's subsequent rape of her is part of her psychosis or part of an elaborate act. Certainly her relationship with her two partners is unusual - ostensibly the wife of Sebastian she spends most of her time in sexual situations with Hans, who is impotent and unable to satisfy her cravings.

Although the nature of the troupe's performances are never explicitly indicated, the backstage bickering, with Thea in of all things a provocative clown costume, imply that their work is of some fetishised and ritualistic nature, emphasised by the climactic show to the judge. In this the leather clad performers (unfortunately with suits looking suspiciously like the alien uniforms from Edward D Wood jnr's Plan Nine From Outer Space) don masks and, in the case of the male performers, large ornate penises as they instigate the judge into their ritualistic "pantomime".

The Rite is at times strikingly bleak (in a manner occasionally like an X-rated edition of The Prisoner) and alienates its audience as much as it intrigues them. Key to the stifling atmosphere is the fact that there are effectively only four actors in the entire piece (should you ignore the odd hand creeping in shot to offer another drink), even the confessional scene neglects the priest (Bergman) for the most part. It is also, for television and certainly for the time, graphic in its open discussion of sexual politics and in the open nature of the troupe's performances. The underlying themes of art versus censorship, and the State versus the artist, are starkly stated but there is a feeling that art needs to be confrontational, that artists can, even should, be in someway psychologically scarred, that matters of taste and decency have no reason to be raised in comparison to free expression. The Rite's disturbing and bleak message leaves no real victors even if the artists appear to triumph over the hypocritical State's subjugation of free expression. An intriguing television debut quite unlike any other, this is the grounding for Bergman's future forays into the medium.

DVD Times Mike Sutton

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

DVDBeaver.com [Rob Janik]

THE PASSION OF ANNA (En Passion)

aka: A Passion

aka: L 182

Sweden (101 mi) 1969

DVDBeaver.com - Review [Gary W. Tooze]

"The Passion of Anna" is a brutally honest and complex story centering on four characters who are attempting to fill the voids in their lives left by abandoned trust and past tragedy. Director Bergman's use of color is of particular interest to his following. A stellar cast of Bergman regulars including Liv Ullmann, Bibi Andersson and Max von Sydow who each give strong characterizations. This is a director at, or near, his peak. This film has caused a variety of reactions and is not my favorite Bergman film, but a worthwhile viewing experience and an integral part of his canon.

Time Out

All Bergman's films in the late '60s centre on isolated social groups (often the partners of a marriage) and show them under attack from both inside and out: Laingian fissures and cracks open up between the characters, and their precarious security is challenged by irruptions from the outside world. Bergman preserves and extends his private mythologies (witness the way that images and names recur from film to film), but in a broader (less precious, more honest) context. Liv Ullmann says it all in The Shame when she dreams of 'living in the truth'. Here, another bold step forward in Bergman's analysis of human isolation, the public and private manias of Hour of the Wolf are brought down to earth among middle class intruders in an island community.

Magic Lantern: The Complete Ingmar Bergman from the Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

The Passion of Anna is one of Ingmar Bergman's major achievements, and is his "first important color film" (David Cook). Stunningly shot by the great Sven Nykvist, and set on the director's favourite island of Farö (site also of The Shame and Hour of the Wolf), the film unfolds as a characteristic (and characteristically harrowing) Bergman study of human isolation. The drama plays out amongst an ensemble cast featuring four of Bergman's best: Max von Sydow, Liv Ullmann, Bibi Andersson, and Erland Josephson. The troubling fractures and fissures of their relationships are set against -- and considerably exacerbated by -- a bizarre series of atrocities being committed by a murderous maniac at loose on the island. The work has been widely hailed as a technical tour-de-force, and makes highly effective use of Brechtian breaks, in which Bergman stops the drama to interview his actors; it concludes with "one of the most remarkable shots in the history of the cinema" (Peter Harcourt). "One of [Bergman's] best works. . . a penetrating examination of personal pain, bearing all the hallmarks of the director's unique style of expression -- and those of his cast and cameraman" (Bloomsbury). "One of Bergman's two finest films since Persona, incomparably superior to Cries and Whispers, and prefiguring (and surpassing) much of Scenes from a Marriage. . . [with] some of the most marvelous color cinematography, in the subtlest tones, ever seen" (New York). "[A] most extraordinary film. . . it is difficult to convey in words the sensations received from the total aural and visual impact of a film as finely achieved as this" (Harcourt).

eFilmCritic Reviews Dr. Isaksson

Ingmar Bergman's "The Passion of Anna" is a harsh, dreary tale which circles around four people who must come to terms with each of their own empty existences.

Colors are the most notable change in the first of Bergman's films to escape the realm of black and white. What a difference a few hues make! In the beginning you are introduced to Andreas Winkleman, (played by the wonderful Max von Sydow). He is a forty something year old man who is living alone on a slightly inhabited Swedish island. We watch as he applies stone tiles to the roof of his humble abode during the hazy, snowy days of winter. Silence seems to pervade the area with only a few sheep clopping around the hilly snow banks in the distance. It's here in the film that the viewer gets a look at an amazing cinematic shot of the horizon. But suddenly, the orange sky becomes darkened by a mass of clouds and the bright sun changes into a dull gray sphere. A telltale sign of things to come?

Andreas' life is simple enough. He talks to the local folk of the island and no large event has stirred him to emotion until one day a beautiful woman arrives at his home asking to use the phone. Her name is Anna Fromm (played impeccably by Liv Ullmann) she walks with a limp and uses a cane. After the phone call, she gets into her car, forgetting her purse. Andreas takes the purse to Anna's place of residence and there meets a married couple who Anna is living with. Elis and Eva Vergerus (played by Erland Josephson and Bibi Andersson). Elis is a successful architect and Eva is his insomniac housewife. Andreas begins a friendship with the three people and learns much about their thoughts and ideals. He also begins revealing to his company the fragments which make up his past and his thoughts on everyday life in general. It is also here that we learn of the four's cynicism, their hopes, their passions.

Sometime later, Elis leaves the island on business and Eva, in her desperation and loneliness, seeks out Andreas for company. The mutual isolation they feel leads to an affair but they know that it is all for the wrong reasons and they amicably part. Meanwhile a madman has been running amok on the island, brutally killing the locals livestock in the night. No one knows who could be doing such a thing and so it continues. (The relevance of this is hard to define). About this time, Anna moves in with Andreas and they begin a relationship. However, there are too many demons of the past circling them and as the film moves on, the day to day living becomes a strain. In a huge scene, Anna tells of a horrific car accident she endured which killed her husband and baby son and left her leg crippled. The past is never too far behind the two and it begins to suffocate them.

Noticing this erosion, they attempt to salvage what they are losing. Andreas and Anna look deep within themselves hoping to find something true and honest to offer one another. Also, a validation that the relationship between them has a real purpose. This search only leads to more doubts and ultimately to a shattering conclusion. Has any of this been real? Was it all a masquerade to disguise the truth hidden away inside? Andreas and Anna begin to realize what they feared most and this truth comes with shattering conseqences.

Being a huge fan of Ingmar Bergman, I have to say that The Passion of Anna is not one of my favorite films of his. His direction throughout is amazing (as always) and the writing is frank and brutal in it's truthfulness. And Bergman uses an interesting method during the film of showing short interviews with each of the four actors discussing their characters. A bit daring because Bergman ran the risk of breaking the flow of the film and the believability. However this never happens because of the brilliant acting. Liv Ullmann is perfect as Anna and Max von Sydow handles Andreas with harsh realism.

I can definitely respect this film's honesty. Yet, the constant subtle sadness never lifts and I felt a bit weighed down by it's empty outlook. Also, the characters have already lived through all their hardest times and trials before the film begins so as a viewer you feel as though you missed out on all the main reasons underneath their sorrow. Never in Bergman's career has he created a film with characters so heartbreakingly devoid of hope. The four seem to know that the sun will never shine brightly for them and even more, they cannot push away the dark clouds from their view. Anna Fromm has a passion, but it's only held together with old happier memories that serve to keep her spirit from dying.

"The Passion of Anna" is an extremely complex tale about four people trying to fill the voids left by disillusion and past tragedies.

DVD Times Noel Megahey

A PASSION Dan Schneider from Alt Film Guide

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson)

not coming to a theater near you (Leo Goldsmith)

10kbullets Johan Fundin

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Robert Edwards)

Ozus' World Movie Reviews (Dennis Schwartz)

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

THE TOUCH (Beröringen)

Sweden USA (115 mi) 1971

Channel 4 Film

Bergman shot this English-language picture after agreeing with ABC pictures to do so, but opted to shoot it in Sweden. Underrated on release, this elegant drama was much criticized, particularly for Bergman's choice of Gould as the Jewish archaeologist who ignites the dormant passions of Andersson's placid housewife. Both give intense and candid performances despite some awkward moments in the dialogue, and Nykvist's cinematography, as ever, is breathtaking.

Cinepassion.org [Fernando F. Croce]

Bibi Andersson, comfortably married to middle-class doctor Max Von Sydow, enters an intense affair with furry American archeologist Elliott Gould. Though he swings from tender lover to slap-happy boor, Gould provides her with an unpredictability (and neediness) alien to her existence as wife and mother -- stretching over a couple of years, the liaison wrenches all three, although the narrative gets its anchor from the passions and agonies tearing Andersson's hausfrau limb from emotional limb. This Ingmar Bergman film, his first in English, was tarred and feathered upon release, and much of the hostility seems gender-based (hardcore Bergmaniacs John Simon and Stanley Kauffmann loathed it, yet Molly Haskell has written of it perceptively and sensitively). Seen today, it is still one of the director's least appreciated works -- following the despairing experimentation of The Rite and The Passion of Anna, it inaugurates an erratic but bracing shift toward a battered humanism. The director's awkwardness here is inseparable from the picture's freer structure, his mise-en-scène less exacting and, as a result, less entrapping of his heroine: unlike the vessels of female torment in Cries and Whispers and Face to Face, Andersson here has to shoulder less of the weight of Bergman's lenses. More autonomous since less sure of her feelings, she's able to navigate between the stability of home and the almost maniacal moodiness of a lover's pad (and risk losing both) without degrading or compromising her feelings. Bergman's work is about enlarging life by undermining its certainties, and Andersson's journey, whether sleeping with Von Sydow or contemplating unearthed statuary with Gould (shades of Roberto Rossellini's Viaggio in Italia), forms an extraordinary spiritual growth. Even if by the end she is trying to find her footing amidst emotional rubble, the pulverization remains part of an expansion of her own self-definition as a woman. Cinematography by Sven Nykvist. With Sheila Reid.

Time Magazine

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

CRIES & WHISPERS (Viskningar och rop) A 99

Sweden (91 mi) 1972

Ingmar Bergman:

All my films can be thought in terms of black and white, except for Cries and Whispers. In the screenplay, I say that I have thought of the color red as the interior of the soul. When I was a child, I saw the soul as a shadowy dragon, blue as smoke, hovering like an enormous winged creature, half bird, half fish. But inside the dragon, everything was red.

A film that began as a recurring image in Bergman’s head of a red room with three or four women in the corner wearing white dresses. Aptly titled, this is easily one of the most excruciatingly painful films to experience in public, as it is filled with the most personal, intimate moments imaginable, a view into a dying woman’s diary, using brief dramatic vignettes, each composition carefully framed by Sven Nykvists’s camera, revealed in lush, red velvet glimpses into the barren, anguished souls of the dying woman and her two sisters who, along with her housekeeper, come to see her one last time, each painfully inept in confronting their individual isolation in a silent universe that offers little hope of salvation, perhaps reminiscent of the glaring, moral void exposed in an earlier 1963 film, SILENCE. In the early fifties, Bergman’s films centered on women, shifting with SILENCE from questions of faith to an absence of faith, to the desperate needs of individual selves in powerfully anguished relationships. Besides the ache of an immediate personal reality, there are other common Bergman themes, a tormented sexuality, a conflict between two women, an exceptional isolation of the characters, emphasized by constant close ups and empty spaces, and by the dead spaces between characters even when they talk to each other, by an enveloping “silence” of the film.

The beauty and elegance of the two sisters, Liv Ullman and Ingrid Thulin, is overwhelming, but underneath the rich exteriors lie their real secrets. This is the original SECRETS AND LIES, a Bergman valentine of anguish, a brilliantly written film filled with reflections of an all but absent heart, by an unseen inner world decorated in the outer world by a blazing red expression spilling over into elegant, beautiful rooms, each completely still, like perfect paintings, artful tableaus with statuesque, but implacable faces filling the empty spaces. Like Welles’s AMBERSONS, these sisters were raised to be pampered and spoiled by others, by servants and housemaids, always needing to be the center of attention. Never were they asked to step out of the spotlight and help anyone else, so when they are finally needed, especially by someone in their own family, they fail miserably. When facing death, life’s choices take on a greater significance, sometimes becoming the essence of living. I was fascinated by the brilliant acting portrayed in the agony of making some of these choices, like deciding what you think you’re supposed to do, what you actually do, or that which we wish we did. Ultimately, we’d regret less if we spoke more from our own hearts.

Like Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro, a class comedy where servants outwit their masters, or like Petra, the sultry servant girl in SMILES OF A SUMMER NIGHT, there is no question in Bergman’s mind which class is the most helpless and dysfunctional, with pretentious hearts that are of no use to anyone, stricken with paralysis the moment they’re in trouble, arrogantly ordering the servants or housemaids to clean up after their own messes, the way they always have, in a psychological ritual to minimize the worth of the working class, whose roles are reduced to feeding them, cleaning for them, singing to them, tucking them in at night, comforting them in their arms, if needed, loving them in a way they could never be loved in return. And for that, throughout time, they are despised. Bergman recreates his Godless world of SILENCE, where Christianity, as a theory, embraces the human heart, but as a practice, largely ignores it. Some of the scenes in this film of perfect rooms filled with imperfect people reminded me of Kubrick’s white room in 2001, the image of unrealized perfection.

The film opens in a red screen for the credits, followed by brief images of a lyre player, another statue in a misty park, where we hear bells, chimes, gorgeous images of trees silhouetted against the sun’s rays, the ticking of clocks, ringing chimes, little clock statues, then an elegant, beautiful room with deep red carpets, red curtains, red-lined chairs, red walls, as the camera closes in on Agnes, Harriet Andersson, who is lying in bed under a red blanket. The wordless opening shot lasts about 7 minutes, which includes one of the most harrowing scenes in cinema, a close up on Agnes’s face as she awakes in the middle of the night to find herself strangling, shifting the mood with shocking suddenness towards the death she has lived with for so long. She is in pain, dying of cancer, helpless to time. As it happens, death is to be deferred awhile longer, but for one awful moment, it is in the room, a palpable presence, photographed in the face of the woman who sees it. In the morning, she opens the window, her sister Maria, Liv Ullman, is asleep in a chair in the next room. Agnes makes an entry into her diary: “It is early Monday morning and I am in pain. My sisters and Anna are taking it in turns to sit up.” All the women are wearing white gowns, engulfed in a red velvet, royal red-toned room, fade to red.

In this manner, the vignettes unfold, usually fading to red at the end. Maria is in bed with dolls and the chimes of music boxes, little miniature houses filled with tiny figurines. Anna, the housekeeper, the one truly appealing person in the film, is played by Kari Sylwan, prays for Agnes as we hear a gentle Chopin waltz play in the background. Occasionally faces are cut off, luminous images divided in two with one side cast in light, the other side dark. One memorable scene shows Anna undressing, getting into bed with Agnes, offering her bare breast as comfort, kissing her, stroking her cheeks and hair in a Renaissance image of maternal love. But there are also images of a more discomforting kind. Maria is awakened in the night when Agnes takes a turn for the worse. Anna is at her door telling her “She’s unconscious, breathing funny.” Together, they walk down a long dark red corridor, Anna and the two sisters carrying candles. Agnes is wheezing loudly, gasping for breath, clocks are ticking loudly, Agnes’s wheezes are a death rattle, a close up on her face produces blood curdling yells for help, screaming wildly in the throes of death, in a prolonged still shot of agonized pain and screaming which literally shocks the sisters (and the audience) into the absolute horror of the moment, filling the silence in the theater with an unforgettable, helpless feeling of uncontrolled raw human terror – death. Yet once again, death is deferred awhile longer.

In other moments, with Agnes sleeping in the other room, very much alive, the two sisters, one of whom Karin (Ingrid Thulin) refuses to be physically touched, agree to sell and divide the estate, sending Anna out of the room to discuss giving her notice and offering her a few extra weeks pay, talking about her only in terms of servant help in such degrading language before railing into one another, with Karin initially reflecting on suicide. “It’s true, I think about suicide. I’ve often thought about it, it’s disgusting, degrading, and everlastingly the same,” dropping a wine glass on the floor in a moment of tears and imperfection, before gathering her fury directed in full force against Marie: “Do you realize I hate you? And how foolish I find your insipid smiles and your idiotic flirtatiousness? How have I managed to tolerate you for so long and not say anything? I know what you’re made of, with your empty caresses and your false promises. Can you conceive how anybody can live with so much hate as has been my burden?” Yet in minutes, the two are hugging and caressing each other, begging forgiveness before they are chatter endlessly to Bach’s Unaccompanied Cello Sonata #5, the music used later in SARABAND, their faces now animated and warm, affectionate, concerned, radiant, beautiful. Their close ups are engulfed in red, as the screen bleeds red.

Once Agnes has finally succumbed, Karin’s husband is no less chilling, “The funeral was tolerable. No one wept or grew hysterical.” While serving coffee, this time in Anna’s presence, they again discuss Anna in purely monetary terms, wondering whether to offer her a small sum of money, or perhaps a memento. But Anna insists on nothing at all, bringing a closure to their futile attempt to speak of her at all. Once they’ve gone, Anna closes the doors, lights a candle, opens a drawer and pulls out Agnes’s diary, and sits down to read while a Chopin waltz plays. “The tang of autumn fills the clear, still air, but it’s mild and fine. My sisters, Karin and Marie have come to see me. It’s wonderful to be together again...All my aches and pains were gone. The people I am most fond of in the world are with me. I could hear them chatting around me. I could feel the presence of their bodies, the warmth of their hands, I wanted to hold the moment fast and thought: Come what may, this is happiness, I cannot wish for anything better. Now, for a few minutes, I can experience perfection, and I feel profoundly grateful to my life which gives me so much.” The final red screen is subtitled in white print: And so the Cries and Whispers Die Away.

Geoff Andrew from 1001 MOVIES YOU MUST SEE BEFORE YOU DIE:

One of Ingmar Bergman’s most exquisitely executed achievements, Cries and Whispers begins with early-morning shots of a country estate, Sven Nykvist’s camerawork capturing the play of the sunlight through the trees and mist to ravishing effect. By the time we have entered the house itself, where antique clocks tick inexorably on as a woman is awakened from her slumbers by the agony of the cancer consuming her from within, it’s clear we are witnessing a filmmaker at the peak of his artistry, so assured and seemingly effortless are the measured rhythms of his editing, the placement of the camera, and the telling use of sound and color. Indeed, it is perhaps color that sticks most vividly in the mind after a viewing of this autumnal masterpiece. The rich red so unnaturally predominant both in the furnishings and on the walls of most of the mansion’s rooms, in sharp contrast to the graceful white gowns favored by the four women whose lives we glimpse therein.

Bergman explained that he imagined the human soul to be this shade of red; certainly, its brooding presence intensifies his study of death and its influence on the living. The four women are the mansion’s dying owner (Harriet Andersson), her devoted maid (Karl Sylwan), and the two sisters (Ingrid Thulin and Liv Ullman) who have come to tend to her during her final days. The former is emotionally and physically reticent thanks in part to a loveless marriage, the latter at least is superficially warmer but given to flightiness and insecurity. As the sisters and maid try first to comfort the sick woman and then to come to terms with her death, Bergman provides a glimpse into the inner life of each, tracing their fears, frustrations, anxieties, and regrets by means of memories and, at least for the maid, nightmarish fantasy. Such is his dramatic expertise that he blends the stuff of horror movies – vampirish kisses, the nightmarish prospect of a corpse returning to life – with chamber drama evocation of Chekhov or Strindberg, and makes it not only coherent and compelling but immediately recognizable as part of our own artistic universe. He’s helped in this, of course, by extraordinary performances by actresses he’d worked with for many years, but then what a gift to them was his screenplay!

Cries and Whispers from the Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

One of Bergman's most visually seductive works, and often cited as the masterpiece of his late period, the stunning Cries and Whispers is an eerie, intense, lurid, death-obsessed dream play à la Strindberg, with a large dollop of Chekhov. The film is set in an elegant turn-of-the-century manor house, where unmarried Agnes (Harriet Anderson) is dying of cancer, attended by her two unhappily married sisters, suicidal Karin (Ingrid Thulin) and earthy Maria (Liv Ullmann), and by faithful servant Anna (Kari Sylwan). The drama unfolds as a blood-red mix of past and present, reality and fantasy, and offers a haunting, exquisite, often brutal meditation on death. Each of its four suffering women represents a different metaphysical approach to life and death, and a different aspect of womanhood, and each is rendered with appropriate religious iconography. Cries and Whispers is distinguished by impeccable acting, evocative period detail, eloquent use of silence, and Academy Award-winning cinematography. "Superbly photographed by Sven Nykvist in a style suggesting Edvard Munch ... the film is smooth and hypnotic; it has oracular power and the pull of a dream" (Pauline Kael). "Bergman has never shown more absolute control of his material" (Philip Mosley). "Bergman at his most pure" (Vernon Young).

DVD Times Noel Megahey

More than any other Ingmar Bergman film, Cries and Whispers is the film closest to the essence or perhaps just the preconceived notion that many would have of the director’s films – that of cold, bleak, Scandinavian angst, bitterness and invective, dealing with questions of existence, family relationships and death. Bitter dialogue delivered through intense acting performances and all wrapped up in self-conscious formalism, it all appears very much like mere Bergman-by-numbers, but the director nevertheless manages to touch on a deeper level of human existence and suffering in what is one of his most harrowing films.

The idea of the film did however evolve from a number of formalistic ideas around which Bergman fashioned a typically fraught domestic situation. The initial drive to make the film came from a recurrent image that plagued the director of a red room containing a group of women dressed in white. From this image he imagined a situation where one of the women was dying and the others were gathered around her to assist her through her last days. Two of the women would be sisters of the dying woman, while a third woman would be the dying woman’s maid. Discussing how to make the film, Bergman worked closely with his regular cinematographer Sven Nykvist on how to bring this to the screen, doing countless colour tests for each of the highly stylised scenes in the film and considering using a static camera to passively record the action that would take place. In the end, this idea was abandoned as unworkable as the development of the script progressed.

The final film however remains strictly formalised and structured. In between the framework of the story of Agnes’ painful and agonising death, each of the women’s lives are examined through a flashback sequence, the transitions marked by a fade to red. It’s hard not to see the significance of the colour red which not only permeates the walls, carpets and curtains of the house, but is evident in the instances of violence and bloodletting that make up each of the sections of the film. For the two sisters, Maria and Karin, the incidents are related to dissatisfaction with their married lives and the violence enacted against themselves and their families binds them into hopeless and loveless relationships. This is contrasted with the depiction of Anna the maid’s inner life, which is not rooted in bitterness and regrets of the past – although she has every right to be angry about the treatment she has endured – but in love for her dead mistress and in an idealisation not necessarily based on harsh reality. Whether that love is platonic or sexual is left ambiguous, but the nature of that love scarcely matters as much as the fact of its purity and selflessness.

The stories of Maria and Karin are perhaps rather clichéd and certainly not unique within Bergman films. The stories of women dissatisfied with their relationships stretches back to the early films of Waiting Women, A Lesson In Love, Dreams and beyond Cries and Whispers to Scenes From A Marriage, while family relationships between sisters and women were certainly more experimentally examined in Bergman’s peak period of the 60s in films such as The Silence and Persona. Being Bergman however, those themes are still taken to extreme lengths in Cries and Whispers. There is the possibility that the shocking events that occur (including a scene of genital mutilation) are only imaginary, but whether they occur or not, they provide a horrifying insight into the mindsets of each of the women. Played with unbearable intensity by Liv Ullmann and Ingrid Thulin – two remarkable actresses amongst Bergman’s regular exceptional group of actors – they are moreover given further weight and conviction.

One can’t help feeling however that they are mere foils for the more important characters of Agnes and Anna (Harriet Andersson and Kari Sylwan – both no less impressive in equally difficult roles). In the stories of these women Bergman would examine important new areas regarding the confrontation of suffering, death, memory and regret. In Agnes’s remembered relationship with her mother, there is much of Bergman’s own uneven and difficult relationship with his own mother (a subject taken further in Autumn Sonata and of course in Fanny and Alexander) and in Anna there is an exploration of the purity of love, a selfless and ideal one, untainted by regret and bitterness, one that you suspect the director himself longs to imagine exists.

Cries and Whispers is certainly an overly stylised piece of work - cold, calculated and theatrical in a dark Strindbergian way, recycling themes that have already been exhaustively explored in Bergman’s previous films – but the strict formalism is quite intentional. The suffocating atmosphere of the red house, the ticking of the antique clocks and the immaculate perfection of the period dresses that are all laboured over serve to create a specific effect of time and space within which Bergman places his characters, not only to contrast their lives and manner of living, but to touch on “wordless secrets that only cinema can discover” in the lives of his characters. Cries and Whispers is consequently a difficult film and one that is at times extremely painful to watch, but it’s a rewarding film that has an infinitude of riches and meanings to yield to the viewer.

eFilmCritic Reviews Dr. Isaksson

At the close of 1971 Ingmar Bergman was having a low moment in his cinematic career. His last film 1971's 'The Touch' was a huge disappointment with the critics and the viewing public. Despite having an american star, (Elliot Gould) and boasting the past Bergman alum's Bibi Andersson and Max Von Sydow, 'The Touch' lost money for the ABC network which had funded the english spoken film. No one was expecting much from Bergman in the coming year but with a minuscule budget and with all his actors taking a cut in salary for their work, the famed swedish director created and unraveled before the world one of his greatest films ever, "Cries and Whispers". A breathless, haunted masterpiece that snagged awards from all directions and made a lot of the world sit and take notice that Ingmar Bergman still had plenty to say and show them.

The setting is Sweden in the early 1900s. In a manor house that sits upon a picturesque landscape, we enter a huge room with long walls, all a deep shade of red. It is silent except for the sound of clocks ticking. In this stillness during a cold autumn morning, a beautiful gilded clock comes into frame decorated with cherubs and other angelic figures. Then another clock passes by, each seeming to be a representation of the slow and steady passage of time. The time in the life of a person who is sleeping within this red room. Then we see Agnes (Harriet Andersson) awaken from an unsteady sleep. Her sudden and stark black eyed stare directly into the camera immediately tells us that an uncompromising destiny must soon unfold. Agnes creeps out of bed and steps to the window where she gazes out onto a bleak autumn scene. There are a change of colors on the trees but the sky is cloudy, gray and motionless. Agnes then writes in her journal, noting the date and the weather. Her two sisters Karin (Ingrid Thulin) the eldest and Maria (Liv Ullmann) the youngest, are both staying with her and have been taking turns keeping watch over her. Agnes also writes in definite strokes that she is in pain. Physical pain by an internal cancer that has been mercilessly consuming her.

Karin and Maria awaken that day and attend to Agnes with a speechless course of duty. Neither being all that happy to partake in such an event. But Agnes is a spinster and only lives with her maid Anna (Kari Sylwan). With no one saying the words, the scenario becomes clear that Karin, Maria and Anna are on a death watch for their middle sister Agnes. The events are uncertain and with each hour the end creeps closer. How they will all react, and deal with the darkest horrors that are soon to come can only play itself out in a harrowing and shattering agony. Truths are told and fears are expressed. Separations occur and unsteady unions are melded. But as with all things that remain unsettled, a great uncertainty must always remain.

In Cries and Whispers color is a definitive addition to make a silent statement. The color of the great bedroom Agnes resides in is a vibrant and deep red. Past critics have noted that this must signify blood and pain but Bergman states that all his life he's imagined that the human soul is a flowing membrane of the color red. The stark white dresses worn by Karin and Maria could very well then signify a slight coldness and blankness of emotion toward the warmth and thick embodiment of the red soul that encompasses Agnes.

Throughout the film the viewer is introduced into each of the characters past life experiences through flashbacks. Karin is suffocating in a loveless marriage to an older man who is too involved in politics to notice her pain. Her long frozen emotions and dying heart are crying out for human contact but she cannot say the words or scream out her frustrations. Karin has not found love with her husband nor her sisters and her stiff and damaged demeanor is displayed with white-knuckled perfection by Bergman mainstay Ingrid Thulin. Maria, the youngest and the one favored most by their mother, is guilty of a past full of self indulgence and good living and we learn that her nature is one that only encompasses selfishness and deception so that she can attain what she desires. The always great Liv Ullmann was showered with awards during the 70's and gained a New York Film Critics Circle Award for Best Actress in 1972 for her portrayal of the lusty Maria.

But amazingly it is the simplest character, Agnes, who commands our greatest attention. Her acceptance of her sickness and her relentless suffering are almost sickeningly gratifying to behold and Andersson's performance is one of inexplicable genius. The benevolent maid Anna, who speaks in whispers, is portrayed with a soft and loving hope by Kari Sylwan and the devotion she exudes amongst insurmountable odds certainly warms the screen after the two sisters have left it cold and alone. In one famous shot, which was also used as the promotional poster for the film, Anna cradles the dying Agnes. The image is surely meant to mimic that of Mary holding her dead son Jesus and it's this image that stays with the viewer long after the film ends.

There is one single scene in the film that I must address which might help me express how good the performances are. It has stayed with me for years after I saw it and it is almost so subtle that I almost feel as if I am imagining it... After a long night of agonizing pain, Agnes is being tended to by her sisters and as they redress her and comb her limp hair she gently smiles at them but then her gaze goes down towards the floor, she sees nothing but there is a moment where, on her face, a look of resignation covers her mind. Without a single action of word. I swear I could see that Agnes was certain that her death had arrived and she was able and willing to accept it. The moment was so quick and flawless, so completely without showy distress that I am certain that this is the pinnacle of what brilliant acting can and should be. Harriet Andersson should have gotten every award imaginable for her work, but she garnered nothing.

"Cries and Whispers" is a film about a woman searching for the ending chapter to her journal. That moment in life where all is right with oneself and now, that one can lay an exhausted head back and close their eyes, smiling. Knowing that, if even only for an instant, they have attained a state of perfect happiness.

-Peter Cowie Criterion essay

Senses of Cinema [Marco Lanzagorta]

Epinions [metalluk]

Long Pauses Darren Hughes

Images Movie Journal David Ng

James Berardinelli's ReelViews

ToxicUniverse.com (John Nesbit)

DVD Town (Yunda Eddie Feng)

Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick)

Cries and Whispers John White from 10k Bullets

Flipside Movie Emporium [Gabe Leibowitz]

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Jeff Ulmer)

Reel.com DVD review [Rod Armstrong]

Cries and Whispers Michael Jacobson from DVD Movie Central

Strictly Film School Acquarello

Edinburgh U Film Society [Spiros Gangas]

filmcritic.com Mark Athitakis

Movie Vault [Goatdog]

DVD Verdict Terry Coli

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times in 1973

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times in 2002

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

SCENES FROM A MARRIAGE (Scener ur ett äktenskap) – made for TV

Sweden (167 mi) 1973 Swedish TV version, 6 part series (299 mi)

DVDBeaver Gary W. Tooze

Marianne (Liv Ullmann) and Johan (Erland Josephson) always seemed like the perfect couple. But when Johan suddenly leaves Marianne for another woman, they are forced to confront the disintegration of their marriage. Shot in intense, intimate close-ups by master cinematographer Sven Nykvist, the film chronicles ten years of turmoil and love that bind the couple despite their divorce and subsequent marriages. Flawless acting and dialogue portray the brutal pain and uplifting peace that accompany a lifetime of loving. Originally conceived as a six-part miniseries for Swedish television. 

Scenes from a Marriage Geoff Andrew from Time Out London

Though edited down (under Bergman's supervision) from a six-part series originally made for TV, this remains an exhaustive study of the doubt, despair, confusion and loneliness experienced by a woman (Ullmann) when she learns that her fickle husband (Josephson) is having an affair. Bergman, as in Face to Face, is here at his most stylistically stark: very little actually happens (much of the film consists of conversations in rooms), so that it's left to the performers (all superb, and mostly framed by Sven Nykvist in revealing close-ups) to bring the litany of pain to life. And they do, with the result that the film is an uncompromisingly harrowing and honest account of male-female relationships. (The TV version runs 300 minutes.)

Scenes from a Marriage from the Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

One of the great films of the 1970s, and often cited as one of Bergman's most accessible works, this subtly detailed dissection of the disintegration of a marriage was originally made in six parts for Swedish television, then chopped by almost two hours for its world-wide theatrical release. We are pleased to present the complete, full-length original version. (In an unexpected surprise, Bergman, now in his mid eighties, recently directed a sequel, the 2003 TV film Saraband; his unhappiness with the quality of its digital-video-to-film transfer has so far prevented a release in cinemas.) Unfolding in episodic fashion, and spanning the course of a decade, Scenes from a Marriage features Liv Ullmann, in one of her finest performances, as Marianne, a woman struggling to cope with the infidelity of her husband Johan, played by Erland Josephson. Bibi Andersson co-stars as the younger woman with whom Johan is having an affair. The work was shot largely in claustrophobic close-up by Sven Nykvist, and rivals Dreyer's silent classic The Passion of Joan of Arc in its masterful mining of the expressive potential of the human face. It also affirmed Bergman's reputation as one of the cinema's great directors of actresses. "[Bergman's] characteristic psychological realism is pursued with uncharacteristic verisimilitude in this film, minus fantasy, memory, and metaphor. Open-ended, slow-paced, and involving multiple dramatic climaxes, Scenes from a Marriage is actually structured like a soap opera but possesses a depth of feeling and intelligence usually alien to the form" (David Cook). "Shattering, touching, exhaustingly honest with a sweep and candour that put American television - not to say movies - to shame" (Newsweek). "Bears a greater stamp of authority than any other Bergman film of the 1970's" (Peter Cowie).

filmcritic.com Jake Euker, also seen here: Scenes from a Marriage

Ingmar Bergman’s Scenes from a Marriage began as a six-part Swedish television program that aired throughout much of Scandinavia in 1973. The series was created at one of those times when Bergman was in something of a creative slump, but in a career of comebacks, Scenes from a Marriage constituted another. The series was such a hit, reports Bergman scholar Peter Cowie, that the one-hour episodes emptied the streets of cities such as Copenhagen during its weekly time slots. American distributors were soon clamoring for a theatrical version for release here, and Bergman responded in 1974 with a trimmed-down, 169-minute edit that went on to win the National Society of Film Critics Award for best picture of its year. In 1977, PBS aired the entire series unedited, and Scenes from a Marriage took its rightful place among Bergman’s established masterpieces.

And then it kind of vanished. That’s not to say that you couldn’t, with some effort, get your hands on a copy of the American release. But Bergman’s original vision – the five-hour Scenes – joined the company of fabled films, such as von Stroheim’s Greed, that lived a high life in film criticism while going largely unseen by film enthusiasts. Criterion, with its new, three-disc DVD edition of the original TV series, plus the American theatrical version, restores a great film to the shelves.

In its original form, Scenes from a Marriage is one of the great investigations of the title institution to occur in any art form. The film charts the relationship of Johan (Erlan Josephson) and Marianne (Liv Ullman) through ten tempestuous years, beginning with a seemingly happily married couple and ending with a nostalgic reunion after divorce has separated them. Shot in 16mm and tightly photographed by the legendary Sven Nykvist, the film is immediate and unflinching in its probity, the scenes ranging from the enormously cruel (such as that in which Johan confesses to the affair the ends the marriage) to the redemptive (those showing Marianne finding her feet in life after Johan). As Johan, Josephson manages a remarkable transition from arrogant chauvinism to touching vulnerability (a more remarkable feat when the length of the scenes and close proximity of the camera are brought into consideration). As Marianne, Ullman is wonderful to the extent that it may be foolhardy to try to do her work justice in words.

In the full-length Scenes from a Marriage, Bergman backs down from nothing; he takes scenes as far as they need to go and the depths he searches in his characters is uncompromising. The American release, while necessarily less thorough (and despite a mild change in emphasis), stands on its own as a major work, and may prove less daunting to some viewers. Both benefit enormously from the extras Criterion has provided, including the above-referenced Cowie interview and interviews with the director and stars.

Scenes from a Marriage is a key film both in the career of Ingmar Bergman and in the cinema of the ‘70s. It’s a pleasure to welcome it back in this excellent edition.

Images Movie Journal David Gurevich

Ingmar Bergman: no other European director's name is as closely associated with art-house snobbery in America. It's like a litmus test: "Tell me what you think of Bergman, and I'll know how sophisticated you are." Bergman's films vary in accessibility, but it was just his bad luck that the '60s, when auteur films swept American art houses, caught him at his darkest mood. From The Seventh Seal to Through a Glass Darkly to Winter Light to Silence — you just had to be a very seriously depressed young person to take in so much pain and suffering on a bleak black-and-white screen. You wouldn't know it was the same guy who only a couple of years earlier had directed a delightful sex comedy, Smiles of a Summer Night.

Now, it seems that by 1972 Mr. Bergman had grown quite tired of being depressed (and, more prosaically, so had his bankers), and so he went ahead and did the unthinkable — he made a six-part miniseries, Scenes from a Marriage, that became so popular that allegedly streets emptied all over Scandinavia on the nights it aired. (I realize this line is ripe to be joke material.) But this accessibility was denied the US audiences: local programming honchos were aghast at the thought that their viewers would be subjected to reading subtitles on six consecutive weeks. (Much later, the innovative PBS programmer Andrea Traubner found a slot at a safe remove from pledge weeks and bought the series for Channel 13 in New York.) And so Bergman had to recut the five-hour-long six-episode series (at least he got to do it himself) into a three-hour theatrical version. Another art-house movie, and, yes, watching this intense War of the Sexes, mostly in close-ups, accompanied by straight-from-the-couch dialogue, for three hours straight… once again, a lot of people emerged from the theater happy to be alive.

The Criterion Collection's just-issued DVD version of Scenes from a Marriage is scrupulous to a fault: there are two discs with the TV version and a third one with the theatrical version. The latter contains a detailed play-by-play comparison of the two versions. Somewhere towards the end of this 15-minute scholarly analysis British critic Peter Cowie finds one example of how the cutting improved on the TV version. One. Nuff said? Skip the third disc.

Watching the up-and-down-and-up-again story of Marianne and Johan in six 50-minute episodes makes you appreciate what an accessible filmmaker Bergman really is, and at the same time ponder the distance Western society has traveled in the 30 years since the series was made. It is easy to see why Swedes, Danes, and Norwegians were glued to screens in 1972: not since Ibsen's A Doll's House had a happy prosperous Scandinavian couple been dissected with so much intelligence and even humor (yes, there are quite a few light-hearted moments, including the ironic credits, and Erland Josephson's delivery as the husband is impeccable). The ending, where the once-happy-and-then-miserable family find each other once again in a blissful relationship as they are cheating on their new respective spouses, had to be positively scandalous. In the year 2004, however, Marianne's struggle to get away from the society-imposed stereotypes and lead her own life is passé as a subject even for slick women's magazine covers, and so are Johan's caddishness and egoism. A viewer expecting revelations in that department should not bother.

What we can do now is set aside the social shock value and enjoy the film for its cinematic values, which are plentiful. You can't do too much stripping with the dialogue, of course, much of which sounds like so many marriage-counseling sessions; but Bergman's perennial cameraman Sven Nykvist is in top form here, his camera always probing, the lighting constantly re-adjusted to create another parallel story by itself; and the acting of two highly intelligent and attractive leads, Liv Ullmann and Erland Josephson, just doesn't get any better — and they have to do a lot of acting here because about 80% of the scenes are one-on-one, with plenty of close-ups. It is heartbreaking and ultimately fascinating to watch Ullmann's Marianne's ordeals as she travels across life's minefield, from a humble social wife (already a divorce lawyer herself, which says a lot both about the non-combative nature of Swedish litigation and the degree of her self-effacement) to a full-fledged person. It is equally touching to watch as Josephson's Johan's narcissism unravels and gives room to the quiet despair of late middle age. It's all there: love and hate, intimacy and distancing, romantics and common sense. You can find all of these in your own relationship — although, having seen this film, you might choose not to look.

In filming Scenes from a Marriage, Bergman managed to pull a real coup by lending a cineaste's mastery to urgent social issues — and saying something wise and important about the human condition as well. This is a lesson that far too many modern filmmakers neglect to learn.

Criterion Collection film essay [Phillip Lopate] Criterion essay, March 15, 2004

Salute to Liv Ullmann Peter Cowie essay, December 15, 2008

Liv Remembers Ingmar October 9, 2009

Liv in Brooklyn November 25, 2009

The Kindness of Strangers Dan Kois interviews Liv Ullman from New York magazine, November 15, 2009

Liv Ullmann Retro at BAM - New York Michael Atkinson on a Liv Ullman restrospective from The Village Voice, November 17, 2009

Liv Ullmann and the Many Faces of Ingmar Bergman | Film Reviews ... Benjamin Strong on a Liv Ullman restrospective from The L magazine, November 24 – December 6, 2009

Scenes from a Marriage Criterion Collection

Scenes from a Marriage Bergman without options, by Teena Webb from Jump Cut , 1975

SCENES FROM A MARRIAGE Dan Schneider from the Alternative Film Guide

Epinions [metalluk]

Can't Stop the Movies [Andrew Hathaway]

Ruthless Reviews ("potentially offensive") Matt Cale

Culturazzi [Daniel Montgomery]

Celluloid Heroes [Paul McElligott]

Bill's Movie Emporium [Bill Thompson]

DVD Talk [Stuart Galbraith IV] 3-disc Criterion Collection

The QNetwork Film Desk [James Kendrick] 3-disc Criterion Collection

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Robert Edwards) 3-disc Criterion Collection

DVD Verdict - Criterion Collection Dan Mancini, 3-disc Criterion Collection

DVD Movie Central Michael Jacobson, 3-disc Criterion Collection

scenes from a marriage - review at videovista.net Gary Couzens at Video Vista

CineScene.com (Chris Dashiell)

Passport Cinema [Chris Luedtke]

A Season in Hell (1974) T.E. Kalem from Time magazine

Movie Magazine International [Moira Sullivan]

Bina007 Movie Reviews

Scenes From a Marriage Review | Reviews and News | EW.com Donald Liebenson

TV Guide review

Theatre review: Scenes from a Marriage / Belgrade B2, Coventry ... Lyn Gardner reviews a stage performance from The Guardian, January 17, 2008

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

Ingmar Bergman's - Scenes From a Marriage - Criterion ... - DVDBeaver Gary W. Tooze and Per-Olof Strandberg

THE MAGIC FLUTE (Trollflöjten) – made for TV

Sweden (135 mi) 1975

Magic Lantern: The Complete Ingmar Bergman from the Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Mozart's magnificent The Magic Flute had been a major influence on Hour of the Wolf, Bergman's 1967 masterpiece of Gothic horror; Bergman regarded it as "the spiritual inspiration of the film" (Peter Cowie), and had long wanted to direct a screen adaptation of the work. He would finally realize that ambition in 1975; the enchanting result is widely regarded as one of the finest opera films ever made. Sung in Swedish, and shot in an impressive studio reconstruction of Stockholm's famous 18th-century Drottningholm theatre, the film deftly adds audience reactions shots and ironic backstage scenes to its staging of Mozart's familiar romantic fantasy. Bergman respects the theatricality of the original while making effective use of cinema's sense of intimacy -- this Magic Flute is sheer movie magic, infused with an exuberance and joy not usually associated with the director's work. "Ingmar Bergman has said that making this film `was the best time of my life: you can't imagine what it is like to have Mozart's music in the studio every day.' Actually, watching the movie, one can" (Pauline Kael). "Marvellous. . . a joyous, zestful homage to Mozart" (Cowie).

DVDBeaver - Full Review by Mark Blumberg

Hailed by many as the "finest screen version of an opera ever produced", Ingmar Bergman's The Magic Flute is something that is guaranteed to hold through several viewings. Cinematic master Sven Nykvist and only the finest Nordic singers of its time contribute to this fabulous production of Mozart's opera. Bergman, an accomplished organist and musicologist, lovingly brings one of the most intimate and joyful operas to life... as his personal peaen to classical music. Some 25 years ago, Bergman had the idea to evoke the original 1791 production of The Magic Flute in an anniversary of the Swedish Radio. Having originally planned to shoot it at the theatre in Drottingholm Palace, he had found that the delicate sets could in no way accommodate a film crew. He then decided to move production to the studios of the Swedish Film Institute. Henny Noremark and her team replicated the original theatre to the most innocuous stage device. Meanwhile, Bergman and conductor Eric Ericson, using what is known as the playback method, prerecorded the audio, later to be played over the visual. The actors concentrated more then on acting, etc.. Bergman spent many hours carefully editing so that the sung words would be in perfect time with the actor's mouth. He made sure that all of the dynamics and tempi were perfect.

I could go on about this movie for a long time. Rarely does one see a movie that has such visual flair and sincere emotions that it fills the viewer with so much excitement. It is Excellent in that way. However, as any movie, it has its own shortcomings. The Overture, though different from any I've seen, becomes tedious, and Bergman's message in that sequence becomes immediately obvious. This edition is Not for Mozart purists. It is performed in Swedish, with many bits of dialogue filtered out, as I have heard. There are some sing-along moments that take away from the film's energy, but it is, for the most part, charming.

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

Ingmar Bergman has never before made a movie so warm, happy and innocent as this version of Mozart's "The Magic Flute." It's as if all this joy has been building up inside him during the great decade of metaphysical films beginning with "Persona."

It's been 10 years since he made a comedy (the dreadful "All These Women") and 20 years since he made a good one ("Smiles of a Summer Night"), and now here's something to make you think he specialized in comic opera.

His "Magic Flute" is directed with a cheerful relish for its fairy-tale adventures, its young lovers and sinister sorcerers and improbable special effects. To film it, he decided to stay in the period, to approach the work head on and in its own spirit as a sort of spooky, funny bedtime story.

He constructed on a sound stage a replica of Stockholm's tiny old Drottingholm Court Theater - a creaking 18th Century treasure with machinery, still in working order to create thunder, lighting and waves.

He pretends he's filming an actual performance there, with proscenium arch, footlights and an audience (the attentive little girl he cuts away to during scene changes is his own daughter). But then as each scene develops he goes into it, opens it up (but not too much - we still feel we're on a stage), and films it with the most fluid camera work Sven Nykvist ever has provided for him.

And it's an agile camera, too; instead of composing the characters into the sometimes static, sterile confrontations of his later films, he surprises them in reaction shots, cuts quickly to create moments of uncertainty and has fun combining his actors with such props as stuffed animals and an amazing cherub-powered balloon.

And along the way, while remaining faithful to the spirit (if not always the precise story line) of "The Magic Flute," he succeeds in making it into a movie. I can't recall another opera film I've seen in which that happened; usually we're all too conscious of the stage-bound nature of the performance, and of the difficulty of combining, successfully what Pauline Kael calls the two bastard arts. Film and opera are both wonderful, at borrowing and plundering other art forms, but usually incompatible with each other. Bergman's attempt succeeds brilliantly.

That's in great part due to his cast. Bergman has put together a group of singers who are filled with life, work naturally together and look their parts even in close-up (something most opera singers most definitely do not).

My favorite is Hakan Hagegard as the irrepressible Papageno, awed by the supernatural, delighted by his breakneck escapades, forever romantic.

Josef Kostlinger, as Tamino, is suitably heroic; when he and the magic flute safely guide Princess Pamina through the fearsome tests of fire and water, he looks every bit as capable as the flute. And Ulrik Cold (the name is perfectly suited) plays Sarastro, the sorcerer, with a malevolence that transcends even the ridiculous pointed cap he enters wearing.

Bergman lets us see how the special effects work, he gives us backstage glimpses of the players hurrying to meet cues and relaxing during the intermission, and we're reminded of the many other backstage scenes in his films.

"We're supposed to be conscious of watching a performance, and yet at some level Bergman also wants Mozart's fantasy to work as a story, a preposterous tale, and it does. This must be the most delightful film ever made from an opera.

Style and Drama in The Magic Flute an interpretive essay by Scottish composer Tommy Fowler

-Peter Cowie Criterion essay

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FACE TO FACE (Ansikte mot ansikte)

Sweden (114 mi) 1976

10kbullets.com [Johan Fundin]

“Check your dreams over the next few weeks after seeing it and you’ll find fragments of this film corroding your conscience.” – Time Out, London

In a world of incurable neurotics and lunatics works Dr Jenny Isaksson (Ullmann), a successful psychiatrist who recently has been promoted at the urban psychiatric clinic where she is employed. Her marriage, with another psychiatrist, is not good at all (the theme of incompatibility of spouses) so when she meets a certain Dr Tomas Jacobi (Josephson) at a party she accepts his flirtings and invitations. It turns out that Tomas’ half-sister Maria is one of Jenny’s patients. One day, when Jenny is to see Maria she is raped, beaten and verbally abused by two men in her own apartment. That traumatic experience is the off-set for Jenny’s hell…It turns out that the rape is the trigger to reveal dark, hidden secret’s from Jenny’s traumatic childhood.

Not for the fragile, Face to Face (1975) is a nerve wrecking exploration of the gradual mental breakdown of a psychiatrist culminating in her stark raving madness, attempted suicide and development of schizophrenia. It is, in my opinion, Bergman’s best psychodrama of the 70s, from the cycle that began with The Passion of Anna in 1970 and finished with Autumn Sonata in 1978, even surpassing Cries and Whispers (1972). Face to Face is a piece of mind-bending art from a director in top form. It is an assault on the senses and its aftermath will remain in your guts and brain for a long time. The nightmare and hallucination sequences are strikingly beautiful in their lush red colour schemes and fading backgrounds (echoing the Oscar winning photography of Cries and Whispers (1972)). Even the whispering voices are back in the corridors.

“Once upon a time there was a little girl. Every day she wandered through the splendid rooms and the long winding corridors. But she found no one to confide in. In the palace lived a wicked old woman and her even wickeder husband”

The cited words above are told by the narrator during a nightmare sequence where Jenny, in a crispy red dress, is wandering through the corridors of a creepy house – a sequence that, every time I watch it, makes me think of Suzy Banyon’s nightmarish wanderings in Suspiria. In another nightmare scene, Jenny “sees” herself lying in a coffin whereupon a black-gloved figure puts the lid on the coffin and hammers nails through it. The subsequent scene where one of Jenny’s personalities sets the coffin on fire, and we see her red coloured silhuette through the huge flames, makes me think of the skeleton seen through the flames in the last shot in Inferno.

Regardless whether you want to brand Face to Face a psychodrama or a horror movie, it is one of Bergman’s bleakest films, perhaps the bleakest of them all.

eFilmCritic Reviews Dr. Isaksson

Ingmar Bergman's "Face To Face" is one of the most intense studies of the human mind ever recorded onto film. My thoughts have been forever changed after seeing this work of genius.

Liv Ullmann asked her director and former lover Ingmar Bergman what he thought the public's reaction to 1975's Face To Face would be. His response what something like this. "It'll probably be like a knife stab. It'll hurt at first but once it's inside, you'll get used to it."

Face to Face is the story of a female psychiatrist Dr. Jenny Isaksson (played by Liv Ullmann) who suffers from a complete mental and physical nervous breakdown. At the start of the film we are shown her working with a young woman named Maria (played by Kari Sylwan of Cries and Whispers). Maria is a lesbian and a drug addict. She is considered insane but has been around Dr. Jenny long enough to see that deep inside the wall of professionalism Jenny has built, there are deep cracks inside her quiet demeanor. Maria is the one who becomes the analyzer, telling the Dr. that she herself can see that Jenny is devoid of any emotions and seems unable to love. She states it quite clearly that this psychiatrist is just not real. She askes Jenny if she has ever loved anyone. Through the eyes of Maria, all she sees in Jenny is anguish. Which hits Jenny with a bigger impact than she ever could have imagined.

Jenny is certain that as a psychiatrist she cannot possibly feel helplessness, hopelessness, powerlessness or at least, never admit to it. But something has been twisting up deep inside for a long time. Soon after, at a friend's dinner party, she meets a fellow Doctor Dr. Thomas Jacobi (Erland Josephson). He is the half brother of Jenny's patient Maria. They become fast friends. Thomas however, can see the pain inside Jenny.

Later, Dr. Jenny is faced with a dilemma. Maria has left the Hospital and has overdosed on drugs with two strange men in an abandoned house. Jenny goes to her aid but is attacked and almost raped by one of the men. It is here that her white-knuckled grip on sanity begins to loosen. Jenny attempts to shut the rape feelings away. Yet while attending a concert with Dr. Thomas, Jenny knows that the dread within can no longer stay put. She must come Face to Face with the one person she never really knew. Herself.

This is only the beginning of the story. Ingmar Bergman's Face to Face takes you into the grittiest and most powerful look of a human's decent into a nervous breakdown ever captured. As Dr. Jenny Isaksson's breakdown becomes more and more intense, Bergman begins to insert hallucinations and flashbacks of her violent childhood. And Jenny's eventual suicide attempt is done in one long horrifying take which is made all the more stunning with the aid of Sven Nykvist's amazing cinematography. There are several horrifying nightmare sequences, one of which includes Jenny standing outside of herself, looking at her own dead body as it lies in a burning coffin. Images like these make Face to Face unforgettable.

Amazingly, throughout the entire film, Bergman's camera never wavers from Ullmann's face and her acting throughout is a nothing short of a revelation. You feel her fear and you can breathe in her anguish. Liv Ullmann's performance is one of the best ever recorded in cinema history and must be seen to be believed. I will not say that Face to Face changed my life, but I will say that it changed the way I look at my life.

Both Liv Ullmann and Ingmar Bergman received well deserved Oscar nominations for Best Actress and Best Director. In my opinion they definately should have both won. To me, it's the films that don't gloss over the effects surrounding human suffering that deserve the greatest praise. This film is one of them.

OK.. This film has not been released on VHS since the early 80's and I think Paramount has it locked away in some vault collecting dust. I have searched all over the planet for this film and found it in Japan! But we need to do something drastic to get this released! Maybe we should head to the island of Faro were Bergman lives and have a nervous breakdown to prove how much we want this film! I am willing to get all crazed and run through a hallway in slow motion if that would make him happy! Anybody willing to join me?

Just please somebody release this epic film out into the world!

"Face to Face" is a beautifully multifaceted, and ultimately hopeful film that suggests that an individual's hope and love, not psychiatry, have the power to mend a broken spirit. ***** 5 Stars

Spirituality & Practice [Frederic and Mary Ann Brussat]

Time Magazine [Jay Cocks]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

New York Times (registration req'd) Vincent Canby

THE SERPENT’S EGG

USA Germany (119 mi) 1977

The Serpent's Egg Dave Kehr from the Reader

Ingmar Bergman comes very close to camp in this 1977 study of life (or lack thereof) in the decaying Berlin of the 20s--how else to take exchanges like "Go to hell!" "Where do you think we are?" David Carradine and Liv Ullmann suffer mightily and at length, but the unmitigated anguish has no shape or substance, apart from pointing out that Nazis and their progenitors were not nice people. To that extent, it's simply exploitative.

Time Out

Whether stimulated by his brush with the Swedish tax-man or his brief self-imposed exile in West Germany, Bergman's paranoia runs dementedly and tediously out of control in this Grand Guignol recreation of 1923 Berlin as studio set for close encounters of the most portentous kind. Carradine is improbably cast in the central role of a Jewish trapeze artist called Abel Rosenberg, wandering innocently through a night-town world of bottles, brothels, and (inevitably) cabarets, and trying to ignore the violence, depravity and anti-semitism screeching at him from every street corner. The torments he endures, with a sadly miscast Ullmann (who's further afflicted with throwaway lines like 'I can't stand the guilt'), have indeed been devised by a foresighted mad scientist straight out of Dr Strangelove. This last-reel revelation comes too late to restore audience disbelief to its proper state of suspension.

Magic Lantern: The Complete Ingmar Bergman from the Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Described by the director as "my horror film" -- imagine Cabaret as a mad scientist movie -- the big-budget, cast-of-thousands Serpent's Egg was Bergman's second film in English (1970's The Touch was the first), and first film made outside Sweden (it was shot in Germany). Kill Bill and Kung Fu's David Carradine stars as a Jewish-American trapeze artist wandering through the putsch-prone decadence and depravity of 1923 Berlin. Liv Ullmann co-stars as his ex-sister-in-law, a sleazy cabaret performer who daylights as a whore. The plot involves a deranged proto-Nazi doctor involved in bizarre human experiments; the title is meant to suggest the nascent fascism of Weimar Germany. Some suggest that the film's over-the-top paranoia was a reflection of Bergman's recent Kafkaesque run-in with Swedish tax authorities, which led to a nervous breakdown and a self-imposed exile abroad. The Serpent's Egg received some of the most excoriating reviews of Bergman's career; Pauline Kael described it as a "crackpot tragedy . . . which fills the screen with images of fear and blood, of head-splitting pain and death, and then throws in gothic political theories." Sven Nykvist's cinematography is, as always, superb; the superior production design is by Rolf Zehetbauer, who earlier won an Oscar for his work on Cabaret. "The film is something of a pastiche: The Blue Angel, Cabaret, M and Dr. Mabuse" (Richard Roud).

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Robert Edwards)

It's 1923, and Germany, unable to pay its staggering debts from World War I, is in chaos. French and Belgian troops have taken control of Germany's prime industrial areas, and hyperinflation has set in, with the resultant economic and political turmoil. Abel Rosenberg (David Carradine), a Jewish circus acrobat, has been stranded in Berlin, and spends as much of his time as possible in a state of drunkenness. Returning one evening to his boarding house, he takes a tray of food up to his brother Max, only to find him sprawled on the bed, gun in hand, his brains splattered against the wall.

In his only English-language film, Swedish director Ingmar Bergman tells the story of Abel and Manuela (Liv Ullmann), Max's wife. With no one else to turn to, Abel moves in with Eva, and spends his time visiting Eva at the cabaret that she works at and scrambling for money to feed his alcohol habit. But when he's taken in by Police Inspector Bauer (Gert Fröbe), things take a darker turn, as he learns that several of his acquaintances have been murdered in bizarre and grisly ways. And then there's the charming, slightly sinister Hans Vergerus (Heinz Bennett), who tries to renew his old friendship with Abel—but to what end?

The Serpent's Egg stands out among Bergman films, not for its quality but rather for the circumstances under which it was filmed. Arrested for tax evasion by the Swedish authorities, Bergman had moved to Munich, where he struck up a friendship with producer Dino De Laurentiis and Horst Wendlandt, who became the film's executive producer. With a huge budget, certainly by his standards, Bergman was able to have huge sets built (including a street complete with a tram), increase his crew from the usual ten or fifteen to over one hundred, and hire a Hollywood star.

Under these unusual conditions, Bergman and cinematographer Sven Nykvist modified their usual shooting style, and the result is unlike any other film in Bergman's oeuvre. Gone, for the most part, are the penetrating closeups and static camera shots so prominent in most of his other films, replaced here by interior medium and exterior long shots that take in the beautifully detailed sets. Gone is Bergman's insistence that modern life is unbearable and inevitably leads to a sort of spiritual (and usually, physical) breakdown, replaced by a more mechanical depiction of mental instability. And the film, for precisely these reasons, is often looked upon as a "lesser" Bergman film.

But, as Bergman biographer Marc Gervais points out in one of the supplements, this lack of appreciation depends as much on one's approach to the film as on the film itself. If it's examined from a neutral standpoint, rather than with any built-in expectations arising from the fact that it's a work by Bergman, there's much to like about the film. The sets and costumes are beautiful, and the lighting (all artificial), as captured by cinematographer Sven Nykvist, is virtually indistinguishable from the natural lighting used in most Bergman films. David Carradine is good in his role as the bitter, confused, almost perpetually-soused Max, and Liv Ullmann impresses as the tender, desperate Manuela. And what an experience it is to see her first scene—on stage at the cabaret where she works, dressed in a tacky, revealing costume, made up with turquoise eye shadow, rouge, bright red lips, and wearing dangling earrings, a jeweled headband, and a green wig!

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

Ingmar Bergman is a great filmmaker, but in "The Serpent's Egg" he did not make a good film, and so maybe you'll forgive me if I begin, not on a solemn note, but on an irreverent one, with a little background from the period the film was made.

Bergman left his beloved Sweden in 1976, charging that the tax authorities were hounding him (a charge that the Swedish courts later upheld). He flew to California to meet with Dino De Lauarentiis, who would eventually sign him to direct "The Serpent's Egg." And he became the subject of an anecdote by the great Bergman-watcher, Mel Brooks.

"When Bergman left Sweden," Brooks said, "he complained about the persecution, the metaphysical anguish, the impossibility of realizing himself as an artist, the impotence created by the welfare state, the creeping Big Brotherism of the state ... When he left California three weeks later, he complained about the heat."

Maybe the point is that Bergman is best as a filmmaker on his native ground, no matter how unhappy he may feel there. In Sweden, during 35 years and with more than 30 films, he made only four comedies. One of them was successful ("Smiles of a Summer Night"). Two of them were passable. One was the worst film he has ever made ("All these Women"). But in his dramas -- those brooding, lonely, and violent excursions into the human soul -- he made some of the greatest films that ever will be made. And they all drew directly from his experiences in Sweden.

"The Serpent's Egg" was filmed on location in West Berlin, in English, with only one performer who had worked with him before Liv Ullmann. It was set in 1923. Bergman knew the country slightly, and he knew the period through old memories (he was sent as a young boy to live awhile with a German family through an exchange program, and remembers first hand the beginnings of Nazism). But it's clear that he did not know Germany, 1923, or Nazism well enough to make this film. It's sad and perplexing but true: This film owes more to "Cabaret," an American musical, than it does to whatever insights Bergman may have thought he had about his subject. The moments when the film rings true are when he returns, even unwittingly, to some of the obsessions of his Swedish films: when, for example, an American priest played by James Whitmore protests that he feels himself powerless, and we are reminded of the anguish of the ministers in "Winter Light" and "Cries and Whispers."

For the rest, the movie is a cry of pain and protest, a loud and jarring assault, but it is not a statement and it is certainly not a whole and organic work of art. The movie attacks us, but in self-defense. There are loud, hurtful noises, shouts, and screams, self-destructive orgies and an overwhelmingly relentless decadence. But there is no form, no pattern, and when Bergman tries to impose one by artsy pseudo-newsreel footage and a solemn narration, he reminds us only of the times he has used both better.

The story concerns two people thrown together as Germany gradually stoops to embrace Hitler: David Carradine, as a touring circus performer, and Liv Ullmann, as the woman who was married to his brother (the brother blows his brains out in the film's opening sequence). They make do as best they can, Ullmann working in a cabaret, Carradine finding work here and there and finding it uncomfortable to be Jewish.

Bergman strains for impact, giving us scenes obviously meant to be forewarnings of the Nazi genocide, the death camps, and their witch doctors. He looks emptiness in the face, and it outstares him. He hurls himself at this material, using excesses of style and content we've never seen from him before, but the subject defeats him. Maybe that's what he's admitting at the end, when the narrator remarks that the Carradine character "escaped from his police escort on the way to the train station, disappeared, and was never seen or heard from again." A frustrating ending for a sterile film.

Bergman returned to Sweden after making this film, and found there, in the remaining years of his active career, themes he related to from the bottom of his soul. Germany was apparently as much a mystery to him as California.

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AUTUMN SONATA (Höstsonaten)

Sweden France Germany (99 mi) 1978

Time Out

Now about these women... Mother (concert pianist Bergman) and daughter (parson's wife Ullmann) come face to face after seven years to touch, cry and whisper - and to confront and confess - in an atmosphere pregnant with death and disease, shame and silence. Routine obsessions, routine hysteria; maybe even a routine masterpiece. Of course Bergman's actresses suffer superbly in microscopic close-up, but the nagging doubt persists as to whether this is incisive psychodrama or just those old nordic blues again.

Autumn Sonata Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Screen legend Ingrid Bergman's only film for Ingmar Bergman was this wrenching family psychodrama, which has a mother and daughter locked in ferocious emotional conflict. Bergman plays Charlotte, a worldly and well-known concert pianist visiting for the first time in many years the now-adult daughter she largely abandoned to pursue her musical career. Liv Ullmann is daughter Eva, dowdy, repressed, and wife of a provincial parson. Charlotte is too preoccupied with the recent death of her Italian lover to notice her daughter's deep-seated unhappiness. Before long, however, Eva's lifetime of pent-up rage and resentment is unleashed, and daughter and mother go face-to-face in a harrowing exchange of recrimination, self-justification, and confession - all magnificently magnified by director Bergman's masterful use of microscopic close-up. Autumn Sonata earned Oscar nominations for Ingrid's performance and for Ingmar's original screenplay. It also proved to be Ingrid's last feature film before her death in 1982. "A chamber work of almost Strindbergian intensity ... [it] allows the director's namesake to give a remarkable performance, displaying every aspect of her screen personality over the years - naivety, sophistication, gaiety, and tragedy" (Bloomsbury Foreign Film Guide).

filmcritic.com Mark Athitakis

At its core Autumn Sonata is little more than a movie about an argument. Charlotte (Ingrid Bergman, in her second-to-last role), a world-famous concert pianist, has arrived at the home of her daughter Eva (Liv Ullmann), who lives a modest life with her parish priest husband, Viktor (Halvar Bjork), and takes care of her terminally ill sister Helena (Lena Nyman). Despite everyone’s efforts to be mannered and accepting – this is an Ingmar Bergman film, after all – Charlotte’s arrival cracks Eva’s long-standing resentments wide open.

Though Ingrid and Ingmar Bergman aren’t related, their pairing on a movie set was a long-anticipated event -- each of their careers were marked by a certain Scandinavian iciness -- and it turned out to be a wholly successful one. Ingrid has a stubborn, indomitable attitude in the opening of the film that turns out to be only selfish shallowness – she resents being in the presence of Helena, and seems anxious to get away from Eva, who she always felt fell short of expectations. As each reveal the losses they’ve suffered and the slights they’ve felt, it slowly becomes clear that resentment has built up between them for years. But the brutality of Eva and Charlotte’s final fight doesn’t come from the noise they make – it’s in the way their words cut. “You should be hidden away and kept from doing others harm,” Eva tells her mother towards the end, and it seems to annihilate her.

There are very few outdoor shots, but though the film mostly takes place within the confines of the home, it doesn’t feel claustrophobic. Ingmar suffuses the rooms of the house with bright red and orange light, which feels more cool than fiery. The idea seemed to be to relax the mood with something that felt like a sunset – something autumnal -- instead of underscoring the anger in the living room. Ingrid Bergman and Liv Ullmann handled that just fine by themselves.

DVDBeaver - Full Graphic Review [Gary Tooze]

A stunning union of two of Sweden’s national treasures, Autumn Sonata pairs Ingmar Bergman with Ingrid Bergman for their only joint effort. Ingrid plays a mother who, after forsaking her family for a music career, attempts a reconciliation with her oldest daughter (Liv Ullmann) through a night of painful revelation. Sven Nykvist contributes glorious Eastmancolor cinematography to this quietly beautiful story of forgiveness.

Ingrid Bergman was a juror at Cannes in 1973, when Ingmar Bergman's "Cries and Whispers" won a Technical Award. Ingrid coyly slips a piece of paper in Ingmar's pocket reminding him he had promised to do a film with her. Four years later that was to come to fruition with the brutally honest, emotionally powerful production, Autumn Sonata.

Ingmar Bergman directed a series of films in the 70’s that have been referred to as "Chamber films" (or "Chamber pieces" ). They involve only a handful of actors and usually focus on very intense interpersonal relationships and situations. Loosely based on Bergman’s own youth, Autumn Sonata is one such film. Made in forty days during late 1977 it starred Ingrid Bergman in her last theatrical role. She portrays a self-centered and sophisticated concert pianist Charlotte, who visits her passive daughter Eva, played by Liv Ullman. This would be the first and only collaboration of the two Bergmans as cancer would take Ingrid's life five years later. This would also mark Liv Ullman’s last great role with Bergman, whose child, Linn Ullman, she bore and would play the younger Eva in the film. Bergman, known as the greatest director of women along with Eric Rohmer, continues his theme of discordance between females as seen in a number of his previous pictures.

The three act masterpiece ebbs and flows like the Chopin and Bach music that is played throughout the film. This is a healthy introduction to Ingmar Bergman's self created style. The niche of ideas and narration that he has formed has impacted immeasurably on the cinematic world.

MovieMartyr.com Jeremy Heilman

Autumn Sonata, a stunningly accomplished chamber drama from Ingmar Bergman, is relaxed as often as it is austere. Set mostly in a country home, the film essentially has three speaking parts, and the real crux of the film revolves around only two of the characters, an emotionally and physically distant mother and daughter. Played respectively by Ingrid Bergman (as Charlotte) and Liv Ullmann (as Eva), the two actresses give phenomenal performances. After seven years apart, the death of Charlotte’s longtime companion prompts Eva to invite her to her home, and the film observes the way that the physical and temporal distance from their relationship has in no way dulled the acute feelings that they have about each other. 

Watching a good Bergman movie is like being thrown into a psychic vortex. The way that the director uses the screen to represent the state of mind of his characters is truly unparalleled. His camera stresses the unspoken but rarely appears to (notice the camera’s slightest recoil when the mother and daughter embrace in bed). His close-ups are held for inordinately long periods and the emotions that wash over the face of his actors have a genuine complexity and depth to them. They don’t often say exactly what they are feeling, but we understand implicitly. Everything that we see is intimate, but there are even more layers suggested that are never revealed. In some of her writings, Eva mentions that she values feeling without sentimentality, and that's precisely what a Bergman film provides. 

Much of the film feels like a condemnation of Charlotte, who was more devoted to her work than her daughter, and it’s shocking that Bergman would be so one-sided. It’s quite apparent that the scars of Eva’s childhood haven’t been left behind. Some of her complaints, while essentially valid (a mother should be perceptive toward her daughter’s feelings), seem a bit unfounded (an adult should be able to accept that her mother is human as well, foibles and all). As Eva continues to eviscerate her mother for her neglect, the audience’s resentment toward Eva builds up for doling out the punishment, making us better understand where Eva’s coming from. The film doesn’t exactly take sides, but there is the feeling that Charlotte, who did have an affair, is getting a bum rap from a woman that claims to be incapable of love herself, yet is married. We certainly can acknowledge Charlotte’s guilt, but this war being waged on Eva’s home turf feels a bit unfair. 

It’s to Bergman’s credit, then, that the last two minutes completely dispel any such complaint. With striking economy, the film suggests there will be a winter to follow this relationship’s autumn, and if the tone isn’t exactly hopeful, it’s certainly open to the possibility of hope. Impossibly pretty, the film is shot by Sven Nykvist in autumnal hues and impressionistic lighting with flashbacks that look more like animated paintings than mere sets. Bergman’s technical brilliance is subdued here, allowing his actors and script to leave the biggest impressions. If the humble Autumn Sonata ultimately lacks the sheer power of Bergman’s similarly constrained Cries and Whispers or Persona, it is only because its admirable earthiness needn’t resort to the former’s transcendent leaps into the supernatural and the latter’s narrative explosions. 

-Peter Cowie Criterion essay

Bergman vs. Bergman: Ingrid Dearest in Ingmar's Autumn Sonata Dan Callahan from Bright Lights Film Journal

The Criterion Contraption [Matthew Dessem]

Nick's Flick Picks (Full Review) Nick Davis

The Onion A.V. Club [Keith Phipps]

Movie Revival [Chad Newsom]

Reel.com DVD review [Rod Armstrong]

DVD Verdict (Sean McGinnis)

Strictly Film School review Acquarello

VideoVista Paul Higson

THE FARO DOCUMENT (Fårö-dokument 1979) – made for TV

Sweden (103 mi) 1979

DVD Times Noel Megahey

In 1969, Ingmar Bergman made the original Fårödokument, a documentary about the people who inhabit the small Swedish island of Fårö off the Gotland coastline. An inhospitable place in the winter, the island however attracts a large number of tourists from the mainland, keeping the industry and farming alive, but just barely. At the time of making the original documentary, the draw of the big city and employment was an attraction for many of the island’s young people who were abandoning Fårö for the mainland in increasing numbers, leaving the island’s prospects in a very poor state indeed.

Having since adopted the island as his home, Bergman would make Fårödokument 1979 in order to examine how things had progressed or declined in the intervening ten years, interviewing many of the same people from the original film. He finds that the small population of 673 inhabitants has remained relatively stable and that some of the young people, so keen to leave Fårö in the original 1969 film, have since returned to help out their families on the land. Like the declining industry of fishing, those involved in farming however find they have had to adapt and diversify, since living off the land alone is unsustainable.

Bergman’s film doesn’t delve at all deeply on the history of the island or the families living on Fårö. His interest is in the people of the here and now, what drives them, keeps them going through their solitary and isolated existence, the sense of community between them and the bond each of them have with the land around them. The camera impassively watches the people going about their everyday activities - farming, fishing, shearing sheep, slaughtering pigs, thatching a house, working with lumber. Of perhaps most interest to Bergman, he repeatedly returns to an old man living alone who finds himself driven to write poems, finding a creative force in his relationship with the land that he is driven to express, although untrained as a writer. Bergman’s film also takes in their little trials and tribulations - the burning down of a house, age and disability, a funeral – everyday things that take on greater significance because of the close-knit nature of the community and their dependence on being able to work the land themselves.

The camera picks up all the beauty and desolation of the island, from its cold, inhospitable and barely endurable winter months through to the flow of tourists that arrive there in increasing numbers every summer. Like many local economies, the islanders struggle to adjust to maintaining a balance between preserving the character of the place and their growing dependence on the tourists that arrive there. Many locals complain that the tourists and seasonal home-owners are treated more favourably than people on the island, but they know that without them, the island would not survive. It’s on this note that Fårödokument 1979 ends, cautiously optimistic that although things haven’t got better in the last ten years, they haven’t got worse either.

Ingmar Bergman is noted for films that explore the troubled psyches of solitary people who feel abandoned by God, isolated, alienated and cut off from the world around them. Many of those darkest, bleakest films Hour Of The Wolf, Persona, Shame, The Passion of Anna have been shot on or around Fårö, its isolation and desolation reflecting the nature of the main characters. It’s natural then that Bergman would want to explore the lives of the people who live in such a place, their relationship with their environment and what it is that keeps them going. The people and the land however resist any kind of simplistic social-anthropological examination and Bergman doesn’t even try to get beneath what makes these people tick. What he does effectively show however is the people, the lives they lead and the harsh beauty of the land they inhabit and question how long such a way of life can continue in the changing modern world.

The New York Times (Janet Maslin)

FROM THE LIFE OF THE MARIONETTES (Aus dem Leben der Marionetten) – made for TV

Sweden Germany (104 mi) 1980

Time Out

Bergman's not exactly successful examination of the events and warped psychology leading up to a bourgeois businessman's murder of a prostitute. Laden with sexual traumas, fading marriages and nightmare death wishes, it's a trip through Bergman territory that we've all taken before. But Sven Nykvist's camerawork is as usual impeccable, and a certain curiosity value is afforded by the spectacle of Swedish angst filtered, as through a glass darkly, by way of an entirely German cast.

From the Life of Marionettes Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

A much-neglected late-period Bergman, made just before Fanny and Alexander, the German-language From Life of the Marionettes is a work of devastating psychological violence. The film opens, in colour, with a shocking crime: an affluent young businessman's savage murder of a prostitute in the back room of a tawdry Munich peepshow parlour. It then unfolds as a black-and-white and Brechtian case-study analysis of the background to this seemingly inexplicable act - detailing, among other things, the protagonist's superficially happy but profoundly antagonistic marriage to a successful fashion designer, and his oddly homoerotic relationship with his wife's gay business partner. "Bergman pieces together a fearsomely credible explanation of the man's mental cataclysm... the film also works as a devastating image of emotional aridity induced by 'normal' life in a comfortable, materialistic society" (Variety). "The sense of an artist close to spinning off into insanity pervades the film" (Peter Cowie). "Relentless and bruising... One of Bergman's most powerful and troubling explorations of this atomic fission in the human soul. He should be the first filmmaker to win the Nobel Prize" (Jack Kroll).

Strictly Film School Acquarello

In a garishly decorated basement room of a tawdry, erotic cabaret, amidst the ambient pulsating, rhythmic drone of risqué music, an impassive prostitute nicknamed Ka (Rita Russek) embraces a solemn and diffident client, Peter Egermann (Robert Atzorn), caressing his face through the motions of sleep. The seemingly tender moment soon inexplicably turns to aggression when Peter violently reaches for Ka's throat and begins to choke her - a ferocious impulse that culminates with her brutal and unconscionable murder and violation. The film then proceeds in black and white as Peter's psychiatrist, Professor Mogens Jensen (Martin Benrath), is summoned to appear before the police investigation board and provide a deposition on his encounter with Peter on the dawn after the murder, prompted by the patient's cryptic early morning telephone call to his private residence. Jensen reveals that Peter had sought treatment after being haunted by dreams of murdering his loving, but unfaithful wife Katarina (Christine Buchegger). However, the façade of Jensen's impartiality and professionalism is soon stripped away when, after expediting the already suspicious Peter's departure with a trivialized excuse for a subsequent patient appointment, he invites Katarina to his home office for a late afternoon rendezvous. Gradually, the seemingly irreconcilable relationships in Peter's tormented life are revealed through temporal fragments of inquiries and conversations with his adulterous wife Katerina; her business partner Tim (Walter Schmidinger), an insecure, aging homosexual who harbors an unrequited attraction towards the melancholic Peter; and Peter's mother Cordelia Egermann (Lola Müthel), a renowned actress who revels in her delusion of self-martyrdom after sacrificing her career for her children.

Filmed during Ingmar Bergman's self-imposed exile in Germany after a protracted and acrimonious dispute with Swedish authorities on charges of income tax evasion, From the Life of Marionettes is a challenging, visually hypnotic, and atypically voluptuous film that reflects Bergman's own personal struggle with alienation, estrangement, and psychological duress. Bergman visually contrasts the color-saturated sequences of the film's prologue and epilogue with the austere, high contrast black and white episodes that encapsulate the chronicled activities of the characters before and after the murder. The conflated, multi-perspective narrative structure of the interviews creates an interconnected - and seemingly inescapable - sense of hermetic insularity that reflects Peter's depression, ambivalence, and entrapment: Jensen's testimony on Peter's behavior after the murder that illustrates Peter's discovery of his wife's emotional betrayal; Peter's unsent letter to Jensen that alludes to his feelings of inadequacy through a sensual, yet turbulent dream about Katarina; Tim's admission of his subversive manipulation of the Egermanns relationship that reveals his own fears and desires. Interweaving reality and illusion, consciousness and dreams, and past and present, From the Life of Marionettes presents a provocative and haunting portrait of disconnection, repression, emotional violence, and intimacy.

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

Spirituality & Health (Frederic and Mary Ann Brussat)

EyeForFilm.co.uk Amber Wilkinson

Channel 4 Film

DVDBeaver.com [Per-Olof Strandberg]

FANNY AND ALEXANDER (Fanny och Alexander) – made for TV

Sweden France Germany (188 mi) 1982 Swedish TV version (312 mi)

Karen Krisanovich from 1001 MOVIES YOU MUST SEE BEFORE YOU DIE:

Swedish director Ingmar Bergman’s large body of work is so distinctive that it is frequently spoofed by comedians as well as imitated and cited by lesser filmmakers. Showing the deeper, darker side of the human spirit without flinching or resorting to melodrama, Bergman’s dreamy, allegorical films present life as it is rather than how we wish it would be.

Announced as the director’s penultimate film (he has since primarily worked in television), the autobiographical tale of Fanny and Alexander came as a jolt to fans of his brooding earlier films. Written by Bergman, and featuring many of Bergman’s most talented, seasoned actors, including Erland Josephson, Harriet Andersson, and Gunnar Björnstrand, Fanny is considered his most accessible movie – it won four of its six Academy Award nominations, including Best Foreign Language Film.

This long part-autobiography spans an important and stormy year in the life of the brother and sister (Pernilla Allwin and Bertil Guve) born into an aristocratic family in turn-of-the-century Sweden. Filmed with an energy unseen in previous Bergman productions, the story is part Dickensian drama, part mystical fairy tale. Beginning at a luxurious family Christmas told from the boy’s point of view, it switches to their miserable life after the death of their much-loved theater-owning father. By then, the usual Bergmanesque sense of foreboding has descended on the story, settling on life during the deeply unfortunate and terrifying remarriage of their mother to an awful bishop – Jan Malmsjö in a suitably hateful role.

Fanny and Alexander’s length and languorous, careful pace may put modern action viewers off, but Bergman’s famous cinematographer Sven Nyqvist uses lustrous lighting to make each frame a delight. The entire film has a dreamy sense of the unreal, a relief during its more tragic moments. Bergman, ever the master, wisely structures the tale to have its most horrific and most satisfying moment just when the story demands a resolution. By then the viewer is left breathless and waiting for the good times to return. Despite his life’s work analyzing the frightening world of the living, Bergman here allows his audience some comfort – albeit with certain philosophical provisions.

Fanny and Alexander Dave Kehr from the Reader

Ingmar Bergman's 1983 feature, condensed from a much longer TV series, is less an autumnal summation of his career than an investigation of its earliest beginnings: through the figure of ten-year-old Alexander (Bertil Guve), Bergman traces the storytelling urge, developing from dreams and fairy tales into theater and (implicitly) movies. The film doesn't so much surmount Bergman's usual shortcomings-the crude contrasts, heavy symbolism, and preachy philosophizing-as find an effective context for them. Tied to a child's mind, the oversimplifications become the stuff of myth and legend. As in The Night of the Hunter, a realistic psychological drama is allowed to expand into fantasy; the result is one of Bergman's most haunting and suggestive films. With Ewa Froling and Gunn Wallgren. In Swedish with subtitles. 197 min.

Fanny and Alexander Hal Erickson from All Movie Guide

Though he made allusions to his own life in all of his films, Fanny and Alexander was the first overtly autobiographical film by Ingmar Bergman. Taking his time throughout (188 minutes to be exact), Bergman recreates several episodes from his youth, using as conduits the fictional Ekdahl family. Alexander, the director's alter ego, is first seen at age 10 at a joyous and informal Christmas gathering of relatives and servants. Fanny is Alexander's sister; both suffer an emotional shakedown when their recently-widowed mother (Ewa Froling) marries a cold and distant minister. Stripped of their creature comforts and relaxed family atmosphere, Fanny and Alexander suddenly find their childhood unendurable. The kids' grandmother (Gunn Wallgren) "kidnaps" Fanny and Alexander for the purpose of showering them with the first kindness and affection that they've had since their father's death. This "purge" of the darker elements of Fanny and Alexander's existence is accomplished at the unintentional (but applaudable) cost of the hated stepfather's life. Ingmar Bergman insisted that Fanny and Alexander, originally a multipart television series pared down to feature-film length, represented his "retirement" work, though within a year after its release he was busy with several additional Swedish TV projects. Oscars went to Fanny and Alexander for best foreign film, cinematography (Sven Nykvist), costumes and art direction/set decoration.

Time Out

This late gem from the Swedish maestro upped the ante in terms of autobiographical resonance, radically expanding on the way he’d often used personal experience to inflect the thematic preoccupations of his work, and anticipating scripts like ‘The Best Intentions’ which, despite being directed by others, represented events from his life more literally and explicitly than previously. Here, filtered through the eyes of young Alexander (Bertil Guve) and his sister (Pernilla Allwin), aspects of Bergman’s past are transformed not only into fiction but into a meditation on the nature and craft of fiction: the children’s experiences – first in the warm fold of a theatrical family, then, after dad’s death, at the mercy of a stern stepfather (whose Lutheran calling inevitably evokes that of the director’s own parent) – are structured largely as a series of scenes centred on watching, listening, performing and storytelling.

As such it’s a marvellously engrossing and thought-provoking film, filled with dazzling dramatic set-pieces and witty, knowing allusions to its creator’s artistic conceits and deceits. Especially when the children are subjected, thanks to their well-meaning but misguided mother (Ewa Fröhling), to the harsh regime of the Bishop Vergerus (Jan Malmsjö), the film also packs an emotional punch, so that the elegant recreation of early-twentieth-century life feels alive in a sense barely dreamt of by most makers of ‘costume drama’. True, this theatrical cut of a mere three hours is less wholly satisfying than the five-hour TV original; the narrative’s a little choppy and uneven, producing the impression of a golden oldie mix of greatest hits. Still, what hits!

Fanny & Alexander from the Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

An enchanting, life-affirming, celebratory evocation of childhood and the magic of theatre, the wonderful Fanny and Alexander, screening here in a gorgeous new print, was announced as the great Ingmar Bergman's farewell to the cinema (although his After the Rehearsal, a 1984 made-for-TV movie, would subsequently receive a theatrical release - as may, eventually, his 2003 TV film Saraband, a sequel to Scenes from a Marriage). Winner of four Academy Awards, including the Swedish master’s third Oscar for Best Foreign Film, Fanny and Alexander begins during Christmas 1907, with ten-year-old Alexander and younger sister Fanny enjoying the warmth and good humour of their ebullient, eccentric, and prosperous extended family. Their lives will soon take a less happy turn, however, with the death of their actor father and the remarriage of their mother to a strict, puritanical Protestant minister. Bergman’s semi-autobiographical tale is shot in glowing images by long-time collaborator Sven Nykvist, who effectively contrasts the rich, warm hues of the children’s old environment with the stark coldness of their new stepfather’s home, and whose snow-bound exteriors capture the landscapes of provincial Sweden with Brueghellian expertise. Fanny and Alexander is also something of a summation and compendium of Bergman’s career in the cinema, touching on many of his characteristic themes, and replete with references to many of his other works. It may also be Bergman’s most opulent and optimistic film - something of a surprise, perhaps, from a director whose work has long been synonymous with Scandinavian austerity and angst. "A sustained triumph... For those who have kept faith with Bergman it is an inexpressible relief to find that despair has not gained the upper hand" (Sight and Sound). "He leaves us in a blaze of glory" (David Shipman).

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson]

Of the Art Film-era über-auteurs, Fellini, Antonioni, Godard, Truffaut, Kurosawa, and Buñuel remain potent currency in one form or another (new work, old scripts, reissues, docs, tributes, etc.), but Ingmar Bergman seems to have faded dramatically from view. Clearly now, the respect he received was always on the verge of dissolving into contempt; going back as far as the 1968 short De Düva, things "Bergman-esque"—overt psychological symbology, brooding seriousness, spiritual crisis, Scandi-angst—have been grist for farce. The grim Swede may have seemed to be an indomitable voice, but in today's cultural market, he's a nowhere man.

Still, fashion will not win in the end, and Bergman, a classical giant with modernist ordnance, will re-emerge as essential for all ages. Film Forum's upcoming retro will prove the point, but so would Fanny and Alexander, Bergman's 1982 career summation and the kind of rich, timeless, cautionless magnum opus we can only receive, like benedictions, from artists who've paid their generation's dues of sweat, risk, tears, and honesty. F&A views the oceanic heavings of a close-knit theater family circa 1907 from the perspective of the eponymous lad, from warm holiday memories through a medieval stepchildhood and beyond.

Exploring his own psycho-aesthetic roots and how they sprouted in his earlier films (the iconography, from household spaces made menacing to ghosts and suggestions of God himself, virtually catalogs the '50s-'60s filmography), Bergman locates a generosity and élan that make F&A feel like his youngest film. Pity that the five-hour-plus Swedish TV version isn't being given a screen—reportedly, Bergman himself prefers the three-hour theatrical version, but for me, the more of this royal banquet the better. (The curious can seek out the 309-minute British DVD edition.) For the enviable Bergman initiate, this is the spring's main event.

Nick's Flick Picks (Capsule Review) Nick Davis

Tonight I had the much-delayed pleasure of seeing the Swedish master's great Fanny and Alexander for the first time, in a restored 35mm print that might even have been 70mm, it looked so ridiculously gorgeous. How beautiful was this? So beautiful I started laughing, twice. Truly, I've never seen such a ravishing color print of a 20-year-old movie. This must be the print that Criterion used for the typically de luxe DVD set they released a few months back, which I'll now be buying as soon as ye olde budget permits.

But enough about the celluloid and the merchandising. The film is a jaw-dropper: one of the best films ever about theater, one of the best about family, one of the best and subtlest about the adolescence of an artist, and surely the only Bergman film likely to please fans of Persona, Dynasty, and Lemony Snicket. The time is the first decade of the 20th century. The opening moments have as many hues of red as Cries and Whispers does and the same eerie, cavernous quiet as The Silence, and yet it's clear from the outset that Bergman is headed in warmer directions. The hushed preparations for a holiday dinner give way before long to a thoroughly charming theatrical interlude and then to a sprawlingly sharp-minded family circus that George Eliot might have written in an atypically frisky mood, perhaps after a few mugs of nog.

The mini-saga that follows is full of wisdom and chill, widows and ghosts, finery and asceticism, possibilities and impossibilities. The human canvas is probably Bergman's richest since the comparably fizzy Smiles of a Summer Night, even though the familiar abyss of Bergmanesque terror and doubt is still palpable beneath both movies. Recognizable faces pass in and out, from a yarmulked Erland Josephson to a young Lena Olin; my favorite Bergman actress, Harriet Andersson, turns up in a small but enthralling role as a housekeeper with unreadable allegiances. Schumann and Britten on the soundtrack, sparingly but perfectly used. An angry doorknob, a gender-queer clairvoyant, a joyous abduction that is tersely subverted by a hauntingly incongruous shot. The middle hour is the least adventurous, but even then, watching Alexander learn to watch people—women, men, in that order—is like watching a young Ingmar Bergman assemble his genius through equal parts intuition, mischief, and dread.

As self-referential as Fellini's 8½, and comparably fun in its own very different way, Fanny and Alexander is simply the best film I've seen since Contempt in February, or maybe since The Travelling Players last June. It's my 16th Bergman movie; Woody Allen and Steven Spielberg, for better or worse, are the only directors whose work I have visited more often. Fanny thus joins, in order of their production, Smiles of a Summer Night, The Seventh Seal, Persona, Shame, and Cries and Whispers at the highest rank of my personal Bergman pantheon. (The others I've seen are Wild Strawberries, The Virgin Spring, Through a Glass Darkly, Winter Light, The Silence, Hour of the Wolf, The Magic Flute, Face to Face, Autumn Sonata, and After the Rehearsal.) Next up for me will be Scenes from a Marriage, with its sequel Saraband due to hit US theaters this summer. Meanwhile, for anyone looking for a 3 hour and 8 minute visual and narrative feast...you've found it!

P.S. Also, for any poor soul keeping track, Fanny is the fourth of my New Year's Resolution films that I've checked off in '05. Any suggestions for where to go next on these two lists are more than welcome!

Deep Focus (Bryant Frazer) updated with minor edits after Bergman’s death: Fanny and Alexander (1982)

Fanny and Alexander, Ingmar Bergman's ostensible valedictory film, is most clearly and obviously about the pleasures of family — even the farting, adulterous and shame-faced family that’s so often exposed here. In that respect, I suppose, it’s an old man’s film. Bergman may identify, to some degree, with the matriarch of the Ekdahls, who is seen early on gazing out her window as her relatives stumbling noisily through the snow outside toward home. She murmurs happily, “Here comes my family.” What surprises, then, is the way the story becomes a sort of fairy-tale-cum-horror-movie – this is a ghost story whose subjects are the living and the dead, magic and imagination and the nature of God.

Despite numerous, direct allusions to the body of his work, Fanny and Alexander is very unlike the films Bergman, then 64, had become known for, particularly the increasingly austere exercises that characterized his films in the 1970s. As Michael Atkinson recently pointed out in The Village Voice, it may actually be his youngest film in sensibility. Certainly the first act, which takes places at a rather vulgar overnight Christmas party at the Ekdahl family residence, is somewhat adult in terms of content. Grandmothers grow old and mourn the passing of their youth, wives forgive the blatant infidelities of their cheery husbands, and ruminations take place on the relationship between the real world outside and the sheltered little world of the theater that belongs to the family, and to which the family belongs. But the narrative is deliberately and delicately filtered through the eyes of the titular children, who watch it all happen. Their experiences are shaped by what they see going on, even if they’re not fully aware of the ramifications of the actions and attitudes on display.

There’s much for them to see. So impressed have I always been by the theatrical version of the film, which runs a mere 188 minutes, that I was doubly excited to get my hands on Artificial Eye’s Region 2 PAL DVD release, which includes the entire five-hour version that was shown on Swedish television. (Kim's in New York City stocks it for sale, but I saved a couple bucks by ordering it from Amazon.co.uk; unfortunately, the DVD is a dingy thing with sometimes muddy sound, obviously transferred from a videotape source. Rumor has it The Criterion Collection is preparing a proper stateside release, so hold on if you can.) I can say that the feature-length version of Fanny and Alexander is a fine film in its own right; the five-hour version is both more expansive and more indulgent, but it never feels padded or windy. The differences between the two versions are subtle, but some of them are critical; let’s say that the theatrical version may benefit somewhat from ambiguity, but the complete opus is unlikely to disappoint aficionados, who will find in it an even richer tapestry of Bergman’s pet themes and concerns. More than ever, it’s a film for viewers who love Bergman.

The film is named after two children, but it’s mainly about the young boy. The dark-haired Alexander is handsome but slight of build and pensive; the blonde Fanny is treated almost as a prop by comparison. Alexander always reminds me a bit of that skinny kid at the beginning of Persona, the one who reaches out toward the translucent screen on which a projection of a character’s face is beginning to take vague focus, and who may thus represent that early urge toward narrative. (In a film that’s all about the physical and mental process of cinematic storytelling, the boy may well represent the director himself, as a concept if not in the autobiographical sense.) Indeed, we see Alexander in this film’s very first scene, which may be a deliberate echo of Persona. He’s peering into a playhouse in miniature. We see him from an audience’s point of view, framed by the proscenium — his huge face, shoulders and arms looming as he places the little miniature figures on a stage lit by a row of tiny candles. (A legend inscribed above the stage reads, “Not solely for pleasure.”) Has there ever been so efficiently visual a screen metaphor for the direction of a film?

When Alexander retreats to a darkened bedroom at day’s end, he fires up a magic lantern and entertains the other children by projecting stories onto the blank wall. The smell of paraffin draws his parents into the room, and his father, Oscar, lingers, picking up an ordinary wooden chair and regaling the children with a fanciful story about its alleged origins in Imperial China. This scene, not included in the film’s theatrical version, is important because it gives away the game — it is echoed later in the film, from the mouth of another storyteller, in a way that clearly suggests the narrative has moved inside Alexander’s own mind, where it’s embellished with the presence of magic, wonder and even ghosts.

The film’s main dramatic thrust comes after Oscar’s death, as the family is broken up. Emilie, the children’s now-widowed mother, turns in her grief to the local bishop, in whose severe demeanor she hopes to find clues about the true face of god. They marry, but Bishop Edvard Vergerus turns out to be a cruel patriarch who expects servile obedience from his stepchildren. Alexander provokes the bishop when he spins a story about him — Alexander claims the bishop murdered his wife and children, earning a beating. In the U.S. release of the film, this story thread plays out eerily, leaving the audience with the impression that perhaps Alexander has somehow learned a dark secret from the evil Bishop’s past. But in the longer version, Alexander is berated by the spirits of the children themselves for making up fibs. (Is it telling that, even in Alexander’s free-wheeling imagination, God himself eventually turns out to be a parlor trick?) In this regard, part of me likes the shorter version better. The more expansive version is a bit twistier, and maybe a little less magical. But it does make more clear exactly what Bergman is up to in showing the awakening of a mischievous young imagination not so unlike his own — despite his protests that the film isn’t autobiographical. That said, the sequence where the children are deftly spirited away from the Bishop’s home by a magical Jew remains, at least in my eyes, a stubbornly and deliberately inexplicable theatrical flourish.

As much as it's a paean to the classical extended family, Fanny and Alexander is a valentine to the idea of theater — and while Bergman's career as a stage director continued long after his film career had been laid to rest, he’s recently announced that, at the age of 84, he’s truly and finally retiring. Theater, of course, creates its own family, and, at its most involving and enchanting, can perhaps most credibly suggest that the impossible, or at least the highly improbable, has taken place up there on stage, just past the proscenium arch. “Theater is the beginning and end and actually everything,” he recently told a Swedish newspaper in words that were reprinted the world over, “while cinema belongs to the whoring and slaughterhouse trade.” But he also said this, writing in his autobiography, The Magic Lantern, about shooting a crucial scene from the final act of Fanny and Alexander: “Sometimes there is a special happiness in being a film director. An unrehearsed expression is born just like that, and the camera registers that expression …. That is when I think days and months of predictable routine have paid off. It is possible I live for those brief moments. Like a pearl fisher.”

It seems to me Bergman's valedictory film is fiercely appreciative of the intangible; it argues vehemently that we make room for the idea of magic, at least within the walls of the theater and maybe in the cinema, too — if not, God willing, in the greater world outside.

-Rick Moody reviews the Theatrical version from Criterion

-Stig Björkman reviews the Television version from Criterion

-Paul Arthur reviews Bergman’s THE MAKING OF FANNY AND ALEXANDER for Criterion

Fanny and Alexander, Noel Megahey from DVD Times

Images Journal David Ng

Epinions.com [Steven Flores]

Epinions [metalluk]

Turner Classic Movies James Steffen

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson)

filmcritic.com Jake Euker

moviediva

Fanny and Alexander (Sweden, 1982, Ingmar Bergman)... Dan Jardine from Cinemania

Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick)

About.com Home Video/DVD [Ivana Redwine]

DVD Movie Central Michael Jacobson

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

DVD Verdict Steve Evans

Kamera.co.uk Antonio Pasolini

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

KQEK DVD Review [Mark R. Hasan]

Edinburgh U Film Society [Spiros Gangas]

Guardian/Observer

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times in 1983

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times in 2004

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

KARIN’S FACE (Karins ansikte)

Sweden (14 mi) 1984

User Reviews from imdb Author: Spider J

Bergman's poignant tribute to his mother is made up entirely of photographs from his personal family album. With no voice-over and only the occasional inter-title Bergman lets the photos speak for themselves, aided only by a sparse musical track

If a picture is worth a thousand words then this film is worth a million. Beautiful, haunting and sad Bergman's photo-montage tribute to his mother is incredible. As good as, if not better than, THE SEVENTH SEAL.

User Reviews from imdb Author: (gleywong@erols.com) from Maryland, USA

"Karin's Face" was shown as part of the Bergman retrospective organized by the National Gallery, the American Film Institute, and the National Museum of Women in the Arts. It was paired with his 1958 "Brink of Life" in an insightful match.

This is a surprising and lovely film, and thoroughly engrossing, given its brief length. Shot and framed with exquisite care, it validates a favorite past time and the value of looking at old photographs of family members to gain insight into one's self.

Amassing as many of the old photos as he could of his parents and grandparents, their relatives and offspring, Bergman takes long, lingering views of their faces, their hands, the expressions in their eyes and mouths, registering for us all, something special in the faces of siblings and relatives young and old. These are long loving looks, with no narration, just a piano playing a simple slightly abstract tune. It was quite moving to see, just through juxtaposition, what Bergman could lead us to think about how he regards his mother, father, aunts, uncles, cousins, -- anyone who was pictured, including himself as a boy.

This film recalled the movie "Best Intentions," of 1992, because the actors in that film really looked like his parents. What was striking in gazing at these photographs, was that Bergman's father had the more feminine face, with his soft features, large eyes, and receding chin; whereas his mother had the more masculine face, smaller eyes, strong jaw, intelligent but not stern. She was quite a beauty when young (her mother opposed the marriage, as in the movie) and being a parson's wife took its toll on her beauty, but instilled great character in her face, which never grew hard, as some faces can in old age.

Of particular interest was the fact that many of the faces of his relative had traits of the actresses, especially, that he favored, their expressions recalling them uncannily. One face looked very much like Liv Ullmann, and Bibi Andersson's features seem to resemble something of his mother's when she was young.

The simplicity and power of this film, its rhythm and pacing, earn Bergman a new epithet as a conductor, so musical did the entire piece seem to this viewer. Definitely recommended to all film goers who appreciate character development in cinema and abhor its absence in so many of today's films.

AFTER THE REHEARSAL (Efter repetitionen) – made for TV

Sweden (70 mi) 1984

Chicago Reader (Dave Kehr)

Ingmar Bergman's 70-minute TV film (1984) is an afterword to Fanny and Alexander, an examination of the impressions and emotions that linger after the story is over, taking the form of three monologues (an elderly director, a young actress, the director's alcoholic ex-star and ex-lover) and a concluding duet. The film is awful where Bergman has always been awful--in trying to turn his philosophical conceits into viable drama--but there is something liberating in the very schematism of the project: he no longer needs to pretend that his mouthpieces are real people. As in Fanny, Bergman is self-consciously regathering the themes and situations that are his artistic property, though the perspective is no longer one of childhood and commencement, but of old age and exhaustion. With Erland Josephson, Ingrid Thulin, and Lena Olin.

Spirituality & Practice [Frederic and Mary Ann Brussat]

Veteran theatre director Henrik Vogler is dozing after a rehearsal of August Strindberg's 1902 work A Dream Play. He is awakened when Anna, a beautiful young actress, returns to the empty stage looking for her bracelet. She is the daughter of one of Vogler's good friends and has the leading role in the drama.

They discuss the theatre, and the director speaks of his love of actors' "courage and contempt of death, their flight and their ruthless sincerity." Anna keeps fishing for compliments, and it is soon evident she has a crush on Vogler. Then suddenly, she speaks of her hatred for her deceased mother — an actress who played roles even in real life.

Rakel comes on stage; she is middle-aged, an expressive woman who was given only a small part in Vogler's earlier production of A Dream Play. She chides him for humiliating her and no longer believing in her acting abilities. She tries to seduce Vogler, but he is not interested. She then describes her affair with a doctor who is treating her for alcoholism and leaves abruptly.

After the Rehearsal, originally produced for television, is a tightly structured and highly involving work of art. Ingmar Bergman examines theatre, sexuality, aging, and the games people play. Erland Josephson is splendid as the seasoned director who is still exhausted and exhilarated by the theatre and human ambiguity. Lena Olin is very persuasive as Anna, a young woman sorting out the priorites in her career and personal life. And Ingrid Thulin as the self-destructive and volatile Rakel vividly conveys the mid-life crisis of a woman who has fallen apart. Cinematographer Sven Nykvist's close-ups amplify the emotional nuances of the drama.

Once Rakel leaves — her appearance in fact is all in Vogler's mind — the director and Anna resume their talk. She threatens to leave the production to have a baby. He is astounded and angered by her thoughtlessness. Anna shifts gears and reveals her love for Vogler. Together, they imagine what an affair would be like — verbalizing the rhythms of infatuation, living and working together, experiencing fights and jealousy, and finally separating.

In this 72-minute film, the masterful Swedish director brilliantly analyzes the intricate dynamics of male-female sexual politics and leaves us more convinced than ever of the bittersweet ramifications of human love.

DVD Times Noel Megahey

With his ‘final’ and semi-autobiographical film Fanny and Alexander in 1983, Ingmar Bergman hoped to sum up his life and his work in film, drawing it all into a meaningful conclusion, and to a large extent he succeeded, creating one of his most personal and dynamic films. While he never wished to undertake a full-scale film production again, Bergman continued to work in the theatre, write scripts and direct smaller scale films for television. Evidently feeling that he had more to say about what it means to live one’s life as a director working with actors on the stage and screen, Bergman immediately followed Fanny and Alexander with After The Rehearsal as a kind of epilogue or footnote to his filmmaking life.

Originally conceived as a simple dialogue between a director and an actor on one single stage location, After The Rehearsal was meant to be simple made-for-television film that would be undertaken principally for the pleasure of working with Erland Josephson, Lena Olin and cinematographer Sven Nykvist. The idea was to spend three weeks rehearsing the scenes and then having Nykvist film them – a simple task with familiar collaborators that wouldn’t stretch the semi-retired director too much, but unfortunately it didn’t turn out that way.

Erland Josephson plays Henrik Vogler, a theatre director who is staging a production of Strindberg’s A Dream Play. After a rehearsal one of the actors, Anna (Lena Olin) returns to the stage to pick up a bracelet she believes she has left behind and while they are together the actor and director discuss aspects of the rehearsal, and about performances of plays in general before the conversation turns to question the role of actors and directors and becomes a self-reflective and personal look at the necessity to create drama, both in our lives and in its representation on the stage. The young actress is uncertain of her ability and intimidated by her predecessors, both those who have played her role in the play before and those who have played a similar role in the director’s life. One of those people was Rakel (Ingrid Thulin), Anna’s mother and a former lover of the Henrik.

In After The Rehearsal then, Bergman reflects on the metier of the director and the actor and the eternal struggle between them - one to draw out the light and shade and complexity of a scene, the other to dramatise it. Consequently, the film is rather insular, both in its subject matter and in its stagy one-location representation. But it’s more than just theatrical in its subject and reaches out by extension to a wider viewing of the realities of living and dealing with other people and - as ever with Bergman - the doubts about oneself, ones creativity and the ability to communicate. These everyday challenges of living are intensified in the theatre world, where brief, emotional, close-knit relationships are formed for a period of a number of weeks and are compounded by the insecurities of those with artistic and creative ability in their necessity to express themselves to an audience for entertainment. “This is how I express myself. It’s the only way I know how to... Real or not... I suffer, and I am alone”. It’s a struggle that Bergman has battled with throughout his career and accounts for some of his blackest, bleakest moment of inner creative turmoil in films like Hour Of The Wolf and The Magician.

The extension of the theme outside of the theatrical world is what makes After the Rehearsal a better film and more meaningful than it might have been, but it is also what makes the film difficult to watch and follow. What started out as an already relatively difficult dialogue between a director and an actress is extended upon with the introduction of Anna’s mother Rakel. Now dead, she appears however on the stage in that period when her life was in ruins - an alcoholic, she has recently been hospitalised for a nervous breakdown. She is grateful to Henrik for offering her an opportunity, but at the same time is ashamed that she can only be offered a role with two lines. This opens out the destructive nature of the theatre life on relationships, and complicates the themes being explored by Henrik and Anna, but it is rather difficult to convey all this within the limited theatrical framework of a 70 minute one-location film.

Apart from the difficult decisions made in the editing down of the film, the whole production was particularly difficult for Bergman. Problems plagued the film throughout its making, as the director and actors over-analysed every line of the text and agonised over their delivery (something that the film ironically abjures). Tortuous though it is in places, the lines and the meaning of After The Rehearsal do however come through and it serves its purpose as a closing word on the subject of making films, particularly for Bergman, leaving him determined to renounce making films forever after the experience. Fortunately, Bergman came back to conclude his career in a much more auspicious manner twenty years later with Saraband.

After the Rehearsal is a closed, insular and practically autobiographical Bergman film that may not be of interest to everyone, but it has a lot to recommend. It is certainly of interest to anyone who wants to know what makes Bergman tick and it is also of interest as an examination of the art of creating and artistic representation through drama. It may even be of interest to anyone who wants to see three actors, a great director and cinematographer running through their paces on a challenging text - though what they achieve is limited in how successfully it comes across. Similarly unconvincing is the real-world application of such theatrical ruminations, but they are the same actions and emotions that apply to everyone – loves, affairs, jealousies, lack of confidence, fear of failure and death, the desire to control and manipulate – and they are brought to the screen by a master. Tartan’s DVD release this time around is not up to the standard of the other releases in their Bergman Collection, but it doesn’t unduly affect the quality of the film.

Nick's Flick Picks (Full Review) review intermixed with a review for ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND, by Nick Davis

Future Movies (Matt McAllister)

VideoVista Jonathan McCalmont

Channel 4 Film

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

THE MAKING OF FANNY AND ALEXANDER

Sweden (110 mi) 1986

User Reviews from imdb Author: Galina from Virginia, USA

The next best thing to watching Bergman's films is for me to watch and listen to him talking about himself and about his works. "Making of" is a fascinating document - I always wanted to know how he makes his films, what is behind the poetry of images and the sound of silence. Following the master's steps, watching the most magical scenes born in front of you, seeing him in control of his production, always knowing what he wants and leading his crew and his actors; his longtime friendship with his legendary cinematographer Swen Nykwist to the point that they don't talk much - they don't need many words to understand each other - all of these made "Making of Fanny and Alexander" absolutely unique and amazing experience for me. The birth of each scene is a miracle but some of them stand out. The first is one of the most enigmatic and magical scenes ever and not only in Bergman's films - night scene in the Isak's house between Alexander and Ismael, a completely mysterious character with supernatural psychic powers who helped Alexander to unleash his own powers he never knew he had.

The second is the scene with Gunnar Björnstrand, one of the most versatile Bergman's actors (Höstsonaten, (1978), Ansikte mot ansikte (1976), Skammen (1968), Persona (1966), Nattvardsgästerna (1963), Såsom i en spegel (1961), Ansiktet (1958), Smultronstället (1957), Sommarnattens leende (1955), and his masterpiece Det Sjunde inseglet, (1957)). He was old and apparently ill while making Fanny and Alexander which was his last film. The scene in "Making of..." is almost 20 minutes long and shows over and over how Bergman rehearses a short, perhaps one or two minute long cameo with Björnstrand as clown Feste in Shakespeare's "Twelfth Night". It is painful to watch a great actor in such a pitiful state. At some point you'd want Bergman to stop what seems like a torture but he goes on, encouraging his friend, praising him, making sure that Gunnar feels comfortable but not stopping before the scene is shot to his liking...

User Reviews from imdb Author: Alice Liddel (-darragh@excite.com) from dublin, Ireland

Most 'The Making of...' documentaries are barely concealed extensions of the publicity machine, a glorified advertisement that purports to demystify the industrial production of cinema, to bring the audiences closer to actors and directors who are presumed to be engaged as real people creating a fiction, rather than a fiction. When really, the carefully stage-managed featurette reveals just as much as the filmmakers want, tantalising the curious punter without ever enlightening, and developing an extra facet of a star persona, rather than normalising it.

As you might expect, a 'Making of' an Ingmar Bergman film is a little different. Recording the shoot of his swansong and crowning masterpiece, 'Fanny and Alexander', 'Dokument' is essential viewing for Bergmanophiles. Framed by explanatory, often flippant intertitles, the film follows, in detail, Bergman at work, painstakingly, methodically, often tediously shaping each scene, the precise movements of camera and actors, the details of the composition, the timing and delivery of dialogue. There is no frivolous chumminess here, no meet-the-backroom-boys boffinry.

Bergman disclaims at the start any pretensions for this documentary, suggesting that it can never capture the inner journey that is the act of creation: this is of course true, but 'Dokument' is more than the entertaining peek backstage Bergman affects to offer us. With 'Dokument', Bergman performs two very serious functions. Firstly, and perhaps most importantly, he educates the viewer. It many seem dull to watch take after take of each scene, with little of the 'hilarious' bloopers TV programmes and Hollywood end credits delight in (although there's some wonderful business with an intransigent cat). There may not seem to be any real difference between takes, or any reason why we should be shown rehearsals for takes followed by takes.

What this repetition does, though, is accustom the viewer to nuance, to the aesthetic reason for the most functional set-up, or why a character is in this particular position, why this shot is in close up, while the next is an elaborate long take. it alerts us to the use of colour, light, framing; it makes us aware of the details of the decor. The documentary may not show the creative inner journey, but when we see the process from rehearsal to take to final act, we do glimpse something of Bergman's art, something that is clearly going on in his head while the shoot takes place, but remains, until then, unspoken. Trust me, if you watch this documentary just before the film itself, as I did, your mind becomes more receptive, and the work's rich magic becomes even more clearly apparent.

Secondly, and relatedly, 'Dokument' is in a sense a Bergman film. Despite its light, seemingly loose form and tone (Bergman, far from being the anguished dictator of legend, is amiable and constantly braying with childlike laughter), the creative journey I spoke of becomes in a sense a spiritual journey. Like 'Fanny and Alexander' itself, a recreation of Bergman's childhood, the documentary is framed around dinners - in between comes a revelation of the artist, in this case at the end, rather than beginning, of his career.

There is a truly painful sequence here, among the most emotionally powerful in Bergman's work, where Bergman rehearses a cameo with his long-time collaborator Gunnar Bjornstrand, doing a piece as the clown Feste in Shakespeare's 'Twelfth Night'. If the intertitles didn't suggest that Bjornstrand approved the scenes being shown, you would think they were exploitative and humiliating. Bergman may be near the end of his career here, but he is still intellectually and physically formidable, handling the demands of a big-budget, three hours plus costume drama with a large cast and difficult narrative strands with ease and grace.

Bjornstrand, on the other hand, seems nearly senile, tired, forgetful, plainly not up to the job, shown in his scene's non-appearance in the movie. The sight of Bergman trying to keep his friend's spirits up, encourage and compliment a giant of acting like he's a baby, for around 20 minutes, is something you'll never see in 'The Making of Pearl Harbour'. It says so much about Bergman's art and his themes, and how even at his most artificial, he was clearly, obstinately true to life. It's uncanny.

IN THE PRESENCE OF A CLOWN (Larmar och gör sig till) – made for TV A 95

Sweden Italy Norway Germany Denmark (120 mi) 1997

Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more: it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

—Macbeth Act V, William Shakespeare

Bergman filmed a terrific theater piece he wrote that was originally broadcast on Swedish television, adding the element of live theater mixed with brief visual enhancements, revealing a dark comic tragedy of magic, adventure, and the imagination. Börje Ahlstedt plays Carl Akerblom, a character based on Bergman’s great-uncle Carl, a part he also plays in FANNY AND ALEXANDER and BEST INTENTIONS, opening the film in an empty psychiatric hospital ward in 1925, playing a phonograph record of the opening piano bars from Schubert’s song “The Organ Grinder,” the last song from his song cycle Die Winterreise (The Winter Journey), then plays it again and again until the doctor visits, refusing to answer any questions until the doctor answers one of his own questions: “How do you think Franz Schubert felt on an evening in April of 1823 when he first discovered the horrible lesions that he knew to be from the illness of syphilis?” The doctor reflects before answering, “He must have had a sinking feeling, a sinking into terror.”

The rest of the film reveals how Carl is obsessed with Schubert’s condition and emulates that same sinking feeling. We learn Carl has attempted to beat his fiancé to death in a blind uncontrolled rage which has landed him in the hospital, but no explanation as to why. Another patient arrives, Professor Osvald Vogler, Erland Josephson, who immediately goes into a speech about freedom,” our freedom is limited, and freedom is God’s gift...freedom is the most elevated gift of the human spirit.” Carl asks Vogler, “Could it be that you are God, professor?” “It wouldn’t surprise me,” then Vogler settles down to read his favorite book, The Confessions of Countess Mizzi, where a most beautiful woman is kidnapped by her stepfather, the Baron, and forced into the life of prostitution to perform all sexual acts but one, which is left unmentioned, until she commits suicide. An autopsy reveals she was a virgin. Vogler’s wife is a deaf mute and makes a mad scene at the hospital to recapture her husband, whereupon he is released at once. Vogler is seen being whisked away.

Alone, Carl hears the notes of the Schubert song, and in a blue light the apparition of a clown appears with long fingernails that seem to dance all by themselves. The clown is dressed all in white with a pale white face, a black swirl over one eye, and a tall, coned hat. “Mr. Torneman,” Carl recalls, “played a very clever clown who scared the life out of me as a child,” but this Mr. Torneman reveals breasts and starts describing titillating and grotesque sexual thrills, luring Carl ever closer.

Carl’s wife, the elegant Lady Thibault arrives, in a truly magnificent performance by Marie Richardson, always an imposing presence. Carl explains to her that his freedom is totally under her power, that he can leave only when she says he can leave, but he seems thunderstruck only by his own imagination, and the film appears to move into a time after his release. “Cinematography is man’s greatest invention,” explaining his concept of a living talking picture called “Joys of a Lady of the Night,” featuring live actors performing their theatrical lines unseen, behind the silent filmed images onscreen with a piano off on the side playing Schubert. On opening night, filled with Carl’s family and friends, most of whom have parts in the performance, Carl’s stepmother and guardian arrives, Pernilla August, who chats with Ms. Thibault, getting right to the point, “Mrs. Vogler has run away and withdrawn all her finances, leaving us 72,000 kronos in arrears. That leaves you responsible,” reminding her of Carl’s acute medical affliction since childhood for which there is no cure, an uncontrolled rage when he doesn’t get his way. “What’s going to happen when he realizes his grand project has gone the way of the world?” Ms. Thibault describes how she was to play the part of Mizzi, but Mia, another actress, seduced him in twenty minutes for the part, so she’s now out of the play and no film company wants anything to do with Carl’s idea, the first and only talking film in the world. But Mia ran away, leaving Ms. Thibault the part for the evening’s performance.

After a series of absurd circumstances, not the least of which is an electrical explosion causing a fire in the theater, yet the show miraculously continues by candlelight. After everyone has said their gracious goodbyes, with the candle nearly extinguished, a blue light reappears in a smoky room, the Schubert piano theme brings out the apparition of a clown. Carl asks his wife if she intends to send him back to the asylum, telling her he expects she will leave him, that he knows she will leave him. She heartily disagrees and holds him, squeezing his face. When they let go, both retreat to separate corners of a darkened room, a bright light divides the middle. The apparition of a clown walks behind a wall, then stops, as a single piano note is struck. Carl grabs the scissors and slits his wrist. She watches and says, “If you die, I don’t want to go on living. Are you listening? You can wake me whenever you like.” She lies on top of him, both dead.

There beyond the village stands an organ grinder,

And with numb fingers he grinds as best he can.

Staggers barefoot to and fro on the ice,

And his little plate stays ever empty.

No one wants to hear him.

No one gives him a glance,

And round the old man the gods snarl.

Yet he lets it all go by, as it will do.

He grinds, and his organ never stands still.

Strange old fellow, shall I go with you?

Will you grind your organ to my singing?

—“Der Liermann” The Organ Grinder, from poems of Wilhelm Müller, from Franz Schubert’s Die Winterreise

Time Out

Ahlstedt reprises his role as great-uncle Carl from Fanny and Alexander and Best Intentions in this arresting drama. Resident in a sunny mental ward circa 1925, Carl is surrounded by premonitions of death, from the gramophone playing Schubert's Winterreise, to his hallucinatory visions of a sinister, sexually forthright, white-clad female clown named Rigmor (as in rigor mortis). Despite his situation and his record of psychotic rage, Carl is full of grand plans, and surprisingly proceeds to mount his own version of sound cinema by having actors speak the dialogue mouthed by characters in the silent film he has made. Not everything goes to plan, but like the great last works of Schubert, it's a striking instance of the redemptive power of art in the face of mortality, something the aging Bergman must have been feeling too. By turns bleak, bawdy, touching and wittily inventive, clearly a major Bergman piece, TV origins notwithstanding.

Film Scouts (David Sterritt)

"In the Presence of a Clown" is another of the occasional TV productions with which Ingmar Bergman has fudged his "retirement" from filmmaking over the past 15 years. Shown in superbly clear projected video, the drama focuses on a mad inventor who stitches together a band of artistic associates and opens a 1920s movie theater in the snowy Swedish countryside, failing to attract many patrons despite his innovative use of live voices to accompany the images of his silent-screen biopic about Franz Schubert, the famous composer, lover, and syphilitic. The tale probes characteristic Bergman themes, including the simultaneous value and futility of art as a barrier against corruption, decay, and the death of memory, perhaps the worst of all earthly evils. This isn't major Bergman, but emotional and philosophical depths are suggested by its earnest performances, its flashes of great visual imagination, and its refusal to water down its difficult themes for the sake of fluid plot or character development. Bergman is no longer very fashionable in the cinema world, but he's still one of a kind.

Village Voice (Jessica Winter)

In conjunction with the U.S. premiere of Ingmar Bergman's stage production of The Image Makers, the Brooklyn Academy of Music is screening three kindred films: Victor Sjöström's silent The Phantom Carriage (the inspiration for The Image Makers), the Sjöström- influenced Wild Strawberries, and Bergman's latest film, In the Presence of a Clown. Shot for Swedish television, the movie arranges the 1920s meeting of two psychiatric patients, the inventor Carl Åkerblom (also seen in Fanny and Alexander) and the professor Osvald Volger. They hope to collaborate on the first talking picture, a biopic of Franz Schubert. Bergman's films frequently make reference to each other, but Clown more than any of them reads as cumulative— and slipshod— pastiche, engaging themes of cathartic violence (as in The Hour of the Wolf), personified death (The Seventh Seal), female speechlessness-as-purity (Persona), the mystic powers of cinematography ("cinematography" was Persona's original title), man's insuperable loneliness (all of Bergman's films). The only new wrinkle, regrettably, is a tiresome anal fixation. For completists.

User Reviews from imdb Author: johny keesh (keeshionutz@yahoo.com) from Romania

After his brilliant portrayal of the black sheep Ekhdal in Fanny and Alexander I expected something else from Börje Ahlstedt but didn't know where to find him. I stumbled accidentally on this film that I didn't even know was a Bergman at first. I was completely surprised not only in the acting of not only Ahlstedt but Erland Josephson and Marie Richardson as well, but by Bergman's capacity to come up with so many ideas in a moment in his career when other brilliant directors are long forgotten. Bergman's freshness after fifty years of cinema making is unbelievable. This movie tackles one of the richest ideas available, the relation between life and art, cinema and theater. Using a plot revolving around an inventor in the early cinema that fantasizes about making cinema parlante, a new thing at that time, Bergman addresses a fundamental problem: what is the purpose of art? Is it mere entertainment or does it convey a deeper meaning? The central moment in the film is the presentation to a small and friendly audience comprising mainly friends of the artists of a movie. The representation is interrupted by a fire but the actors go on with the same play on an improvised stage. But the play starts to acquire new meaning when the actors begin improvising about their own problems in life and the audience is also caught in the act. Not to mention that the original play was some nonsense (intended) about a love affair involving Schubert and a virgin prostitute that lived some eighty years after his death. This may seem confusing, but Bergman has his reasons. The title refers to some vision of death that takes the shape of a clown and persecutes the main character who will eventually commit suicide at the end. Depressing, quite cruel, but Bergman masterfully takes the viewer through a large range of emotions. As in Fanny and Alexander there are sufficient moments of laughter and/or good disposition throughout. Bergman fans will find a lot of his usual issues, the movie reminded me of Persona to a large extent (the problem of the artificial nature of art, theater and/or cinema)but there are enough original ideas, surprisingly many, to make it interesting in itself and not only because it's a Bergman!

New York Times (registration req'd) Stephen Holden

When great filmmakers reach old age, their work tends to grow sparer and more austere, the texture stripped away so that the core themes of a lifetime's output jut out like bones under crumbling flesh. "In the Presence of a Clown," Ingmar Bergman's two-hour 1997 made-for-television movie, is such a film. A gloomy, murky, static work laced with an absurdist gallows humor, it doesn't try very hard to entertain or to look beautiful. But the movie is still a must-see for Bergman aficionados.

"In the Presence of a Clown" takes off from a story Mr. Bergman discovered among the papers left by an uncle who appeared as a main character in his autobiographical films "Fanny and Alexander" and "Best Intentions" and who is played here, as in those two movies, by Borje Ahlstedt.

Many of the familiar Bergman themes -- the absence of God, the meaninglessness of life, the thin line between sanity and madness, fear and rage at the void -- are restated in the new film, but here the tone is darkly comic.

Death, a familiar figure in Bergman films, puts in an appearance, this time in the person of a leering white-faced female clown named Rigmor (read rigor mortis), who first appears to Carl Akerblom (Mr. Ahlstedt), an eccentric inventor, while he is incarcerated in a mental hospital. Within minutes of her appearance she has bared her chalky breasts and coaxed him to have sex with her. Carl has been hospitalized after trying to kill his young fiancée, Pauline (Marie Richardson). Exactly why he turned on her is never specified except that Carl is subject to inexplicable fits of despairing fury in which he goes temporarily berserk.

When we first meet Carl, he is playing and replaying a scratchy recording of funereal piano music by Schubert, whose death obsesses him. He browbeats his doctor into imagining how the composer must have felt when he discovered a syphilitic chancre. After pondering the question, the doctor bluntly replies that Schubert must have felt "a sinking feeling."

"In the Presence of a Clown," which is set in the mid-1920's, is about how Carl (who appears to be Mr. Bergman's stand-in) deals with that sinking feeling. Upon his discharge from the hospital, he decides to make a movie. Carl boasts of having invented a new cinematic art form, the living talking picture. And the second half of "In the Presence of a Clown" follows the making of the film in which actors from behind the screen speak dialogue mouthed by the characters in the silent movie.

The plot of Carl's film is an unwieldy grafting of the story of Schubert's final years to another story told to him by a fellow mental patient about a beautiful 14-year-old countess in the early 1900's who is turned into a high-priced courtesan by her stepfather and becomes a sexual legend while somehow maintaining her technical virginity. In Carl's version, the countess and Schubert have a tragic love affair.

After many production woes, the movie is completed and has its premiere in the village where Carl grew up. But the event, which begins smoothly, turns into a technical fiasco when an electrical explosion threatens to burn down the house. The evening is saved by the actors, who improvise a staged reading by candlelight, and the tiny audience of friends and relatives agree that the reading was better than the movie. (Might this be Mr. Bergman's assertion that when all is said and done, theater is a truer art form than film?)

As you watch Carl suffer hellish mental torments during his final days (the character is 54 but looks much older), his perseverance in the realization of his cinematic dream acquires a certain nobility. The movie within a movie even suggests that "In the Presence of a Clown" is Bergman's Unfinished Symphony. Whatever it may be, moviemaking keeps Carl sane and distracted for a while. Perhaps that's the most we can expect of art.

SARABAND – made for TV A- 94

Sweden Italy Germany Finland Denmark Austria (120 mi) 2003

Bergman’s last opus, written for Swedish television, an aftermath to his previous opus from 1973, his mammoth 6-hour made for TV epic, SCENES FROM A MARRIAGE, revealing the repercussions of their decisions made thirty-years earlier. While the characters are few, and a loveless group they are, they are filled with enough guilt and regret to fill a lifetime, where only the voice of the dead, reflected in a letter discovered years after someone died, reveals the true intentions of love. Interestingly, the film is shot in digital video, which gives it an intimate, yet surprisingly ugly veneer. The acting is flawless, the writing, of course, excessively personal, yet through the sheer power of brutal honesty, it all comes together through the slow build-up of time, complete with a few twists and turns, revealed in ten chapter headings and with Bergman’s inscrutable taste in music, including the allegro movement from Bach’s First Organ Trio and the Saraband from the 5^th Unaccompanied Cello Suite.

Utilizing the familiarity of Bergman icons Erland Josephson and Liv Ullman, the story re-unites a couple that was married for 16-years, then separated and hasn’t spoken in the last thirty years. Suddenly, as if moved by the unseen voice of God, the 65-year old Ullman decides to pay 81-year old Josephson, a stubborn, self-professed hermit living at his summer home, a visit. One thinks perhaps he is near-death, but that isn’t the case. Their immediate intimacy is obvious, but so are the walls that separated them years ago that haven’t come down, which have instead, remained in place, as if they are the pillars of each other’s personality. Enter into the picture their respective children with whom they have little or no contact, for Ullman, one has fled to Australia where she is presumably successful and happy while the other is institutionalized. But the story doesn’t focus on them, it’s about the nearly ignored 61-year old son, Börje Ahlstedt, that Josephson had with another woman, the mother revered throughout the film but now deceased for two years, and the 19-year old grand-daughter, Julia Dufvenius. The father and daughter have an incestuous relationship, sleeping in the same bed, kissing passionately on the lips, emotionally, completely dependent on one another since the death of the mother, one can draw their own conclusions. The daughter has talent as a cello player, is about to enroll in a music conservatory, and is being personally taught by her father for her upcoming audition. In the course of the film, in scenes of couplets, always two at a time, except for the opening and closing monologue by Ullman, all reveal their relationships to one another, and it’s the viewer’s choice whether any of them succeed. The grand-daughter respects them all, and is loved by them all, but she can’t seem to get out from under the tutelage of her father. The son has utter contempt for his father, who has complete indifference for his son, while unknown forces draw Ullman and Josephson together, perhaps familiarity. At the swan song of his life, Josephson faces his own death, expressed through the crashing repetitious chords from Bruckner’s 9^th Symphony and an early morning bout with anxiety that leaves him utterly horrified, Ullman graciously tries to find the love within her that has never been there, the father needs what he needs, but his poverty and misery are driving him mad, and the grand-daughter doesn’t wish to make anyone unhappy and must find her own way. In the end, bookended by Ullman’s soliloquy with the camera, reviewing and organizing photographs like so many memories, tidying up her loose ends, life is abrupt, and those rare moments of lucidity may be all too rare. Reflections on those moments last a lifetime.

Saraband from Time Out London

A minimalist monument to the rusted complacency, howling resentment, and stubborn devotion bred by a long entanglement, ‘Scenes from a Marriage’ (1973) is a virtual two-hander for the Bergman stalwarts Liv Ullmann and Erland Josephson, who reunited three decades later for what the 87-year-old director has declared his final film. Shot like its predecessor largely in merciless close-ups, the digital-video ‘Saraband’ is less a sequel than an expansive coda, beginning when Marianne (Ullmann) impulsively decides to visit her ex-husband, Johan (Josephson), after an estrangement of more than 30 years. Marianne at first appears to be our guide down a knotty memory lane, but not long after she arrives at Johan’s remote cottage, she becomes a sympathetic bystander to a newer, festering family psychodrama. Johan seethes with loathing for his doughy, hapless son, Henrik (Börje Ahlstedt), but he remains benevolent toward Henrik’s lissome kid, Karin (Julia Dufvenius). Father and daughter are penniless cellists boarding in Johan’s guest house, and the incestuous overtones of their bond, coupled with the camera’s lingering glances upon a photo of Karin’s dearly departed mother, only thicken the air of ingrown decay. Like ‘Scenes from a Marriage’, the new film is a study of diseased symbiosis that unfolds as a series of dialogues, the sparring rife with the brutal existential candour that is the lingua franca of Bergman’s cinema. ‘Saraband’ brings to mind another valedictory chamber piece – it’s as hermetically Bergmanesque as ‘Gertrud’ was hermetically Dreyeresque, a parlour-room theatre of emotional cruelty, with all exits barred by the past.

BFI | Sight & Sound | Competition

Ingmar Bergman conceived Saraband as a sequel of sorts to Scenes from a Marriage: it reunites characters and cast members from the 1973 film about a failing relationship. Saraband was also intended as the Swedish director's swansong: 85 when he completed it in 2004, Bergman declared that it would be his last film.

Divided into 12 self-contained episodes, the film revolves around the couple who divorced in Scenes from a Marriage. After a long time apart, sixtysomething Marianne (Liv Ullmann) pays a visit to ex-husband Johan (Erland Josephson), who is spending his final years in rural isolation with his widowed son Henrik (Börje Ahlstedt) and talented cellist granddaughter Karin (Julia Dufvenius).

The film suggests with deft authority how the intense relationship between Marianne and Johan has dimmed into a kind of courtly tenderness. But the main focus is on the poisoned dynamic between Johan, a hugely admired but very private artist (not unlike Bergman himself), and the far less successful Henrik. As the two men wrestle over the paternal control of Karin, Saraband builds into an unsparingly bleak portrait of old age, the disappointments of parenthood and the crushing expectations placed on sons by powerful fathers.

The performances are masterly. As ever, Bergman's clean and watchful camerawork makes the most of his actors' expressive faces: those of Ullmann and Josephson, lined and careworn by the 30 years that have passed since Scenes from a Marriage, are especially poignant. Austere and emotionally devastating, owing something to Bergman's great idol August Strindberg in its savage view of family relations, the film shows Bergman has not softened with age. It is a fitting end to one of cinema's greatest bodies of work.

Slant Magazine [Keith Uhlich]

If the rumblings are true and the hi-definition video sequel Saraband is indeed Ingmar Bergman's final work, then he has left on a summative high. As powerful in its own way as Carl Dreyer's Gertrud, Saraband unfolds over 10 increasingly intimate sequences that revisit two characters—Marianne (Liv Ullmann) and Johan (Erland Josephson)—from the director's great Scenes From a Marriage, and also examine the near-incestuous relationship between Johan's son Henrik (Börje Ahlstedt) and his daughter Karin (Julia Dufvenius). Bergman consistently evokes the ghost of history in Saraband, opening on Marianne sitting before a table scattered chaotically with personal photographs: as his heroine contemplates the divides of her life, Bergman considers the gaping abyss separating film-past and video-present. The encroachments of memory continue into the next sequence as Marianne wanders through Johan's country home, where doors close forcefully with no apparent rhyme or reason—somewhere, Henrik Ibsen nods approvingly.

A saraband is an erotic dance for two, commonly performed for royalty of the 17th and 18th centuries, and Bergman's movie is an ongoing series of these two-person interactions, the passion and intensity increasing masterfully with each passing moment. The way in which Bergman's characters touch is without parallel in cinema—there's a primal physicality in each instance of bodily contact, giving an impression of civil and animalistic behaviors locked in perpetual, bloody battle. Fittingly, by movie's end characters are stripped naked of their illusions—both in a literal and figurative sense—and they are left to take comfort in either the fleeting pleasures of life or the blissful uncertainty of death. And in a final twist Bergman brilliantly implicates his bourgeois audience in the saraband, tempering our fetishistic and voyeuristic impulses with a master's dose of ambiguity and catharsis via a sublime close-up of Liv Ullmann—no less than cinema's death and rebirth captured in one glorious video image.

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young] Edinburgh Film Festival

The inclusion of Saraband in the Edinburgh '05 lineup must have made attendees feel like they'd been transported into a Woody Allen movie from the late seventies. In a couple of hours we too could noisily hold forth in suitably pretentious style: "... Saw the new Bergman ... not one of his best ... lacks a cohesive structure ..." And it's been over 20 years since a 'new Bergman' has appeared in British cinemas - the video-shot Saraband being the latest of the octogenarian's many farewells in the long wake of his 'final' movie Fanny and Alexander (1983).

As it happens, Saraband's structure is decidedly "cohesive": a prologue, ten scenes and an epilogue featuring four speaking characters: Liv Ullmann as 63-year-old Marianne; Erland Josephson as her ex-husband, the 86-year-old Johan; Borje Ahlstedt (first among equals in a strong ensemble) as Johan's 61-year-old son Henrik; Julia Dufvenius as Henrik's 19-year-old daughter Karin. The ages of each characters are carefully noted during the dialogue, as this emphatically is a piece about anno domini - the way we live in the shadow of inevitable death.

Weighty, philosophical topics abound in the dense screenplay - filmed in functional, aggressively theatrical, stripped-down style. At times the proceedings come across like a classy, stilted soap-opera frozen in acidic aspic - at others it really does feel like the powerful valedictory statement of a great artist (as with Ullmann's remarkable, Molly-Bloom-ish final to-camera soliloquy).

There really hasn't been anything like this - in terms of an art-cinema Event - since Tarkovsky's The Sacrifice (which wasn't actually intended as the last-testament it became), and the Swede makes a farewell nod to the Russian with his copious use of Bach. But whereas Tarkovsky saw his end in terms of global apocalypse, Saraband is a much more domestic and intimate affair - and also, it must be said, a lesser work, stretched to a what feels like a very unforgiving 120 minutes. But this is Bergman's final flourish - and, for many, will make it absolutely unmissable. It won't win him any new admirers - but his fans, including Mr Allen, are unlikely to be disappointed.

by james quandt from Cinema Scope

The form of a director’s final film depends on how conscious he is of the impending end: distillation and summa (Bresson’s L’Argent, 1982), inadvertent requiem (Monteiro’s Come and Go, 2001), ritualistic leave-taking and commemoration (Dreyer’s Gertrud, 1964), fond farewell (Ozu’s An Autumn Afternoon, 1962), a last act of self-castigation (Pialat’s Le Garçu, 1995; Visconti’s L’innocente, 1976) or auto-exculpation (Mizoguchi’s Street of Shame, 1956). There are oddities: Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut (1999), for example, which seems haunted by mortality only with afterthought, and Tarkovsky’s The Sacrifice (1986), which reportedly transformed into valediction during the course of its making. (The evidence regarding whether Tarkovsky knew he was dying is conflicting.) And the ever-elegiac Godard, whose recent films and videos all seem to be a wave goodbye or suicide note, has made of his late work an endless threnody.

Ingmar Bergman’s television feature Saraband has both the benefit and the burden of having been announced as his last film, just as his recent mounting of Ibsen’s Ghosts was officially proclaimed his last production as a theatre director. It is perhaps churlish to point out that Bergman has announced countless films as his last, going back to The Serpent’s Egg (1977) and, more decisively, Fanny and Alexander (1982). He has found ways to position subsequent films, such as After the Rehearsal (1984) and In the Presence of a Clown (1997), as “mere” television works or addenda, or to have his films made by proxy (Ullman’s Faithless [2000], August’s The Best Intentions [1992]). As a Swedish colleague recently joked, Bergman has been on an eternal farewell tour, like Cher. Now nearing the age of 90, largely sequestered on his beloved island of Fårö where he watches movies and talks to the local fishermen, Bergman is unlikely to make another film, though even the most rhapsodic of Saraband’s champions, Jacques Aumont, hints at uncertainty in his Cahiers du Cinéma review: “Saraband is, in a certain sense, his greatest masterpiece. At any rate his most beautiful last film” (italics his). And to obviate expectation, Bergman first demurred in having the work transferred to 35mm and released theatrically, wanting to preserve its intimacy and diminutiveness. Though Saraband is sized for the small screen, its effect is immense.

Aware of his own imminent demise, Edward Said used his last essay to muse on the subject of “late style,” and to contend with the expectation that an artist’s vision inevitably mellows when facing the prospect of death: “The accepted notion is that age confers a spirit of reconciliation and serenity on late works, often expressed in terms of a miraculous transfiguration of reality.” Said’s instances are primarily literary and musical, but one can think of cinematic examples: the seeming serenity of Buñuel’s last films, the blithely senescent works of late Renoir, a couple of de Oliveira’s recent films from 2001 (I’m Going Home and Oporto of My Childhood), the final trilogy of Satyajit Ray, which intensified his critique of materialist India but increasingly neglected his graceful visual style, so that the films’ very stasis embodied the director’s growing debility. Said invokes Adorno to offer an antithesis to the calm, conciliatory oldster: the artist who, like Beethoven, “is fully in command of his medium, [but who] nevertheless abandons communication with the social order of which he is a part and achieves a contradictory, alienated relationship with it. His late works are a form of exile from his milieu.” Pasolini’s Salò (1976) leaps to mind, an abandonment and alienation so utter that it had to be tamed by moralistic hindsight as a chronicle of death foretold. (Pasolini clearly did not intend Salò as a late work, much as Mozart did not design his requiem as adumbrative lament.)

Saraband hews to neither of Said’s models of late style. (The plump and plummy Fanny and Alexander—still officially considered Bergman’s “last” film—does that; its Gemütlichkeit is so labourious, the film ends up false and exhausting.) Saraband’s musical title suggests something courtly or formal, perhaps in the mode of his Mozartian Smiles of a Summer Night (1955), and Bergman was initially drawn to the eroticism of the renaissance (and then baroque) dance from which it takes its name. “The film follows the structure of the saraband,” Bergman told Stig Björkman, “there are always two people who meet. In ten scenes and an epilogue.” The director has also called it, puzzlingly, a “concerto grosso for four soloists” (in which case where is the orchestra?), but clearly had in mind the spare, arduous intensity of Bach’s cello suites; it is worth remembering that Bergman used the Sarabande from the fifth suite in Cries and Whispers (1972). Like Cries, Saraband harrows hell; there is nothing burnished, stately, or serene about it. But neither does it ever risk, like Adorno’s alienated late artist, a break with its order or audience. Life is and always will be an inferno, Bergman tells us once again, but he delivers it as an ameliorative truth.

Returning 30 years later to the tale of Johan (Erland Josephson) and Marianne (Liv Ullmann), the combative couple of Bergman’s Scenes from a Marriage, Saraband presents itself as a work of memory. Marianne spreads her photos of their previous life for us in the framing sections, and we are not so subtly asked to remember the earlier film. (As with late Godard, there is a sense of revenance in this return, and a predication of cultural memory.) When I first read about Saraband, I quailed at the thought of another of Bergman’s recrimination fests, a two-hour picking of psychic scabs, but Johan and Marianne turn out to be somewhat secondary characters in their own “update.” After the initial setup, in which Marianne decides to visit Johan, after three decades of absence, at his home in the northern county of Dalarna, it becomes apparent that the main battle is not between these two old antagonists but between the vain and venomous Johan and his son, Henrik (Börje Ahlstedt), from a previous marriage, and between the son and his own daughter, Karin (Julia Dufvenius). Both the latter are cellists, and though not quite an artist manqué, Henrik is vicariously living through the accomplishments of Karin, while tending both a ceaseless grief over the death of his beloved wife Anna and the emotional wound of his father’s deep and eternal contempt. (The pristine but typically disembodied digital cinematography vitiates Bergman’s rendering of Dalarna as arcadian asylum and pastoral hell; weightless pixels cannot anchor this terrain of pain.)

There is a mighty whiff of Ibsen in Saraband’s slow revealing of the anguished relationships among the film’s quartet of characters—the fifth and ever-present one is the saintly, dead Anna, whose name gave the film its original title—and the film is blocked, shot, and played like 19th-century naturalistic theatre, complete with devices like the sudden revelation of an unlikely letter. (The surrounding forest sometimes seems haunted by an army of dei ex machina.) Bergman’s tendency to the schematic, which here extends to the musical (Bruckner’s thunderous Sixth Symphony bespeaks Johan’s imposing, volatile nature), and his reiteration of familiar themes—the humiliation of the artist, the hold of the dead over the living, the torment of marriage, the agonized love/hatred between parents and children, the consolation and refusal of God in the face of death—are emphasized by the film’s series of chatty “two handers,” each carefully building on the disclosures of the previous. The figure of Anna, impossibly good and luckily dead—what actress could incarnate such purity of spirit?—proves once again that Bergman does vituperation best, and that goodness exists for him only as an abstract. The final truth about Henrik’s unhealthy devotion to Karin carries not shock but dismay that Bergman would resort to such obviousness, and the coda, another of the director’s cries for human connection, will seem to some arbitrary, contrived.

How one feels about Saraband depends on how one feels about Bergman. All his faults are writ large, exaggerated by the film’s chamber modus, and those with an aversion to his cinema of spiritual and psychological trauma may find it intolerable. Indeed, Stockholm’s Daily Expressen said as much when Saraband was first shown on Swedish television: “Everything about it is strict and austere. Its language and manners are outdated...emotions are on occasion almost mummified.” I have struggled with Bergman’s work ever since seeing Cries and Whispers—the first foreign-language film I encountered—three decades ago, alternating between distaste and admiration, pitiless derision and passionate defense. Why then did I find myself overcome, all but unable to speak, at the end of Saraband, one early morning the final day of the recent Bologna film festival? Why did it seem that no one, perhaps not even Fassbinder, had so recognized and rendered the cruelty and paltriness of human nature, its nurtured grievance and pathetic grasping at solace? That no actors but these could dredge up such fear and self-immured isolation, such ferocious loathing and impotent or destructive love, and make us tremble and flinch with their every flaying revelation? Gaze now upon this achievement—which is great—for it is not only Bergman’s last film, but also the last of its kind. As a final expression of a certain kind of psychological modernism, Saraband is a treasurable relic.

“This is the prerogative of late style,” Said writes in his essay: “it has the power exactly to render disenchantment and pleasure without resolving the contradiction between them. What holds them in tension, as equal forces straining in opposite directions, is the artist’s mature subjectivity, stripped of hubris and pomposity, unashamed either of its fallibility or of the modest assurance it has gained as a result of age and exile.” And so Saraband.

Sight and Sound Jonathan Romney

Film Comment Magazine Phillip Lopate

Reverse Shot Michael Joshua Rowin

Robin Buss on Saraband Robin Buss from Times Online, October 14, 2005

DVD Times Noel Megahey

Saraband Bergman’s Ship Sails On, by Yvette Bíró from Rouge

Movie Vault [Friday and Saturday Night Critic]

Not Coming to a Theater Near You [Leo Goldsmith]

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson]

Chicago Reader Movie Review Jonathan Rosenbaum, also seen here: The Taste of Ashes

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

DVD Town [James Plath]

europeanfilms.net Boyd van Hoeij

filmcritic.com Jeremiah Kipp

Epinions DVD review [Stephen O. Murray]

indieWIRE [Nicolas Rapold] along with Reverse Shot critics Michael Koresky and Michael Joshua Rowin

ToxicUniverse.com [John Nesbit]

Reel.com [Tim Knight]

Edward Copeland on Film

About.com - DVD Review [Ivana Redwine]

Film Journal International (Maria Garcia)

stylusmagazine.com (Dave Micevic)

Bright Lights Film Journal Megan Ratner

DVD Talk (Svet Atanasov)

FilmExposed Magazine Amanda Egbe

d+kaz . intelligent movie reviews [Daniel Kasman]

Georgia Straight (Ken Eisner)

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

SARABAND Matt Cale from Ruthless Reviews

Talking Pictures [Howard Schumann]

CineScene Chris Knipp

hybridmagazine.com

Being There Magazine [Michael Allen]

Martin Tsai's Blog

Strictly Film School Acquarello

Ingmar's last word Ed Vulliamy from The Guardian reviews the impact of Bergman’s last film shown on Swedish television

Last Roar From a Legend Richard Corliss from Time magazine

That Old Feeling: To Liv With Bergman Richard Corliss from Time magazine

Guardian/Observer

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Seattle Post-Intelligencer [Sean Axmaker]

Austin Chronicle [Marc Savlov]

The Japan Times [Kaori Shoji]

Los Angeles Times (Kenneth Turan)

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

New York Times (registration req'd) Stephen Holden October 2004

New York Times (registration req'd) Stephen Holden July 2005

DVDBeaver Gary W. Tooze

Bergroth, Zaida

THE GOOD SON (Hyvä poika) B 85

Finland (88 mi) 2011

Don’t we all wish we had a gorgeous remote lakeside cottage deep in the woods that we could retreat to? Wouldn’t that solve a lot of our collective ills, like a mind curative seminar or retreat? Well that’s exactly what actress Leila Manner (Elina Knihtiä), a woman used to being the center of attention, has in mind after seeing her name plastered across the tabloids, using her as the butt of the nation’s jokes, something that really aggravates her, so it’s off to her summer villa on the lake with her two sons in tow, the older Ilmari (Samuli Niittymäki), a moody, downbeat, and extremely self-absorbed teen and the much younger Unto (Eutu Julin), who is largely left alone to fend for himself. It’s interesting that the initial visit establishes a visual cue used throughout the film, a quick pan of the water leading up to the home beginning as if we are standing on the near shore, so there’s a quick zoom across the water right up to the shoreline in front of the house, as if something dark and foreboding is about to happen there. What’s soon apparent is that Leila has absolutely no parenting skills, where these kids must have raised themselves, as she never lifts a finger to spend any time with them and instead quickly plans a weekend party of friends where they can all get wasted. One guy even falls out of an arriving car naked and unconscious, already wasted before he got there. They let him lie there, put a parasol over him to protect him from the sun, and ignore him until he decides to join the party on his own. Other than that, it’s a typical display of boorish bad manners and insulting remarks, occasional old-fashioned music, where one of the guests is quickly escorted out the building for making less than flattering remarks about the dramatic prowess of the hostess.

Other than the obnoxious behavior of the rich, who spend their lives thinking only of themselves, the brooding Ilmari grows extremely protective of his mother, behaving like her bodyguard, removing from the premises anyone or anything that might cause her any degree of alarm, spending much of the weekend lost in thought just staring at his mother. When a published author, Aimo (Eero Aho), decides to stay on after the others have left, Ilmari grows disgusted at his presence, which his mother of course ignores. Wandering into town, Ilmari is quickly propositioned by a waitress, Karita (Anna Paavilainen), inviting him to a party, where to a slow and sultry Finnish song, they have sex. Afterwards, wandering along the beach where stragglers are still drinking, Ilmari listens to a series of insults about Karita before bashing one of the guilty in the head with a beer bottle. So much for subtlety. The next morning as his mother and Aimo are having their post coital morning coffee, Ilmari is lying in the sun with Karita, mirror images of one another, both preening like peacocks. As always, poor Unto is left to fend for himself, usually dragging along a video camera where he invents various narrative passages to amuse himself.

Ilmari is anxiously awaiting that moment when he can kick out Aimo as well, something he’s apparently done his entire life, but his mother has alerted him that there’s something different about this man, and despite her initial cool veneer, dropping hints of disinterest, Aimo’s been smart enough to read his own signs and not be fooled by hers. Attempting to help out around the place and make himself useful, Aimo also makes an effort to bridge the gap with Ilmari, who has none of it, responding with lowlife gutter language which gets him shoved off the pier into the water, where mysteriously the kid can’t swim and is thrashing around violently, so Aimo rescues him even though he was never more than 5 or 10 feet from the pier. Rather than calm the storm, one can only suggest these are initial signs of that descent into the dark night, where the camera again skims over the water, poor Unto is once more left alone, and things only grow more shocking and macabre at the lakeside retreat. This filmmaker does show a directorial flair with an economy of style, winning the 1^st Prize in the New Director’s Competition at the Chicago Film Festival, “for its real psychological insight. Economical without being overly abstract, the film depicts each character as selfish, but dependent on someone else, exposing their unstable familial relationships. Director Zaida Bergroth impresses with her ability to create characters and their environment, intersecting in believable yet shocking ways.”

Reel Film Reviews [David Nusair]

The Good Son follows fledgling actress Leila (Elina Knihtilä) as she and her two sons, teenager Ilmari (Samuli Niittymäki) and adolescent Unto (Eetu Julin), arrive at a beachfront property to spend time with friends and relax, with the film subsequently revolving around the conflict that arises after Leila engages in a romantic relationship with a former colleague (Eero Aho's Aimo). Filmmaker Zaida Bergroth has infused The Good Son with a naturalistic feel that's reflected in everything from the authentic performances to the uneventful narrative, although, as becomes clear almost immediately, Bergroth's pervasively low-key sensibilities ensure that the movie is rarely as engrossing or even entertaining as one might've hoped. Bergroth's decision to stress the central characters' day-to-day exploits (eg a party that just seems to go on forever) ultimately proves disastrous, as one inevitably can't help but wish that the filmmaker had infused The Good Son with a more substantive vibe (ie the viewer is all too often left wishing that Bergroth would just cut to the chase already). It's worth noting, however, that the movie never quite morphs into the art-house disaster it often threatens to, as Bergroth effectively peppers the proceedings with a number of overtly ominous sequences (ie it becomes clear early on that Ilmari possesses decidedly sociopathic tendencies). As such, The Good Son does improve a fair amount as it progresses, with the predictably violent finale injecting the otherwise sedate proceedings with a jolt of life and energy. It's a little too late to wholeheartedly care by that point, however, and it's ultimately clear that the salacious premise is at odds with Bergroth's subdued modus operandi.

NightsAndWeekends.com [Kristin Dreyer Kramer]

Anyone who ever glances at the covers of the tabloids that line the checkout aisles at the grocery store knows that some celebrities can be a bit…temperamental. One week, they’re jetting to some tropical locale with their latest love; the next week, they’re seen brawling with their new ex at a bar in Hollywood. One day, they’re grinning and posing for the paparazzi; the next day, they’re plowing into photographers with their Bentley. In the chilling Finnish drama The Good Son (Hyvä Poika), director Zaida Bergroth explores the life and loves of a similarly volatile fictional actress—and the children who get caught up in the madness.

After her latest movie premiere ends in yet another scandal, actress Leila Manner (Elina Knihtilä) decides to get away to her summer home for some much-needed rest and relaxation with her two sons. While his mild-mannered little brother, Unto (Eetu Julin), wanders around with his video camera, happily capturing the local wildlife, teenager Ilmari (Samuli Niittymäki) is eager to spend the time alone with his mother.

Ever the social butterfly, Leila quickly gets sick of the solitude, so she invites a group of friends and admirers to keep her company. Unto is happy to entertain the crowd with his favorite bird calls, but as Leila starts cozying up to author Aimo (Eero Aho), Ilmari hovers nearby, ready to do whatever it takes to protect his mother from another bad relationship.

More than just another drama about the rollercoaster ride of celebrity, The Good Son adds a fascinating new twist: the brooding teenage son, who’s spent his life protecting and supporting his emotionally unstable single mother. Leila herself is an intriguing character—a whirlwind of mood swings, a mess of insecurities, and endlessly self-absorbed. And Knihtilä does an excellent job of presenting every last one of the character’s moods in vibrant color, whether she’s screeching at a stranger for snapping a picture without permission or playing happy hostess to her friends.

Ilmari, meanwhile, is like a skulking shadow, always just a step behind—eager to attend to her every whim, quietly begging for her approval. Throughout his entire life, Ilmari has been the one loyal member of Leila’s entourage: alternately her best friend, her bodyguard, her butler, and her therapist. Now, this trip to the summer house means everything to him—not because it means hanging out with the other kids at the beach but because it means that, for once, he’ll get his mother’s undivided attention. So when she invites her friends (because she’s so bored out there all alone), she begins to push her hopelessly devoted son over the edge.

Niittymäki’s brooding may sometimes remind you of a certain moody teen vampire (for better or for worse), but he gets the point across: Ilmari is not someone you want to mess with. There’s something dark lurking just beneath the surface—and the suspense slowly builds as viewers wait for it to break through.

As complex and intriguing as its ever-shifting star, The Good Son is a dark and captivating character-driven drama about family dysfunction. And the capable cast makes it even more scintillating than your favorite celebrity gossip mag.

Spout [Daniel Walber]

A well-crafted drama can frighten as much as any good slasher flick. I think one could even argue that there’s already a distinct genre out there populated by dysfunctional families, deeply unsettling metaphor and shockingly unconventional violence. Claustrophobic, sporadically bombastic, and chillingly understated, these living room thrillers are often initially quite divisive yet often seem to find longevity. “Dogtooth” comes to mind, along with “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” Zaida Bergroth’s “The Good Son” is one of these films.

Ilmari (Samuli Niittymäki) is a dangerous teenager with more than typical family responsibility. His mother, the actress and tabloid target Leila (Elina Knihtilä), is an impressive whirlwind of fragility and vindictive vanity. This leaves Ilmari to raise his younger brother Unto (Eetu Julin) and guide his mother through career crises. The boys’ father is out of the picture, only briefly referenced as a long-forgotten character in Leila’s past. Yet his absence leaves the family with at least a perceived opening for a new older man to interfere. Aimo (Eero Aho), one of Leila’s perpetually boozed up friends, sees that gap and tries to cut in.

The inevitable clash between Ilmari and Aimo is hardly surprising as it develops, yet it really doesn’t need to be. This is a film of affects, dependent upon Bergroth’s sense of pacing, the cool acidity of its cast and the dark foreboding of its symbolism. The opening act is pockmarked with eerie moments as a wicked violence peeks around the corner of the frame, eagerly anticipating its grand entrance. The stage is set quite early, when Ilmari and Leila arrive at their lake house only to find a nest of baby birds in the chimney. Unable to do the deed herself, the easily rattled mother has her son light the fire and extinguish these desperately chirping lives in her stead. There’s a subtle grandeur in moments like this, brief glimpses into cruelty that herald the arrival of gloomier violence in no uncertain terms.

There are moments in “The Good Son” that feel not unlike an episode of “Cougar Town” scripted by Jean-Paul Sartre. Leila and her friends drink copious amounts of wine and pick on each other viciously, while Ilmari attempts to fortify the increasingly tenuous mother-son relationship that anchors the film. Yet whereas that French writer’s contention that “Hell is other people” certainly comes through loud and clear in this contemporary Finnish experiment in familial claustrophobia, “The Good Son” is still clearly rooted in the terrestrial world. Much of Aimo and Ilmari’s vitriol stems from simple accidents gone haywire or misunderstandings fueled by the characters’ penchant for constant lying. When there’s brutal anger bubbling under the surface, any mundane excuse for conflict must burst into flame.

As the lights go up after 90 minutes of this dark Nordic experience we are left with a profound sense of ambiguity. Bergroth has not crafted a work as unapologetically acerbic as “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” or other Strindberg-esque ice storms. The comparisons on the TIFF website to Vittorio De Sica’s “The Children Are Watching Us” and Carol Reed’s “The Fallen Idol,” two equally morose but much less bitter films, are still valid. “The Good Son” features a number of mitigating and almost redemptive scenes, showcasing the young love of Ilmari and his summer girlfriend alongside the occasionally endearing whimsy of Leila and her artist friends. We walk away from Albee’s George and Martha profoundly affected but also somewhat relieved that we need not experience any more wicked party games. Here, with Ilmari and Leila, we are left adrift between loyalties and pondering their future. Moral and emotional ambiguity is not often this sharply striking.

The Good Son - EFP | European Film Database

Variety Reviews - The Good Son - Film Reviews - - Review by ... Dennis Harvey

Berkeley, Busby

Berkeley, Busby Art and Culture

Picture cascading waterfalls of women, bedecked in identical glittering costumes and moving in eerie unison. Picture abstract, kaleidoscopic shots that slowly reveal themselves to be composed of live, dancing bodies -- dancing bodies in pools of water, on rotating stages, in the middle of grandly theatrical sets, balanced atop water skis. Sound familiar? We've just stepped into the world of Busby Berkeley.

Berkeley avoided the heavy artillery of World War I military service by choreographing elaborate drill routines for the soldiers. A little private heaven where he could demand perfection and precision from all those gallantly clad soldiers, Berkeley's military duties set the stage for his later approach to Hollywood choreography.

By the late '20s he was directing the dance sequences for the Rodgers and Hart stage musical "A Connecticut Yankee" (1927). But he was soon lured back to Hollywood to choreograph "Whoopee" for Samuel Goldwyn in 1930. After a couple more runs with Goldwyn, Berkeley was quickly scooped up by the Warner Brothers studio. The musicals he produced there marked the high point of his directorial career.

Grandness quickly became his trademark. Audiences weary of Depression-era dreariness were hungry for some fantasy in the movie theaters. And Busby delivered: the chorus girls were always beautiful, were often scantily clad (Berkeley had a penchant for sexual titillation), and were mostly unhampered by any real storylines. His directorial approach was highly fluid and stylized. He dismounted the camera from its stand and wove it under and around the dancers. He employed cranes to achieve aerial shots of dancers positioned in geometric patterns. In "Footlight Parade" (1933) water darlings lined up their legs to form a "human zipper," while "Dames" (1943) featured dozens of smiling dancers arranged in a perfect six-pointed star. The visual trickery bordered on the surreal.

A gruff personality and ruthless drive for perfection lay behind Berkeley's theatrical daring. The special aliveness of his productions was usually preceded by screaming and yelling. But producers overlooked his dictatorial tendencies as long as he delivered box-office hits. Between 1932 and 1933, he choreographed five separate productions: "The Kid From Spain," "42nd Street," "Golddiggers Of 1933," "Roman Sandals," and "Foothill Parade." These films represented Berkeley's moment of glory; almost all of them were among the top grossing films of the '30s.

But by the late '30s, tastes in musicals were changing. Berkeley found himself in a very different world when he signed with MGM studios in 1939. The studio subdued his over-the-top extravaganzas in favor of goody-two-shoes affairs like "Babes in Arms" (1939) and "Lady Be Good" (1941). This was the beginning of the end for Berkeley, who came to suffer from alcoholism, depression, and increasing conflicts with co-workers. He was demoted to dance director on both "Girl Crazy" (1943) and "Lady Be Good," and was later relieved from "Annie Get Your Gun" (1950).

Berkeley held on a while longer. He approached his former grandness with spectacular "aqua-ballet" sequences for the Esther Williams vehicles "Million Dollar Mermaid" (1952) and "Easy to Love" (1953). The flying banners, spouting fountains, speedy water skiers, and breathtaking stunts were 100 percent Buzz. But by the time he died in 1979, he had not worked on a film in 17 years. Perhaps this is fitting, since this visionary truly belonged to an earlier era. Berkeley remains an archetype of 1930s Hollywood glamour, a symbol of the kind of delicious, bizarre lavishness that Americans have always cherished like a bad habit.

Film Reference Doug Tomlinson

No American film director explored the possibilities of the mobile camera more fully or ingeniously than Busby Berkeley. He was the Méliès of the musical, the corollary of Vertov in the exploration of the possibilities of cinematic movement. His influence has since been felt in a wide array of filmmaking sectors, from movie musicals to television commercials.

Certain aspects of Berkeley's personal history are obvious in their importance to a discussion of his cinematic work, most specifically his World War I service and his work in the theatre. Born to a theatrical family, Berkeley learned early of the demands of the theatrical profession: when his father died, his mother refused to take the night off, instilling in Busby the work ethic of "the show must go on." Throughout most of his career, Gertrude Berkeley and her ethic reigned, no wife successfully displacing her as spiritual guide and confidante until after her death in 1948. Even then, Berkeley drove himself at the expense of his many marriages.

Berkeley's World War I service was significant for the images he created in his musical sequences. He designed parade drills for both the French and U.S. armies, and his later service as an aerial observer with the Air Corps formed the basis of an aesthetic which incorporated images of order and symmetry often seen from the peculiar vantage of an overhead position. In addition, that training developed his approach to economical direction. Berkeley often used storyboarding to effect his editing-in-the-camera approach, and provided instruction to chorus girls on a blackboard, which he used to illustrate the formations they were to achieve.

Returning from war, Berkeley found work as a stage actor. His first role was directed by John Cromwell, with Gertrude serving as his dramatic coach. He soon graduated to direction and choreography, and in 1929 he became the first man on Broadway to direct a musical for which he also staged the dance numbers, setting a precedent for such talents as Jerome Robbins, Gower Champion, Bob Fosse, and Tommy Tune. When Samuel Goldwyn invited him to Hollywood in 1930 as a dance director, however, that Broadway division of labor remained in effect. Berkeley had to wait until Gold Diggers of 1935 before being allowed to do both jobs on the same film.

From 1933 through 1939 Berkeley worked for Warner Bros., where he created a series of dance numbers which individually and collectively represent much of the best Hollywood product of the period. An examination of his work in this period in relation to the Production Code and the developing conventions of the musical genre illustrates his unique contribution to cinema.

Boy/girl romance and the success story were standard narrative ingredients of 1930s musicals, and Berkeley's work contributed significantly to the formulation of these conventions. Where he was unique was in his visualization of the onstage as opposed to the backstage segments of these dramas. Relying on his war service, he began to fashion onstage spectacles which had been impossible to perform on the Broadway stage. In his films he was able to explode any notion of the limitations of a proscenium and the relationship of the theatre spectator to it: the fixed perspective of that audience was abandoned for one which lacked defined spatial or temporal coordinates. His camera was regularly mounted on a crane (or on the monorail he invented) and swooped over and around or toward and away from performers in a style of choreography for camera which was more elaborate than that mapped out for the dancers. Amusingly, he generally reversed this procedure in his direction of non-musical scenes; he typically made the backstage dramas appear confined within a stage space and bound to the traditions of theatrical staging and dialogue.

As Berkeley created the illusion of theatre in his musical numbers, so too he created the illusion of dance. Having never studied dance, he rarely relied on trained dancers. Instead, he preferred to create movement through cinematic rather than choreographic means. Occasionally, when he included sophisticated dance routines, such as in the Lullaby of Broadway number from Gold Diggers of 1935, he highlighted the dancers' virtuosity in a series of shots which preserved the integrity of their movement without infringing on the stylistic nuances of his camerawork.

The virtuosity of Berkeley's camera movement remains important not only for a discussion of aesthetics, but also for understanding the meaning he brought to the depiction of sexual fantasy and spectacle in a period of Hollywood history when the Production Code Administration was keeping close watch over screen morality. Throughout the 1930s, Berkeley's camera caressed as if involved in foreplay, penetrated space as if seeking sexual gratification, and soared in an approximation of sexual ecstasy. Whether tracking through the legs of a line of chorus girls in 42nd Street, swooping over an undulating vagina-shaped construction of pianos in Gold Diggers of 1935, or caressing gigantic bananas manipulated by scantily clad chorines in The Gang's All Here, his sexual innuendos were titillating in both their obviousness and seeming naiveté. Berkeley's ability to inject such visual excitement meant that he was often called upon to rescue a troubled picture by adding one or more extravagantly staged musical numbers.

After leaving Warner Bros. in 1939, Berkeley returned to MGM where, although generally less innovative, his work set precedents for the genre: he directed the first Judy Garland/Mickey Rooney musical, the first Garland/Gene Kelly film, and with his last effort as a director, introduced the team of Gene Kelly and Stanley Donen. Undoubtedly the master director of American musicals in the first decade of sound film and a huge influence on many of the musical talents of succeeding decades, Berkeley worked only occasionally through the 1950s, staging musical numbers for various studios. The last of these was the 1962 MGM film Jumbo. With the nostalgia craze of the late 1960s, Berkeley's aesthetic was resurrected. In 1971 he triumphantly returned to the Broadway stage, where he directed a revival of the 1920s hit No, No, Nanette, starring his leading lady of the 1930s, Ruby Keeler, herself in retirement for thirty years. That moment was surely the fulfillment of all the success stories he had directed over his long career.

All-Movie Guide bio from Hal Erickson

TCMDB extensive bio from Turner Classic Movies

Images: The Machine Art of Dziga Vertov and Busby Berkeley Nicole Armour

Busby Berkeley at Classic Movie Favorites

Berkeley, Busby They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

Jean-Pierre Melville's 64 Favourite Pre-War American Filmmakers (Cahiers du Cinema, October 1961)

WHOOPEE!

USA (94 mi) 1930 d: Thornton Freeland

Bright Lights Film Journal [Alan Vanneman]

Whoopee is a find, a treasure, a thing of beauty and a joy forever. Most of all it is a chunk of Flo Ziegfeld's Roaring Twenties Broadway, preserved for all time in glorious, 1930 two-color Technicolor. Whoopee features great songs (“Making Whoopee” and “My Baby Just Cares for Me”), great Busby Berkeley production numbers (“Cowboy Number” and “Stetson”), great performers (Eddie Cantor and a 15-year-old Betty Grable), and a double-barreled blast of old-fashioned racism, directed at both blacks and Indians. If you can't handle blackface (Eddie Cantor's trademark), avoid this film like the plague.

Whoopee was part of a wave of “all-singing, all-dancing” musicals that hit the U.S. with the advent of talking pictures. Many of them, Whoopee included, were musicals transferred almost bodily from Broadway to the screen. Like all popular art forms, these musical comedies were intensely stylized. Audiences knew what they wanted, and they got it. There were two sets of lovers, one serious and one comic. To keep the laughs coming, there was an oversupply of the following: young, mama's boy millionaires; old, curmudgeonly millionaires; icy, indignant society matrons; boy-crazy plain-Janes; and wanton young widows. Poor people, who were considered boring back then, rarely made it on stage unless they were young and physically attractive. The leading man usually was poor. Otherwise, he could afford to marry the leading lady right off the bat, instead of spending two hours singing romantic ballads to her.

Since Eddie Cantor, the star of Whoopee, was a comic, the basic pattern is distorted, though still intact. Cantor, playing a hypochondrical millionaire who travels out west for his health with a private nurse in tow, gets the big songs, and most of the stage time, but not the leading lady. Cantor is probably not even a name today to anyone under 50, but he was making records before World War and lived to be one of the stars of early, black-and-white TV. He starred in Whoopee on Broadway, and it provided him with one of his greatest hits, “Making Whoopee,” best-known today from the piano-top version sung by Michelle Pfeiffer in The Fabulous Baker Boys. Pfeiffer's version was sultrier than Cantor's but less sophisticated: her subject was fornication, while his was adultery.

Whoopee will come as a jolt to anyone unfamiliar with pre-1934 Hollywood. Surprising as it may seem, Americans did know about sex back then, and Whoopee contains generous servings of twenties cheesecake. Want to see cowgirls in halters and mini-skirts? Indian maidens in bikinis and warbonnets? This is the picture for you. Viewers of a certain persuasion may also enjoy the following exchange between Cantor and his nurse, who is questioning him about a supposed rival.

Nurse (disguised as a cowboy, complete with mustache): You ran off with Sally Morgan! Then you do love her, don't you?

Cantor: No! No!

Nurse (trying to embrace him): Oh, Henry! I could kiss you!

Cantor (pushing her away): Hey! What kind of a cowboy are you?

For all its delights, Whoopee is not without flaws. Although Cantor made his living largely as a comic, he wasn't very funny. Some of his material is so bad it's good (Nurse: “The doctor says your lungs are as good as new.” Cantor: “No wonder! I've never used them! All these years, I've been breathing through my liver!”), but much of it is so bad it's bad. About 45 minutes of his shtick could be cut with no loss, but the rest of this film is imperishable, a monument to the twenties' unabashed optimism and love of display as enduring as the Chrysler Building or the Radio City Music Hall. And it beats the hell out of Trainspotting.

THE KID FROM SPAIN

USA (118 mi) 1932 d: Leo McCarey

User Reviews from imdb Author: ptb-8 from Sydney

Utterly hilarious Pre Code musical with two massive and riotous Busby Berkeley dance sequences, this Eddie cantor farce was a huge success in Depressed 1932. Filmed and released in the musical lull years 1931 and 1932 when a musical was supposed to be box office poison, this bull snorter is genuinely toe tapping and rib tickling. Imagine seeing this in a 3000 seater full of unhappy people needing a laugh! THE KID FROM SPAIN must have blown the roofs off with thunderclaps of laughter from one side of the country to the other. It is on record as the highest rentals /film hire between 1932 and 1939 with $2.6m returned to the distributor. This means it must have sold over $6m in tickets...in the most economically bad time of the decade and at a time when ticket prices were in cents. Imagine today if seventy million Americans went to one film in its first release! We're talking TITANIC level ticket sales. Well THE KID FROM SPAIN did exactly that. The two dance sequences are truly spectacular and very funny...the finale WHAT A PEFECT COMBINATION is about risqué as it gets in reverse rude lyrics given he is singing about "I'm the lock and you're the key". Warners Bros clearly handed Busby their studio key after this UA success and booked a box office berth, ready to shuffle off to their 42nd Street box office honeymoon. This KID is worth adopting for your home.

Time Out

Eddie Cantor's talent is for those of an antique taste, but this extravagant Goldwyn production has a few other things going for it, most notably a couple of blatant routines choreographed for the Goldwyn Girls by Busby Berkeley (the chorus line is said to include Lucille Ball, Jane Wyman, Betty Grable and Paulette Goddard, but you'll need sharp eyes to spot them). The plot has Cantor and his college buddy Young innocently caught up in a bank robbery and hiding out in Mexico, where Cantor is mistaken for a famous matador. No prizes for guessing where he ends up.

The Onion A.V. Club [Maria Schneider]

Comedian Eddie Cantor had an extraordinarily successful career spanning nearly five decades; although he was a top star of Vaudeville, Broadway, radio, television, and films, he's now virtually unknown to Americans born after 1960, and his work is rarely seen. Part of a series of video reissues of his popular movie comedies, 1932's Samuel Goldwyn-produced The Kid From Spain is an interesting museum-piece of fluff. The tale of an expelled college student who is forced to flee to Mexico after being mistaken for a bank robber—and who, once below the border, is further mistaken for a famous bullfighter—The Kid From Spain shows its age. Frenetic, goggle-eyed Cantor is as likable as his silly persona will permit, but his one-liners, although well-timed, are mild and with a couple of exceptions unmemorable; he displays little of the sharp, absurdist edge that make his less ingratiating contemporaries, the Marx Brothers, so appealing to cynical modern audiences. The Kid From Spain also features several characters who speak with staccato, nasal accents typical of '30s movies, as well as couple of energetic dance numbers, choreographed by Busby Berkeley in his trademark kaleidoscopic style and performed by a small-breasted, long-legged group of chorus clones known as the Goldwyn Girls. Robert Young, in a very early role, is ridiculously cast as a Latin-lover type with a pencil-thin mustache. The Kid From Spain is filled with Mexican stereotypes, and in a sequence that is eyebrow-raising to say the least, Cantor disguises himself in blackface to escape two tough guys—he even sings a tune accompanied by Goldwyn Girls, whose slick black wigs are painted to resemble grinning minstrels. Embarrassing and offensive though it is, blackface was a common Cantor routine, with intentions more airheaded than malicious. For all its corniness, The Kid From Spain is undeniably fast-moving, and features some enjoyably goofy tunes. It may be dated, but how many of today's comedies will be recognized as classics 65 years from now?

42^ND STREET

USA (89 mi) 1933 d: Lloyd Bacon

Time Out

Reviving the musical's fortunes in one fell swoop, Bacon and Busby Berkeley's backstage saga set the benchmark for the putting-on-a-show subgenre not by means of plot (a thin and hackneyed affair about a young understudy finding stardom when she covers for the temperamental diva) but through sassy songs and dialogue and dazzling mise-en-scène. A grand cast makes the most of numbers like 'You're Getting to Be a Habit with Me', 'Shuffle Off to Buffalo' and 'Young and Healthy', while Berkeley choreographs chorines and camera with mischievous dexterity.

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

MGM was always known for its expensive, colorful, cookie-cutter musicals, but it was the scrappy little Warner Brothers that made arguably the biggest impact on the genre.

From 1933 to 1935, Warners made a series of so-called "backstage" musicals all about choreographers, dancers, singers, chorus girls, directors, etc. who fight, try to sabotage one another, and fall in love.

The same cast turned up over and over again signing numbers ranging from delightful to silly to forgettable, and when they broke into song, it actually made sense because they were already in the theater.

But what set these films apart was their big finale, usually three separate numbers, choreographed by one Busby Berkeley.

Warner Home Video recently released a spectacular box set featuring five Berkeley films and an amazing sixth bonus disc containing a "best of" collection of Berkeley routines. The box set retails for $59.98.

Berkeley (1895-1976) learned how to manipulate large groups of people while serving as a field artillery lieutenant during World War I. He worked on Broadway during the 1920s, creating a trademark with his ability to form packs of dancing girls into geometrical shapes.

Berkeley's skill was so quickly and apparently evident that he overshadowed the men who actually directed the movies.

His segments depicted musical numbers that would have been impossible to perform on stage, or at least for an audience to properly see; these numbers were crafted specifically for the cinema.

The routines had a number of odd effects. Berkeley could get away with blatant suggestions of sex, but at the same time dehumanize the chorus girls into mere shapes, round faces and wide eyes with oval, kissing mouths.

Patterns were Berkeley's specialty, but he had an innate gift of playing to the motion picture camera, emphasizing body parts, choosing shades of darkness over bland, even brightness, and incorporating ever more dazzling non-theatrical escapades, like waterfalls and trains.

Critics complained that Berkeley's numbers had little to do with one another, or in fact, little to do with the plot of the movie in question; it's likely that Berkeley simply came up with the numbers independently of one another and simply used his most recent idea.

His first, and most beloved film is still 42nd Street (1933), directed by Lloyd Bacon, in which a relentless, but secretly kind-hearted, director (Warner Baxter) tries to whip a bunch of singers and dancers together for a Broadway show, while a love triangle untangles itself. Ruby Keeler made her movie debut, and Dick Powell and Ginger Rogers co-star.

Berkeley's trio of numbers for this film, "Shuffle Off to Buffalo," "You're Getting to Be a Habit With Me" and "42nd Street" represent just the beginning of his talents. Notice how the camera swoops and dives to capture all the perfectly-timed activity, both dazzling and shocking, in a fictionalized New York Broadway district.

Arguably Berkeley's greatest achievement, however, is Footlight Parade (1933), also directed by Bacon. When movies threaten to shut down the legitimate stage for good, a crafty producer, Chester Kent (James Cagney), comes up with the idea to create live prologues for new movies.

Like Berkeley himself, Chester racks his brain, 24-7, for themes out of which to craft musical numbers. (Cats? Flowers?)

Unfortunately, a spy keeps leaking his ideas to a rival company, and the usual love triangle threatens to tear everything apart. Cagney himself takes part in the final musical number, "Shanghai Lil," replacing an injured leading man.

The other discs in the set include Mervyn LeRoy's Gold Diggers of 1933 (1933), Ray Enright's Dames (1934) and Berkeley's own directorial debut, Gold Diggers of 1935 (1935). Unfortunately, after Hollywood adopted the Hays Code in 1934, many of Berkeley's sexy trademarks disappeared.

Moreover, his particular skill did not translate to directing feature films, and his subsequent career petered out. He graduated to directing a series of unremarkable, routine films through the late 1940s and more or less retired by 1954.

But his energetic, fantastic early work continues to hold a fascination for musical and cinema buffs, and it's as dazzling as the day it first appeared.

DVD Talk (Chris Hughes)

Busby Berkeley first became interested in choreography while serving as a second lieutenant in the First World War. As the leader of a battery of 200 men part of his duty was to lead military drills. But rather than have his men march around in a strict regimented way he constructed elaborate maneuvers for them to follow. Berkeley developed a fascination with the artistic potential of synchronized body movements and when the war ended he leveraged what he called 'the best apprenticeship I could have had' into a career in Hollywood where he choreographed and directed some of the most memorable musical and dance films ever made.

Berkeley's films were a form of buoyant escapism that the nation desperately needed while in the depths of the Great Depression. Films like Gold Diggers of 1933, Stars Over Broadway and Footlight Parade allowed beleaguered Americans to forget their cares for a couple of hours and be transported to a fantastic world where dancers spun and swung in exotic and beautiful patterns. Of all the Berkeley films perhaps the best known is 1933s 42nd Street whose formulaic plot follows the events surrounding a washed up producer's attempt to mount one final Broadway hit.

Staring Ruby Keeler, Dick Powell and Ginger Rogers, 42nd Street is pure fluff of the most delightful kind. The back stage drama follows two story lines. On the one hand there's director/producer Julian Marsh (Warner Baxter) who's failing health and faltering reputation may turn out to be serious impediments to the nascent show. On the other is the show's star Dorothy Brock (Bebe Daniels) who spends a good deal of her time fending off the show's financial backer and attempting to reconcile with her former boyfriend. You'll see every plot twist and turn coming from a mile away, even the 'dramatic' climax but the high degree of predictability is to be expected from a genre piece like this and doesn't diminish the picture's entertainment value one iota. Of course the highlight of the proceedings is Berkeley's choreography of the final dance number which features beautifully geometric patterns as photographed from above.

Turner Classic Movies Roger Fristoe

Hollywood conjures New York City to wonderful effect in 42nd Street (1933), which has been called "the virtual debut of the screen musical as a viable force in Hollywood." On huge sets constructed at the Warner Bros. studios, director Lloyd Bacon and choreographer Busby Berkeley create their own stylized Manhattan, epitomized by the production number built around the title song. Emerging star Ruby Keeler appears in close-up as she performs a dance routine, and as the camera pulls back she is discovered to be tapping atop a taxi at the intersection of Broadway and 42nd Street. The surrounding skyline suddenly begins to move, as we realize that it is a series of buildings painted on boards held by Berkeley's celebrated dancing girls.

Berkeley, who also designed many of the sets used in his numbers, brought a scale to the movie musical that was truly gargantuan, involving hundreds of dancers moving in unison with all manner of props through fantastic environments. In one number for 42nd Street he created three enormous cylindrical turntables, each higher than the next, that spun in opposite directions as an army of chorus girls tapped on the discs.

42nd Street, which follows a Broadway musical from casting call to opening night, became a landmark film that turned the tide for the movie musical. At the time, the genre had slipped in popularity due to overexposure after numerous attempts to duplicate the success of MGM's Oscar-winning The Broadway Melody (1929). But 42nd Street, which won an Oscar nomination as Best Picture, helped Warner Bros. emerge as a major force in film production and established Berkeley as the "mad genius" of musical production numbers. "A lot of people used to believe I was crazy," Berkeley would later admit. "But I can truthfully say one thing: I gave 'em a show!"

Keeler (then Mrs. Al Jolson and making her film debut) plays Peggy, the starry-eyed chorus girl who replaces leading lady Bebe Daniels in the Broadway musical Pretty Lady. The show's director, Warner Baxter, famously tells her that "You're going out there a youngster, but you've got to come back a star!" In another star-making turn, Dick Powell is Peggy's leading man - a role he would fill for Keeler in several other musicals. 42nd Street was also an important movie in the career of the young Ginger Rogers, who plays a chorus girl named "Anytime Annie," of whom it was said, "She only said 'No' once, and that was when she didn't hear the question."

Movie Reviews UK Damian Cannon

Reel.com DVD review [Juliet Clark]

ToxicUniverse.com (David Abrams)

CineScene.com (Chris Dashiell)

The Greatest Films - comprehensive analysis of classic US film Tim Dirks

DVD Times Eamonn McCusker reviews the 5-film Busby Berkeley collection, also including GOLD DIGGERS OF 1933, FOOTLIGHT PARADE, DAMES, AND GOLD DIGGERS OF 1935

Slant Magazine - DVD Review Dan Callahan reviews the 5-film Busby Berkely collection

Bright Lights [Matthew Kennedy] reviews the 5-film Busby Berkely collection

DVD Savant [Glenn Erickson] reviews the 5-film Busby Berkely collection

DVDBeaver dvd review Gary W. Tooze

GOLD DIGGERS OF 1933

USA (96 mi) 1933 d: Mervyn LeRoy

Big House Film (Roger Westcombe)

You gotta remember the Busby Berkeley spectaculars are still films, and Gold Diggers Of 1933 is primarily an entertainingly dry comedy in the 1930s Hollywood tradition. This despite it being best remembered for its ‘gritty’ Depression-oriented finale My Forgotten Man, paying tribute to the homeless ex-WWI soldiers whom the system couldn't accomodate (known colloquially then as 'the forgotten men') through a musical mini-noir of tenement tragedy and suicide - set to song! (This number’s climax of turbine-like wheels of soldiers counter-rotating retains a Fritz Lang-like industrial dimension, even now.) 

But this first in the Gold Diggers series is a Busby Berkeley film.   It being just ahead of 1934's start to the Hays Code censorship, 21st Century audiences still gasp (in delight!) at the barely-there flimsies adorning the chorines of Pettin’ in the Park, even before convenient ‘rain’ causes them to disrobe in silhouette. Oh, what a world!

Edinburgh U Film Society [Scott M. Keir]

In the interwar years, film was at an alltime high. Cinema attendances, and the number of films being produced were huge. Thousands flocked to Hollywood to make their dreams come alive - the chance of stardom was a heady drug. Meanwhile, the boundaries of film were being explored and pushed back, encouraged by studios who saw the wireless radio as a real threat. Many existing forms of entertainment were referred to for ideas, including popular theatre and Broadway. The grand Broadway style musicals were seen as a guaranteed return on investment, and none came grander than those made by MGM, and none made them grander, than Busby Berkeley. Gold Diggers of 1933 is one of his, and one of the classics from a certain era of cinema, with Busby's hallmark style shining through.

Berkeley was a choreographer who did not just choreograph the dancing, but also the cameras and the audiences, in a host of grand, outlandish musicals. His sweeping, novel style was his hallmark, with the fine set pieces in Gold Diggers of 1933 a fine example. Many early film musicals were simply filmed versions of the theatre productions, and while Gold Diggers is plainly staged, Busby always experimented with unusual camera angles and editing to liven up the proceedings. The films tried to go one better than the stage musicals by going one bigger, with huge set pieces and opulent surroundings.

This was where many who arrived in Hollywood seeking stardom found their dream. The set pieces of many a Berkeley musical would call for a cast of hundreds of dancing girls in a kaleidoscopic, co-ordinated extravaganza. Gold Diggers of 1933 has some of the most outlandish of these, as does one of the later remakes, Gold Diggers of 1935 (not to mention Gold Diggers of 1937).

The story that the set pieces are hung around are a multitude of romances between a well-atheel family circle and the showgirls who come to town, involving many of the stars of the era, including Dick Powell as the aspiring songwriter and Ruby Keeler as his dame, Guy Kibbee, Warren William, Ned Sparks and Ginger Rogers in an early role. Will the show go on? Who will be with whom? Who knows!

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

Gold Diggers of 1933 is a classic example of a film style that cinema left behind, and that can be looked back at with interest. Made to lift the Depression-era spirits, and to show just what that loin was roaring about, this is the sort of film that doesn't get made any more, that can't get made any more.

Still perhaps the most enjoyable of all movie musicals, Gold Diggers hits the ground running as Ginger Rogers belts out ‘We’re in the money’ in the very first moments. We’re soon whisked into the first of several crazily elborate Busby Berkeley production numbers, during which Le Roy takes a back seat and hands over the reins to the legendary choreographer - though Berkeley is never credited in movie history books as an official co-director.

You’d be forgiven, however, for thinking the shots are being called by Luis Bunuel when, halfway through this first number, Ginger suddenly switches into gibberish. Continuing to grin inanely, she produces a long, bizarre series of strangulated non-words in tune with the music – is she singing backwards? Is it, in Pauline Kael’s phrase, some kind of ‘pig Latin’? Who knows. Whatever the explanation, this is as nightmarishly disturbing a moment as anything conjured up by David Lynch, Roman Polanski or Tim Burton.

And Rogers’ speaking-in-tongues is by no means the final blast of surrealism in this gleefully absurd, tongue-in-cheek ‘behind the scenes’ Broadway classic: Berkeley’s numbers may start off innocuous, but they nevetr stay that way for long. Take ‘Pettin’ in the park’, a nondescript little ditty for lovebirds Dick Powell (who seems to be on speed throughout the movie) and Ruby Keeler (an actress whose sweet appeal is, if anything, heightened by her rather glaring inability to either sing or dance.) But Berkeley stretches the song out to ridiculous lengths, serving up increasingly way-out visuals that climax with an indoor rainstorm and Keeler turning up wearing a Metropolis-style fetishistic metal costume, which Powell starts to open using a kitchen-standard can-opener. An implement handed to him by a ‘baby’ who we’ve just seen jumping out of his pram, on rollerskates, and eluding a dozen or so Manhattan cops – also on rollerskates.

These startling interludes alternate with much more orthodox Le Roy scenes in which the deliberately dopey, broad-comedy (but still pretty amusing) ‘plot’ unfolds: Powell turns out to be a rich kid from Boston who, against the wishes of his family, pursues a career in what everyone calls ‘the show business’ (“in preference to banking,” sniffs a deadpan relative.) He falls in with a troupe of actresses (the even-handed ensemble includes Keeler, Rogers, Joan Blondell and wisecracking Aline McMahon) down on their luck – we are in the middle of the depression – and cobbles together a socially-conscious Barton Fink-ish musical for them all, at the urging of a foghorn-voiced producer (the show-stealingly cartoonish Ned Sparks).

When the show’s aged ‘juvenile lead’ suffers an untimely bout of lumbago, Powell must tread the boards himself – unexpectedly becoming a star when the show clicks at the box office (this despite the fact that, from the fragments we see, this ‘Forgotten Melody’ makes no sense whatsoever.) When word gets out in the press, his parents send his brother (Warren William) and their lawyer (Guy Kibbee) to restore family honour – only for both to fall into the eager clutches of the crafty ‘gold digging’ showgirls.

It all climaxes in a series of nonsensically abrupt weddings (moral: marry a millionaire to escape the breadline?) before we end on yet another dizzying about-turn - Blondell intoning (not singing), in a disarmingly matter-of-fact manner, ‘My forgotten man,’ a stunningly dark meditation about the WWI veterans who now haunt the American streets as alcoholic hobos. But there’s no time to sort everything out in your mind, as the ending is somehow even more abrupt that the start – as the cinema lights go up, you’ll feel like you’ve been shot out of a cannon.

Turner Classic Movies Frank Miller

Robert Lord won his first producing credit for Gold Diggers of 1933 (1933), an all-singing, all-dancing follow-up to Warner Bros.' 1932 smash Forty-Second Street, the film that sparked the trend in screen musicals during the thirties. Warners knew they had a hit before the earlier film had even opened, so they had this production in the works while the rest of Hollywood was scrambling to catch up.

For their new musical extravaganza they turned to Avery Hopwood's hit Broadway play Gold Diggers of Broadway, which they had filmed twice before -- as a silent in 1923 and with sound and songs in 1929. Lord had even worked on the script for the 1929 tale of chorus girls mixed up with society types when a young blue-blood tries to break into show business. For the third version, they pulled out all the stops, with new star Ruby Keeler joining studio stalwarts Joan Blondell and Aline MacMahon as a trio of chorus girls on the make for stardom. And Busby Berkeley, who had scored a hit with the lavish numbers for Forty-Second Street, was given more money and more control for this feature.

Berkeley staged four big numbers this time around, each with his trademark geometric arrangements of dancers and dream-like story elements. The film opened with "We're in the Money," a gift to Depression-weary Americans as Ginger Rogers and chorus girls dressed in gold coins cavorted. Rogers even delivered a chorus in pig Latin, a fad of the time added at the last minute when Berkeley and director Mervyn LeRoy (and anybody else who's tried to take credit for the decision over the years) caught her singing the song that way; she was just kidding around after a hard day of rehearsals.

For "Petting in the Park," Dick Powell led the male chorus in a risque come-on to the female chorus on an elaborate Central Park set. The number takes a risque turn when the women get caught in a rainstorm and retreat behind a flimsy screen to remove their wet clothes (these were the days before Hollywood censored itself). They re-emerge in metal costumes designed to hold the men at bay -- until a lecherous baby (played by midget actor Billy Barty) hands Powell a can-opener. The number was cut from the film when it was re-issued after the arrival of strict Production Code enforcement in 1935 and was also deleted from the first prints available for television.

Berkeley had gotten the idea for "The Shadow Waltz" years earlier when he saw a vaudeville act in which a beautiful woman danced while playing the violin. He filed the idea away for later use, bringing it back for Gold Diggers of 1933 on a grand scale. In The Busby Berkeley Book, the director recalled that "I had no less than sixty girls at my disposal, so I ordered sixty white violins and a huge curving staircase for them to dance on. Once I had them go through the dance, it occurred to me that the number would be even more spectacular if the violins were all neon-lighted. The electricians fixed up each girl with wires and batteries and we were able to get some effective footage with the girls waltzing in the dark." During filming, Los Angeles was hit by an earthquake that caused a blackout and short-circuited some of the dancing violins. Berkeley was almost thrown from the camera boom, dangling by one hand until he could pull himself back up. He yelled for the girls, many of whom were on a 30-foot-high platform, to sit down until technicians could get the soundstage doors open and let in some light.

Inspired by the war veterans' march on Washington in May 1932, Berkeley developed the idea for "Remember My Forgotten Man," in which Joan Blondell (dressed as a streetwalker), addresses the forgotten veterans who have been forced from the front lines to the breadlines. Ending with Blondell backed by the silhouettes of men in uniform while the unemployed reach for her, it was a powerful number. But studio head Jack Warner and production chief Darryl F. Zanuck were so impressed with the song they decided to make it the film's finale, replacing "Petting in the Park," which was moved to earlier in the film. If you look closely at the scenes just before the film's finale, you'll see Keeler and other chorus girls in the dresses they wore at the start of the earlier number. You'll also catch Berkeley, in a rare screen appearance, as the callboy shouting "Everybody on stage for the 'Forgotten Man' number." He filmed the line the day before the studio was due to close for inventory. Rather than hire any actors, Warner had ordered him to shoot some pick-up lines with the secretaries and technicians already on the lot. Berkeley's was the only one of those lines that stayed in the film, to the surprised delight of the cast, who didn't know about it until they saw the picture's premiere.

Gold Diggers of 1933 gave prominent spots to two women destined for bigger things. Ginger Rogers, who had scored a small hit in Forty-Second Street, was still free-lancing in Hollywood when her boyfriend, director Mervyn LeRoy, got her cast in this film and prominently featured her in the opening number. The relationship didn't last the production shoot, and her other song, "I've Got to Sing a Torch Song," was largely cut. But her appearance was still enough to get her noticed at other studios and lead to her casting in RKO's Flying Down to Rio (1933), the first film to team her with Fred Astaire.

Doing the real singing during the "Remember My Forgotten Man" was Etta Moten (the number is often mistakenly credited to Marion Anderson), a black actress-singer who would make her greatest achievements off-screen. In 1933, she became the first African-American entertainer invited to sing for a U.S. president (Franklin Roosevelt) at the White House. In 1942, she was cast as Bess in the hit tour of George Gershwin's opera Porgy and Bess. When she objected to the libretto's racist language, Ira Gershwin even re-wrote her lyrics for her. Years later, she would distinguish herself as a radio interviewer and journalist at WMAQ Chicago, reporting on the birth of the civil rights movement in the '50s. By the time of her death in 2004, at the age of 102, she had been honored with a Living Legend Award from the National Black Arts Festival and a place in the Black Film-Makers Hall of Fame, the latter on the basis of this one film.

With all of the excellent musical talent on display in Gold Diggers of 1933, it's surprising that the movie didn't garner any Oscar® nominations in that category; the only recognition it received was an Academy Award® nomination for Best Sound.

Senses of Cinema Peter Kemp

CineScene.com (Chris Dashiell)

Reel.com DVD review [Pam Grady]

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

FOOTLIGHT PARADE

USA (104 mi) 1933 d: Lloyd Bacon

Time Out

The third of Warners' major backstage musicals to appear in 1933, unlike 42nd Street and Gold Diggers of 1933 in that it deals not so much with putting on a Broadway show as with combating the threat of talking pictures; unlike them, too, in that it pins its atmospheric faith less on the Depression than on Roosevelt optimism as personified by Cagney's irrepressibly bouncy choreographer. It ends with a string of three grandiose numbers by Busby Berkeley, that kitschy darling of current fashion, two of which (Honeymoon Hotel and By a Waterfall) are well suited to the wimpish personalities of Powell and Keeler; but the third, Shanghai Lil, is given a terrific boost by Cagney and by a camera raptly tracking through smoky Chinese bars, nightclubs and opium dens. But by far the best part of the film is its first hour, fast, furious and funny as Cagney sets out to convince his nervous backers that his idea for live prologues to accompany talkies can be made to work.

filmcritic.com (Chris Cabin)

With modern musicals being about as embarrassingly bad as they come (the nadir being Christopher Columbus’ deplorable Rent), it’s good to stop and take stock of the golden days of the movie musical. One of the splashy musical's most prominent heroes was Busby Berkeley, a choreographer who knew a lot about dance and even more about subtext. Through both his Gold Diggers pictures, Dames, 42nd Street, and Wonder Bar, you can see his dance style saying as much about the story as it is acting as a subversive agent. However, it never got so sly and perverse as it did in Lloyd Bacon’s exceptional Footlight Parade.

In his finest non-dramatic role, James Cagney plays Chester Kent, a stage musical director who turns into a prologue director when silent pictures go all talkie. Prologues are lavish musical numbers they put on before and in between films, and Kent is the best in the business at them. When the possibility to sign a 40-theater deal comes up, Kent goes nutty and must rush out three ace prologues in three days. Keep in mind; this is all while dealing with his contemptible fiancée, Vivian (Carole Dodd), his loyal, loving assistant, Nan (Joan Blondell), two business partners who are ripping him off, and a spy in his dance company that is stealing his ideas. And then there are the two main leads that are falling for each other (sweetly played by Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler).

The three main performances in Footlight Parade are at the end, the three prologues that must win over the owner of the 40 theaters. All three are choreographed with precision and feisty glee by Berkeley. In “Honeymoon Hotel,” he shamelessly dances around and hints at the amorous happenings on one's wedding night, and in “Shanghai Lil,” you can see his deviant smile behind Cagney choosing the Navy (male dominance) over the woman he’s been looking high and low for. Most shocking is “By the Waterfall,” which casts a man’s dream of love and marriage as a group of lovely women, flirting and swimming near a waterfall. On many of the overhead shots during the swimming scenes, there is more than a passing resemblance to the act of fertilization. It’s a seditious stab at the ratings board (timely now on its DVD appearance, what with the MPAA running rampant) and never makes the mistake of being too obvious.

The film generates laughs at a criminal rate, and it almost makes it hard to follow. Much like Howard Hawks’ His Girl Friday, however, we can still grab what is going on and see the generous story layering and deep character that Bacon and writers Manuel Seff and James Seymour worked in with deep love. Cinematographer George Barnes and editor George Amy are consistently inventive in the way they shoot the musical numbers. In “By the Waterfall,” their dazzling ability with space seems a little too good at distracting us from the fact that none of these could ever be put on any sort of stage.

Bacon and Berkeley collaborated on three other films, Wonder Bar, Gold Diggers of 1937 and 42nd Street. I’ll always have a place in my heart for the warmth of the dance numbers in 42nd Street, but one can’t argue that both men were at the top of their game with Footlight Parade. For all intents and purposes, it seems that what modern musicals are missing in abundance is the sense of mischief that movies like this and Cabaret (arguably the last truly great movie musical) had. With stinkers like Rent and From Justin to Kelly roaming the Cineplex, the most musical thing you can hear these days is Berkeley and Bacon rotating in their graves.

Turner Classic Movies Frank Miller

James Cagney made the transition from gats to taps when he convinced Warner Bros. head Jack Warner to give him a change of pace with the lead in Footlight Parade, Busby Berkeley's 1933 musical extravaganza. Coming on the heels of the studio's first two groundbreaking musicals -- 42nd Street (1933) and Gold Diggers of 1933 - the film had a way to go to top its predecessors. But, with Cagney dancing for the first time on screen, Joan Blondell cracking wise as only she could and 100 chorus girls swimming through a gigantic studio tank in the spectacular "By a Waterfall" number, most fans agree that it's the ultimate Warners musical.

As soon as he heard about the studio's plans to follow Berkeley's two smash musicals, Cagney campaigned for the role. After all, he reminded Warner, he had started out as a song-and-dance man and only blundered into gangster roles when he'd switched roles with the original star of The Public Enemy (1931). After Cagney reached film stardom, he continued to tap around the house after each day's shooting. In fact, visitors with dancing experience, like George Burns and Gracie Allen, were usually handed tap shoes and asked to join in.

Footlight Parade marked the third teaming for Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler, who had shot to stardom in the first two Berkeley musicals at Warners. It also marked a reunion for Cagney and Blondell, who had started at Warners together in 1930's Sinner's Holiday, which they had also done on Broadway. Footlight Parade was actually their sixth film together. Blondell had just married the film's cameraman, George Barnes, though that didn't guarantee her better camera angles; her natural beauty rarely came through on screen and always astonished fans lucky enough to meet her in the flesh.

A backstage story like 42nd Street, Footlight Parade saved most of its musical numbers for the film's finale. Before the finale, however, the movie is a fast-paced comedy about a Broadway producer who fights the inroads made by talking pictures during the Great Depression by staging extravagant "prologues" for movie theaters. Though she didn't get to sing or dance in the film, Blondell almost stole the picture as Cagney's secretary and love interest. When she kicks out a gold digger after his fortune, Blondell quips, "As long as they've got sidewalks, you've got a job." The line would be edited out in later years, when film censorship became more stringent, not to return until the picture's 1970 reissue.

After the simple plot was established, Footlight Parade focused on dancing, with three of Berkeley's best numbers back-to-back. First up was "Honeymoon Hotel," in which Powell and Keeler's efforts to enjoy their honeymoon in private are thwarted by relatives, well-wishers and a lecherous baby (Billy Barty) who almost shares their wedding night. The number was heavily cut by local censors.

Next came the 15-minute number, "By a Waterfall." Berkeley came up with the idea when someone asked him how he was going to top the numbers in Gold Diggers of 1933. When he suggested the first on-screen aquacade, Warner screamed "Stop right there! It will take the Bank of America to keep you going." But a few weeks later, he suggested that Berkeley try the number in Footlight Parade. The set, complete with an 80-by-40-foot swimming pool, took up an entire soundstage. Berkeley had the pool lined with glass walls and a glass floor so he could shoot the swimmers from every possible angle. Then he designed the swimming suits and bathing caps to create the illusion that the women were almost naked. He rehearsed the number for two weeks, then shot it in six days as technicians pumped 20,000 gallons of water a minute over the set's artificial falls. The results were so spectacular that the audience at the premiere gave the number a standing ovation and threw their programs in the air. Broadway impresario Billy Rose even tried to steal Berkeley from Warners to stage his aquacade.

For the finale, "Shanghai Lil," Cagney donned a sailor's suit and tap shoes to sing and dance the story of a sailor searching for his lost love in what most astute viewers realized was a brothel and opium den. When he finds her -- Ruby Keeler masquerading as a Chinese girl -- they joyously tap dance on the bar before getting caught in a full-scale brawl with 150 sailors and chorus girls. During the fight scene one chorus girl accidentally walked into a fist and ended up unconscious under one of the tables (the same dancer, years later, would marry MGM studio head Louis B. Mayer). Featured briefly in the sequence are a young John Garfield (five years before signing a Warners contract; he did extra work as a sailor briefly seen peeking over a barrel during the fight) and then-unknown chorus girls Ann Sothern and Dorothy Lamour. But the scene was Cagney's all the way. When the film opened, a reporter from the trade paper Variety located Max Tishman, an agent who had fired Cagney for demanding a raise during his song-and-dance days. When the reporter asked him what he thought of his former client, Tishman said he'd be happy to give Cagney the raise if he ever wanted to come back.

DVD Times Eamonn McCusker

Bright Lights [Matthew Kennedy] May 2006

moviediva

Slant Magazine - DVD Review Dan Callahan from The Busby Berkeley Collection

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson) dvd review

Turner Classic Movies dvd review Paul Sherman

Ferdy on Films [Marilyn Ferdinand]

Footlight Parade (1933) Brian Darr from Hell on Frisco Bay

CineScene.com (Chris Dashiell) review

Classic Film Guide recommendation

TV Guide Entertainment Network, Movie Guide review [5/5]

Los Angeles Times [Kenneth Turan]

The New York Times review A.D.S.

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

ROMAN SCANDALS

USA (93 mi) 1933 d: Frank Tuttle

Time Out

A pleasantly entertaining pot-pourri of humour, song, and dance, structured around the goggle-eyed gaucheries of Cantor as the small-town boy, run out by the authorities because of his troublesome social conscience, who dreams that he is a slave in Ancient Rome (graduating to the perilous post of food-taster for Arnold's Emperor). Though the wit has dated somewhat, it's still worth seeing for its typically lavish Goldwyn production values: Richard Day's impressive set designs, Gregg Toland's camerawork, and Busby Berkeley's usual excesses in a slave-market scene, populated by masses of all but naked Goldwyn girls.

Scifilm (Dave Sindelar)

When a local boy is thrown out of the town of New Rome, he finds himself transported to the times of Ancient Rome.

The time travel aspect in the above plot description delineates the fantastic element in this musical comedy; as for the actual mechanics as to how the time travel occurs, it's never clearly explained, but from the surrounding events, It's pretty obvious he either dreamed or imagined it. I found the whole affair a lot of fun, with the big dance numbers choreographed by Busby Berkeley and some entertaining songs by Eddie Cantor. There are several interesting names in the cast; Gloria Stuart, David Manners, Edward Arnold and Alan Mowbray are all on hand, with various smaller parts played by Richard Alexander, Lucille Ball, Billy Barty (in another moment of fantasticism, Eddie Cantor enters a steam bath and is shrunk to the size of a midget, thus Barty's appearance), Jane Darwell, Francis Ford, Paulette Goddard and Noble Johnson (as a torturer). The plot is fairly thin, but the mostly light-hearted fun has a few darker moments; the theme of political corruption is on hand, and one of the musical numbers involves the selling into slavery of a female slave who is then thrown to her death, a sequence that is somewhat shocking given the general light nature of the movie. Also, being pre-code, some of the musical numbers are fairly risque, especially the number inside the woman's bath, which features Eddie Cantor singing in blackface and plenty of women in various states of undress. This one was definitely a movie of its time.

DAMES

USA (91 mi) 1934 co-directors: Busby Berkeley and Ray Enright

Time Out

A predictable puttin'-on-a-show plot is basically a superfluous framework for some bright comic acting from the likes of Blondell and Pitts, and for typically ornamental musical scenes staged by Berkeley, with dozens of girls waving their legs around while lying on their backs (and they call that dancing?).

Chicago Reader (Dave Kehr)

It takes longer than usual to dispense with the plot (something about a public decency campaign waged against a Broadway show) and get down to the three Busby Berkeley numbers that are every Warner musical's raison d'etre. But the wait is worth it for "I Only Have Eyes for You," a literally hallucinatory number in which Dick Powell imagines every female resident of New York City transformed into Ruby Keeler--a main extension of Berkeley's obsession with multiplication and symmetry. With Joan Blondell, Guy Kibbee, Hugh Herbert, and ZaSu Pitts; Ray Enright directed the nonmusical sequences (1934). 90 min.

User Reviews from imdb Author: (tooter.ted@gmail.com) from United States

It's true that you'll wait through much of this film for the production numbers, its greatest attraction to contemporary viewers.  However, that's not a problem.  In contrast to the chaotic plot of Gold Diggers of 1935, this plot has both point and some worthy comic performances from Zasu Pitts, Guy Kibbee, and especially Hugh Herbert.  In fact the film's thematic point, missed in most reviews, distinguishes it from other films of this genre. 

We expect in these films for Dick Powell to be the dashing (if fruity) hero who wins the girl in the end.  The end here is not so simple; Powell wins the girl, but we never hear what he whispers in Ruby Keeler's ear when she asks if he loves her, and his caddish behavior throughout the film suggests that all's not well that ends well.  Caddish is too tame to describe his awful, fast-talking disregard of everyone but himself. The film gives no reason to suspect he loves Keeler any more than he loves Joan Blondell. Shortly after singing, "I Only Have Eyes for You" to Barbara (Keeler) for whom he wrote it, he sings it to Mabel (Blondell) while excluding Barbara just within earshot. Powell makes quite clear that "dames" are interchangeable, and the show must go on, even if it requires victimizing his "sweetheart's" parents and even if it means firing the girl he supposedly loves.

In fact, all the characters in this film behave miserably.  Kibbee is a father ready to sell out, not only his values (he seems to have none) but his daughter for an inheritance, and the daughter has as little regard for the feelings of her parents. Zasu Pitts as mother is emotionless, frigid, and similarly self-centered. Rich Uncle Ezra is hilariously dimwitted, an aggressively ignorant upholder of right morals. Nobody is reformed in the end, and the only reason the show goes on is that the "moral majority," who would block the show and the marriage get too drunk to care.  However, it is the failings of the supposed heroes and heroines that are most telling. These people all deserve each other, and the future can't be as promising as the Hollywood ending might imply.

Of course, it is Berkeley's production numbers that will lead you to this film, and they all come near the end in rapid succession.  They are worth the wait.  Berkeley's surreal images comment on the shallowness of the characters. Could it also be that Berkeley recognized Keeler's lack of talent when he gave her almost no chance to sing or dance? The final dance sequence may be the single most extravagant and outrageous Berkeley ever directed.  The kaleidoscopic effects, through the legs dolly shots, use of mirrors and transitions will dazzle lovers of this medium.  One should be amazed at how some of these shots were accomplished with the bulky equipment of the day. You haven't seen the best of Berkeley until you've seen Dames.

Turner Classic Movies Brian Cady

Warner Brothers' hit musical Gold Diggers of 1933 (1933) had only been in theaters six weeks when producer Hal Wallis put plans in motion for more of the same. The resulting movie would be called Dames (1934), but Variety magazine, in its review, accurately pegged it as "the 1934 edition of 'Gold Diggers.'"

Wallis started out only knowing he wanted another musical starring Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler but it took him several screenwriters and a couple of screenplays before he had a story written to his satisfaction. Original director Archie Mayo was soon replaced by another director before the reins were handed over to Ray Enright a week before shooting began. From the beginning, however, the design and direction of the musical numbers was under the command of Busby Berkeley. The director/choreographer had his own unit by this time, operating under his complete control and with no supervision except for Wallis' sometimes stern eye on content and cost.

For Dames, however, Berkeley had a threat to his autonomy that was more powerful than Wallis or even the Warner Brothers. In the summer of 1934, the Motion Picture Production Code was toughened and strictly enforced after protests from Catholic groups. Among the targets of their attacks were the musicals of Busby Berkeley. In 42nd Street (1933) Berkeley sent his camera through the spread legs of scantily clad chorus girls and in Gold Diggers of 1933 he projected their naked silhouettes on screens.

One of the raciest numbers Berkeley planned for Dames never made it to the soundstage, much less past the Code's censors. Berkeley wanted Joan Blondell to perform a number about a battle between a cat and a mouse that would end with Blondell inviting all to "come up and see my pussy sometime." Wallis nixed this number completely in a memo he sent to Berkeley dated March 19, 1934: "we are accused of obscenity in our pictures enough as it is without reason, and besides there is no use besmirching the name of Berkeley with filth."

As a replacement, Berkeley devised a number with Blondell as "The Girl at the Ironing Board." Having Blondell behind an ironing board was not just an illustration of the song. At the time of shooting she was seven months pregnant and careful camerawork, handled by her husband, cinematographer George Barnes, was required to disguise her condition. All the attention on Blondell may have caused Berkeley to make a rare on-screen goof. He later recalled that after the picture opened: "over her right shoulder in the distance I see outside on the lawn where the clotheslines were hanging, one of my property men nailing up a clothesline. I had never noticed it, and no one else did until a week after the picture had opened."

Wallis put pressure on Berkeley to keep down costs, a request that caused Berkeley to bridle: "I was under pressure at the time to hurry up and finish on schedule. I could take any number I've done and elaborate on it, fifty percent more. But the front office was always thinking in terms of budget and expense."

Nevertheless, Dames is filled with great songs set to Berkeley stagings. The most famous, set to a Dick Powell-crooned "I Only Have Eyes For You," has chorus girls wearing Ruby Keeler masks, ultimately forming a giant Keeler face. The song remained a standard well into the rock 'n' roll era with hit versions by The Flamingos in the 1950's and Art Garfunkel in the 1970's.

Despite the new restrictions and a thin plot, Dames provides another wonderful showcase for one of Hollywood's greatest theatrical designers. Busby Berkeley bypassed the censors' shears and the front office's stinginess to create an exciting theatrical spectacle.

Dames (1934, Ray Enright and Busby Berkeley) Video essay by Kevin B. Lee from Shooting Down Pictures

CineScene.com (Chris Dashiell)

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

GOLD DIGGERS OF 1935

USA (98 mi) 1935 d: Busby Berkeley

Chicago Reader (Dave Kehr)

Busby Berkeley's first full-length job of direction (previously he handled only dance numbers) reveals a bitterness and cynicism that never again surfaced in his work. The mercenary motives of the characters are pushed far beyond the requirements of the formula, and then there's the wrenching climax of the famous "Lullaby of Broadway" number. None of it is very deep or coherent, but the film does suggest that there was something more to Berkeley than his fine sense of spectacle. With Dick Powell, Adolphe Menjou, and Gloria Stuart. 98 min.

Time Out

Not a patch on Gold Diggers of 1933, this is set in a hotel where Powell, a medical student doubling as hotel clerk, falls for the daughter (Stuart) of a stingy multi-millionairess (Brady). The annual charity show is naturally being put on, and the plot revolves around the efforts of a mad Russian director (Menjou) and assorted associates to take the millionairess for as much as they can. Since Berkeley (his first solo as director) seems to have no idea how to handle actors, the result is acres of atrocious mugging (Menjou being the worst offender) and a couple of Powell ballads. Survive the first 70 minutes, however, and there are two big production numbers. The first ('The Words Are in My Heart') is standard Berkeley fare, involving chorines and waltzing white pianos. But 'The Lullaby of Broadway' is one of his most inventive choreographies: a mini-chronicle of a day in the life of the Great White Way, ending with the night bringing on an exhilarating horde of tap dancers.

Turner Classic Movies Stephanie Thames

Yes, there's a plot in Gold Diggers of 1935 (1935). But it doesn't distract from the visual spectacle served up by choreographer-director Busby Berkeley. The movie is really about style. From beautiful geometric-patterned marble floors to gilded elevator doors to extravagant musical fantasies where pianos can dance, Gold Diggers of 1935 shows off the clean, angular Art Deco fashion of the 1930's and 40's with panache. It's an art director's dream, Busby Berkeley-style.

The swank setting for Gold Diggers of 1935 is the Wentworth Plaza, a summer hotel for big tippers. Just ask the staff. There's quite a pecking order to determine who gets what cut of the gratuity pie. But everyone is determined to get their fair share, including medical student/desk clerk Dick Powell. So, when Powell is offered big bucks to entertain sheltered heiress Gloria Stuart for the season, it sounds like easy money. But Stuart has a special pact with her mother: one summer of fun and then she'll marry her fianc¿a stuffy snuffbox expert. As luck, and Hollywood, would have it, Powell and Stuart fall in love and collaborate on a musical revue. Enter Adolphe Menjou as a Russian dance director, who helps orchestrate the couple's romance and the show's production.

And that's where the real story begins - with Berkeley. Gold Diggers of 1935 marked the choreographer's debut as a solo director. He had, of course, directed the dance numbers in many earlier films, including 42nd Street and Gold Diggers of 1933 (both 1933) and received co-directing credit for She Had to Say Yes (1933) with George J. Amy. But Gold Diggers of 1935 would be Berkeley's first film with almost total creative control. And the results are unforgettable. With only three songs, Lullaby of Broadway, I'm Going Shopping With You and The Words Are In My Heart, Berkeley extends the limited production numbers to dramatic effect.

Most visually stunning is the white piano number of The Words Are In My Heart, where fifty-six grand pianos come to life in a deco kaleidoscope. And for Berkeley, the creative impetus for the scene lived for years in his head before it danced on screen. As Berkeley recalled, "one day in New York I was watching an act at the Palace with four men playing grand pianos. I thought to myself then, 'someday I'll do that with fifty pianos,' and when it came time to think of something for this song, the thought came to mind." If you look very carefully, you'll realize how Berkeley pulled this trick off. Under each of the light, specially designed piano shells, was a dancer, wearing black pants and staying in step to black tape marks on the glossy floor. But it's doubtful many viewers noticed. Even after you're let in on the secret, the dance still mesmerizes.

The other pure Berkeley number in Gold Diggers of 1935 is probably among the best remembered sequences of his career – the show stopping finale Lullaby of Broadway. The sequence, which turned out to be a favorite of Berkeley's, was a difficult one to conceive. After composer Harry Warren wrote the tune, and lyricist Al Dubin added the words, telling the story of a Broadway Baby who plays all night and sleeps all day, Berkeley knew immediately how he wanted to stage the main part of the number but was at a loss to find a perfect opening. It took a little friendly competition from Al Jolson for Berkeley to find his inspiration. Jolson had heard Lullaby of Broadway and wanted it for his next movie. Finally, Berkeley agreed that if he didn't find a way to open the number in 24 hours, Jolson could have it. Obviously, inspiration struck; Berkeley opened with singer Wini Shaw's face on a black background.

The fantasy film within a film, which featured over a hundred dancers, provided an unusual, but dramatic, ending to Gold Diggers of 1935 and earned Busby Berkeley an Oscar nomination for Best Dance Direction. The number was also a winner for Warren and Dubin, who received an Academy Award for Best Song. The segment ranks right up there with Berkeley’s best. As the New York Times film critic said of Gold Diggers of 1935, the "master of scenic prestidigitation continues to dazzle the eye and storm the imagination."

And here's an interesting product placement trivia bit: Buick had a 10 picture deal with Warner Brothers; in exchange for being able to associate themselves with Warner Brothers' films, Buick provided the cars to be used as props in the films. Gold Diggers of 1935 is a prime example. Another company with a long- term agreement with Warner Brothers was General Electric - specifically they were trying to promote a new kind of refrigerator. As a result, you often see a kind of refrigerator used in Warner films that wasn't yet widely used by the public.

New York Times (registration req'd) Andre Sennwald

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

STARS OVER BROADWAY

USA (89 mi) 1935 d: William Keighley

User Reviews from imdb Author: lugonian from Kissimmee, Florida

"Stars Over Broadway" (Warner Brothers,  1935), directed by William Keighley, introduces two new personalities to the screen, but to short-lived movie careers, Metropolitan opera tenor James Melton, and radio vocalist, Jane Froman, the latter best known as the subject matter for the 1952 biography "With a Sing In My Heart" starring Susan Hayward. In spite of Froman's name listed second in the list of players, she has little to do. The story mostly revolves around the third-billed Melton while Pat O'Brien, whose name heads the cast, returns to familiar territory as a hard-working talent scout promoting a new singing discovery, a role he has done several times with resident crooner, Dick Powell, most recently in "20 Million Sweethearts" (1934). While Melton doesn't measure up to the popularity of Powell, his singing surpasses the typical rise and fall show-biz story.

The scenario begins at New York City's Madison Square Garden where Al McGillevray (Pat O'Brien), a down-and-out agent in desperate need of cash yet refusing job charities from friends. After a gathering with newspaper reporters at Danceland where he is told he's all "washed up," Al returns to his hotel room with the intentions of ending his life. At that very moment he takes his gun from the drawer, Al encounters Jan Linzimski (James Melton), a singing porter with a pleasing voice and immediately abandons his suicidal tendencies to promote his latest discovery, renamed Jan King. Al sacrifices everything he has for the sake of Jan, working odd jobs and long hours to help pay Senior Minotti (William Riccardi) for his singing lessons, placing him in auditions at talent shows and radio programs where he sings contemporary songs instead of his major preference, opera. In time, Jan makes it to the top of the charts, but with success comes failure after teaming with Joan Garrett (Jane Froman), a singer who leads him to wild parties and heavy boozing causing serious damage to his voice and performances that puts an end to his career on Broadway. Feeling somewhat responsible for his setback, Al makes every effort to bring Jan back to his senses regardless of their serious argument that put an end to their partnership. Adding to Al's worries is Norma Wyman (Jean Muir), a young hopeful from Connecticut wanting a chance at a singing career herself, but because he doesn't want this nice girl to end up like Jan, Al does his best to discourage her while she makes every attempt to succeed, in spite of setbacks and tragedy.

Other featured players include Frank McHugh as "Offkey" Cramer, a song plaguer; Marie Wilson as Molly, a telephone operator and Cramer's love interest; and Frank Fay as the sarcastic radio talent show master of ceremonies whose big encounter of the evening being a group of children called "The Morgan Family." Appearing in smaller parts are Paul Porcasi, Eddie Kane, E.E. Clive, and heavyweight boxing champion, Jack Dempsey, playing himself.

The motion picture soundtrack, with new songs by Harry Warren and Al Dubin include: "Carry Me Back to the Lone Prairie" by Carson J. Robison (sung by James Melton); Guiseppi Verdi's "Aida" (Melton); "Open Up Them Pearly Gates" (sung by "The Morgan Family"); "You Let Me Down" (sung by Jane Froman in a torch song manner); "Coney Island" (sung by quartet); "Where Am I?," "Where Am I?" (both sung by Melton); "At Your Service, Madame" (with Jane Froman, Melton and male chorus); "Ave Maria" (sung by Jean Muir) by Franz Schubert; and "Aida" (finale with Melton).

While Bobby Connolly and Busby Berkeley are given joint collaboration credit as dance directors, only the eight minute "At Your Service, Madame" survives as its sole production number play enacted entirely in song. "September in the Rain" is often credited among the list of songs in STARS OVER Broadway, but is non-existent in the final print. It's reportedly a lavish scale dance number supervised by Berkeley that was either abandoned prior to filming or deleted upon completion.

In spite of occasional revivals on cable television's Turner Classic Movies since its premiere in 1994, "Stars Over Broadway" remains a forgotten item among the list of 1930s Warner Brothers musicals. Whenever it does turn up, it's usually part of TCM's tribute to either Busby Berkeley or tune-masters, Warren and Dubin. Of the three Warners musicals to feature Melton, "Stars Over Broadway" showcases him to best advantage, especially the singing category, but the screenplay, reminiscent to those used in early sound musicals or those produced at MGM whenever its turns dramatic, lacks strength or high points needed to make this something memorable. While Melton and Froman didn't fare well as screen celebrities of Hollywood, they obviously scored better individually whether at the Metropolitan, radio, television, or as stars over Broadway.

GOLD DIGGERS OF 1937

USA (101 mi) 1936 co-directors: Busby Berkeley and Lloyd Bacon

Time Out

Dick Powell as a singing insurance salesman who interests ageing, hypochondriac producer Victor Moore in a million dollar policy, and puts on a show with the proceeds... Nuggets include two memorable Busby Berkeley set pieces. Fifty couples canoodling on fifty giant rocking-chairs in 'Let's Put Our Heads Together', and spunky Joan Blondell leading seventy chorus girls in a military-style tattoo called 'All's Fair in Love and War'.

User Reviews from imdb Author SGriffin-6 (spgriffi@mail.smu.edu) from Dallas, Texas

The heyday of the Warner Bros./Busby Berkeley musicals was on the wane by 1936. While the key films of the series ("42nd Street" [1933], "Gold Diggers of 1933" [1933]) dealt with putting on a show, and the numbers being parts of that show, Hollywood musicals by the mid-30s were starting to shift to "book numbers," with characters singing and dancing when they should have been talking or walking. "Gold Diggers of 1937" is an attempt by Berkeley to follow this trend, but still hang onto what had worked in the past for him. So there are book numbers and at least one major "show number." The results are middling.

Another factor that gave the WB/Berkeley musicals so much energy was the tough talk and slightly risque innuendo that was sparked by the desperation of the dark days of the Depression. By 1936, there were specific factors in place to reign this in. The Production Code was now enforced, keeping the Hollywood studios from including the overtly sexual material that livened so many of Berkeley's numbers.

Also, with Roosevelt's election to president, popular opinion swayed from cynicism and frustration to hope and support of the system. The early Berkeley films were nothing if not an expression of hard-bitten despair. In "Gold Diggers of 1937," we still have women forced to use their sexuality on oily moneymen in order to survive economically (one actually says at one point, "It's so hard to be good under the capitalistic system"--Imagine!). But, unlike the early films in the series, this film wants you to feel sympathetic for the millionaire (instead of seeing him as the oppressor).

While the studio did give the film some strong stars, the budget seems somewhat lower than usual for Berkeley musicals--except for the final musical number, "All's Fair in Love and War." It's a real stunner--surreal, amazing visuals that stand up to comparison with just about any of Berkeley's greatest numbers. It's probably worth sitting through all of the forced comedy just to get to this one number.

User Reviews imdb Author Alice Liddel (-darragh@excite.com) from dublin, ireland

Busby Berkeley's films are the most concentrated tease in the history of movies. it is over an hour into 'Gold Diggers of 1937' before we get any real meat - an astonishing, gossamer-erotic Gatsby-orgy filmed in the manner of Riefenstahl, all glowing Aryan bodies with their glistening mammillae, and idealised framing; with the kind of multi-character cutting of a song Paul Thomas Anderson would borrow for 'Magnolia'; and a magnificent extended tap-dance leading to an agreeable Berkeley fancy, the huge male dancer hand-standing over a bridge of female arms like a fly evading a web - after two tantalising duets featuring Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler that threaten to explode into full-blown imaginative hysteria, but are cut short.

Of course, this is the Berkeley method - coitus interruptus - and our deferred gratification is mirrored in a plot where the hero must prove himself worthy of the heroine before he can have her; the final extravaganza thus functions as a sexual/marriage rite, concluding in a consummating kiss. And what an extravaganza it is - less overt than '1935', but full of fetishised phallic implements, swirling clitoral circles and rocking chairs. Against a sharp black background, our phosphorescent heroes play out their immemorial rites, the heterosexual struggle linked to war (and not to the men's advantage). This idea leads to some striking sequences, including a priapic cannon with a pair of adjacent ball-piles, and a scene of 'trench' warfare, where the skirted female soldiers in 'No Man's Land' triumph through a blitzkrieg of firearms and perfume. There is no way actual sex could ever be better than this.

It is traditional in celebrating Busby Berkeley movies to denigrate the plots as amiable, necessary time-passers before the visual disruption. I always find them highly entertaining, and '1937' has one of the best: an excellently plotted farce combining gold-diggers, an inept salesman, a hypochondriac theatre impressario and his corrupt sidekicks.

This fun plot is noticeable for two things - the extraordinary sexual honesty that persists in spite of Messrs. Hays' and Breen's best efforts: this is a Depression where a woman must prostitute herself for a meal, never mind a marriage; as Glenda Farrell says 'It is so hard to be good under the capitalistic system' (!). The film opens with Powell insisting on the link between financial security and marriage, and the glistening sea of gold moistening the opening credits certainly have a sexual force.

More enjoyable is the portrait of the two heels who try to kill their boss having lost all his money in a Stock Exchange scam, hoping to cash in on his insurance. this kind of plot is quite shocking in such a genre, and we are expected to laugh at various unsuccessful murder attempts (and we do: the whispers for help when they hurl JJ into the pool are hilarious). These are not cartoon villains but the kind of middle-aged, middle class men we might meet in film noir or the novels of Simenon, men whose souls have been made hard by routine, and the American insistence on success. They would have made good collaborators.

In 1933, the 'Gold Diggers' poignantly recorded the effects of the Depression: things haven't really improved four years later, but, significantly, the idea is emerging that if you throw enough razzmatazz, noise, bands and empty phrases at a problem it will go away. it's not for nothing that the two leads are an insurance man and an actress. Powell is amiable in a silly moustache, sillier name and a cheerful pessimism; Blondell is bubbly and serious and lovely as ever; the revelation, however, are Glenda Farrell, convincingly transforming from cynical modern woman to accomplice of scoundrels to loving wife; and Victor Moore, as the inimitable, whining, lonely JJ.

Turner Classic Movies Frank Miller

The good spirits, good jokes and great dance numbers in Gold Diggers of 1937 (1936) were enough to cure even a hypochondriac. In fact, that's exactly what they did when legendary stage clown Victor Moore returned to the screen after a two-year absence to star as a chronically ill producer whose maladies are all in his head. Dick Powell takes top billing as the insurance man conned into selling Moore a million dollar policy and then has to keep him in good health by turning his latest show into a smash. With numbers by two of the world's best songwriting teams -- Harry Warren and Al Dubin and Harold Arlen and E.Y. Harburg -- it couldn't miss.

Gold Diggers of 1937 was the third entry in Warners' profitable musical series and raked in the cash just like its predecessors. This entry had an unusually strong script, adapted from the minor stage hit Sweet Mystery of Life. Among the play's three authors was Richard Maibaum, later the writer of such James Bond favorites as From Russia With Love (1963) and Goldfinger (1964).

Although he was trying to move into directing, Busby Berkeley was confined to staging the musical numbers for this outing, with Lloyd Bacon -- who had teamed with him on Warners' first great musical, 42nd Street (1933)-- in the director's chair. Initially Arlen and Harburg, who would later team up for The Wizard of Oz (1939), had been signed to provide the score, but Berkeley didn't care for their work. Instead, he brought in the team of Warren and Dubin, who had done the songs for the previous two Gold Diggers films as well as Dames (1934) and 42nd Street. They provided him with the hit " With Plenty of Money and You," subtitled "The Gold Diggers' Lullaby," and the finale, "All's Fair in Love and War."

For the latter, Berkeley staged one of his most grandiose numbers. Leading lady Joan Blondell led a chorus of 104 women in white military uniforms as they tapped their way through a series of military formations with Berkeley's trademarked geometric patterns. Berkeley used Warners' largest soundstage to create an all-black space for the number. Fifty-foot tall black drapes created the backdrop, while wind machines made the dancers' military flags wave impressively. And between shots, a team of moppers wearing only lambs' wool socks on their feet, swarmed over the black floor to eliminate any scuff marks.

Aside from Moore, most of the cast came from the Warner Bros. stock company of contract players. Powell was still the studio's most popular musical leading man, years away from the image change that would turn him into a tough detective in Murder, My Sweet (1944). Blondell, who was married to Powell off-screen, had risen from the ranks of supporting players to a starring role as Moore's wisecracking secretary and leading lady. Glenda Farrell played a gold-digging chorus girl, a staple of the Warners' musicals of the '30s and a role she had played many times before.

Buried in the chorus was an unbilled actress destined for greater things. Although she only had one line in Gold Diggers of 1937, "Girls, we're saved!" Jane Wyman would soon catch the attention of Warners' producers and begin a slow climb to the top. She had only recently signed with Warners. When she tested, the studio's casting director said, "She has something. Now let's find out what the hell it is!" By the time she made this, her fourth Warner Bros. film, her co-stars were already impressed with her discipline and high spirits. Someone in the publicity department dubbed her "The Hey-Hey Girl," and when asked her ambitions, she stated, "To be not just an actress but the actress at the studio." (Quoted in Lawrence J. Quirk, Jane Wyman: The Actress and the Woman). It would take more than ten years, but by the time she won her Oscar® for Johnny Belinda in 1948, the once-unbilled chorus girl would indeed be the studio's top dramatic star.

LADY BE GOOD

USA (112 mi) 1941 director: Norman Z. McLeod

Classic Film Guide

Lady Be Good (1941) won an Oscar for the Best Original Song “The Last Time I Saw Paris”, by Jerome Kern (music) and Oscar Hammerstein II (lyrics) even though it wasn’t actually written for the movie. More light comedy than musical, it was directed by Norman Z. McLeod and written by Jack McGowan (based on his story), Kay Van Riper and John McClain. Though Eleanor Powell was top billed, it’s really a story about an on-again, off-again marriage between a lyricist played by Ann Sothern and a tuneful Robert Young. In fact, there are several divorce court sequences featuring Lionel Barrymore as the judge (and Tom Conway as an attorney). John Carroll plays a singer of the couple’s songs, and Red Skelton plays their song promoter. Dan Dailey appears briefly as does Reginald Owen and Phil Silvers, as others in the business. There are a couple of George and Ira Gershwin numbers (including the title song) contained within, otherwise there’s not much to recommend in this one besides the Busby Berkeley choreographed finale with Powell.

Turner Classic Movies Andrea Foshee

Songwriters Dixie Donegan (Ann Sothern) and Eddie Crane (Robert Young) make beautiful music together; that is, until they get married in Lady Be Good (1941), an enjoyable musical from the Arthur Freed unit at MGM featuring such wonderful songs as "You'll Never Know," "Fascinating Rhythm" and that year's Oscar-winning tune, "The Last Time I Saw Paris" by Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein II. When you find yourself humming the title number for days after you watch the movie, you'll understand why MGM shelled out $40,000 for rights to the catchy music by George and Ira Gershwin. It was one of only two songs that remained from the original 1924 stage version starring Fred Astaire and his sister Adele (the other was "Fascinating Rhythm"). Those songs proved to be the only things carried over from the show, as the movie was completely re-written for the big screen.

Ann Sothern, best known for her brassy character parts in movies like the Maisie (1939) series and A Letter to Three Wives (1949), shows off her vocal talents by singing several of the movie's songs. Robert Young, who went on to television fame in Father Knows Best and Marcus Welby, M.D. has fun with his role of Dixie's contrary on-again/off-again husband. Tap-dancing powerhouse Eleanor Powell struts her stuff in a supporting role as dancer Marilyn Marsh, who tries to get the couple back together. Her first big number has her practicing an elaborate dance routine with a scene-stealing dog. MGM had auditioned several trained canines for the number, but none could do all of the necessary tricks. Eventually, Powell set out to find her own four-legged dancing partner, eventually buying a dog from a prop man on the set, and trained it for the dance sequence herself. Her second showstopper, "Fascinating Rhythm," highlights Powell at her toe-tapping best amidst an elaborate set including eight grand pianos and 100 cane-wielding male dancers. Legendary choreographer Busby Berkeley, who staged all the numbers in Lady Be Good, called Powell "by far the finest female dancer we ever had in films, and a very hardworking perfectionist." The demanding "Fascinating Rhythm" number left her battered and bruised, but Berkeley was quick to note that she never complained in her quest to get it exactly right. Berkeley himself was an early candidate to direct the entire picture, but Ann Sothern and Powell were against it, possibly because of an unpleasant prior working experience. So, the directing reins ultimately went to Norman Z. McLeod.

The song "The Last Time I Saw Paris" caused some controversy when it won the Academy Award for Best Song that year. Long before Lady Be Good came to be, lyricist Oscar Hammerstein II had been working on a Broadway musical called Sunny River, but was distracted by the upsetting news of the Nazi occupation of Paris during World War II. In less than an hour he had the words that expressed his bittersweet sentiment over his last trip to the City of Light. He sent the lyrics to Kern who promptly added music. The song struck a chord with audiences and became an instant hit. Since it was essentially borrowed for Lady Be Good and not written expressly for the film, some members of the songwriting community grumbled that it should not have been eligible for an Academy Award. Nevertheless, the song retained its award and remains an understated highlight of this movie.

Lady Be Good: Do dogs dance? Jane Gaines from Jump Cut

LBG: the success sequence Montage in the Success Sequence, D. Scott Brewer and Chuck Kleinhans from Jump Cut

LBG: ideology of the success sequence Chuck Kleinhans from Jump Cut

DVD Verdict- Classic Musicals From The Dream Factory: Volume 3 [Clark Douglas]

MILLION DOLLAR MERMAID

USA (115 mi) 1952 d: Mervyn LeRoy

Chicago Reader (Don Druker)

Another audacious MGM aquacade, this 1952 Mervyn LeRoy extravaganza stars Esther Williams as the famed Australian swimmer Annette Kellerman and Victor Mature as the man who discovers first her and then Rin Tin Tin. But the real star is, as always, Busby Berkeley, who contributes more of his Ken Russell-ish wet dreams. 115 min.

User Reviews from imdb Author: Neil Doyle from U.S.A

Annette Kellerman was an Australian swimming star who created a scandal in 1902 by introducing the one-piece bathing suit at a public beach. Her rise from obscurity is chronicled here, after a bout with a childhood illness that left her crippled for awhile. America's swimming sweetheart Esther Williams was the obvious choice to play the champion swimmer and she does a fine job. She gets solid support from Victor Mature as a cocky promoter with Walter Pidgeon and David Brian in good supporting roles.

The main ingredients are the swimming numbers--and the highlight is the acquacade spectacular choreographed by none other than Busby Berkeley. With exceptional color photography, good script and more than competent performances, this one is a winner.

Victor Mature has a colorful performance as the cocky promoter.

As for Esther Williams, it's easy to see why she was a top box-office draw at MGM during the '40s and '50s.

Turner Classic Movies review Amy Cox

Esther Williams secured her status as "America's Swimming Sweetheart" with Million Dollar Mermaid (1952), a story loosely based on the real-life Australian swimmer Annette Kellerman. The movie, full of romance, music, and dazzling underwater spectacles, remains one of the definitive films of Williams' career.

The movie traces Kellerman (Williams) from her beginnings in Australia to a move to London with her father (Walter Pidgeon) and finally to swimming sensation in turn-of-the-century America. Along the way she meets talent manager James Sullivan, played by Victor Mature, who convinces her to wear a shocking -- for the time period -- one-piece bathing suit as she makes a long-distance publicity swim in Boston. Aquatic fame at New York's Hippodrome Theater and in the movies follow, along with a romance with Sullivan. But misunderstandings force the couple to part, only to be reconciled after an accident at the end.

Dominating the film are, of course, water extravaganzas orchestrated by the Million Dollar Dance Director himself, Busby Berkeley. To recreate one of the highlights of Kellerman's career at the Hippodrome, Berkeley masterminded a sequence involving massive water fountains and colored smoke streams. In The Busby Berkeley Book by Tony Thomas and Jim Terry, the choreographer-director revealed he "used one hundred boy and girl swimmers and for the background I had nothing but red and yellow smoke streams shooting up fifty feet. The effect was made by four hundred electrically controlled smoke pots. On each side of the pool, I had forty-foot-high ramps, from which the swimmers slid down at a terrific pace, standing up and carrying yellow lighted torches as they entered the water. I also had twelve long swings that swung down from high in the air through the smoke, and from which twelve girls and boys simultaneously dived into the water. Esther was also the center of attention in this number. I dropped her from fifty feet into the mass of swimmers below, which exploded into a Ferris wheel effect on the water. Then they all submerged, and gradually out of the water came Esther on a platform surrounded by beautiful girls. The closing effect was an array of five hundred lighted sparklers coming out of the water and forming a background around the whole group."

A long-time fan of Kellerman's, Williams used her considerable influence to get MGM to buy the rights to the story and to even hire Kellerman as a technical adviser on the set. Previously, Williams had starred in Neptune's Daughter, (1949), the same name as Kellerman's first big movie hit in 1914. But aside from the titles, the films had little in common.

Williams was no stranger to the talent and stamina required for the "aquamusicals" produced by MGM. By age 15, the swimming champion trained at the prestigious Los Angeles Athletic Club. An invitation to represent the United States in the 1940 Olympics followed a few years later. Williams' dream of becoming an Olympic champion, though, was cut short by World War II, when Olympic events were cancelled. Instead, she joined the famous Billy Rose Aquacade, a water stage show that included Gertrude Ederle, the first female English Channel swimmer, and Olympic champ and Tarzan star Johnny Weissmuller. A short time later, Hollywood wooed her to the movies, creating a watery genre all for her.

Million Dollar Mermaid was made at the height of Williams' popularity, with trade publication Variety pointing out her "nautical prowess and swimsuit-wearing ability" as major assets in its review in 1952. First making a splash in 1944's Bathing Beauty, she was one of MGM's biggest box office draws through the late 1940s and 50s with such hits as Dangerous When Wet (1953) and Jupiter's Darling (1955). Her success also translated into the field of sports: Williams has been credited with popularizing competitive and synchronized swimming.

EASY TO LOVE

USA (96 mi) 1953 d: Charles Walters

User Reviews from imdb Author: Greg Couture from Portland, Oregon

Release dates for this one indicate that M-G-M decorated the nation's movie screens with this tuneful treat on Christmas Day. It was a delightful concoction with Esther displaying just about everything that made her one of the studio's biggest box office favorites, including a frantic number where she's dressed as a clown and required, no doubt by Busby Berkeley, assisting director Charles Walters, to perform some exceedingly lively stunts in the course of an elaborate aquatic display of why she was still a champion when wet.

Tony Martin croons the title tune, a Cole Porter standard, to Esther as she languidly swims for what seems like miles in a moonlit lagoon and there's an extremely sweet little song, entitled "That's What a Rainy Day Is For," tossed off, as they could afford to do in those melodious times, by Mr. Martin again, to a roomful of charming elderly ladies surrounding Miss Williams. The final extravaganza, set in Florida's Cypress Gardens, involves motorboats, dozens of swimmers, and Esther dangling and diving from a helicopter, no doubt the brainchild of Mr. Berkeley, the scourge of everyone assigned to execute the products of his fertile imagination (and, according to some reports, his alcohol-fueled tirades.)

Of course the plot, with Esther pining for a remarkably disinterested Van Johnson, probably irritated even the tolerant audiences of the early Fifties, but it was scripted cleverly enough to display Esther's gift for light comedy, something that is not as appreciated as it should be. When that lengthy sequence of scenes from Esther Williams movies was put together for "That's Entertainment!" in 1974, a young acquaintance of mine, completely unfamiliar with Hollywood's one-and-only mermaid, exited the theater thoroughly besotted with her charms. He found himself literally at a loss for words to express his admiration. I don't know if he ever had the opportunity to see one of her pictures in its entirety, but this wouldn't have been a bad choice, were he limited to just one title.

Berliner, Alain

MY LIFE IN PINK (Ma Vie en Rose) A 96

Belgium France (89 mi) 1997

Another film, like THE QUIET ROOM, which reveals an empty void in the world of adults, as seen through the eyes of a child, first time filmmaker, Berliner, who was a scriptwriter for French TV, collaborates with writer Chris vander Stappen, a girl raised as a tomboy, a lesbian, who brings a great deal of personal insight into this complex story about gender confusion. 11-year old Georges du Fresne brilliantly plays 7-year old Ludovic, who lives with his family in the all-too-perfect Parisian suburbs, and when his family is invited to a welcoming neighborhood backyard barbeque, Ludovic decides to make his grand entrance dressed in pink, stunning the adults, then visits the boy next door, but is more interested in his friend’s sister’s room, trying on one of her pink dresses, playing that the two are getting married, a theme that dominates his imagination. The film reveals how children construct elaborate play worlds out of dreams and fantasies, and then plug their real worlds right into them, fueled here by Ludovic’s favorite TV show, which features his Barbie-doll heroine, Pam, dressed like a princess with her boyfriend, Ken, in a neon pink, candy colored fantasy world of flying dolls waving magic wands of fairy dust, and Ludovic wants to be just like Pam. This behavior, however, infuriorates the neighbors, who are not afraid to display their open prejudices and gay phobias, all signing petitions demanding Ludovic’s removal from their school as a bad influence. His parents try therapy, but Ludovic is convinced he is a girl, knowing some sort of mistake was made, that instead of the female XX chromosomes, one of the X chromosomes fell down the chimney into the garbage, causing him to end up with the male XY.

His mother is initially protective and affectionate, along with the fun-loving, very youngish acting grandmother who drives a banana-yellow convertible, both very loving, but the father is infuriorated by his son’s behavior, causing what turns out to be the saddest scene in the film, forcing his son to get a standard boy’s hair cut. But the father loses his job, the family has to move to a new neighborhood, and eventually the parent’s roles reverse, as the mother blames her son for this terrible new life while the father becomes more understanding. The parents waver between wanting to punish the boy for dressing in girls clothing and protecting him from the neighbor’s hateful taunts, nerves constantly on edge as they come to realize this is more than a passing phase. While there are complex undertones to the entire film, rich in insight and understanding, it is revealed as a fantasy comedy, with brilliant dreamlike color sequences, presented with pulsating mainstream music in a mainstream neighborhood, capturing the beautiful innocence and naiveté of this very moving child who doesn’t understand why the kids at school or his teachers or his parent’s suburban neighbors and coworkers can’t accept him for the cheerful crossdresser that he is. I mean, is this child really a threat to the stability of the neighborhood or his school? And as a parent, what would you do?

THE WALL (Le mur) B- 82

Belgium (67 mi) 1998

This is one part of the ten part series of films commissioned by France’s La Sept ARTE channel to create “2000 Seen By,” all set on the last day of the century, a comic farce set in a food stall in Brussels where the good-natured owner passes out fortune cookie- like messages with each order of fries. “If there’s a problem, there’s a solution, otherwise there’s no problem.” He occasionally talks to the ghost of his dead father, but in one remarkable New Year’s Eve event, as Belgium is partying in the discos on TV simultaneously with Japan and Australia, all sending happy Internet messages back and forth, he is horrified to discover the entire city has been gassed by an invasion of tanks, leading to the construction of a giant wall, on one side the Flemish, on the other side the French-speaking Walloons. His food stall has been split right down the middle by the wall. According to the new government official, called the Negotiator, “We built a wall overnight to solve a problem we’ve had for 70 years. It was the only reasonable solution.”

Advice from his dead father’s ghost: “Relax son, have a few beers and we’ll have some fun. Absurdity becomes the norm. That’s the Belgium compromise that the rest of the world envies.” The film turns into a Kafkaesque nightmare with each side taken over by paramilitary police forces that terrorize the population, preventing anyone from crossing over to the other side, and instantly arresting anyone caught from the other side. Our hero, Albert, is obviously caught in the middle of this nightmare, suspected of being a traitor by both sides. As all is about to be lost, more advice from his dead father’s ghost: “This is the land of Magritte and magical realism. Use your imagination.” So Albert breaks into a song and dance number performed on the top of the wall.

The Wall Michael Grost from Classic Film and Television

The Wall (1998) shows the same bursts of fantasy in the midst of real events as Berliner's other films. The dialogue here explicitly calls this "Magic Realism", and links it to the Surrealist paintings of Magritte. His heroes tend to be visionary. They are seeing and experiencing people and events that are invisible to the other more average characters in the film. These visions tend to dramatize the inner feelings and world of the hero. However, they do not simply show the hero's ideas, in the way the landscapes in a J.G. Ballard story convey the hero's inner state. Berliner's fantasy scenes also challenge the hero. The often show him strange things that stir up his feelings. At the center of these visions is another person. This imaginary character, Pam in Rose and the father in The Wall, tend to constantly be putting meaningful ideas in front of the hero. Pam's ideas tend to be positive, and the father's negative, so the two are not completely analogous.

The Wall also shows Berliner's incisive, extreme satire about very serious subjects. Berliner's heroes tend to be persecuted by society. They are members of groups suffering discrimination, and in a very active form. Everyone who meets them immediately goes after them hammer and tongs, and with full support of the other members of society. The persecutions are public, fierce and self-righteous. They can seem like attacks from a mob. But they are also supported ideologically by society in a way that mob rule usually is not.

Berliner likes modern consumer goods high technology. There are references to the Internet and video games. The Internet and other advanced computer technology tends to show up explicitly in the works of European directors - see also Ian Softley's Hackers (1995) and Alejandro Amenábar's Open Your Eyes (1997), not to mention the faxes in Wong Kar-Wai's Fallen Angels (1995). By contrast, for all its hype in the US, it seems to actually appear much less in American films.

Berlinger, Joel and Bruce Sinofsky

BROTHER’S KEEPER

USA (104 mi) 1992

Austin Chronicle [Marjorie Baumgarten]

The glaring mistake is last week's Oscar nominations was the Academy's failure to recognize Brother's Keeper as the Best Documentary of 1992. Don't make the same mistake, the same sin of omission. This documentary about the unlikeliest of subjects - an alleged mercy killing amongst the The Ward Boys aren't just a bit peculiar. They're mighty peculiar. Though they range in age from 59 to 71, everyone in their home town of Munnsville in central New York state (population: 499) refers to these primitive dairy farmers as the Ward Boys. Delbert, William, Lyman, and Roscoe live like they have all their lives, on the outskirts of society, in a filthy, ramshackle barn of a house with no indoor plumbing or telephone. They are barely socialized, virtually illiterate, unkempt, unhygienic, slow-witted, never-married bachelors. Then one morning William is discovered dead in the bed he had shared all his life with his brother Delbert. William had, for some time, been in great pain and subsequent to his death, William's bedmate Delbert was arrested for killing his brother. After a night in jail, Delbert confessed to suffocating William, though after his release and despite his signed confession, Delbert maintained his innocence. That's the bare-bones information in this true-life murder mystery. But the story that Brother's Keeper goes after is not the did-he-or-didn't-he, whodunit slant (which, actually, it keeps amazingly ambiguous). In the year that co-filmmakers Berlinger and Sinofsky spent filming the Ward Boys, their trial, and the community and national response, they created a rich document and mediation on a scope of attendant issues catalyzed by the incident. Patently clear from the outset (to everyone but the police and prosecutors) is that Delbert is not a person who should be signing confessions without the benefit of counsel. One townsperson astutely observed that Delbert probably didn't know the difference between waving to someone in the street and waiving his rights. The citizenry of Munnsville came to the immediate aid of this outcast, raising $10,000 bond, hiring a big-city defense attorney, turning out in great numbers to the trial and holding a swirl of fund-raising dances, dinners, raffles and collections for the benefit of the Ward Boys. The Ward Boys may have been outcasts but, as is pointed out, they were Munnsville's outcasts and as such, taken to heart. The outpouring of community response is a large part of the story that Brother's Keeper is trying to tell. Yet there's a level at which we also become aware of how generosity of spirit may be increased by the whir of a movie camera. With the media circus that descended on Munnsville -- even Connie Chung profiles the case and in an especially odd scene we are privy to the Ward Boys at home in their shack watching Chung on the television describing their lives to America -- we see people who previously would never get within 10 feet of the Boys now falling all over themselves to warmly embrace them. We also become aware, as viewers, of our own invasive prurience as we see socially painful things we almost rather would not. This is most in keeping with the documentary tradition of Maysles Films where both the filmmakers worked prior to and during the shooting of Brother's Keeper. The Maysles Brothers were responsible for numerous groundbreaking documentary films like Grey Gardens, Salesman and Gimme Shelter, films whose intrinsic brilliance is in the selection and gradual discovery of their subjects. So fascinating is Brother's Keeper that you almost don't quarrel with things like the biased portraits of the prosecuting team and the Deliverance-like banjo-shuffling soundtrack. Brother's Keeper intrigue factor is enormously high and, it could almost be said, that this movie is good enough to be fiction.

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

For as long as anyone in the central New York hamlet of Munnsville (population 500) could remember, the Ward boys had run a dairy farm outside of town. Everybody knew them - by sight, anyway - and figured them for harmless old coots. They didn't bathe or shave overmuch, and rode into town arrayed on their tractor. They lived in a two-room shack that few of their neighbors had much desire to visit, or get downwind from.

Then, on a June morning in 1990, William Ward, at 64 the second oldest brother, was discovered dead in bed. He had been feeling poorly for quite some time, and given his general condition it was reasonable to assume he died of natural causes. But a hotshot local lawman smelled foul play, and within a day the youngest brother, Delbert, 59, was charged with murder. "Brother's Keeper" is an extraordinary documentary about what happened next, as a town banded together to stop what folks saw as a miscarriage of justice.

"Hell," one of the townspeople observes, "when they asked Delbert if he was ready to waive his rights, he didn't know the difference between that and waving to someone on the road." The Ward boys are none of them any too bright, although it's a good question whether they are retarded or simply completely out of touch with modern life. Their cows and pigs live in greater comfort on their farm than they do, not to mention the poultry they raise in an old school bus. They farmed for many decades, keeping to themselves, working long hours, sitting in front of a TV at night, turning in early.

The controversy over the Wards quickly hit the national media. It had everything: Quaint rural hayseeds, dark hints of fratricide, doubts over the due process of law. Connie Chung and other media stars turned up to interview the Ward boys, and so did documentary filmmakers Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky and their cinematographer, Douglas Cooper.

They kept coming back, for more than a year; the passage of the seasons provides an undercurrent for the film. They filmed hearings and trials, community meetings and even the benefits held to raise money for Delbert's defense. The irony was that after trouble found the Wards, they became more popular and accepted in Munnsville than ever before, and it's quite a sight, seeing them square-dancing at a fund-raiser and loading up their plates at the buffet table.

Berlinger and Sinofsky were patient with Delbert and his two surviving brothers, Roscoe, 70, and Lyman, 62. They won their trust, and soon it was a common sight in Munnsville to see the brothers followed by the small camera team. We gradually begin to get a sense of the three men, whose values and daily rhythms reflect lives of hard manual labor as they might have been lived centuries ago.

The film wisely never takes a position on the actual guilt of Delbert (and I would not dream of revealing the outcome of his legal process, which unfolds as a courtroom drama). Instead, it tries to see into their lives, to understand that for unlearned men who had lived so close to the harsh realities of farming, life and death itself had a more fundamental meaning. Did Delbert smother William with a pillow, as the prosecution charged, in order to put him out of his misery - as he might have put down a sick animal? Or did William die in his sleep? Or are there darker possibilities? "Brother's Keeper," the year's best documentary, has an impact and immediacy that most fiction films can only envy. It tells a strong story, and some passages are truly inspirational, as the neighbors of Munnsville become determined that Delbert will not be railroaded by some ambitious prosecutor more concerned with bringing charges than with understanding the reality of the situation. Seeing this film, I got a new appreciation for how deeply the notion of civil liberties is embedded in our national consciousness. None of the people on the Delbert Ward defense committee ever went to law school. But they know a lot more about fair play and due process than the people in this film who did.

DVD Verdict Bill Gibron

The Onion A.V. Club [Nathan Rabin]

Old School Reviews [John Nesbit]

DVD Talk (John Wallis)

filmcritic.com Christopher Null

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Rich Rosell)

James Berardinelli's ReelViews

Washington Post [Rita Kempley]

Washington Post [Desson Howe]

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

PARADISE LOST: THE CHILD MURDERS AT ROBIN HOOD HILLS

USA (150 mi) 1996

Chicago Reader (capsule) Jonathan Rosenbaum

A fascinating, revealing, and deeply disturbing-- if highly imperfect--documentary feature (1996) by Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky, codirectors of the excellent Brother's Keeper, about the trials and convictions resulting from the brutal murder and mutilation of three eight-year-old boys in West Memphis, Arkansas. Most of what we see persuades us that two teenage boys have been convicted of these crimes more because of their nonconformity within the community than from any hard evidence (the likeliest suspect, the stepfather of one of the boys, had never been charged). Unfortunately, the filmmakers refuse to deal with their own role in the proceedings, which makes for an incomplete version of the story. Adding to the confusion is the film's popular assumption that seeing excerpts of a trial somehow qualifies one to reach an independent verdict. Moreover, there are times when the intrusiveness and callow exploitativeness of TV reporters (one early on asks a bereaved mother whether she's contemplating suicide) seem to be matched by the moves of the filmmakers: though it appears that one of the defendants is being railroaded in part because of his taste for heavy metal, the use of music by Metallica behind much of the documentary footage seems obscene rather than ironic. By the time the verdict is read and the defendant's mother, sister, and girlfriend are seen rushing into the ladies' room, you half expect the filmmakers to follow them. Nevertheless this picture is well worth seeing. 150 min.

top ten list Mike D’Angelo’s #1 Film of the Year in 1996

Easy choice. No other film I saw this year was half as mesmerizing, or offered such a profound and contradictory glimpse of human nature; it grabbed the pole position back in mid-March, when I saw its screening in the annual New Directors/New Films series, and never relinquished it. The third and final of the documentary-related titles (Dadetown was the second), it's ostensibly the story of a potential miscarriage of justice, following in close detail (and with unprecedented access) the trials of three teenagers charged with the grisly murder and sexual mutilation of three pre-adolescent boys. The trials are fascinating, no question, but they're only the tip of this chilling iceberg; Berlinger and Sinofsky are relentless in their exploration of every facet of the unfolding events and those affected by them, and their uncanny ability to earn the trust of the community allows the filmmakers -- and their camera, and hence us -- to be privy to emotionally charged moments the likes of which I never expected to see on a movie screen. The pair have been criticized in documentary circles for their tactic of fashioning a narrative for their films during the shooting process -- the press kit for Paradise Lost quotes them talking about their daily "story conferences," in which they determine what they ought to shoot and why, in the grand scheme of the movie, they ought to shoot it -- but the results (see also their excellent Brother's Keeper, circa 1992) speak for themselves. I have no idea whether the film is an "accurate" representation of the Robin Hood Hills tragedy, and frankly I don't care, since the same would be true of any documentary (or, indeed, virtually any experience in life); what matters to me is whether or not it's a compelling representation of the case and the community, and any steps taken to make it more interesting or entertaining -- short of actually staging events or falsifying information -- are okay by me. The running time is a lengthy two-and-a-half hours. I could have watched two or three more, sans intermission, standing, with a three-pound sack of flour slung over one shoulder. Stunning.

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

Although originally made for TV and running a hefty 2 1/2 hours, Paradise Lost has been extensively shown in cinemas in the near-decade since it was completed, over the years becoming one of the most acclaimed, famous and influential documentaries of recent times. "Influential" not so much on other films (although the superior Capturing the Friedmans is a fairly direct descendant), but on real-world events: whatever the failings of the work itself, directors Berlinger and Sinofsky have undoubtedly been instrumental in making the subject-matter - the apparent injustice suffered by a trio of then-teenagers known as the 'West Memphis Three', convicted for the horrifying murders of three young Arkansas children in 1993 - a major, ongoing and world-renowed cause celebre.

High-profile supporters of the 'WM3' cause include Henry Rollins, who released a benefit album and staged a globe-trotting tour to aid the campaign - chronicling his efforts chronicled in 2004's compulsively readable Broken Summers. Berlinger and Sinofsky returned to the material with 2000's Paradise Lost 2 - Revelations, and a third chapter is imminent, with the WM3's Jesse Miskelly and Jason Baldwin serving life sentences and Damien Echols awaiting fatal injection on Death Row.

It's therefore a little difficult to watch Paradise Lost entirely on its own terms - but as a viewing experience the film is compulsive and enthralling: when the credits (abruptly) roll, you probably won't believe you've been watching for anything like 150 minutes. This is a tribute to Berlinger and Sinofsky's sense of pacing - they both edited as well as directing, condensing what must have been a daunting amount of footage into something like conventional feature length.

Despite this, Paradise Lost doesn't really justify its duration: a further half hour or so could easily be trimmed, though there are some notable omissions which become more troubling in retrospect. The film hinges on the lack of evidence against the WM3 - who, it seems, were suspected, arrested and then convicted largely because of circumstancial factors, and because they were 'outsiders' with a fondness for goth-type clothing and heavy metal music such as Metallica* (the film-makers make little effort to hide their partisanship, as signalled by the use of the same group's more low-key tunes throughout).

There's very brief mention that all three were supposedly with their families at home when the killings took place - but at no point do we see any of them or their kin questioned about such alibis, which would seem like a rather crucial stage in the investigation and trial. It's painfully ironic that we don't have enough evidence to judge whether there's a lack of evidence - and thus the scale of the injustice or otherwise suffered by the WM3.

This isn't the most troubling aspect of Paradise Lost, however: the treatment of one of the bereaved fathers, John Mark Byers, is Berlinger and Sinofsky's most serious error of judgement. Byers is a decidedly unsympathetic oddball - ranting, weird-looking, of erratic behaviour, a gun-toting, God-fearing southerner straight out of a Yankee's direst paranoia. But to present him as the chief alternative suspect in the case - he comes under suspicion when a hunting-knife he gives to the film-makers as a Christmas present turns out to bear traces of blood - is dubious in the extreme: it's about as convincing as way one of the lads' 'defense' team desperately bring up the "bleeding black man" found in the ladies' toilet of a nearby fast-food on the night of the killings.

There are many possible explanations for Byers' bizarre antics, without fingering him as the killer of his own son: he admits that he's suffering from a brain tumour, and is on numerous medications. Above all else, he would be forgiven for being deranged by grief. But Paradise Lost isn't content to strongly imply the WM3's innocence: Berlinger and Sinofsky feel the need to transfer the guilt elsewhere and turn what's otherwise an urgent, absorbing expose of American 'justice' into a somewhat tasteless form of Whodunnit.

James Berardinelli's ReelViews

Scott Renshaw

Dave Cowen

DVD Verdict [Bill Gibron]

Paradise Lost I & II: documentary, gothic, and the monster of justice Andy Opel from Jump Cut, Winter 2005

Goatdog's Movies (Michael W. Phillips, Jr.)

Mike Bracken

Culture Wars [Dolan Cummings]

The Onion A.V. Club [Keith Phipps]

Bright Lights Film Journal Gary Morris

DVD Town [Christopher Long]

EyeForFilm.co.uk [Nick Jones]

eFilmCritic Charles Tatum

filmcritic.com Loses its innocence Christopher Null

DVD Outsider Slarek reviews both Part 1 and 2

DVD Verdict- Collector's Edition [Victor Valdivia] both Part 1 and 2

The Cavalcade Of Schlock [Brian J Wright] both Part 1 and 2

Albuquerque Alibi [Karla Esquivel] interview with the directors

Variety.com [Godfrey Cheshire]

Austin Chronicle (Marjorie Baumgarten)

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

Siskel & Ebert video

The New York Times (Janet Maslin)

PARADISE LOST 2: REVELATIONS – Made for TV

USA (130 mi) 2000

Goatdog's Movies (Michael W. Phillips, Jr.) review [4/5]

In 1996, documentarians Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky made Paradise Lost: The Child Murders of Robin Hood Hills, a powerful film about three teenage boys who were convicted of the horrific murder of three children. It is made quite apparent in that film that, at the very least, there is reasonable doubt as to whether or not Damian Echols, Jesse Misskelly, and Jason Baldwin are guilty of the murders. Compelling evidence presented at the end of that film cast a great deal of suspicion on Mark Byers, the father of one of the victims. I'm assuming that you've probably seen the first film if you're watching this one, so this review may give away some plot points of the original film.

This new film was made in 1999, and it covers the appeals hearings of Damien Echols, the supposed ringleader of the trio. He came off in the first film as a well-fed, arrogant, spooky guy who may not have realized the seriousness of his situation. He said some things about becoming the West Memphis boogeyman that he surely regrets now. He's no longer the confident kid he was; he's taller, gaunt, his long black hair trimmed to a crew cut; he appears in one scene with a black eye, evidence of the terrible treatment he has received in prison (he sued the penal system of Arkansas for refusing to do anything about the fact that he was brutally raped and abused by fellow prisoners for over a year). He's more soft-spoken now, and he realizes that this may be his last chance.

The film is slow at first; it attempts to summarize the first film for viewers who may not have seen it, and footage from the original is used frequently. It also summarizes the popular reaction to the first film; we see Roger Ebert, Bryant Gumbel, and other media types agreeing with the film. We also see another amazing result: there is a huge support group with their own web site devoted to freeing the "West Memphis Three." Members have come from all over the country to be present for Damien's appeal.

His new lawyers' argument (only one of the original defense team for the trio is still on the case) is that the original lawyers compromised their client by agreeing to appear in the documentary; the irony is that these new lawyers would have likely never heard of the case without the documentary, and Echols' lawyers, who were legally limited on how much they could spend on the defense, would not have been able to afford to bring in experts without the war chest provided by HBO, the backers of the first film. In fairness, an equal amount of money was given to the families of the victims and to those of the accused.

Lurking around through everything is Mark Byers. He is even more unsettling than he was in the first film, and this film places even more suspicion on him. The crucial centerpiece of this film is a lie detector test that he takes voluntarily; footage of it is placed dramatically throughout the film, and I will not ruin the surprise by telling you how it comes out. We learn many new things about him: he has a brain tumor, he's on a multitude of mood-altering prescription medications, he suffers from hallucinations, etc. In a frightening development, we learn that his loyal wife, seen in the first film as a vengeful counterpart to Byers, has died under suspicious circumstances. There are many disturbing scenes with Byers: a "funeral" he holds for the trio of accused killers; a graveside memorial to his wife and son that starts out poignant and sad, becomes absurd, and then drifts into grand guignol horror.

Oddly, even though there seems to be more evidence presented that the trio are not guilty, this film is not quite as persuasive as the first. I'm still trying to figure out why, and the only thing I can think of is that we don't see any courtroom footage; the judge in the appeal banned Berlinger and Sinofsky from the courtroom. What we see is much more one-sided, even the "smoking gun" evidence of an apparently missed bite mark on one of the victims. We see a forensics expert named Brent Turvey who analyzes the evidence and confidently claims that the mark in question is a bite, and that it doesn't match the bite impressions from any of the arrested trio. However, the prosecution brings forth three experts who say that it isn't actually a bite mark, and the judge sides with them. I think that if we had been able to see the courtroom footage, which was so effective in the first film at showing the prosecution's case for the sham that it was, it might be more convincing. Here, it seems uncomfortably like the members of the Free the West Memphis Three support group are the main source of information—not that there's anything wrong with them, but they're not experts.

So, if this film is not as good as the first one (a difficult task for any documentary), it piles even more evidence up that says that three teenage boys were convicted of a crime they didn't commit, or at least that there is no way to prove that they did; two of them will spend the rest of their lives in prison, and one is sentenced to be murdered by the state of Arkansas. I urge readers to visit the website of the Free the West Memphis Three group and do whatever you can to help out; maybe buy a t-shirt, maybe go to a rally, or maybe just tell them that their numbers are growing.

Eye for Film (Nick Jones) review [4/5]

In 1994, three men were convicted of horrific child murders in their hometown of West Memphis. Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky filmed the trial and surrounding events and made the Emmy-winning documentary Paradise Lost which, brilliant as it was for its brave objectivity, was like a small branch thrown into the cogs of American "justice". As this sequel proves, however, it succeeded in raising enough awareness of the travesty to keep a glimmer of hope alive for the West Memphis Three.

The first film ended with the jury's unanimous verdict that Damien Echols, Jesse Misskelly and Jason Baldwin killed the three eight-year-old children Chris Byers, Michael Moore and Steven Branch. Three years later, Berlinger and Sinofsky returned to West Memphis and made a follow-up, the aptly subtitled Revelations.

The film succeeds in proving their wrongful imprisonment - as crazy as it sounds there really is NO real evidence - and raises further suspicion towards Mark Byers, the stepfather of one of the murdered boys and a character whose ubiquity in the film is eerily telling, particularly in the absence of all the other victim's parents. Revelations also documents Echol's desperate appeals for a retrial, all of which have been rejected.

This sequel suffers from inherent narrative issues, making it a little repetitive. For the documentary to make sense to the uninitiated, it has to draw heavily on the first film, so we see many flashbacks of previous in-court action and interviews with the lawyers, defendants, police and family members. Also, due to the notoriety of HBO's original documentary, this time round the cameras were banned from the courtrooms.

Conversely, thanks to that notoriety, what Berlinger and Sinofsky now have is a wealth of new support, most obviously in the form of the Free The West Memphis support group, a collective of well-meaning Americans who saw the original film, were united with feelings of compassion towards the three young men and have since battled relentlessly for justice through campaigns, the selling of tee-shirts and the keystone to it all, their impressively in-depth website www.wm3.org, which features every known fact about the case.

It is reassuring to meet these people; they represent common sense; they represent us, the onlookers, who watched the trial from a distance and saw the wood from the trees. There was very little common sense in Paradise Lost, where the power was solely in the hands of prejudiced jurors and corrupt cops, and it was as frustrating as it was disturbing to watch.

One of the noticeable things right from the start of Revelations is the difference in Echols. Since his trial, he has transformed from a chubby longhaired adolescent to a slimmer, bespectacled young man. His studious appearance belies his prison clothes and surroundings. His softly spoken voice hints at the abuse he has suffered whilst behind bars - he sued the prison for not preventing him from being raped by inmates. He has aged quickly, but thankfully remains resolute and hopeful of his eventual retrial.

In the first film, you sympathise with the parents of the murdered children and naturally understand why they would want the perpetrators locked up. But how long does it take to stand back and look at the facts, or, more accurately, lack of them and realise that there is every chance they have arrested the wrong people? Their unwillingness to appear in the second film suggests that they are trying to move on with their lives.

But Mark Byers is everywhere. Something is eating him up. So many of his deluded comments sound like they contain a confession under the surface and, in the scene when he acts out the "burial' of Echols et al, his booming, insane rants make you wonder whether this is the first time he's laid three souls to rest in Robin Hood Hills?

At the start of the film, Margaret Byers says she would like to eat the skin from Echol's face. Later we learn that, since the trials, the Byers have stolen property from their neighbours, written thousands of dollars worth of bad cheques and are both drug addicts. As if this wasn't suspicious enough, Margaret then dies in "indeterminate circumstances".

How does a redneck like Mark Byers remain untouchable, when Echols is imprisoned for liking Metallica? Rather than getting straight answers, Revelations digs up more questions.

Once again, the filmmakers remain silent observers, letting the camera and the "characters" do the talking. Bleak, depressing, yet essential, the Paradise Lost documentaries are more disturbing than any horror film, because they deal with realities.

At the time of the case, the media was largely responsible for an unfair trial, but without films like these and the Internet, the West Memphis Three wouldn't stand a chance.

For more information about the West Memphis Three, visit www.wm3.org

Paradise Lost I & II: documentary, gothic, and the monster of justice Andy Opel from Jump Cut, Winter 2005

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Dan Lopez) dvd review

DVD Review e-zine dvd recommendation Mike Long

culturevulture.net, Choices for the Cognoscenti review Scott Von Doviak

The Village Voice [Jessica Winter]

The Onion A.V. Club [Keith Phipps]

Mike Bracken review [4/5]

Jerry Saravia review [2.5/4]

DVD Talk (Adam Tyner) dvd review [4/5]

eFilmCritic.com (Charles Tatum) review [5/5]

Ruthless Reviews ("potentially offensive") Erich

DVD Outsider Slarek reviews both Part 1 and 2

DVD Verdict- Collector's Edition [Victor Valdivia] both Part 1 and 2

The Cavalcade Of Schlock [Brian J Wright] both Part 1 and 2

Documentary-Review.com a composite site with multiple links for reviews

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Austin Chronicle [Marc Savlov]

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [3/4]

Free The West Memphis 3

METALLICA: SOME KIND OF MONSTER

USA (135 mi) 2004

Time Out London

What a ride. Filmmakers Berlinger and Sinofsky had no idea they would find a band in crisis, let alone in therapy when they first rolled the cameras on Metallica in 2001, initially employed by the band’s record company to make a promo film. For the next two years, they followed the group as they tried to record their latest ‘St. Anger’ album while all the time taking advice from Phil Towle, a homely group therapist with a penchant for knitwear and platitudes.

We watch as the group frustrate themselves by failing to produce any decent music. Then, their bassist Jim Hetfield decides to disappear for a while to sort out some of the problems that earned the group the nickname ‘Alcoholica’. If we could see the faces of the filmmakers during all this, they would surely be looking very, very smug indeed. It’s a fantastic portrait of a band in freefall, refreshingly honest and, at points, like witnessing a car crash. You just can’t help but watch.

City Pages [Rob Nelson]

It's past midnight at the Full Frame Documentary Film Festival, and Joe Berlinger is looking weary. "There was a little too much laughter for me," the filmmaker confesses to the audience of cineastes and metälheads who've stuck around for the Q&A after the late festival screening of his epic Metallica movie. "I feel thrown for a loop."

Funny that a director would feel thrown by hearing an audience enjoy itself--especially since Metallica: Some Kind of Monster, made by Berlinger and his longtime collaborator Bruce Sinofsky (Brother's Keeper was the pair's debut), has been shot and cut expressly to accentuate the laughs (of which there are plenty). Just one example: The close-up of drummer Lars Ulrich's dad--a dead ringer for Gandalf--stroking his long white beard and struggling to tell his boy that the band's latest track is an aural shit sandwich rivals even a certain mock-rock doc for behind-the-metal humor. And yet the funniest thing about this two-and-a-half-hour study of millionaire rock stars banging their heads for two years trying to make a record is that it might well be the movie of the year. I'm serious--and, believe it or not, so is the film.

"It's about human growth and creative relationships," Berlinger tells me the day after the screening. "It's about dealing with your inner demons. In a very real way, it's about the downside of rock and roll."

So it is. And let me add: Some Kind of Monster is also about the incestuous relationship between psychology and creativity--or, if you prefer, between neurosis and noodling. In the case of Metallica, a global moneymaking machine whose members are worth tens of millions apiece, that relationship is complicated further by the band's privilege to avoid deadlines--to avoid creative work entirely. No wonder it takes the group more than 600 days to deliver the 11 earsplitting tracks on St. Anger: This is art making when virtually everything--save inspiration (and talent?)--lies within the artist's hands. (If ever a documentary needed to be too long, it's this one.)

In the movie, money is depicted as both a blessing and a curse. For one thing, it allows Metallica to hire an absurdly expensive, hilariously ineffectual "performance enhancement coach" to serve as surrogate producer and communication facilitator ("You want to talk about that?"). The shrink's first job in the studio is to help the band create its mission statement: "We have learned and we understand. Now we must share. We come together for our album of life." (Talk about Tapping into the source. How much more inane could this declaration be? The answer is none: none more inane.)

Observing the project was a kind of therapy for Berlinger, too--a means for him to crawl out of the black hole that was Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2, which he made without Sinofsky in 2000. "Artisan [Entertainment] took a cautionary tale about the dangers of blurring fact and fiction and turned it into a teen slasher movie," says Berlinger. "The reviews were like personal attacks. It was painful. At my lowest point, I put on a tape of Paradise Lost to try to remind myself that I had made a good movie once. As soon as I heard [Metallica's] "Sanitarium" on the soundtrack, I called Lars, who told me that the band was just beginning a new album. Bruce and I took our gear out to San Francisco and started shooting. We didn't know we'd be there for two and a half years."

Among the countless conflicts that Metallica captures with near-unprecedented clarity for a celebrity doc is the one between Ulrich and addiction-addled frontman James Hetfield--"an upper-middle-class, highly educated Danish fellow and a Southern redneck guy," as Berlinger puts it. Behind the scenes, the temperamentally opposite documentarians were not only struggling to remain true to a body of work that turns the viewer's prejudices inside out, but struggling, like Hetfield and Ulrich, to remain partners.

"Bruce and I were having growing pains," says Berlinger. "We had been making films together since 1990 when we were both at Maysles [Films]. By 2000 or so, we were getting sick of each other--for lots of good reasons. So for us to be together making this film, witnessing these guys deal with their collaboration issues, naturally inspired us to get a lot of shit off our chests. There were all these ego issues: What does he really do and what do I really do? But the fact is that when you throw us together, for some reason magic happens. And it's like that for Lars and James. In terms of their genre of music, those guys are the Lennon and McCartney of their generation."

Sorry, Joe--but that's funny.

THE HIGH HAT | NITRATE: Recent Rock Documentaries Phil Nugent from the High Hat (excerpt)

At one point in Festival Express, Bob Weir says that one reason the bacchanalian atmosphere aboard the train was so festive and jolly was that so many of the pot-smokers and LSD enthusiasts aboard had just recently discovered this cool new thing called alcohol. I can remember a time when certain idealistic, working-class rockers cultivated their image as boozers as a mark of integrity, to set them apart from those decadent phonies who were off somewhere snorting heroin off the chest of a thousand-dollar-a-night hooker. In Metallica: Some Kind of Monster, what set out to be a document of the making of the band’s St. Anger turns into something more interesting when James Hetfield, fed up with feeling goaded about the quality of his recent work by his long-time partner Lars Ulrich, storms off and disappears into rehab for the better part of a year. Looking for a way to kill the time while Hetfield dries out (and his pals, or co-workers, wonder if they’re still a band), Ulrich files his infamous lawsuit against Napster — an act that, in the context of what else we see of Ulrich in the movie, can be seen as consistent with his self-made man, earn-what-you-own beliefs, though that didn’t stop about a million fans from denouncing him as a rich greedhead cut off from his hungry, adoring fans. By the time Hetfield returns to the fold, the band members and their producer, Bob Rock (who blanches in pain when told, during Hetfield’s convalesence, that James hasn’t been in touch with him during this difficult period because “he sees you more as representing the business side of things”), are in what amounts to group therapy with Phil Towle, a specialist in touchy-feely among rock groups supplied by their record company, which obviously has a significant financial stake in their mental health and ability to continue functioning together.

Given what kind of band Metallica is, or has always tried to be, the ironies are rich and glaring, but the filmmakers, Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky (who met the group while negotiating the use of their music in their Paradise Lost documentaries) don’t let them overpower the people on screen, who come across as confused but sincere guys who want to continue to grind out angry, anarchic noise yet also want to find a way to manage their lives as they lurch into middle age. (Both Hetfield and Ulrich have very young children they’re just beginning to learn to bond with, and Ulrich was also caught up in what turned out to be the death throes of his marriage — he and his wife seem happy enough from what we can see, but they split up shortly after the movie opened.) Of all these films, Some Kind of Monster is the skimpiest in the performance-footage department, which is fine by me, since Metallica is one of those bands that I’ve always appreciated in theory but like best when I don’t have to listen to them. But the movie is fascinating for its picture of aging, idealistic metalheads trying to find the right balance between serving their lives and their fans, and doing right by their art and what they’re honest enough to see as their corporate responsibilities. And though I’m not one to romanticize failure, it can leave you feeling that by missing out on success, the Ramones and the MC5 did get to avoid some stuff that they weren’t ideally equipped to deal with. (“Miss Winthrop, would you please send in the backup anger management therapist? Johnny just threw the first one out the window.”)

One of the most deliriously squirmy scenes in Some Kind of Monster comes during Hetfield’s rehab disappearing act, when Ulrich and the rest of his tiny core group are persuaded to have a parley with Dave Mustaine, a former member of Metallica who was booted from the band — for overindulgence in alcohol, of all things — and responded by forming Megadeth, a metal band with a slim fraction of the critical respect paid to Metallica but a solid mass crowd of paying fans. At the time of their meeting — the first they’ve had since Mustaine was rudely kicked to the curb — Ulrich and the others in Metallica’s camp are feeling anything but cocky; they don’t even know if they’re still a band, and they go in clearly dreading having Mustaine make them feel worse by waving his sales figures in their faces and cackling triumphantly, probably while snorting coke off the chest of a thousand-dollar-an-hour hooker. But it turns out that Mustaine wants to talk about His Issues. It’s been years since they dropped him, and to hear him tell it, none of the success he’s known since then has lessened the pain one iota; every hit record and good review and pumped fist that Metallica have inspired since then have been like a knife in his heart, and none of the cheers echoing in his own ears have done anything to stop him from brooding over what might have been.

Cinescene [Chris Knipp]

The Onion A.V. Club [Nathan Rabin]

Reel.com [Pam Grady]

The Village Voice [Chuck Eddy]

another review by Cynthia Fuchs Pop Matters

Epinions.com [Steven Flores]

Slate [David Edelstein]

DVD Talk (Bill Gibron)

Reel.com DVD review [Tim Knight]

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Movie Vault [Aaron West]

Old School Reviews [John Nesbit]

Milk Plus: A Discussion of Film Shroom

DVD Verdict Patrick Bromley

filmcritic.com (Nicholas Schager)

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Rich Rosell)

Salon.com [Andrew O'Hehir]

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez]

Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick)

Film Freak Central Review [Walter Chaw]

MovieMartyr.com [Jeremy Heilman]

CultureCartel.com (Rachel Gordon)

PopMatters Jesse Hassenger

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Rolling Stone Peter Travers

Guardian/Observer

Austin Chronicle [Marrit Ingman]

The Boston Phoenix Carly Carioli

Washington Post (Ann Hornaday)

Washington Post (Desson Thomson)

Chicago Tribune [Robert K. Elder]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

New York Times (registration req'd) A.O. Scott

CRUDE B+ 91

USA (105 mi) 2009 Official site

A rumble in the jungle that has the capacity to change the way multi-national corporations do business with South American countries, basically getting their way through a series of high-placed bribes to ravage the earth, including the rainforest, in order to extract precious resources by the cheapest means possible, even if that means leaving behind some of the world’s largest toxic waste materials, as is alleged in a now 17-year old pending lawsuit (filed in 1993) by the inhabitants of an Ecuadorian rainforest where their water supply has been systematically poisoned by the Texaco (now Chevron since a 2001 merger) oil industries, which turned the rivers into a permanent waste facility for what is alleged to be 18 billion tons of toxic waste, or pay heavy court damages to clean up the mess, including damages to the 30,000 indigenous people still living in the region who are constantly exposed to not only extremely high levels of cancer, but also a poisonous water supply that is so toxic it can lead to instant death within 24 hours. According to many outside visitors, that water even smells like gasoline. Chevron’s scientists, like the tobacco industry before them, alleges there is nothing wrong with their product, that the same illnesses could have resulted from poor sanitary conditions, as there are no sewage treatment plants in the vicinity, so they bathe and wash clothes in the same water where they dispose of human waste. The remarkable success of this film is contrasting the well-dressed Chevron lawyers who haven’t a problem in the world sitting in their sleek air-conditioned offices with the people actually living in the tropical vicinity who have livestock that died, family members that died, wild game that has vanished, so they have no means to support themselves, as everything has already or is continuing to die off, where many people continue to be sick. Perhaps the most devastating evidence was the skin lesions that almost completely consume a 20-day old baby who is brought in to seek medical treatment. Those with cancer need to come up with $500 per weekly treatment session if they wish to obtain medical services, which are only accessible after riding a bus 18 hours just to get there. Who, living in the jungle, has that kind of ready cash available, when many don’t earn that weekly amount over the entire year?

A first-time, young Ecuadorian lawyer, Pablo Fajardo, a man who previously worked for the oil industries when Texaco started their operations in the region and saw first hand just exactly how they disposed of toxic waste, a lawyer who still resides there in his unassuming 2-room house, a man with no other legal experience whatsoever, is handling the case against a stream of Chevron lawyers. Fajardo is assisted by a New York lawyer named Steve Donziger, a media expert who represents a U.S. law firm that’s actually financing the law suit, and nonprofit groups like Amazon Watch, but Fajardo has the testimony of those still living in the vicinity, where the affected area is a targeted 1700-square-miles, about the size of Rhode Island, as this is their ancestral tribal home, people with nowhere else to go, as this is the only world they’ve ever known. Chevron, on the other hand, got in and got out, as in 1992, after 30 years of drilling, they transferred oil rights to an Ecuadorian company called Petro-Ecuador who has an even worse environmental record than the U.S. corporation, so one of Chevron’s arguments is to lay the blame on the Ecuadorians. Fajardo, however, having grown up in the region, knows what areas Texaco dumped toxic materials, areas that Petro-Ecuador has never worked, and can identify thousands of dump sites left behind, despite methods used to cover the top ground with dirt, all of which remain hazardous underneath. Some people inadvertently built their houses right on top of what were waste dumps, as what they saw was an area of cleared ground, perfect to build a home. But animals all around them that use the nearby river or creek for drinking water mysteriously die, so how is anyone to know where it’s safe, especially when the company claims there’s no scientific trace of any problem?

Early on, Chevron moved the court jurisdiction from the United States to Ecuador, a country where they had 8 different Presidents over a 10 year period, thinking they’d have a better chance bribing or influencing the locals, so the mounds of legal evidence that have accumulated for nearly 20 years fills a storage room. But lately they’ve been having second thoughts, arguing they cannot receive a fair trial in Ecuador now that they’ve elected a left-leaning President, Rafael Correa (still the incumbent since 2006), who actually sides with the victims in this case, so the company is now calling him a socialist and urging the United States government to cut all diplomatic ties. It was somewhat confounding to see press conferences set up in the middle of a jungle, where native people are displaying demonstration-style photos of their sick or dead children while both Fajardo and a local Chevron attorney accompany a judge to various inspection sites where water and mud samples are taken, usually accompanied by several dozen locals witnessing the proceedings, so as the lawyers are making their legal arguments to the judge and the cameras, they are also playing to the people who happen to live there, with both sides continually trying to persuade them. This kind of Greek chorus was fascinating, as they are usually a speechless and unseen human life force with little power or influence, yet in this film they’re hearing the arguments of what could turn out to be one of the cases of the century.

One of the saddest parts of the story, especially seeing how raw and primitive the conditions are living in a tropical jungle, is generating publicity to famous American celebrities who can raise money in behalf of their cause. This part of the story is really pretty sickening, but absolutely essential, as Chevron’s legal strategy has been to prolong and postpone the process until they force the other side to go bankrupt. So fundraising is essential, like a political campaign, which is simply not a natural part of any native person’s life and must seem just as strange and foreign as the oil industry itself, who brought strange explosions and excavation into what was otherwise a pristine jungle where they had been perfectly suited for centuries to live off the land. When Trudie Styler, the wife of Sting and co-founder of the Rainforest Foundation shows up in the jungle, having read a 2007 story for Vanity Fair, a cover story article on the history of the case, and she professes solidarity with the indigenous people, needing a translator, of course, to express her sentiments, one gets a sense of theater and manipulation, which only escalates when Fajardo is flown into New York City for a Sting rock concert promoting their own environmental organizations, all set to a Police performance where we hear the constant refrain repeating over and over again, “Sending out at an S.O.S.” All in all, the comprehensive picture shown here is meticulously detailed, where we hear the mouthpieces on both sides, but the ravaged earth and native people, powerfully silent throughout, are easily the most eloquent spokespersons as we are able to see how their lives have been uprooted from anything resembling normalcy to a point where their survival as a species, both the rainforest and its inhabitants, are both in jeopardy.

Postscript

On February 14, 2011, an Ecuadorian judge awarded an $8 billion penalty against Chevron, the largest environmental penalty ever awarded, along with an additional $8 billion if Chevron did not promptly issue an apology for despoiling areas around drilling sites once operated by Texaco, which since has been bought by Chevron. The oil company refused, quickly filing an appeal, claiming that “by imposing this award, the court, in effect, penalized Chevron billions of dollars for exercising its fundamental right to defend itself,” calling the ruling “illegitimate and unenforceable,” also filing suit against the plaintiffs for racketeering, which targets not only lawyers, but indigenous persons named within the lawsuit. The award was reduced to $9.5 billion on November 12, 2013 by the Ecuadorean National Court of Justice, the nation’s highest tribunal, which amounts to almost half of Chevron’s 2013 profit.

On March 4, 2014, Chevron Corporation won a U.S. judge’s ruling that a multibillion-dollar pollution judgment issued in Ecuador was procured by fraud, as U.S. District Judge Lewis Kaplan in New York said he found “clear and convincing evidence” that a 2011 judgment on behalf of rain forest dwellers in the country’s Lago Agrio area was secured by bribing a judge with a promise of $500,000 from the proceeds and ghostwriting the ruling, and that attorney Steven Donziger’s legal team used bribery, fraud and extortion in pursuit of an $18 billion judgment against the oil company issued in 2011. The villagers had said Texaco, later acquired by Chevron, contaminated an oil field in northeastern Ecuador between 1964 and 1992. Ecuador’s high court cut the judgment to $9.5 billion last year. At a six-week trial last year, Chevron accused Donziger of fraud and racketeering and said Texaco cleaned up the site, known as Lago Agrio, before handing it over to a state-controlled entity. The judge said Texaco, and by extension Chevron, “might bear some responsibility” for pollution at the site but that it was irrelevant to the question of whether fraud had occurred. “Justice is not served by inflicting injustice,” Kaplan wrote. “The ends do not justify the means. There is no ‘Robin Hood’ defense to illegal and wrongful conduct.”

Chevron Corporation is now seeking $32.3 million in legal fees from Steven Donziger and others who this month who were found by a judge to have used fraud to obtain a multibillion-dollar pollution judgment against Chevron in Ecuador, claiming it spent more than $10 million gathering evidence to build the racketeering case against Donziger. A lawyer for Donziger, Deepak Gupta, said Chevron’s “eye-popping” fee request was a “transparent attempt” to intimidate anyone who might be thinking of suing the company for wrongdoing. In a recent court filing, Chevron said the $32.3 million in fees included 36,837 hours billed by its lawyers at Gibson, Dunn & Crutcher. Randy Mastro, the lead lawyer for Chevron, most recently billed at a rate of $1,140 an hour, the filings show. Mastro was hired in January by New Jersey Governor Chris Christie to conduct an internal inquiry into the scandal involving lane closings at George Washington Bridge. Gupta, Donziger’s lawyer, said Donziger could not pay the fees. “Steven is a solo environmental lawyer who works from the kitchen table of his apartment,” Gupta said. “Chevron knows he can’t actually pay those fees -- and that’s the point.”

The Ecuadoreans have sued Chevron in Brazil, Argentina, and Canada, where the company has assets that can be seized. The Court of Appeal for Ontario ruled in December 2013 that the 47 villagers have the right to pursue Chevron’s Canada assets. The other cases are pending.

Chicago Reader Cliff Doerksen

Ace documentary maker Joe Berlinger (Paradise Lost, Metallica: Some Kind of Monster) anatomizes an ongoing, multibillion-dollar class-action lawsuit pitting 30,000 rural Ecuadorians against the Chevron Corporation, which has allegedly been dumping toxic waste into their sustaining length of the Amazon River. Eco-docs are bummers almost by definition, but here Berlinger’s superb explanatory skills compensate for any tax on the viewer’s conscience; what might have been a rote exercise in green sentimentality becomes a gripping, multifaceted thriller about media politics, global economics, and legal infighting. Wherever your sympathies fall, this may teach you a lot about the way the modern world works. 105 min.

The 8th Annual HUMAN RIGHTS WATCH FILM FESTIVAL Facets Multi Media

Three years in the making, this riveting new documentary from acclaimed filmmaker Joe Berlinger (Brother's Keeper, Paradise Lost, Metallica: Some Kind of Monster) tells the epic story of one of the largest and most controversial legal cases on the planet. An inside look at the infamous $27 billion "Amazon Chernobyl" case, Crude is a real-life, high stakes legal drama involving global politics, the environmental movement, celebrity activism, human rights advocacy, multinational corporate power, and the fate of disappearing indigenous cultures. Subverting the conventions of advocacy filmmaking, this award-winning film explores a complex situation from all angles, bringing an important story of environmental peril and human suffering into focus.

The Village Voice [Ed Gonzalez] June 10, 2009, also seen here: Truth and Tragedy at "Human Rights Watch 2009" Festival - - Movies ...

And where Mike Bonanno and Andy Bichlbaum, a/k/a the Yes Men, use ridicule of the most subversive sort to expose the way in which corporations dishonor human life (The Yes Men Fix the World), Joe Berlinger does so with an arrogance-free emphasis on human interest and eyewitness account. Tears tell no lies in the veteran filmmaker's Crude, a Herculean work of investigative journalism that lays out the decades-long indignities suffered by an indigenous group living—or, rather, dying—in an area of Ecuador's Amazon region ravaged by oil drilling. Berlinger handily rebuts every Chevron snake's Bushy-sounding denial of wrongdoing with haunting visions of oil slicks and once-lush environs transformed to mud, contrasting shots of the sick with the cold steel exteriors of corporate towers—all to remind us that we should fight to combat the still-lingering effects of colonialism in our world.

Eye for Film (Amber Wilkinson) review [4.5/5]

All those who, in the storm of polemics from the likes of Michael Moore and 'personal journey' factual films by people such as Morgan Spurlock, may have forgotten what a proper, balanced documentary looks like, should make sure they take a look at the latest from Joe Berlinger (Metallica: Some Kind Of Monster).

Taking on the tricky subject of one of the largest and most controversial legal cases in history, he charts the progress of courtroom attempts to get redress from Texaco (and by extension Chevron) for the aftermath of oil drilling in Ecuador. Berlinger documents the state of the Ecuadorian rainforest and the people of the region, who, the film atests, are bearing the brunt of Texaco's failure to clean up after itself. There are around 30,000 people living under the rainforest's canopy, reliant upon it for their existence, but now many are suffering from a multitude of health problems – from cancer to birth defects and skin ailments – which lawyers representing them say can be laid at the feet of the oil company's pollution.

It is true that Berlinger is clearly on the side of the indigenous populace in all this, in his director's statement he says he left his first trip to the area "feeling sick - literally, from the noxious fumes I ingested - and figuratively from the things I saw and stories I heard". But after the overwhelming weight of evidence in this documentary it is unlikely there will be a queue forming to join the Chevron camp. Despite this, unlike so many other filmmakers, he remembers the golden rule of documentary: right of reply. It is a very clever move, since, in airing the opposing viewpoint, through the use of the petroleum giant's videos and spokesmen, he gives Chevron just enough rope to hang itself with.

Here, he gives a face to the bigger issues by keeping his focus chiefly on 35-year-old lawyer Pablo Fajardo, who despite living in what can only be described as humble circumstances, is leading the case against Chevron with the help of a hot-shot US pro-bono lawyer's firm. And what a case it is. Running since November 1993, it has been subject first to legal wrangling in the US, before Chevron won the battle for the bandwagon to be moved to the courts in Ecuador, in 2002, where extensive evidence-gathering began in earnest.

Shot over a three-year period, Berlinger documents the evidence phase of the case, at the same time as exploring the more personal stories of those affected by the polution. All the way along, he lets Chevron deny involvement, although the physical evidence tells a quite different story. While possibly focussing a little too much on Fajardo's burgeoning fame in America and a visit from Trudie Styler at the expense of the more hard-hitting personal stories from the region, these are small grumbles which don't detract from the fact that this is a well-balanced and thought-provoking documentary that doesn't forget that the cinemagoing experience needs to entertain as well as educate.

User reviews from imdb Author: MisterWhiplash from United States

In Joe Berlinger's film Crude, we're privy to a situation that has spiraled out of control and how a battle is waging between lawyers on two sides. On one side are the Ecuadorians who in 1993 filed a lawsuit against Texaco (now Chevron) for their hazardous practices while drilling for oil by spilling all over (ultimately far more than Exxon Valdez) and contaminating the water that the locals drank and bathed in. They sought (still seek, actually) just some responsibility, something on their end that "hey, we screwed up, we'll clean it up," and eventually in recent years given representation by Pablo Fajardo, a tough Ecuadorian lawyer, and some American back-up lawyers.

On the other side, of course, are the corporate lawyers for Chevron, who claim two contradictory things: there's the Chevron environment scientist who says that there is no contamination, the people are getting cancer from other things, no sewage treatment, people get sick all the time, etc, don't blame us - and there's the local Chevron Ecuadorian lawyers who say, 'yeah, there is contamination, but not by us, look at Petro-Ecuador, who came after we left, it's all them.' It comes down to a blame game that, finally, after years of struggle, gets to a trial level in Ecuador. But this, as we see in Crude, has its problems too - not least of which from corruption in the law system, and judge(s) inundated with information to process from the case.

What makes Crude so powerful a document, and an indictment of a mighty beast like an oil corporation that is in fact one of the largest corporations in the world, is that Berlinger doesn't need to amp up the agitprop. We see the Chevron scientist or lawyers try their best to describe how things aren't bad, or so bad, or that it's not their fault, and all Berlinger has to do is show the local Ecuadorians living right by the water, too poor to move or to be able to get enough money form their livestock who die off immediately (and asking "where are all the fish" answers itself), the mother who has two children lost to cancer, and shots, very straightforward, of, yes, contaminated oil wells and ponds and places that no one should have to put up with. Berlinger gets his best material from these horrid images, set against the backdrop of an otherwise gorgeous Amazon jungle and rain-forest.

It's also a gripping legal drama, and one that we see gains some public-attention traction following a Vanity Fair article in their 'Green Issue' and a subsequent interest from Trudie Styler and her husband Sting (more so Styler, who goes to Ecuador and sees the anguish of the people and the sites of the oil spills). But one may be filled with a possibly cynical sense of dread; for all of the hope one may have in this case, that David will for once beat Goliath and that the things the American lawyer are saying will come true, it's real life and not the movies (albeit as a movie here) and it's nail-biting to see how it will turn out, that despite all of the attention and media buzz thanks to Sting, it won't work out for the Ecuadorians because, well, it's a damn oil monster they're up against.

As it turns out, it's really a credit to Berlinger and his crew that he can present such a story with a clear eye and head and, indeed, be fair on both sides (granted, there is only so much access an oil company in litigation will give to a low-budget documentarian), and lets the audience see what the case is all about. And, perhaps expectedly, the ultimate bittersweet note by the end is that of a double-sided coin: an independent investigator may find overwhelming proof of contamination and the need for compensation for the victims and people and lands... but the case still needs to end, and as it stands, the investigation is ongoing. It's a harrowing saga of human rights.

Jungle Law | Politics | Vanity Fair Jungle Law, 11-page cover story by William Langewiesche from Vanity Fair, May 2007

BP: It's Just the Beginning JR Jones from The Reader

Village Voice (Scott Foundas) review Joe Berlinger's Remarkable Crude, September 8, 2009

theartsdesk.com [Ryan Gilbey]

filmcritic.com (Chris Barsanti) review [3/5]

Crude | Film | Review | The A.V. Club Noel Murray

New York Magazine (David Edelstein) review

Slant Magazine review Fernando F. Croce

DVD Verdict (Victor Valdivia) dvd review

BehindtheHype.com [Doug McBride]

CompuServe (Harvey S. Karten) review

CineSnob.net (Kiko Martinez) review [B]

Georgia Straight (Ken Eisner) review

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson) review

Critic's Notebook [Robert Levin]

The Spinning Image (Keith Rockmael) review

Jam! Movies review

Superciliousness [Bentley Smith]

Little White Lies [Olly Zanetti]

Chevron Goes After Documentary Filmmaker Keith Goetzman from Utne Reader, June 4, 2010

The Hollywood Reporter review Eric Monder

Entertainment Weekly review [B+] Owen Gleiberman

Variety (Dennis Harvey) review

Meet Joe Berlinger director of CRUDE Video interview from Sundance Channel, January 16, 2009 (2:00)

Festival Updates My Premiere: CRUDE Cara Mertes on the film from Sundance Channel, January 24, 2009

Judge Disallows Environmental Review of Chevron Refinery Expansion Sundance Channel, June 7, 2009

Chevron sitting in environmental hotseat Sundance Channel, November 17, 2009

Catching up with the “Crude” court case Amy Reiter from Sundance Channel, December 21, 2009

Will CRUDE director be forced to surrender his footage? Amy Reiter from Sundance Channel, May 17, 2010

Documentary filmmakers rally around CRUDE director Amy Reiter from Sundance Channel, May 20, 2010

Support grows for CRUDE team Amy Reiter from Sundance Channel, May 24, 2010

Joe Berlinger vs. Chevron: Why We Must All Defend Independent Filmmaking Robert Redford from Sundance Channel, June 4, 2010

Time Out London (Tom Huddleston) review [4/5]

Time Out New York (Joshua Rothkopf) review [3/5]

The Independent (Anthony Quinn) review [3/5]

The Daily Telegraph review [3/5] Tim Robey

The Boston Phoenix (Bret Michel) review

Minneapolis-St. Paul Star Tribune review Ty Burr from The Boston Globe

Philadelphia Weekly [Matt Prigge]

Austin Chronicle (Marjorie Baumgarten) review [3.5/5]

San Francisco Chronicle (Walter Addiego) review [3/4]

Los Angeles Times (Kenneth Turan) review

The New York Times (A.O. Scott) review September 9, 2009

Film: Two Shots at One Target: Oil Polluters John Anderson from The New York Times, January 16, 2009

Filmmaker ‘Shocked’ by Judge’s Order for Subpoena Dave Itzkoff from The New York Times, May 7, 2010

Michael Moore Says Judge’s Ruling Could Have ‘Chilling Effect’ on Documentaries Dave Itzkoff from The New York Times, May 7, 2010

Ric Burns Says Judge’s Ruling on Film Could Be ‘Killer Blow’ Dave Itzkoff from The New York Times, May 7, 2010

Oscar Winners Back Filmmaker in Dispute With Chevron Dave Itzkoff from The New York Times, May 12, 2010

Reprieve for Filmmaker in Dispute With Chevron John Schwartz from The New York Times, May 21, 2010

Media Companies File Brief on Behalf of Filmmaker in Chevron Case Dave Itzkoff from The New York Times, June 2, 2010

Ecuador Lawsuit | Chevron

Chevron Ecuador - Huffington Post a series of news reports

ChevronToxico | The Campaign for Justice in Ecuador Media reports and press releases

Chevron Ordered to Pay $9 Billion for Ecuador Pollution ... Simon Romero and Clifford Krauss from The New York Times, February 14, 2011

Ecuador vs. Chevron breaking news - Washington Times Quin Hillyer from The Washington Times, February 14, 2011

Chevron v. Ecuador: Will the Plaintiffs Get Paid? - Time Tim Padgett and Stephan Küffner from Time, February 22, 2011

Ecuador Vs. Chevron-Texaco: A Brief History | CounterSpill Carly Gillis from Counterspill, April 27. 2011

Chevron Vs. Ecuador: $19 Billion Environmental ... Patricia Rey Mallén from International Business Times, October 18, 2013

Chevron v Ecuador: the big oil battle where everyone's a loser Ed King from Responding to Climate Change, December 12, 2013

Ecuador digs deep to fight oil tyranny - Mail & Guardian Sipho Kings from The African Mail & Guardian, February 14, 2014

Big Victory for Chevron Over Claims in Ecuador - NYTimes ... Clifford Krauss from The New York Times, March 4, 2014

Ecuador $9.5 billion ruling against Chevron was corrupt ... Joseph Ax from Reuters, March 4, 2014

Chevron Wins U.S. Ruling Calling Ecuador Judgment Fraud ... Christie Smythe and Patricia Hurtado from Bloomberg, March 4, 2014

Chevron seeks $32 million in legal fees in Ecuador case .. Nate Raymond from Reuters, March 19, 2014

Ecuador's President Takes Chevron Fight to US Paul M. Barrett from Bloomberg Business Week, April 9, 2014

Lago Agrio oil field - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

PARADISE LOST 3: PURGATORY – made for TV

USA (121 mi) 2011 Official site

Cultural Transmogrifier [Drew Morton]

This past summer, after serving nearly twenty years behind bars, Jessie Misskelley Jr., Jason Baldwin, and Damien Echols – also known as the West Memphis Three (WM3) – were released from prison after entering Alford pleas (which allow defendants to assert their innocence while acknowledging the existence of substantial evidence that could be used for convictions) with the Arkansas court system. The release of the trio was bittersweet. On the one hand, three men who appear to be innocent were freed to walk the streets.  On the other hand, three innocent men were convicted because their interest in Stephen King and Metallica made them different from the bulk of the West Memphis population, and they lost almost twenty years of their lives. Most significantly, the killer or killers behind the murders of three, eight-year-old boys (Stevie Branch, Michael Moore, and Christopher Byers) have yet to be found.

The Alford plea deal was the long-awaited resolution for a narrative that began in 1996, with the release of Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky’s documentary Paradise Lost – The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills. It continued through Revelations (2000) and now finds a possible conclusion in Purgatory (2011), which was in the final stages of post-production when the WM3 were freed. When Berlinger and Sinofsky arrived in West Memphis in 1993-1994, police had found the mutilated remains (an image which haunts the opening moments of the documentary) of three youngsters, left along the riverbank of a wooded park. One of the boys was castrated, rape was alleged, and the town of West Memphis called for justice. Jessie Misskelley Jr., who confessed that he’d watched as Jason Baldwin and Damien Echols murdered the three boys, answered their call.

Misskelley’s confession unleashed a climate of fear, anger, and contempt. The problems with Misskelley’s confession only began to become apparent later: the boy had an IQ of 72, his confession included several inaccuracies, and the police held him without a lawyer being present for nearly twelve hours. Guided by Misskelley’s problematic confession, the West Memphis police arrested Baldwin and Echols and put them on trial for murder (Misskelley would be found guilty and sentenced to life plus forty years in prison). Little physical evidence tied them to the scene, and yet the court sentenced Baldwin to life in prison and condemned Echols to death. Very quickly, the Paradise Lost series became a document investigating the horrors of the lynch mob mentality and the injustices of the justice system.

Purgatory spends a great deal of its running time recapping the past and bringing viewers unfamiliar with the case up to speed. The final half-hour or so deals with newly discovered DNA evidence that has linked Terry Hobbs, the stepfather of one of the boys, to the crime scene. This evidence served as the beginning of the end of the WM3′s term in prison, and yet the victory, given the technicalities of the Alford Plea, are bittersweet, a conclusion Berlinger and Sinofsky never allow us to forget. In the end, Purgatory is a frustrating film. Yet, due to the behind-the-scenes timeline (as I said, the film was on the verge of being finished when the court finally heard the WM3′s appeals), it can’t help but be frustrating.  Still, the conclusion of the series and its effect on the WM3′s lives are both beautiful and terrifying. Art has the potential power to right social injustices, but these particular injustices shouldn’t have occurred in the first place.

Slant Magazine DVD [John Semley]

The forthcoming release of Amy J. Berg's West of Memphis, a documentary about the trial(s) of the questionably convicted West Memphis Three, seems more than a bit curious. Maybe it's because over the course of nearly two decades, filmmakers Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky have already assembled the authoritative document on the subject: the Paradise Lost trilogy.

Released on HBO in 1996, 2000, and 2011, the trilogy probes the arrests and conviction of three West Memphis, Arkansas teenagers—Damien Echols, Jason Baldwin, and Jessie Misskelley Jr.—charged with murdering three young boys. In large part because of the first Paradise Lost film, the case became something of media sensation, compelling viewers sympathetic to the portrayal of three pilloried teenage outcasts (one a pasty faux-Satanist, one a pipsqueak metal-head, one mentally challenged) to form support communities, driven by the film's sense that something fishy, if not brazenly unlawful, hung over the proceedings. Paradise Lost 2: Revelations captured that grassroots community as they rallied to reignite public interest in the case, while the latest film saw their efforts—and those of indefatigable defense attorneys—rewarded with the freeing of the West Memphis Three through an odd legal loophole that allowed them to plead guilty to the crimes while simultaneously maintaining their innocence.

Taken altogether, Paradise Lost is a definitive piece of Heisenbergian cinema. The real-world outcomes aren't just actively affected (as in something like Errol Morris's The Thin Blue Line), but also reinterpreted by the films themselves. All the while, Berlinger and Sinofsky somehow maintaining a rigorous documentarian distance, never really apparent at the center of their films even as the films themselves become gradually more central to the case, and resulting cultural cri de couer, they're documenting. To pare it down a bit, the three Paradise Lost docs are the nexus through which the entire cultural phenomenon that was "the West Memphis Three" flowed. And more than merely being rigorously researched, culturally imminent, fascinating as a case study in the operations of documentary filmmaking and, yes, even important, the trilogy amounts to an ambitious, tormenting, acutely human story, a sweeping Southern-gothic epic. For Berg—and her producers, Peter Jackson and Echols himself—to shear it down to a more manageable "official" narrative seems altogether needless, something like taking Steve James's Hoop Dreams and re-editing it into a piece of rags-to-riches sports-flick feel-goodery.

Likes James's own meticulous and completely arresting documentary about the forces surreptitiously (and less so) guiding the pick-and-roll maneuverings of the American meritocracy, the Paradise Lost films approach their subjects with an unblinking anthropological regard. Berlinger and Sinofsky may have been piqued, like so many after who latched on to the case, by the persuasive notion of Echols, Baldwin, and Misskelley Jr. as subcultural martyrs. But the ragged, intensely immerse approach they employed transcends the mere peddling of misfit sympathy.

Many of the characters of the otherwise sleepy Mississippi River town seem to energetically act out for the cameras, be it the reporter pressing a bereaved mother about her suicidal thoughts, or a stepdad (John Mark Byers, the kind of exceptionally larger-than-life figure that no fiction film could convincingly conjure, let alone contain) angrily blasting away pumpkins he names after the presumed child killers, his frothing blue-collar bombast and fantasies of vengeance steeped in the rhetoric of Old Testament retribution. Like many of the people in the film, Byers seems provoked by the mere idea of being on camera, his outrage and mourning rendered especially performative. His development from principal villain, tacitly developed in the first two movies as a chief suspect in the murders, to penitent antihero is one of the more masterful of the trilogy's many stranger-than-fiction turns.

If Byers emerges as the films' most memorable subject, it's as much a function of his undeniably outsized personality as the way he seems to embody so many of the themes coursing through the films. Like the case itself, peeling back at Byers's layers reveals only more absurdities and ghastly secrets, secret doors hidden in closets, all rattling with skeletons. In depicting the fibers of Bible-belting religious zeal, unprincipled careerism, poverty, prejudice, social alienation, miscarried justice, and out-and-out stupidity (an "expert" in Satanism and paganism, with a degree from a non-accredited mail-order university, speaks to various bafflements of the initial trial) that were knotted up in the West Memphis Three trial, the Paradise Lost films stand as one of the most mesmerizing documents of the American experience.

Still Hell in West Memphis: No Happy Endings in ... - Village Voice Michael Atkinson

'Paradise Lost 3: Purgatory': The West Memphis Three Go Free Cynthia Fuchs from Pop Matters

Epinions.com [Chris Jarmick] (Spoiler-Free)

Surrender to the Void-[Steven Flores]

The Daily Rotation [Sean Canfield]

DVD Talk [Jason Bailey] also seen here: Fourth Row Center [Jason Bailey]

Film-Forward.com [Nora Lee Mandel]

DVD Sleuth [Mike Long]

DVD Verdict [Tom Becker]

DVD Verdict - Collector's Edition [Erich Asperschlager]

The Documentalist [Andrew Last]

The Film Stage [Mike Anton]

Jewish Daily Forward [Curt Schleier]

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

Culturazzi [Daniel Montgomery]

Daily Film Dose [Alan Bacchus]

Paradise Lost 3: Purgatory — Inside Movies Since ... - Boxoffice.com Mark Olsen

The Cleveland Movie Blog [Bob Ignizio]

Paradise Lost 3 - Roger Ebert - Chicago Sun-Times

West Memphis 3 finally go free in latest 'Paradise Lost' documentary ... Roger Ebert from The Chicago Sun-Times, January 10, 2012

West Memphis Three - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

"3 Teen-Agers Accused in the Killings of 3 Boys" The New York Times, June 6, 1993

"Youth Is Convicted In Slaying of 3 Boys In an Arkansas City" The New York Times, February 5, 1994

In Search Of Evil Mark Caro from The Chicago Tribune, October 2, 1996

"Complete Fabrication" Tim Hackler from The Arkansas Times, October 7, 2004

New evidence in West Memphis murders Mara Leveritt and Max Brantley from The Arkansas Times July 19, 2007

Lawyers file DNA motion in Cub Scout murder case Henry Weinstein from The Los Angeles Times, October 30, 2007

"Judge rejects request for new trial for 3 men convicted of 1993 slayings of 3 Arkansas boys" Jill Zeman from Nesting.com, September 10, 2008

"Arguments conclude in 'West Memphis Three' appeals" Arkansas Online, October 2, 2009

Jury foreman in West Memphis Three trial of Damien Echols accused of misconduct Beth Warren from The Memphis Commercial Appeal, October 13, 2010

"New hearing ordered for 3 in Ark. scout deaths" Jill Zeman Bleed from The Associated Press, November 4, 2010

"New judge appointed for West Memphis appeals" Arkansas Online, December 1, 2010

"New evidence in West Memphis murders" Mara Leveritt and Max Brantley from The Arkansas Times, July 19, 2007

"Fresh DNA evidence boosts defense in 1993 Arkansas slayings" Suzi Parker from Reuters, July 27, 2011

"Plea reached in West Memphis murders" Gavin Lesnick from Arkansas Online, August 19, 2011

"Deal Frees ‘West Memphis Three’ in Arkansas" Campbell Robertson from The New York Times, August 19, 2011

"Decades without daylight: 'West Memphis Three' describe life in prison" CNN Wire Staff, September 29, 2011

"West Memphis 3, locked up 18 years, together in NY" David Bauder from The Houston Chronicle, October 10, 2011

"West Memphis Three : Memphis Photo Galleries : The Commercial Appeal: Local Memphis, Tennessee News Delivered Throughout the Day." Photo Gallery from The Memphis Commercial Appeal

Berman, Jonathan

COMMUNE B 89

USA (78 mi) 2005 Official site

Like the recently released OLD JOY, there are too few films that accurately portray the counter-culture 60’s movement, which was more about taking decisively personal action against the historically racist, Jim Crow, Vietnam mentality establishment than documenting one’s behavior while you did it, an activity one might have associated with the counter-intelligence unit of the FBI, who freely spied on the Black Panthers, the Weathermen, Dr. Martin Luther King, and even members of this collective commune, as all at that time were determined to be potential enemies of the state. Instead, people “lived’ their lives according to newly discovered values, initially attempting to integrate into mainstream society, but many were so discouraged they had to completely exit the cities and seek solitude and a utopian freedom in carefully chosen remote landscapes. On a camping trip near Mt. Shasta searching for an isolated retreat, Richard and Elsa Marley, sheerly by accident, as they liked the name of a local realty company called Big Sky Realty, were introduced to 80 acres of property neighboring a million acres of national park lands called Black Bear Ranch, an abandoned gold mining ranch in Siskiyou County in Northern California. As it took a 9-mile dirt road wandering through the wilderness to get there, it couldn’t have been more remote and isolated. Calling their philosophy “Free Land for Free People,” bilking rock stars like Frank Zappa, the Doors, the Monkees, and even filmmaker Michelangelo Antonioni to help fund it, they bought the property in 1968 for $22,000 and established one of the first counter-culture, hippie communes.

Narrated by actor Peter Coyote, who was one of the early participants, he reveals the naiveté of their initial optimism, thinking the whole world would come around in a year or two to their more tolerant views. Interspersed with original music by Elliot Sharp, the film mixes raw amateur footage of men and women running around naked with a few of those adults today, describing their feelings then and now, discussing the various stages of “free love,” where initially one couldn’t spend the night with the same person more than two consecutive nights, as they discouraged the bourgeois concept of couples, or men and women working side by side with chain saws doing the heavy lifting kind of work which was previously associated as exclusively men’s work, to birthing children on the premises, learning about alternative medicines and midwifery, offering the children free reign to develop openly and communally, unhindered by standardized concepts that are the rage today. Eventually, jealousy of sharing the one you loved along with a rediscovered affirmation of original ideals led to marriages and families, some of whom chose to move away from the commune to find schools for their children, while others remained and allowed their children to roam the premises largely unattended, “like goats” recalls one of the grown up children who felt they were like guinea pigs, considered experiments in living.

While there were multiple perspectives from several key players, two women stood out in my mind, as their experiences personified the extremes the film was actually documenting. One was a former Weathermen (Harriet Beinfield), an outspoken, highly politicized radical feminist who was something of a domineering force within the commune. A typical scene years later captures her reaction to a man trying to explain his impressions of one of the members, where she continually interrupts, finding criticism in every one of his remarks, preventing him from veering even one inch away from her prescribed views. While they profess free speech, it more closely resembles conformity and censorship, as they must remain within the program’s guidelines at all times. When the commune was visited by a child worshipping cult called Shiva Lila, a group that liked to drop acid and hang out with the babies, it was the former Weathermen who organized a group of a hundred people from the city to confront them and demand they leave the premises. But one girl (Tesilya Hanauer) born on the commune was actually taken abroad by the Shiva Lila group with her parent’s blessing, first to the Philippines, then to India, where her recollections were that the only people she had ties to soon disappeared, leaving the children in a communal group of nomadic strangers where many of the children died of communal diseases like diphtheria. Sheerly by accident and good fortune, years later she was reunited with her own family, which then reinstalled many of the bourgeois concepts they initially railed against, like Christmas and birthdays, which had been abolished by Shiva Lila as too self-indulgent. As an adult, this intelligent, self-reliant child now works as an editor in a self-help publishing house.

While honest and obviously sincere, the film feels a bit disjointed presenting the contradictions of the era, most of which are never answered, as the original founders were older social activists, yet their views were considered antiquated by the largely upper middle class younger white anarchists that arrived to create this modern era Walden Pond, as multiple points of views, changing or evolving viewpoints, human inconsistencies, and old fashioned trial and error lead to a mixed result. Particularly in the West, it’s difficult to dissolve the spirit of rugged individualism, as it defines a kind of masculinity portrayed by the Marlboro man, and how American history, in particular the American West, was won. Communal life isn’t for everyone, and many seem to have blossomed away from the restrictions of leading such an isolated life. While the ranch is still in operation, as by law it has been decreed that no other development can be built on the premises, that it will remain a commune in perpetuity, many of the former members have left the commune, yet maintained their idealist identity elsewhere, becoming environmental advocates, among the first to oppose opening up forests to clear cutting, an art teacher, a lawyer who helps disadvantaged kids, a dwarf citrus tree farmer, an acupuncturist, an expert in alternative medicine, and even an actor-activist who strangely looks much younger than his fellow compatriots. To quote G. Allen Johnson from the San Francisco Chronicle, “Utopia is a beautiful concept, but the problem is everyone has his or her own idea of what it means.”

User Reviews from imdb Author: kozure-okami

This is the first, and as far as I can tell, the only documentary portrayal of the 1960s counter-culture as it actually existed. It is a sympathetic portrayal, completely devoid of the usual condescension, contempt, and hindsight revisionism.

This is not a film about clothes or rock music. It is a film about people of serious intent who were willing to go the distance and who devoted their lives to one another in a large family of their own making. "Commune" is an important American historical document and must be seen by anyone wishing to understand what on earth was going on in this country during the late 1960s to mid-1970s.

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez]

Bill O'Reilly would call them secular progressives: people who believe that our American way of life is fundamentally flawed. They are the participants in the Black Bear Ranch, a utopian community that began in the early 1970s as a means for young men and women to get away from the pull of phony American values. Financed in part by celebrity interests and predicated on the idea of "Free Land for Free People," Black Bear Ranch began as a naïve social experiment but grew into something profound and illuminating for the participants who weathered the storm of its difficult first years. Director Jonathan Berman gathers participants of Black Bear Ranch, including actor Peter Coyote and founder Elsa Marley, to reminisce about their experiences at the commune over the years, covering everything from the ecstasy of random hookups to the controversy of the nomadic child-worshiping Shiva Lila group. The documentary is loose-limbed and not at all artful—which is to say, it's scarcely bourgeois and just as the Black Bear Ranch people would like it. It does have focus and Berman neatly traces how the older generation's struggles not to fall for the outside world's hegemonic values was a healthy thing for their children, who were all born into an atmosphere of unconditional love. Most of these men and women would leave Black Bear Ranch with great trepidation and fear but with a sense that they had learned everything they could and that it was time to fulfill themselves as individuals. This is not to say that they ever stopped letting their freak flag fly (today, Cedar and Mahaj Seegar farm dwarf citrus trees!), and this point is what makes Commune particularly comforting, especially for young lefties worried that their compassionate politics will dull as they grow older

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray]

The Black Bear communal ranch in northern California was partially funded by rock stars who were guilted into ponying up the dough by a handful of enterprising hippies who accused them of "trading off our lifestyle." That kind of defiant idealism was a lofty place for the Black Bears to start, and Jonathan Berman's documentary Commune covers the founders' inevitable descent into compromise, and finally toward a more sustainable hope. The documentary mainly deals with the early years, when the commune promised "free land for free people" and braced for the kind of unexpected pilgrims that the slogan encouraged. There were early arguments about what kind of role the women should play—workers or nurturers?—and whether people who wanted to spend their days working on art should be booted out for not contributing more. And in the early '70s, the Black Bears struggled with the arrival of the Shiva Lila cult, a group of child-worshipping acid-eaters who fed off the commune's desire to shed society's conventions, and almost led it to a dark place from which it might not have returned.

But even before the Shiva Lila affair, the Black Bears were rethinking what they were all about. The best parts of Commune show them debunking a lot of hippie myths. They tried free love, but found that it devolved into spiteful emotional warfare, so they eventually paired up. They tried alternative methods of parenting, but discovered that someone still needed to deal with dirty diapers. In Commune's most moving passage, one of the Black Bear daughters talks about how her parents, meaning well, let her run off with the exiled Shiva Lilas, then invited her back with a big party that signaled a new embrace of traditional values, like celebrating birthdays and holidays, and letting their kids integrate into the larger community.

But as good as Commune is when it rehashes the Black Bears' old ideological debates, the movie is missing a sense of continuity from then to now. The Black Bear ranch is still around, and many of its founders are still around too, though not all of them live on the ranch. (Actor Peter Coyote, for example, now travels in entirely different circles.) Many of them got jobs, settled in the suburbs, and tried to carry a spirit of peace and brotherhood into everyday life. So, given that, how did the ranch survive the '80s and '90s? It's fascinating to see how the Black Bears got onto their current path, but we don't see enough of the journey.

The Village Voice [J. Hoberman]

A case study in documentary dialectics: In opposition to the death cult of Stanley Nelson's sensational Jonestown, we have the positive vibes of Jonathan Berman's mellow account of Black Bear Ranch, Commune.

A more homogeneous California utopia, founded during the apocalyptic summer of 1968 by a gang of Bay Area bohos and funded (at least initially) by a gaggle of Hollywood celebrities, Black Bear Ranch— still functioning in the shadow of Mount Shasta—is the most resilient of counterculture settlements. Its success was a function of its isolation on a forested 80-acre tract at the end of a nine-mile dirt road. On one hand, the initial settlers were forced to become self-sufficient; on the other, they had few problems with freaked-out neighbors—FBI surveillance and a bust that confiscated their tomato plants notwithstanding. Most significantly, Black Bear seems to have developed a form of functional anarchism.

Jonathan Berman interviews a host of past and present communards. Their cheerful recollections of the first horrible winter, the modification of macho Wild West attitudes, the ongoing discussion of How to Live, are annotated with primitive Portapak videotapes of youthful earth mothers dancing naked. (Commune is, however, less steamy than Berman's earlier documentary The Shvitz. As one grizzled founder notes, it wasn't "the sex so much as the openheartedness.") The trippiest adventure is the late-'70s appearance of a child-worshipping cult known as Shiva Lila; ultimately kicked out of the ranch, they took several of the commune kids with them on a magical mystery tour that seems worth a movie in itself.

Celebrating the desire to immerse oneself in a collective, world-changing enterprise, Commune is unavoidably nostalgic. (It would make an apt introduction to Kelly Reichardt's Old Joy, which illuminates the poignant yearning for that yearning.) Not for nothing was the adjective together a hippie accolade. The Black Bear ranchers were counterculture aristocracy and Berman's portrait is necessarily idealized. The dozen pages Peter Coyote devotes to Black Bear in his multi-commune memoir Sleeping Where I Fall suggests something a bit wiggier: Acid, of course, was crucial; sociologists came to observe the ranch and went native, and as one founder fondly recalls, "We ate a lot of placenta."

San Francisco Chronicle [G. Allen Johnson]

Los Angeles Times [Michael Ordoña]

New York Times (registration req'd) Stephen Holden

Berman, Shari Springer and Robert Pulcini

AMERICAN SPLENDOR B+ 92

USA (101 mi) 2003

Very, very funny, not the slow, curled up smiles, but the laughing out loud guffaw kind of funny, good performances all around, good editing, and some really choice use of music

BFI | Sight & Sound | American Splendor (2003) Xan Brooks from Sight and Sound, January 2004

Cleveland, Ohio, 1975. Harvey Pekar (Paul Giamatti) has reached his limit. His job - as a filing clerk at the local VA hospital - barely pays the bills. His second marriage is on the rocks and he has lost his voice from too much shouting. Determined to make something of his life, Harvey writes a comic strip documenting his humdrum existence, and his friend, famous cartoonist Robert Crumb (James Urbaniak), agrees to illustrate it. The resulting series of books, American Splendor, earns its star cult celebrity, attracting the interest of Joyce Brabner (Hope Davis), a fan from Delaware. Harvey and Joyce get married.

Harvey's fame grows when he is booked as a regular guest on the David Letterman show. Meanwhile his nerdish work colleague Toby (Judah Friedlander) becomes a fixture on MTV. But Harvey's life hits further turbulence when he discovers a lump on his testicle and then launches a political diatribe on Letterman's show. Diagnosed with lymphoma, he begins a course of chemotherapy. His experiences are detailed in a graphic novel, Our Cancer Year, that Joyce organises alongside local illustrator Fred (James McCaffrey). While working on the book Joyce and Harvey strike up a friendship with Fred's infant daughter Danielle (Madylin Sweeten), who later becomes their surrogate daughter. Harvey retires from the VA hospital, but insists that the story of his life does not have a happy ending.

Review

American Splendor opens with a pre-credits sequence that installs its hero at the end of a line-up of costumed trick-or-treaters. It is Halloween, 1950, and the infant Harvey Pekar is huddled on a porch alongside Batman, Superman and the Green Lantern. "Harvey Pekar?" scoffs the unimpressed neighbour who answers the door. "That doesn't sound like a superhero to me."

The irony is that Harvey Pekar would grow up to be just that. In middle age, this humble file clerk blossomed into an unlikely cult icon, courtesy of writing and starring in the American Splendor comic-book series. Illustrated by Robert Crumb (among others), American Splendor conjured dramatic art out of Pekar's mundane existence, and spun rousing ballads out of his ill-tempered squabbles with the world. His super-foes were hectoring bosses, office bureaucracy and "old Jewish women" who kept him waiting at the supermarket. His arsenal was the lightning bolt of misanthropy and the glorious shield of self-obsession.

Directed by documentary-makers Shari Springer Berman and Robert Pulcini, American Splendor essentially gives us the film of the comic of the life of Pekar. This is a playful, wilfully self-reflexive affair, a centaur-like meld of documentary and fiction. Thus Berman and Pulcini's exploded structure invites the real Pekar to narrate the story being enacted by his fictional alter ego (played by Paul Giamatti). "Here's our man," he croaks by way of introduction. "Yeah alright, here's me. Or the guy who plays me anyway." On another occasion the barrier breaks down entirely as the film's actors share the soundstage with their _real-life counterparts.

The point of this approach is the quest for biographical truth. Just as Pekar's comic books purport to be a warts-and-all depiction of his daily life, so Berman and Pulcini's biopic strives for a free-form structure that avoids the airbrushed "Hollywood bullshit" their subject detests. For most of the time the technique is vibrantly convincing. Occasionally, though, one catches glimpses of a possible gap between the fictional re-enactments and the documentary fact. As played by Giamatti, Pekar emerges as a comical curmudgeon: neurotic, grumbling but essentially harmless. By contrast, the archive footage of the real-life Pekar suggests a more combative, paranoid (and less likeable) side to his character.

Then again, you could argue that this friction is what makes American Splendor so special. The whole picture is basically ordered as a stand-off between dramatic reconstruction (as represented by both comic book and movie) and grubby, open-ended reality. At one point the real Joyce Brabner takes issue with the version of events peddled by her husband's comics ("Harvey tends to push the negative and the sour"). Later, as he battles cancer, Pekar comes to view his alter ego as an entirely separate entity: "If I die, will that character keep going?"

The likes of Superman, Batman and the Green Lantern patrol a far simpler terrain. Their fictional landscapes are places of clearly delineated good and evil. But Harvey Pekar is not your average superhero. He's at once author and character, hero and victim, his life and his art the result of a perpetual two-way osmosis. Standard biography is no match for such a man. It takes a film this quick, mercurial and multi-layered to keep up with him.

Underground Men Phil Nugent from the High Hat

American Splendor Gerald Peary

LA critics honour American Splendor The Guardian, January 8, 2004

My favourite film: American Splendor Amy Fleming from The Guardian, November 7, 2011

Cleveland comic-book legend Harvey Pekar dead at age 70 Joanna Connors from The Cleveland Plain Dealer, July 12 ,2010

Bernhardt, Curtis

POSSESSED

USA (108 mi) 1947

Time Out

Crawford may play a nurse, but she'd need a warehouse of Phensics to clear up her troubles in this one. Madly in love with nogoodnik Heflin, she chooses to marry her wealthy employer (Massey) after his own ailing wife has tottered into insanity and suicide. Joan totters the same way soon after, and no one in the '40s could do it with such steely eyes or tautened shoulders. And she's helped every inch of the way by the Warners melodrama machine, working at fever pitch under the direction of German émigré Bernhardt, revelling in the expressionist tradition of morbid fantasy and psychological anguish. Compelling viewing, then, and a film even madder than most of its characters.

Slant Magazine [Dan Callahan]

Many writers consider Possessed Joan Crawford's best performance, mainly because she goes colorfully mad in it. Her work here, though, is uneven. There are times when she clutches her head and rubs her temples in a clichéd manner in order to let us know her mind is unraveling. But she has lots of boldly original moments too, and this is partly because Crawford went to mental institutions to meet and observe some patients before shooting the film; this preparation paid off. In her best scenes, she shows her character's illness subtly and accurately without going over the top. Crawford saw that mental illness shows itself above all in the eyes, in the way they seem to stare inward instead of out at the world, and she replicates this quite strikingly. Crawford plays Louise, a chilly nurse who nurtures a fatal passion for David (Van Heflin), a wastrel engineer. Like a bad penny, David keeps coming back into her life and tormenting her. Eventually, she starts hearing noises in the night, hallucinating all over the place, chattering irrationally and breaking into laughter for no reason. It's hard to care about Louise or David, but Possessed does have a few very good insights into the self-abasing aggressiveness of unrequited love. The script is often silly, especially when dealing with hospitals and psychiatrists, and Curtis Bernhardt's direction is uninspired, but the acting is exceptional. Crawford dominates, of course, but she has expert support from Raymond Massey as an oil man she marries, Geraldine Brooks as his daughter, and Heflin as her sexy, sadistic object of desire. It's at its best when it's most subjective, putting you into Louise's mindset, and at its worst when it slows its pace down to a crawl in back-and-forth dialogue scenes. The film is flawed, and so is Crawford's performance, but the paranoid animal glint that flickers behind the star's eyes in her most lunatic moments is definitely memorable.

Film Noir of the Week Markham

After last week's Conflict, here's another solid Bernhardt noir entry. The man may not have been one of the great noir directors (as witnessed by this film's repetitive "psycho-babble" by the doctors, the undeveloped plot ‘device’, err character played by Alexis Smith in Conflict, and the absolute mess of a plot in Sirocco), he have a talent for beautiful, Von Sternberg expressionist mise en scene. Bernhardt manages to take us to a completely different world in each of his noirs than say that of a "realistic/semi-documentary" film. Crime/thriller events do take place in his films, however they lie within a living nightmare: a Val Lewton-esque landscape in which conventions found in horror are "allowed" to exist in these noir stories (truth serums, "ghosts" from beyond the grave, over-the-top, abstract hallucinations, to name a few).

When it comes to femme fatales, few film noirs completely focus on the psychology behind these deadly women. Sure, there are many great noir actresses who give the stock character great depth, but most of the time we must accept that they were just “born bad”. As of what I’ve seen, there are only two films that actually trace the transition of a weak, oppressed woman into a dominating femme fatale: Jacques Tourneur’s Cat People and Bernhardt’s Possessed (and I hear Crime of Passion takes Barbara Stanwyck down the same path as well). Whereas Irena’s (of Cat People) deadliness grows from her fear of her inherited curse (a metaphor for her sexuality, the femme fatale’s key weapon), Joan Crawford’s Louise Howell is driven to become a murderess and manipulator (and just a plain psycho) by her own fatal obsession (and over that of a homme fatale), among other factors. On the flip side, this viewing I see Louise as a product of the neurotic, ruthless environment in which she lives in.

In the noir world, even those mousy, spinster nurses can grow to be deadly. David Sutton (Van Heflin) introduces Louise to a life of love and sex, two things she has never experienced before (this must be why she keeps returning to such a cad). Of course, while Louise considers this one night stand a new beginning, David sees her as just another woman he can seduce and abandon, so it’s anything but pretty when he calls it quits, and upon further meetings rejects every advance Louise makes to “rekindle” their sham of a romance. The next 90 minutes of the film have Joan Crawford going through even more hell, facing a crazy mother/patient and daughter who spit out wild accusations, the mother’s mysterious suicide, and David returning once more to seduce the naïve daughter Carol, while Joan watches. No wonder why she’s gone mad, I think Mildred Pierce had it good compared to her.

Then comes the fun part, in which Joan Crawford (as usual) rises from the ashes, pulling out all the stops to get even with David (and in the meantime convincing herself, again, that she’s never lost him). She sadistically teases him with passive aggressive remarks at dinner, manipulates Carol and Dean to believe her sick fantasy of David (and takes pleasure in telling him when he confronts her). Then you have it, the classic “gal with a gun” scene of all noir in which Louise shoots David with a smile on her face. So she goes into a state of catatonia straight afterwards, but boy she ended it with a “bang,” didn’t she?

Unlike the typical “Joan Crawford” film, we have a strong supporting cast that makes the film feel more like a collaborative effort (regardless of Joan being the obvious star and driving force of the picture). Van Heflin delivers his otherwise harmless lines with an acid tongue, making Dean a heartless, arrogant cad who thinks only of number one rather than what could have been simply a man simply trying to move on from a codependent woman. Playing the other straight man is Raymond Massey, giving his one-note character a sense of great kindness and understanding with a dash of being emotionally disturbed himself (Do we really ever feel confident about his murder alibi, whether or not it was true (which it likely is?). Playing the first of the Crawford Film’s “Veda” clones, Geraldine Brooks may have been Crawford’s own “safe” choice, but she gives a rotten, malicious performance in her opening scenes that may put Ann Blyth to shame. Her transition into a likeable daughter willing to start a friendship with Louise is completely believable, making David’s return all the more hard hitting to the viewer. Last but not least is Crawford, giving a first rate performance by being unafraid (in Crawford standards) to completely de-glamorize herself in order to make Louise’s psychosis believable and most menacing. This has been called camp, and in the right frame of mind it most definitely could be, but do not look at Crawford’s performance as camp in itself- that’s just the bulging eyes, rubber lips, and caterpillar eyebrows you see.

The Films of Joan Crawford

Film Freak Central Review [Alex Jackson]

Turner Classic Movies Stephanie Thames

digitallyOBSESSED.com (David Krauss)

DVD Verdict [Brett Cullum]

Classic Film Guide

filmcritic.com Christopher Null

The Onion A.V. Club [Donna Bowman] The Bette Davis and Joan Crawford Collections

Re-Vision: Essays in Feminist Criticism Re-Vision: Essays in Feminist Film Criticism, edited by Mary Ann Doane, Patricia Mellencamp and Linda Williams, reviewed by Ellen Seiter from Jump Cut

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

Berninger, Thomas

MISTAKEN FOR STRANGERS B 85

USA (75 mi) 2013

Don't make me read your mind
You should know me better than that
It takes me too much time
You should know me better than that
You're not that much like me
You should know me better than that
We have different enemies
You should know me better than that

I should leave it alone but you're not right
I should leave it alone but you're not right

Can't you write it on the wall?
You should know me better than that
There's no room to write it all
You should know me better than that
Can you turn the TV down?
You should know me better than that
There's too much crying in the sound
I should know you better than that

I should leave it alone but you're not right
I should leave it alone but you're not right
I should live in salt for leaving you behind
Behind

Think about something so much
You should know me better than that
Start to slide out of touch
You should know me better than that
Tell yourself it's all you know
You should know me better than that
Learn to appreciate the void
You should know me better than that

I should live in salt for leaving you behind
Behind
I should live in salt for leaving you behind
Behind
I should live in salt for leaving you behind
Behind

The National performing "I Should Live in Salt" Live on . YouTube (4:12), performing live in KCRW radio studios in Los Angeles, August 13, 2013

Heralded by Pitchfork as “the funniest, most meta music movie since SPINAL TAP (1984),” and Michael Moore as “one of the best documentaries about a band that I’ve ever seen,” it follows the success of last year’s award winning music documentary 2013 Top Ten List # 8 20 Feet from Stardom. While the audience for the most part is comprised of followers of the indie rock band The National, they might be disappointed that little performance footage is actually shown, yet the incredible twist is the boneheaded persona of the filmmaker himself, whose lack of focus and overall air of ineptitude becomes the dominant force of the film, where it takes a certain amount of guts to release a movie showing yourself in such an unflattering light. The director is eight years younger than his brother Matt, who is the songwriter and lead vocalist for The National, a band strangely enough comprised of two other sets of brothers, with Aaron (also keyboards) and Bryce Dessner playing guitars, while Scott and Bryan Devendorf play bass and drums respectively. Thomas has no connection to the band whatsoever, where we see him in his mid-thirties doodling around and still living with his parents in a beautiful upscale home in Cincinnati, receiving a call out of the blue from his brother, who he’s barely seen for the past twenty years, where perhaps the only contact is over holidays, but out of his aimless complacency he’s suddenly offered a job as a roadie for the band’s upcoming High Violet European Tour in 2010. While many would be thrilled at the offer and see it as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—not Thomas, who instead prefers metal bands. What the viewer quickly understands is that this movie is not so much about The National, or even Matt, as it’s all about Thomas, who is the real goofball centerpiece of his own film. While Thomas is offered minimal job requirements, he largely ignores his duties and instead decides to wander off and film whatever catches his eye while drinking and partying and leading the life of a hellraising rock band on the road. He’s actually disappointed to discover his brother is not in a metal band like Axl Rose and Guns N’ Roses, so his dreams are shattered. At one point, Thomas is seen commiserating with grunge-looking drummer Bryan, suggesting he seems more “metal” than the rest of the band who are so “coffeehouse,” where at least initially he intended to name the film For Those About to Weep, in reference to AC/DC’s For Those About to Rock.

Initially, Matt is comfortable with the constant presence of Thomas’s camera, “I wanted him to bring his camera to maybe make some videos or stuff for our website. He didn't even know he was gonna be making a feature film at that point.” So once the tour begins, the focus is on whatever the band needs, where Thomas is a behind-the-stage presence giving the band members 5-minutes notice, but there’s little interaction between the brothers, as Matt seems to be in his own little world when he comes offstage and doesn’t want to be bothered by the incessant camera pointed in his face from Thomas, where Matt’s wife is seen trying to explain the moodiness of a budding rock star who has certain anxieties, as he isn’t sure what to expect from this tour, explaining “He has to go to a place when he’s up there. That’s the job.” All of this seems to fly over the mental capacity of Thomas, where the first sign of trouble brooding is being called on the carpet by the band manager for ordering bottles of extra alcohol. From that point on, we never see Thomas without a drink in his hand, where he’s still living in Wayne's World (1989 – 2011) or the Cameron Crowe fever dream depicted in ALMOST FAMOUS (2000). But with this melancholic, low key band, there’s no drugs, no girls, no drinking, and no in-fighting, where it’s all just about the music, so Thomas takes it upon himself to become the alternate indie-band party animal, where he drinks too much, is brash and overly loud, where he often forgets what he is doing. Unfortunately, he gets in the way of what others are doing by continually pointing his camera at them, where one of the guys trying to set up the lights and the electricity literally tells him to go away. Thomas, however, is immune to the needs of others, and turns everything around to himself, continually peppering the members of the band with questions about his brother, wondering if he’s ever lost his temper, asking the guitar brothers which one can play the fastest, how many drugs have they done, whether they bring their wallets with them onstage, following them into the shower, or asking them to strike ridiculous poses for the camera, where despite their polite cooperation, for Thomas it’s all about doing whatever pops into his head while ignoring the menial tasks he was actually hired to do. Incredibly, he grows offended when the five members of the band take a photo shoot with President Obama and Thomas was excluded (as was everyone else), where in his mind he’s an integral part of the band. While we do see backstage footage of the band interspersed with a brief look at onstage performances, it’s surprising how few songs from the album are actually heard, where one of the hidden treasures that we are treated to is a healthy dose of The National - Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks - YouTube (4:12).

While it’s clear Thomas has a hard time living in the shadow of his older brother, spending much of the film harping to others about that, it’s as if he uses this opportunity in an attempt to perpetrate his own delusion of self-importance, which adds a darker element to the film, as he comes across more as a slacker or a buffoon, where the viewer is not laughing with him, but at him, where at some point (mostly afterwards) he realizes, “Most of the things I thought would be really funny was actually depressing, sad and awkward. And the stuff I wasn’t really happy with became the great stuff.” One wonders what John Lennon or Bruce Springsteen might have been like with a pain-in-the-ass brother like this? While staying at a plush Hollywood Hills hotel in Los Angeles, Matt points out what he believes to be Moby’s house at the top of the hill while Thomas is dog-paddling in an outdoor pool with an inflatable raft, immediately yelling out at the top of his lungs, “Hey Moby!” But the more he screws up, forgetting to bring water bottles and towels onstage for every band member before each show, the more Thomas starts griping and complaining at continually being told what to do, where he obviously resents his lowly status as a grunt, and sees instead himself more as a struggling artist, just like the band. But the tour is a huge success, greater than they could have imagined, but Thomas remains an embarrassing side show, where his brother calls him on it at one point, sharing a hotel room together, yet he leaves cereal and milk on the floor of the bathroom in the middle of the night, where he acts like a little kid saddled with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. He obviously drinks too much, something his brother calls “his allergy,” and can’t focus on what needs to be done, missing the tour bus at one point because he’s still hanging around in the bar, spiraling further out of control when he loses the guest list, causing comped celebrities like Werner Herzog to remain stranded outside waiting on the street, which eventually costs him his job, as he’s sent home for dereliction of duties. Back home, he commiserates with his parents, who remind him he’s the kid that never finished anything he started. Once the tour is over, Matt and his wife Carin Besser, who is credited as a co-editor and a former fiction editor at The New Yorker magazine, invite him to move in with them to finish editing his film, which has become a wall of post its pinned to the wall describing each shot. Ultimately, Thomas makes a decision that he’d rather make the movie about himself than the band, becoming an often hilarious, self-deprecating portrait of a lovable loser’s futile attempts to live up to his more-perfect-in-every-way brother, where there’s an interesting shot where Thomas goes into the studio and hears the band working on their most recent album, Trouble Will Find Me, which includes the song The National - I Should Live In Salt (Live at the ... - YouTube (4:00, performed in the Gibson Showroom in Austin, Texas). Throughout the film we hear Thomas continually rail on about his feelings of self-loathing, but in this four-minute song we hear Matt’s eloquent response to his younger brother, as he recognizes they’re not alike, but offers a sense of estrangement, where he feels guilty about having left him behind to pursue his musical career, while the film concludes, appropriately enough, still stuck in Thomas’s world, Oh Holy Night by Halford - YouTube (4:09).

MISTAKEN FOR STRANGERS Facets Multi Media

A film that entertainingly follows the personal journey of Tom Berninger (who doubles as the director and subject) as he goes on tour with his older brother, Matt Berninger, the lead singer of the Brooklyn-based band The National. What is it like to be on tour with this breakout indie rock band? How does it feel to live in the shadow of an older brother who has already realized your dreams of fame and artistic success? You are about to find out in this intimate and revealing documentary.

In 2010, after ten years and five albums, The National embarked on their biggest tour yet, and lead singer Matt Berninger invited his brother Tom along for the ride as a roadie. Tom, an aspiring horror filmmaker and heavy metal fan, decided to bring his camera along to record the experience. In the process he created not just a portrait of the band, but of two brothers at different points in their life. Follow this metal head as he is baffled by the indie rock world, experiences some wild nights on tour, and struggles with his ambivalent feelings about his brother's success.

Starting out with big ambitions and Matt's full support, it is not long before he jeopardizes his position by slacking off on the job, getting drunk, oversleeping and dropping the ball. What starts out as a music doc offers an earnest, behind-the-scenes look at Tom's endeavours and subsequent tumble from grace. As tensions boil between them, the film Tom meant to make falls apart, and what evolves is a touching, authentic, and delightfully wry portrait of two brothers who could not be more different. A must see for fans of The National, great music, or anyone who has ever had a complicated relationship with a sibling.

Review: The National Film Mistaken for Strangers ... - Pitchfor Jillian Mapes from Pitchfork

The opening film at this year's Tribeca Film Festival was, ostensibly, "that movie about the National". In actuality, the documentary, Mistaken for Strangers, isn't exactly focused on the National. The band serves more as a backdrop for what may be the funniest, most meta music movie since Spinal Tap. The true leading man is National frontman Matt Berninger's younger brother, Tom, the film’s director and subject.

Tom is a familiar character: a metalhead partier/slacker, who’s still living at home in Cincinnati and figuring things out. He’s not in awe of the National; at one point, he comments to drummer Bryan Devendorf that he seems “metal” while the other members of the band are so “coffeehouse.” Matt invites Tom to join the band’s High Violet tour as a roadie, where he gets this idea to film a documentary about the band while he’s traveling the world with them.

It’s easy to see how this will go. Tom becomes more and more invested in filming every waking hour instead of the menial tasks assigned to him. He eventually leaves the tour on not-great terms, the documentary half-baked. It's later completed once Matt and his wife invite Tom to move into their Brooklyn home and reside in their daughter’s playroom.

Matt, whose patience throughout is admirable, loses it at a few key moments, including one scene in which he questions why cereal and milk have been spilled on the floor of a hotel bathroom. He’s serious, but it’s the stuff of buddy comedies, something characters in a Judd Apatow movie would bicker over. Scenes like this one could not have been written to be more comedic. But it doesn’t feel like Tom is playing a role, despite the fact that he’s exactly what one would expect of a rock star’s brother living in his shadow.

Mistaken for Strangers flips the narrative of the National, a band considered underdogs for years during their slow build toward success with each subsequent album. In this film, Matt is framed as the Golden Boy. From Tom’s perspective, Matt has always been his cool older brother, the type of guy who’s good at everything he tries.

Seeing the film in the context of Tribeca’s opening night, it’s as though the plotline is still in motion. This is an underdog story, so to witness Tom Berninger being introduced by Robert DeNiro at a big, famous film festival is a happy ending.

The film does not wallow in the typical brand of rock-doc inner-band turmoil. There’s not as much footage of the National in the studio recording upcoming album Trouble Will Find Me as fans might want, but there is insight into how this band functions.

At one point, one of the Dessner brothers describes Matt’s role in the band as being more demanding than the others– the weight of entertaining vs. simply performing is on him every night. Matt is, no doubt, a frontman who’s enjoyable to watch, not just to hear, but his off-stage presence is much more low-key. He’s portrayed as a generally likeable guy, as are the Dessner and Devendorf brothers, who play along amicably with Tom’s disorganized interviews that all eventually devolve into a conversation about his brother.

Those who don’t understand the moving parts that accompany a year-long international tour may find the perspective of the movie insightful, but they’re just as likely to learn about the documentary filmmaking process as they are about the music business. At its core, Mistaken for Strangers is a documentary about making a documentary, and second to that, a deeply relatable film exploring sibling dynamics.

Benefits of a Classical Education [Alex Thompson]

I feel like I should start this review off with a disclaimer. The National is probably my favorite band still playing music and their second most recent album, High Violet, placed at number three on my top albums list. So yeah, I was probably already in the bag for this rock doc about their tour playing that album. But rock docs usually aren’t my thing, so it would take a special twist on the old formula for me to really get behind it.Luckily for me, that twist is right there from the beginning. This isn’t just a concert film, it’s a soul-searching movie about growing up in the shadow of a rock star, and about the creative struggles of a guy who’s down more than he’s not. It’s a movie about making itself, and it’s a triumph of the genre.

The National is a band of brothers, as the five main members are comprised of a duo of brother guitarists and a bassist and drummer who just happen to be twins. That leaves singer Matt Berninger as the only guy without a brother in the band. He does have a brother, though, Tom, who seems to have taken up being a younger brother as a full time job. Tom is not a fan of The National, he prefers the metal end of the spectrum and derides the band’s music as coffee house rock. That doesn’t stop him from joining the band on their European tour as a roadie who spends his free time making a documentary about the tour. Early on he tries to get all of the things we expect to be in a tour doc into the film: one on one interviews with all the band members and behind the scenes squabbles, though these are both filtered through his singular lens. See, Tom is a bit focused on his own relationship with his older brother, and the ways that Matt’s fame has twisted their already kind of distant relationship. Most of those interviews with the band members become a kind of therapy session as Tom either asks about times when Matt has been a jerk to them or questions why there isn’t as much crazy drug-fueled parties happening. It seems like Tom forgot which band he was following.

He’s also not a very good roadie, and the film chronicles his misadventures as he loses guests lists and forgets to get water bottles and towels together for the band before a show. This puts his relationship with his brother on even rockier ground. There’s not a whole lot of good times captured on record here as the film dispels the myth of the rock tour with the truth of overwhelming logistics and stress. Tom is unafraid to show us exactly how much he screws up and when he is fired once the group gets to New York it is not so much a surprise as it is inevitable. He’s not cut out to do this kind of thing and his first stop is to return to his parents house and ask them on camera what the difference is between him and his famous brother. He’s trying to figure himself out by contrasting himself against his wildly successful brother. Nobody is going to stand up to that kind of self-scrutiny. As Tom spirals further and further into himself we see him starting to edit the footage he captured throughout the tour. Here is where you’ll either lose patience with the film or get even more engrossed in his struggles with depression and creative consternation. Matt and his wife (who is also credited as an editor on the film) put Tom up in their daughter’s playroom to give him enough space physically and emotionally so he can create the film he needs to create. There are further struggles as Tom realizes exactly what the movie has to be about, and when he changes the post-it notes that serve as an outline of the film from a sprawl of multi-colored near-randomness into on straight line of red notes detailing all of his screw ups we begin to understand exactly how and why this movie is what it is. The film a fantastic work of self-realization which ends with the most euphoric credit card I’ve ever seen. It’s a powerful statement that signals a new phase in this man’s life and is inspiring to anybody who has ever had a creative bone in their body.

A final note on the the music, which, if this were a typical rock doc, would probably take up the majority of the review. The film saves it’s biggest music scene for last, a performance of “Terrible Love” in which Tom is serving a new role in the crew of the band and Matt goes out into the crowd and eventually into the lobby to use its echos as amplifiers of the line, “It takes an ocean not to break.” We’ve seen the ocean at this point in the film, and Tom has not been broken. The National provides the perfect backing to this kind of self-examination as their songs are full of people in similar situations to Tom, trying to find their way in a world that feels indifferent to them. There’s another part in the film where Tom goes into the studio with the band and hears them working on a song from their most recent album, Trouble Will Find Me. It’s a song about the relationship between Tom and Matt called “I Should Live in Salt” which has lines like “Don’t make me read your mind/You should know me better than that” and it’s chorus “I should leave it alone but you’re not right”. Throughout the film we get Tom’s point of view on their brotherly relationship, or lack thereof. In the song we see Matt’s side, his recognition that they aren’t alike and his guilt over leaving Tom behind as he pursued his rock and roll career. It’s the film in four minutes and from the other point of view, and is must listen material for any fan of the movie.

Rolling Stone David Fear

In Review Online [Carson Lund]

Film Threat  Elias Savada

Nonfics [Christopher Campbell]

Review: The National Documentary 'Mistaken For Strangers ... Gabe Toro from The Playlist

The Nationals Matt Berninger on Mistaken for Strangers ... Katie Hasty from Hit Fix

Paste Magazine Tim Grierson

The Dissolve Keith Phipps

Slant Magazine [Kenji Fujishima]

And So it Begins... [Alex Withrow]

IONCINEMA.com [Jordan M. Smith]

Screen International Mark Adams

Next Projection Asher Gelzer-Govatos

Spectrum Culture [David Harris]

Film-Forward.com [Paul Weissman]

Cinemablographer [Pat Mullen]

SBS Film [Ed Gibbs]

Little White Lies [Adam Woodward]

In Mistaken for Strangers, a Familial Hanger-On Makes a ... Simon Abrams from The Village Voice

Mistaken For Strangers Movie Review : Shockya.com Brent Simon

Digital Spy [Adam Silverstein]

Big Thoughts from a Small Mind [Courtney Small]

The Digital Fix [Nick Chen]

Dork Shelf [Andrew Parker]

ArtsHub [Sarah Ward]

Georgia Straight [Ken Eisner]

Film-Forward.com [Nora Lee Mandel]

Sound On Sight Pam Fillion

Wall Street Journal interview Robin Kawakami interview with the two brothers, March 18, 2014

Huffington Post interview   Michael Hogan interview with the two brothers, April 26, 2013

Hollywood Reporter Jordan Zakarin

'Mistaken for Strangers' movie review - The Washington Post Ann Hornaday

Review: 'Mistaken for Strangers' is a National tour of sibling issues Sheri Linden from The LA Times

'Mistaken for Strangers': Matt, Tom Berninger on the not-National doc Chris Barton from The LA Times

RogerEbert.com  Susan Wloszczyna

New York Times  Jeannette Catsoulis

Berry, Richard

MOI, CÉSAR C+ 78

France (91 mi) 2003

Charming formula-by-the-numbers French film, so if you’re into precocious children with clueless parents, swaying accordion music, and flying colored balloons, then this is for you. Oddly enough, though this is a story about children, this film is not “for” children, but is made for adults, as the kids use plenty of off-color remarks and profanity. Despite the presence of film stalwarts like Maria de Medeiros and Ana Karina, who really make only brief, but colorful appearances, this entire film features the voice-over narration of a ten-year old child, César, who’s bright and imaginative, eats too many sweets, with a story that resembles Harry Potter without the magic fantasy. Starting with the age-old dilemmas of how to fit in at school, how to deal with your first school crush, and how to get along with your parents, this film frees the kids from their parents and leads them on a wild goose chase, life-on-the-run adventure story that is sure to delight many. I found it overly cute for my tastes, and while it’s fast paced and obviously well-made, it does have some interesting touches, among them a memorable fart sketch, a dream sequence that resembles a video game, and the use of the Van Morrison songs “Baby Please Don’t Go” and “Gloria.” While enjoyable and fun-spirited, supposedly with a wonderful commercial run in Europe, it just never rises above fairly typical, light-hearted French comedy.

Bertino, Bryan

THE STRANGERS B 88

USA (90 mi) 2008 ‘Scope The Strangers - official site

For the sheer pleasure of making a movie that’s designed to make an audience squirm, first time writer and director Bertino shows that he’s closely attuned to the latest shock genre techniques, especially the dreaded home invasion at the house out in the country. Using a master electronic sound design by Tomandandy that could easily have been written by John Carpenter, including the HALLOWEEN (1978) effect of a man wearing a white bag over his head, who appears slightly out of focus in the corner of the frame disrupting an otherwise safe and gentile setting, blood splatter on the walls reminiscent of Michael Haneke, relentless comparative images of guns, knives, a fireplace poker, or an ax initially seen at rest, harmless, non-threatening, purely utilitarian before they are transformed into instruments of menace, and excessive torment in the form of loud knocks at the door, which range from Shakespeare’s Macbeth to the recent VACANCY (2007). While the home in this genre is always associated with comfort and safety, a place of refuge when deluged by a threatening storm, the participants in this film surprisingly move in and out of the home at will, freely allowing others to do the same, basically eliminating any sense of a safety zone, actually making it much easier for the otherwise near invisible home invaders who love to terrorize by sound and remain mostly unseen, moving about like ghosts in the night.

Told entirely in flashback after a very brief opening, Liv Tyler and Scott Speedman are obviously slightly tipsy and extremely happy to see one another when they meet at a wedding, eventually heading for a planned late night romantic excursion to an isolated home in the country, but on the drive there, showing a montage of still shots of immense homes seen along the way, they are worlds apart by the time they get there, barely able to speak to one another, where Speedman especially appears hurt by her apparent rejection of marriage. He insists she keep the ring that she is reluctant to wear, wondering how he can crawl home with his tail between his legs at the earliest possible moment, calling a friend to come pick him up. Deciding he needs a break from the silence, he leaves her alone and heads out for cigarettes. While he’s gone, she puts the ring on purely out of curiosity, but then can’t get it off. Trouble ensues. Her cell phone is on the fritz and needs recharging, a problem when loud knocks are heard at the door, where she feels cornered by outside threats, seeing things that shouldn’t be there, including a man wearing a sack over his head, thinking someone may already be inside the apartment as her cell phone is noticeably missing, while strange sounds wreak havoc on her already fragile, easily exacerbated fears. Interesting things are done with a phonograph player that at times appears to have a mind of its own, where songs amusingly reveal an interior psychological state of mind, including a strange ability to mysteriously turn itself on and off, skipping repeatedly as an expression of its most obnoxious aggravation.

Shot in ‘Scope with repeated shots of the calm exterior of the house, where no one would suspect a thing is out of place, inside Tyler is reduced to playing continual, non-stop hysteria, while Speedman returns only to doubt Tyler’s version of events, before he too gets enveloped in a perpetual theme of gloom and helplessness. While the film is very good at what it does, which essentially retreads a classical terror formula, upping the ante a bit with sheer mood and a developing atmosphere of unending dread in this picture, but the Achilles heel is how so little of it is believable, how it starts to feel silly after awhile. The film is terrific up to the point that she puts the ring on, as an eerie, mysterious mood is exquisitely set up with very little explanation, just a mood that’s obviously not right where there are long unanswerable silences. The behavior of the invading strangers is never less than creepy all the way to the end, nearly entirely non-verbal, where they are continually visualized as a demonic presence that exists largely in the imagination, as at least initially they continually keep their distance even when the opportunity presents itself to pounce on their victims. But Speedman and Tyler both make ill-advised mad dashes outdoors into the heart of where they know the enemy is lurking, for who knows what purpose, as no good can come of it, reducing the possibilities to a fairly predictable outcome. There’s not much to this other than the delight of sitting through it, a good choice at any creepfest.

The Strangers JR Jones from the Reader

Young lovers Liv Tyler and Scott Speedman, arriving at his parents' remote summer home after a wedding, are terrorized in the wee hours by three masked assailants whose motives are never explained. Making his debut as writer-director, Bryan Bertino exploits all the old horror standbys--the phony based-on-a-true-story preface, the knock on the door in the dead of night, the eerily skipping record on the turntable, the malevolent figure glimpsed in soft focus over the heroine's shoulder. There's nothing remotely new here, but the movie has the taut, queasy feel of an early 70s drive-in shocker: old-fashioned suspense without any guarantee of old-fashioned mercy. R, 90 min.

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson)

Bryan Bertino's directorial debut represents a conundrum. It's an outstanding example of the horror/suspense genre, made with a refreshing approach. But it contains elements so creaky and pathetic you want to scream. It's like a yummy sandwich made with curdled mayonnaise. The first mistake is an ominous, yet useless "based on a true story" title card, which suggests elements of real life in a film that quickly steers away from them. Scott Speedman (Weirdsville) stars as James, who, after a friend's wedding, returns to a remote cabin with his girlfriend Kristen (Liv Tyler). By piecing together flashbacks and snippets of their clipped, tense conversation, we can infer that James proposed to Kristen and she refused. They settle in for an awkward night (the house is full of champagne and rose petals), when a knock comes at the door. A strange girl asks for someone who isn't there, acts oddly and leaves. James goes out for cigarettes. The girl returns and knocks again, asking the same question. More strangers appear, lurking around the house and wearing odd, expressionless masks. Things get creepier and creepier. In some scenes, director Bertino plays with astonishing compositions, as when Kristen putters nervously around the kitchen while an out-of-focus ghoul watches her from the background; he holds the shot for an amazingly long time, and the payoff is not what you'd expect (it leaves you even tenser rather than providing a release). Bertino makes do with a minimum of dialogue as well as exciting use of sound and editing. A record player provides eerily off-kilter tunes (most of them by tomandandy) and a turntable skip adds unbearable tension to one scene. But the behavior of the characters is thirty years old, straight out of Halloween (1978) and its many knock-offs. The killers apparently have supernatural powers that allow them to remain one jump ahead of their victims, making them rather less interesting. And the victims fail to take even the most basic, logical steps to protect themselves. It's what my friend Rob Blackwelder calls the "why didn't they just..." syndrome, as in "why didn't they just lock the door?" In a way, it's like Michael Haneke's remake of Funny Games, but without the sneering contempt for the audience's interest. However, Bertino presumably didn't care enough to create characters that would match the heights of his style.

Mike D'Angelo

At a time when horror movies from around the world desperately strive to say something Relevant about rapacious capitalism or banlieue violence or Abu Ghraib or whatever, Bertino’s impressive debut, The Strangers, evinces an old-school single-mindedness that’s quite refreshing: This movie’s sole purpose and function is to scare the living shit out of you. What’s more, Bertino, like John Carpenter before him, understands that while the occasional sudden shock can be effective, nothing on Earth is as creepy as a silent, motionless, impassive threat.

He’s got economy down, too. Even before the brief but unnecessary explanatory flashback, it’s abundantly clear that James (Speedman) has just proposed marriage to his girlfriend, Kristen (Tyler), and that she has very reluctantly declined. Once the unhappy couple arrives at the isolated country house that James has previously strewn with rose petals, however, they barely have time to dry their tears and begin renegotiating their relationship status before they’re besieged by a trio of motiveless killers decked out in nightmare masks. These spooky ciphers wield axes and knives, but it’s mostly the implacable, almost voyeuristic way that they stalk their prey that’ll have you denting the theater’s armrests. Imagine how Halloween might play if Michael Myers had a wife and teenage daughter as accomplices.

For a first-time filmmaker, Bertino demonstrates an intuitive grasp of composition and its potentially destructive effect on the viewer’s central nervous system. After about 20 minutes of unresolved tension, you’re already so conditioned that it’s nearly impossible to pay any attention whatsoever to the ostensible focus of a given shot. (As a bonus, this means you spend less time watching Speedman perform the overemphatic emotional cues that he mistakes for acting—it’s almost physically painful watching him go get the mail “as an angry, wounded guy would do it.”) Instead, your eyes dart nervously to and fro without respite, seeking out barely perceptible background motion and malevolent shapes in dark corners. Bertino, who also wrote the script, has no endgame in mind—the finale, while disquietingly bleak, feels like a failure of imagination—but it almost doesn’t matter. You’ll be too grateful when the bogeymen finally pounce.

Austin Chronicle [Marjorie Baumgarten]

First-time writer/director Bertino scares up a solid genre success with this debut outing. The Strangers covers familiar horror turf with its story about an inexplicable home invasion in the middle of the night, in which masked human ghoulies torment the baffled young lovers who reside within. There’s little that distinguishes this movie’s basic plot from scores of other fright films over the decades, but The Strangers is more effective than most because of Bertino’s deft manipulation of the storyteller’s tools. University of Texas filmmaking alum Bertino creates a palpable sense of fear through the shrewd use of sound, imagery, and performance – often using the bare essence or absence of these rudiments to scare up some truly visceral viewer responses. The Strangers' images are bereft of the virtuoso visuals, bloody effects shots, and pure "torture porn" of the Saw franchise, and the crux of the film has none of the moral engineering of Michael Haneke's Funny Games movies. Instead, Bertino creates untold frights with things like the offscreen sounds of running, clanking, dragging, and slammed doors – sounds detached from their source. A smoke alarm going off or a phonograph starting up in another room is enough to alert the protagonists that they are not alone. Kristen McKay (Tyler) and James Hoyt (Speedman) are a young couple spending the night in Hoyt's vacation home in a remote country area. The drama builds slowly as the two arrive rather wordlessly, conveying relationship trouble that does not jibe at all with the romantically rose-petal-strewn and candlelit house. A sudden, middle-of-the-night knock on the door is weird but not upsetting. But soon, as the interruptions continue, the masked tormentors begin to make their presence felt. The utter creepiness of two people in China-doll masks and another with a gunny sack over his head cannot be underestimated. Add in kitchen knives, rifles, and other objects of mayhem and the horror turns full-blown in the blink of an eye. Tyler (who turns out to be a darn good scream queen) is not a buff mama like Jodie Foster in Panic Room or an effete dowager like Olivia de Havilland in Lady in a Cage. Her Kristen is simply a beautiful young woman who tries to cope with and make sense of this random occurrence. "Why are they doing this?" she frequently wails. "Because you were home," comes the eventual answer. Younger viewers who've cut their teeth on the instant horrors of modern "torture porn" may find The Strangers' pace and psychological upsets more slow-going than they might like. Yet a film like this may be just the bracing corrective the modern horror film needs.

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

A bit like Funny Games without the scolding, the minimalist home-invasion thriller The Strangers doesn't take many words to describe: isolated vacation home. Masked tormenters. Helpless couple. And yet it's precisely the film's spare, disciplined, back-to-basics horror effects that lend it a sustaining chill; if the audience knew any more about who "the strangers" are and why they've chosen this house, this couple, and this night to do their worst, then a lot of the tension would dissipate. Making a frighteningly assured debut, writer-director Bryan Bertino understands the fundamentals thoroughly, and he has the patience to hold back and keep the tension hanging where a lesser director might have gone for the cheap shock. Many of the film's shots and scenes go on several beats longer than expected, just to stoke a near-unbearable feeling of anticipation and dread. As a filmmaker, at least, Bertino seems to have more in common with the perpetrators than the victims.

It doesn't get much better than the first couple of reels, which set an ominous mood without having to get too explicit. Returning late from a wedding, Liv Tyler and Scott Speedman pull into his family lake house for what was supposed to be a romantic night, but she's just turned down his marriage proposal. Their tenuous relationship heightens their vulnerability later when a strange girl pounds on the door at 4 a.m., asking for someone who doesn't live there. Slowly and steadily, the situation escalates: a few more knocks on the door, some disturbances from inside, and finally, the appearance of masked figures emerging from the shadows.

At no point is there a sense that the victims have any control over their fate, nor can they even comprehend what's happening to them, much less negotiate with their attackers. The Strangers could be labeled "torture porn," because there's really nothing to it beyond watching ants squirm under the magnifying glass. The difference is that it's mostly psychological torture porn, and the biggest dive-under-your-chair moments come from how skillfully Bertino handles his sadistic cat-and-mouse game. Bertino makes particularly brilliant use of the widescreen frame, slipping the tormenters in and out of view, preying mercilessly on his heroes' vulnerability—and ours. It isn't particularly original—for one, it owes an unacknowledged debt to the French film Them—but as an exercise in controlled mayhem, horror movies don't get much scarier.

Best-Horror-Movies.com [Horror Queen]

The Strangers first time writer-director Bryan Bertino captures the viewer from the onset and doesn’t let go until the bitter end. The performances of leading actors Scott Speedman and the captivating Liv Tyler are flawless.

The stage for The Strangers is set with a 911 call and caption describing a young couple leaving a wedding reception and retreating to a family vacation home in the woods where “the events that took place… are still not entirely known.” Clearly this is not going to end well. And let’s face it, there’s an added element of horror to a film “inspired by true events.” Creepy. Even if we don’t know the full story yet. Creepy.

Enter the not-so-happy couple, James and Kristen. His proposal of marriage to her that night apparently did not turn out as planned – he was dumped. How embarrassing since he took the time to spread rose petals all over the house and had champagne chilling. With their sudden dismal mood, one would think that would be the worst thing that could happen to the couple that night. Not so much.

As a depressed James heads out to buy cigarettes, Kristen is left alone in the house and this is when the fun begins. By fun I mean the strange appearance of different masked and hooded figures (think the Spanish film The Orphanage) knocking on doors and moving around unseen inside the house with Kristen. Just as the house phone goes dead and Kristen reaches her fear threshold, James comes home only to tell her she is imagining things, including the disappearance of her cell phone and sound of a young girl’s voice at the door. We begin to understand Kristen’s decline of the marriage proposal. But no matter. James quickly realizes there actually are people after them as he meets them trying to retrieve his own cell phone from the car (it’s gone of course – the cell phone, not the car). Now unable to call for help, James goes back in the house, finds a rifle and holes up in a closet with Kristen. Not exactly an aggressive move, given the fact that the masked people don’t appear to have guns, but no matter.

Enter Mike, James’ friend to the rescue (James had called him earlier to commiserate over the break up and ask him to pick him up). In an unfortunate mishap James shoots the friend. Oops. He looked like he could have been a killer in a hood. After a lame attempt to blame Kristen for the accident (even more we understand her decline of the marriage proposal) the two try and escape. Sort of. Actually James tries to escape with the gun and tells Kristen to wait at the house. Would that be the house with potential killers in it? Yes that’s the one. We now fully understand her decline of the marriage proposal.

Running through The Strangers are striking audio visual elements - old music skipping on a scratchy phonograph, swings swaying on an empty swing set, and the occasional tinkling of piano keys by the masked people – truly eerie stuff. Add to that deliberate silence, and appearing and disappearing figures that are at once innocent and frightening. It’s these elements of suspense that are The Strangers’ greatest strength, along with the character development of James and Kristen. What are its weaknesses? Well, as in many home-invasion thrillers, one wonders why the couple doesn’t just make a run for it out the back door and not look back. Right?

After a long night of psychological tension without reprieve, James and Kristen are finally overtaken by the strangers and tied up in chairs before the masked trio. When asked by a sobbing Kristen “why are you doing this to us?” the young girl replies “because you were home.” What did we expect? “We are doing this because we all come from broken homes with violent, addictive parents.” Nope, it was just because they were home. Nothing like existentialist killers.

Confessions of a Pop Fan [Jamie S. Rich]

BeyondHollywood.com - Movie Review Bodhi Grrl

Vancouver Voice [D. K. Holm]

Slant Magazine [Nick Schager]

Erik Childress (eFilmCritic.com)

horrormovies.ca [Serena Whitney]

Fangoria.com Don Kaye

Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick)

Cinemattraction.com [Maggie Glass]

ReelViews (James Berardinelli)

PopMatters [Cynthia Fuchs]

eFilmCritic Reviews Rob Gonsalves

Twitch (Peter Martin)

Screen International Brent Simon

The Horror Review [Horror Bob]

The Village Voice [Ed Gonzalez]

The New York Sun (Nicolas Rapold)

Reel.com [Brian Chen] also seen here: Filmcritic.com

FlickFilosopher.com [MaryAnn Johanson]

Black Sheep Reviews [Joseph Belanger]

Austin Chronicle [Marjorie Baumgarten]

Chicago Tribune (Jessica Reaves) also seen here: Los Angeles Times [Jessica Reaves]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

New York Times (registration req'd) Jeannette Catsoulis

Bertolucci, Bernardo

Bernardo Bertolucci Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Born in Parma in 1940, and a successful and award-winning poet while still a youth, Bernardo Bertolucci started his career in the cinema as an assistant to Pasolini. He began directing his own films in the early 1960s Before the Revolution(1964), his second feature, bears the considerable influence of Godard and the French nouvelle vague, and established Bertolucci as one of the Italian cinema's most significant new filmmakers. Visually, intellectually and psychologically complex, and revealing Bertolucci's predilection for Freud, Marx, and Verdi, Before the Revolution staked out the key preoccupations and concerns that would continue to characterize Bertolucci's work: the link between politics and sexuality; the competing impulses of conformism and revolution; the Oedipal dynamics of father-son relationships.

The early and auspicious "Italian period" of Bertolucci's career culminates in 1970 with The Spider's Stratagem and The Conformist, both visually luxuriant and thematically daring works; many consider the latter to be the director's masterpiece. Thereafter, Bertolucci consciously sought to bring the intellectual and aesthetic concerns of his art house cinema to a much broader audience. Last Tango in Paris (1972), 1900 (1976), and Luna (1979) found the director shooting in English with American stars and American money, and enjoying the benefits of large-scale commercial distribution. In the opinion of most serious critics, he managed this transition to Hollywood-scale filmmaking with his artistic integrity largely intact and uncompromised. After a brief return to more resolutely Italian filmmaking with The Tragedy of a Ridiculous Man (1981), Bertolucci reached the apotheosis of mainstream success with The Last Emperor (1987), a big-budget blockbuster that won nine Academy Awards, including Best Picture and Best Director. The film assured Bertolucci's continuing status as a towering force in the international cinema. Its big-budget follow-ups, The Sheltering Sky (1990) and Little Buddha (1993), were similarly exotic treatments of non-Western cultures, and completed what Bertolucci called his Eastern trilogy. Stealing Beauty (1996) and Besieged (1998) found Bertolucci working in Italy again, albeit with English-speaking stars, and seemed to mark a return to the more intimate mode of his early, pre-epic period. Last Tango, 1900, and Luna were controversial, ambitious, and decidedly of a piece with rest of the Bertolucci oeuvre; if not all met with equal admiration and acclaim, none could be accused of pandering to safe commercial considerations.

This exhibition traces Bertolucci's career over four decades, and includes new 35mm prints of several of his films. The series is also a testament to the supreme artistry of master cinematographer Vittorio Storaro, who shot all but one of the director's films from The Spider's Stratagem to Little Buddha, and whose contribution to the always-lavish visual design of Bertolucci's cinema has been paramount.

Bertolucci, Bernardo World Cinema

One of the most accomplished directors of the contemporary Italian cinema. The son of poet and film critic Attilio Bertolucci, he began writing poetry as a child, and his work was published in periodicals before he was 12. Eight years later, while still a student at Rome University, he won a national poetry prize for his volume In Search of Mystery. While still in his teens he had developed a passion for the cinema and made several amateur 16mm films. In 1961 he dropped out of college to become Pasolini's assistant director on Accatone!, and the following year, barely 22, he directed his first film, The Grim Reaper, a sombre affair that was a commercial disaster and made little impact on critics. He then spent two years preparing his second, Before the Revolution, a remarkably mature and intensely romantic exploration of turbulent youth. Despite stylistic flaws and Godard-like excesses, the film was widely hailed by critics in Europe and the USA, and it earned him the Max Ophüls Prize in France.

But the true milestone year in Bertolucci's career was 1970, when he turned out two outstanding films, the visually lovely The Spider's Stratagem, originally made for Italian TV, and a richly poetic, stunningly elegant, intricate, ambivalent, and completely personal adaptation of Alberto Moravia's novel The Conformist. Bertolucci, who believes that "cinema is the true poetic language," had applied his celluloid poesy mostly to political-human themes, but with Last Tango in Paris (1972) he moved into the realm of the purely human. The highly controversial film, which was condemned in the Italian courts as "obscene, indecent, and catering to the lowest instincts of the libido," became a world-wide box-office hit on the strength of its explicit sexuality and the presence of Marlon Brando in the leading role. It established Bertolucci as a commercially viable director as well as a highly gifted one. His next film, 1900 (1976), an epic covering 70 years of life and social conflict in the Emilia region of Italy, caused controversy not only because of its explicit sexuality and graphic violence but also because of its unusual length. The original cut, screened at the Cannes Festival, ran five and a half hours. After a heated dispute between the director and the film's producer, Alberto Grimaldi, it was considerably pared down. The next peak in Bertolucci's career was The Last Emperor (1987), a majestic epic that recreated, through dazzling colour cinematography and with exquisite sets and costumes, the glory and doom of the final chapter in the history of China's royalty. The film won nine Academy Awards, including best picture, best director, and best adapted screenplay. — Ephraim Katz, The Film Encylopedia

Bertolucci Core biography, filmography and synopses of several of the director's films

All-Movie Guide bio by Rebecca Flint Marx

TCMDB extended bio by Turner Classic Movies

Film Reference comprehensive profile by Robert Burgoyne

Bernardo Bertolucci Bilge Ebiri from Senses of Cinema

Bernardo Bertolucci Golden Lion for the 75th anniversary ... extensive bio information from Carnival of Venice

Baseline Biography

Bernardo Bertolucci, Film Director - Biography & Achievements bio from Ultimate Italy

:: View topic - Bernardo Bertolucci Filmmaker page from Criterion Forum

The Visual Style of Bertolucci by Alex Wei from Bertolucci Core

The Cinema Ornate: The Films of Bertolucci by Keith Breese from Bertolucci Core

Bertolucci's Visual Aesthetic by Brian Fitzgerald from Bertolucci Core

Bertolucci's Gay Images Leaving the Dance, by Will Aitken from Jump Cut, 1976

Visconti Revisited Take 2: Luchino Visconti by Geoffrey Nowell ... Benjamin Halligan from Senses of Cinema, June 2003 (brief reference)

The filth and the fury - Telegraph The Filth and the Fury, by Sabine Durrant, February 2, 2004

Bright Lights Film Journal Article (2006) What the Sound is Saying, by Leslie Chow, February 2006

Close-Up Film Retrospective A Matter of Life and Death? Bernardo Bertolucci and Filmmaking by Kerry McLeod (2007)

Just like starting over Tony Rayns from Senses of Cinema, May 2011

Bertolucci, Bernardo They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

1989 BBC Interview Face to Face: Bernardo Bertolucci, by Jeremy Isaacs, September 1989

An Additional Lens Bernardo Bertolucci in conversation with Andrea Sabbadini, May 1997

How to Kill Your Father... The Observer interviews the director October 21, 2001 about his films and his Oedipus complex

BBC - Radio 3 - Bernardo Bertolucci Interview John Tusa interview (2002)

BFI | Features | NFT Interviews | Bernardo Bertolucci conversation with David Thomson and Gilbert Adair from BFI Screen Online November 10, 2003

Guardian Article (2008) 'Films are a way to kill my father,' interview and new insight on The Conformist by Stuart Jeffries, February 22, 2008

The religion of director Bernardo Bertolucci

501 Movie Directors: A Comprehensive Guide to the Greatest Filmmakers

Bernardo Bertolucci’s top ten films 2002 Sight & Sound Poll

Bernardo Bertolucci - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

THE GRIM REAPER (LA COMMARE SECCA)

Italy (93 mi) 1962

Time Out

Bertolucci's first feature, a whodunit about a whore's murder, offers more than filmographic interest. The joint passages of time and adolescence are realised in its combination of febrile sexual alertness and the elaborate reconstruction of each defendant's day, always returning to the doomed woman dressing while the same rainstorm rages. Also intriguing are the portraits of the gormless young soldier on leave, accosting literally every female he meets; the ageing prostitute; and the gay witness to the crime.

filmcritic.com (Christopher Null)

Kurosawa doesn't have a monopoly on the story told from different perspectives -- Bernardo Bertolucci, of all people, made one too. In fact, La Commare Secca was his first film.

Secca is awfully rough around the edges, and viewers more accustomed to polished work like Last Tango in Paris and The Dreamers are going to have a tough time reconciling it with Bertolucci's early attempt here.

The story starts with a dead Italian prostitute. How she got that way is up for debate, as a series of characters narrates what he saw, and we witness it all in flashback. Eventually the truth (or an approximation of it) is revealed as the killer comes to light.

But while Italian cinema is historically full of passion, Secca is strangely lacking, despite its salacious premise. The prostitute (when seen alive) is hateful to the point where we root for someone to kill her. The men seem to be cardboard cut-outs with minimal emotion. Even the eventual murderer comes across as a soulless goon.

For Bertolucci fanatics, Secca will probably hold some appeal in showing off the early work of the filmmaker. (And, as it was co-written by mentor Pier Paolo Pasolini, it also indicates how a life of priviledge can ease you into the profession of movie director.) The rest of the world will do just as well skipping ahead to some of his more fully-realized work.

The Grim Reaper by Dan Bradbury

The Grim Reaper was filmed on location in Rome in 1961 by Bernardo Bertolucci, who was only twenty-one years old at the time. The screenplay for the black and white picture was based on a story written by Bertolucci's mentor, Pier Paolo Pasolini. Like Pasolini, Bertolucci adopts the Italian neo-realist style as a base for his exploration of cinematic form. In The Grim Reaper Bertolucci uses the boys of the Roman subproletariat, whom he called "the children of life," to paint a picture of Rome. This characterization is also akin to Pasolini's early films, Accattone and Mamma Roma, both of which dealt with the struggles of the underclass in Rome.

The Grim Reaper is Bertolucci's first feature length film and it opens with a long tracking shot which comes to rest on the image of a dead woman laying in the grass next to a bridge. The rest of the film is spent piecing together the events that lead up to the murder. Like Kurosawa's Rashomon, the story is founded on the investigation of a murder and is broken into successive narrative blocks which establish a non-linear plot similar to Bertolucci's later film The Conformist. Through police interrogations, the audience is introduced to five characters who crossed paths with the woman on the evening of the murder. As they tell their respective stories to the police, most of which are lies, we see what actually occurred through a series of flashbacks. There is a rain storm during the afternoon of the murder which is seen in each of the characters stories. During each rain sequence Bertolucci cuts away from the suspects stories to show the woman, a prostitute, in her home preparing for her night's work. It is the eerie, premonitory rain sequences which fix the element of time in this non-linear narrative.

In The Grim Reaper, Bertolucci makes an artistic switch to a more modernistic form of cinema. Using techniques such as montage, deep focus, shadowing, long shots and camera movement, Bertolucci attempts to make his films beautiful, not solely a vehicle for deeper interpretation as was Pasolini's style. Much like Godard, Bertolucci preferred rapid cutting, which was seen as an attack upon classical cinematic form. As Bertolucci's first feature film, The Grim Reaper shows little originality, having taken elements from Kurosawa, Godard, Pasolini and the Italian neorealists. Despite its failure at the box office, the film did bring Bertolucci recognition as a promising young director.

Turner Classic Movies Nathaniel Thompson

In a ravine near the Tiber River, the body of a young prostitute is discovered following a rainstorm. While investigating, the police call in a number of suspects from the area during the previous night - male and female, thieves and respected citizens, young and old. One by one they explain their whereabouts for the previous hours, but the truth proves far harder to pin down as various lies and misperceptions entangle until the real culprit is eventually revealed.

Using a theatrical framing device of suspects speaking under a spotlight and interrogated by an unseen police officer, La Commare Secca (shown in English territories as The Grim Reaper) utilizes a delightful arsenal of cinematic techniques for its numerous stories. Mobile tracking shots, rapid editing, evocative landscape shots, handheld camerawork - all are seamlessly integrated to reflect the various moods and experiences of life itself. Though everyone is shown to be flawed and essentially a liar and/or criminal in some respect ("I feel like being mean today" remarks the first suspect in one telling moment), the overall impression is far from bleak. The prostitute's final moments shown repeatedly in retrospect offer a melancholy counterpoint to the variety of emotions on display; as with Bertolucci's subsequent, much longer "tapestry" films like 1900 and The Last Emperor, violence intermingles with happiness, eroticism, and joy on a regular basis.

Since the film features no standout performers, La Commare Secca relies on its personnel behind the camera to grab the viewer's attention - and in this respect it easily earns its status as one of the more auspicious debuts in cinema history. Apart from an already assured directorial style, the roster of talent includes co-writer Pier Paolo Pasolini (whose directorial debut one year earlier with Mamma Roma shares some of the same social concerns and would make a good co-feature here) and underrated composer Piero Piccioni, whose beautiful work here signaled his first major year as a composer (as he also scored Salvatore Giuliano and Senilità in 1962).

Not an easy film to appreciate in fuzzy past editions on video, La Commara Secca looks simply fantastic in Criterion's new restored edition. The element looks like it was filmed yesterday and features razor sharp detail; at last it's perfectly obvious what a visually rich experience this film truly is. The disc includes one extra, a new interview with Bertolucci in which he discusses in great detail his working relationship with Pasolini (whose simultaneous Accatone is cited as a major influence on this script), his university years, and the making of the film from its inception to its critically well-received debut. Also included is a fold-out insert containing a thorough essay by film critic David Thompson, who reveals several interesting facts about the film; for example, even though this film has often been compared to Kurosawa’s Rashomon, Bertolucci had never even seen it when he directed this, his remarkable first film.

DVD Talk - Criterion Bill Gibron

not coming to a theater near you (Rumsey Taylor)

Bertolucci's Gay Images by Will Aitken Jump Cut, 1976

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Matt Peterson)

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson)

The QNetwork Film Desk [James Kendrick]

DVD Verdict Dan Mancini

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

The New York Times (A.H. Weiler)

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

BEFORE THE REVOLUTION (Prima della rivoluzione) A 99

Italy (115 mi) 1964

A flood of poetic visuals, montage, and sound, it is a shamelessly passionate, intensely personal statement of political and sexual coming of age.

—Amos Vogel, writer, Cinema 16 programming pioneer, and founder of the New York Film Festival

He who has not lived in the years before the revolution cannot know what the sweetness of living is.

—Talleyrand

A rarely seen early work from Bernardo Bertolucci, and one of his best, made when he was just 22, loosely based on Stendhal’s early 19th century novel, The Charterhouse of Parma, adapted by the director into a more autobiographical work, something of an elegy both to the director’s home town of Parma and to those bourgeois lives doomed because they take place before the coming (late 60’s student) revolution, recalling Jean Renoir’s RULES OF THE GAME (1939) in its gracefully astute critique of a dying aristocracy, a work that offers glimpses of his coming masterworks THE CONFORMIST (1970) and 1900 (Novecento) (1976), but using a 60’s style that offers a unique blend of French New Wave and the spacious middle class ennui of Antonioni. In fact, if one took a blind test and watched this film without knowing the director, many might guess Antonioni, as the lead female role played by Adriana Asti, who later stars with Vitti in Buñuel’s THE PHANTOM OF LIBERTY (1974), is right out of the Monica Vitti catalogue of early 60’s performances in L’AVVENTURA (1960), L’ECLISSE (1962) and RED DESERT (1964), where she all but steals the picture with a fire and passion simply unseen in films today. Italian women in this era won the hearts of international filmgoers as they thrived on their femininity, where an exposed vulnerability defines their character, often sexually misunderstood or taken for granted. Asti is a mature and intelligent woman, but she needs to feel like a woman, something overlooked in the male dominated race into the future and completely absent in modern era films. She’s initially presented in a playful manner, in tributes to other filmmakers, fashionably photographed in classical Antonioni, irreverently shown with her legs exposed from Godard, in a telephone monologue from Rossellini (“One can’t live without Rossellini!”), making funny faces with weird glasses from Truffaut, with a visual theater reference to Godard’s A WOMAN IS A WOMAN (1961). If this film were released today, it would be a revelation, easily the best film seen all year, as the use of music, edits, and camera work are simply dazzling, an inventive and deeply complex work filled with more stylistic energy and celebratory verve, not to mention challenging ideas that are as relevant a half century later as when it was released.

The unusual subject is the study of an intellectually curious youth on the verge of adulthood, Fabrizio (Francesco Barilli), a stand-in for the director, and his sensuously attractive aunt ten years older, Gina (Asti), who is visiting from Milan. The pace of the film is quick, with a constantly shifting narrative, where one of the lead characters meets an early demise, which is a shock even to the audience, especially coming off one of the best scenes in the entire film, where the outrageously upbeat circus style brass band, oomp pah music from Ennio Morricone is nothing less than sensational, leaving characters psychologically devastated, clinging to one another for comfort. People respond to grief in mysterious ways, but Fabrizio and Gina seem drawn together, seen cavorting in the shadows of darkness and light in this gorgeous Black and White film with the legendary Vittorio Storaro operating the constantly moving camera, often holding tight on the lead characters, though the noted cinematographer is Aldo Scavarda, who also shot L’AVVENTURA. Their work together is simply exquisite, balancing indoor and outdoor shots, some of which are simply magnificent, blending a beautifully written screenplay with spurts of intensely personal dialogue and perfectly composed interiors, where they become engulfed in the emptiness of the darkness, only to be revived by the briefest glimpses of light, where their first love scene is as erotic as anything Bertolucci’s ever filmed, even as they lie in separate beds, where the director is completely in tune with their thoughts and inclinations. Their affection takes each of them by surprise, where she still sees him as an often confused young boy, a budding Communist thinker under the influence of his Marxist teacher Cesare (Morando Morandini), already engaged to a lovely but relatively mindless bourgeois girlfriend Clelia (Cristina Pariset), shades of Stefania Sandrelli in THE CONFORMIST. Gina is herself a bundle of nervous energy and mixed emotions, often seductive and sexually alluring, but also distant and distracted. What’s clear is they generate one of the most romantically explosive scenes in all of cinema, elegantly choreographed, where the closeness of the camera generates exceptional intimacy, seen here in a living room dance sequence to Gino Paoli’s Vivere Ancora YouTube (2:56).

What’s truly unusual here is the wonderful balance of sex and politics, which is clearly vintage Bertolucci, where Fabrizio is stunned by the sudden absence of Gina afterwards, something emotionally inexplicable, made even more complicated when he sees her with another man. As he walks away afterwards, she is conflicted about whether to follow, but as she looks in either direction, both forward and back, all she sees is a blur. This romantic split opens the door to the political turmoil of the time, expressed in one of the strangest scenes of the film, set to the eerie sound of frogs croaking by the riverside, as landowners for generations are suddenly losing their mortgaged land by default, losing their aristocratic way of life, suddenly plunged into the mainstream with little or no skills to survive, brilliantly described by Gina’s friend Puck (Cecrope Barilli) Prima della rivoluzione/Before the Revolution (1964) - Po River scene YouTube (8:21) in a hauntingly beautiful scene of rare poetic transcendence that anticipates bleak futures to come. Rationally Fabrizio’s forced to struggle with his commitment to the Communist Party even as his emotional life hits the skids. With extraordinary honesty and insight Bertolucci explores the emotional and political conflicts of Fabrizio, where in reevaluating his future, there’s no escaping his past, where those (the oppressed) that he wishes to liberate have little interest in the Communists and are more interested in joining the middle class. Even as the Communists lead a Worker’s Day parade, Prima della rivoluzione/Before the Revolution (1964) - Communist Festival scene YouTube (6:30), something later memorialized in gloriously rich color in 1900 (Novecento), Fabrizio is pained to acknowledge the ineffectiveness of the Party, literally agonizing with Cesare over that promised day when the revolution will finally come. This leads to an extended, visually sumptuous operatic sequence bringing all the forces together in a clash of conflicts, where the upper class is seen in all their fashionable regalia, but the Communists and Fabrizio’s family each have a box seat as well, where he’s there with Clelia, spotting Gina on the main floor, while the music to Verdi’s Macbeth plays throughout, a musical counterpoint to their internal struggles that dramatizes the complexity of their concerns, enlarged in this setting, becoming matters of life and death. Fabrizio bypasses what is clearly the love of his life for the safer choice of the younger, less complicated Clelia, where the film ends at their wedding (an altar boy gets the giggles) with Gina sobbing in the face of another younger nephew, with their futures painfully uncertain. The final literary coda from Melville’s Moby Dick couldn’t be more sobering, especially when seen as the thoughts of a lifelong Communist, whose merciless quest is to chase after the impossible and the unreachable.

Colin MacCabe from 1001 MOVIES YOU MUST SEE BEFORE YOU DIE:

Bernardo Bertolucci’s Before the Revolution is an astonishing film. When one realizes that the director was only 22 years old at the time it was made, it becomes miraculous. A transposition of Stendahl’s La Chartreuse de Parme to the modern day, this is the story of a young man, Fabrizio (Franceso Barilli), and his hopeless love for his aunt Gina (Adriana Asti), who is ten years his senior.

This is not, as the title might lead you to expect, a militant story of heroic, revolutionary struggle, but an elegy for those bourgeois lives doomed because they take place before the revolution. The story is simple: Fabrizio, on the edge of adulthood, has his life mapped out according to the middle-class norms of his city. Then the death by drowning of his friend Agostino (Allen Midgette) causes him to call his future in doubt as he starts a tempestuous affair with Gina. The final section of the film, which contrasts the future sketched by Fabrizio’s Communist teacher and Gina’s friend who is about to lose his hereditary estate, makes clear that Fabrizio himself can live neither in the future nor in the past, but only in an uneasy present. Before the Revolution is a perfect portrait of the generation who were to embrace revolt in the late 1960’s, and a stunning portrait of Parma—Bertolucci’s own city.

Before the Revolution | Chicago Reader Dave Kehr

Bernardo Bertolucci was 22 when he burst upon the film scene with this 1964 feature, his second. The contrary attractions of sensuality and politics have been the subject of many of Bertolucci's films, but the conflict is presented most passionately and personally here, through the figure of a young bourgeois revolutionary (Francesco Barilli) involved in a tortured relationship with his aunt (Adriana Asti). The visual style suggests Minnelli in its lush subjectivity, particularly when the black and white gives way to color for a brief lyrical sequence. With Morando Morandini and Allen Midgette. In Italian with subtitles.

Film Reference.com Robert Burgoyne

In Before the Revolution , Bertolucci first presents the theme which will become foremost in his work: the conflict between freedom and conformity. Fabrizio, the leading character, is obliged to decide between radical political commitment and an alluring marriage into the bourgeoisie. In this reworking of Stendhal's The Charterhouse of Parma , Bertolucci expressly delineates the connection between politics and sexuality. The film also establishes the Freudian theme of the totemic father, which will recur throughout Bertolucci's work, here emblematized in the figure of Fabrizio's communist mentor, whom Fabrizio must renounce as a precondition to his entry into moneyed society.

CINE-FILE: Cine-List Ignatiy Vishnevetsky

Bernardo Bertolucci's second feature is a time capsule of what hip, ambitious filmmaking was expected to look like in the post-New Wave era: emotionally and politically committed, tonally disjointed, with lots of hidden-camera crowd scenes and dramatic close-ups that crop off the tops of actor's heads. Bertolucci was only 22 when he directed the film, and it certainly shows in the movie's self-serious plot (a take-off of The Charterhouse of Parma with a brooding Bertolucci stand-in worrying about his commitment to Communism) and dialogue. Still, it'd be a mistake to write the film off as juvenilia; in its own earnest and unselfconscious way, it represents the clearest expression of the director's central theme—the intersection of the private erotic and the public political—and the young Bertolucci's willingness to experiment with and even break form—playing with editing, camera movements, and framing—is bold and ballsy. Not a perfect film, but one that everyone should see. (1964, 115 min, Imported 35mm Print)

Partner Review. Movie Reviews - Film - Time Out London Tony Rayns

In all of Bertolucci's movies, there's a central conflict between the 'radical' impulses and a pessimistic (and/or willing) capitulation to the mainstream of bourgeois society and culture. It's a contradiction that takes on juggernaut proportions in '1900', but it stands as a major source of tension and interest in many of the earlier films. Both Before the Revolution (Bertolucci's second feature) and Partner try to examine it head-on. Revolution is about a middle-class 20-year-old who 'discovers' Marxism and tries - for a while - to change his life; Partner is an exuberant response to the student riots of '68, with Pierre Clémenti as a timid drama student confronting his own anarchic revolutionary alter ego. The first is mostly 'classical' in style, while the second is aggressively 'new wave', but both are full of interruptions and digressions: they throw out ideas and allusions (usually to other movies) with reckless enthusiasm, and they remain invaluable aids to an understanding of the '60s.

5001 Nights at the Movies - Page 61 - Google Books Result Pauline Kael (pdf format)

A sweepingly romantic movie about a young man's rebellion against bourgeois life and his disillusion with Communism, set in Parma and written and directed by Bernardo Bertolucci at the astonishing age of 24. He captures what has rarely been seen on the screen-the extravagance and poetry of youthful ardor. The hero, Fabrizio, discovers that he is not single-minded enough to be a revolutionary, that he is too deeply involved in the beauty of life as it is before the revolution. He has "a nostalgia for the present." (The characters of Fabrizio and his young aunt Gina are loosely derived from Stendhal's The Charterhouse of Parma.) With Francesco Barilli, Adriana Asti, Allen Midgette, and Morando Morandini; cinematography by Aldo Scavarda; music by Gino Paoli and Ennio Morricone. This was Bertolucci's second feature; his first was LA COMMARE SECCA (THE GRIM REAPER). In Italian. For a more extended discussion, see Pauline Kael's book Kiss Kiss Bang Bang.

Bernardo Bertolucci Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Parma native Bernardo Bertolucci first came to serious international attention with Before the Revolution, his second feature, completed when the director was only twenty-four. Loosely based on Stendhal's The Charterhouse of Parma, and bearing the influence of Godard, the film concerns Fabrizio (Francesco Barilli), a middle-class Parmesian youth unable to choose between the radical Marxist ideals that attract him and the comfortable bourgeois values into which he was born. This ideological dilemma plays itself out on a sexual level as well, with Fabrizio torn between an illicit affair with his eccentric young aunt and a safe marriage to his respectable fiancée. Before the Revolution won wide acclaim for its political maturity, thematic complexity, and technical audacity. Introducing many of Bertolucci's key preoccupations and concerns - Marxism and Freudian psychology; the competing impulses of conformism and revolution; the link between politics and sexuality; family and father/son dynamics - it stands as a fascinating and essential precursor to later works such as The Conformist, 1900, and Last Tango in Paris.

Bernardo Bertolucci | Senses of Cinema Bilge Ebiri, October 2004

Bertolucci was born to a prosperous family in Parma, Italy. His father, Attilio, was a well-known poet and writer. He exerted a considerable influence on the young Bernardo, who became an award-winning poet himself at the age of 21 and spent his teen years enamoured with the cinema, thanks to his father’s work as a film critic. At around the same time, Bernardo entered the world of filmmaking as an assistant to another Italian poet, Attilio’s friend Pier Paolo Pasolini, on the writer’s first feature, Accatone (1961). A five-page treatment by Pasolini led to Bertolucci’s own first feature, The Grim Reaper (La commare secca) (1962), an episodic, Rashomon-style investigation into the murder of a prostitute seen through the points-of-view of the dispossessed denizens of a Roman park. The impression of youth shows: The Grim Reaper, despite showing some early signs of Bertolucci’s personal style (expressionistic lighting, a highly mobile camera, and an inventive, time-hopping narrative structure), feels more like a Pasolini film, not the least because of its subproletarian milieu.

Many of Bertolucci’s early films work simultaneously as homages and exorcisms. Pasolini and Jean-Luc Godard were the filmmaker’s twin spiritual fathers in the 1960s, and the latter’s influence is clearly evident in Partner (1968), Bertolucci’s third feature, an attempt at the elliptical, playful, highly symbolic, and politically active style of Godard’s post-nouvelle vague filmmaking. A loose adaptation of Dostoevsky’s The Double, Partner is the story of a young idealist (Pierre Clementi) who is faced with his politically revolutionary, socially active, and possibly psychotic doppelganger. Full of attempts at Brechtian distanciation (onscreen text, direct address to the camera, etc.), the film today retains a certain fascination for the ways in which the power of Bertolucci’s burgeoning lyricism and cinematic confidence clash with the fragmented, highly declarative style of Godard’s more political films.

In between these two cinematic homage/exorcisms, Bertolucci made a remarkable work imbued with the personal style he would go on to develop further. 1964′s Before the Revolution (Prima della rivoluzione), the director’s second film, tells the story of Fabrizio (Francesco Barilli), a bourgeois youth torn between his revolutionary aspirations and the decadent comfort of his surroundings. Introducing a political element that would later become even more refined, the film worked as an exorcism of a different sort:

I needed to exorcise certain fears. I was a Marxist with all the love, all the passion, and all the despair of a bourgeois who chooses Marxism. Naturally in every bourgeois Marxist, who is consciously Marxist, I should say, there is always the fear of being sucked back into the milieu he came out of, because he’s born into it and the roots are so deep that a young bourgeois finds it very hard to be a Marxist.

In essence, Bertolucci used Before the Revolution to explore the nature of political doubt: Fabrizio abandons one type of patriarchy (his conservative family) for another (the ideological demands of Marxism). As in most of the director’s films, this dichotomy is accompanied by sexual tension: While left-wing politics and haute bourgeois surroundings provide the milieu for Revolution, the main narrative (a very loose adaptation of Stendhal’s The Charterhouse of Parma) concerns Fabrizio’s affair with his aunt Gina (Adriana Asti). But unlike in his later works, Bertolucci doesn’t quite manage to reconcile the film’s sexual politics with its more overt ideological content. Try as we might, it’s hard to read Gina as a symbol for anything – she simultaneously represents sexual freedom and Fabrizio’s stuffy family relations; it’s hard to divorce her from the rest of the world, even though she is clearly an outcast in her own surroundings. (It’s also possible to read the incest taboo as a sublimation of homoerotic desire; several early scenes are devoted to Fabrizio’s clearly gay, suicidal young friend Agostino [Allen Midgette], whose death is one of the centerpieces of the film.) Ultimately, what emerges from Before the Revolution is not a coherent vision but a brilliant, highly kinetic portrait of a very confused young man – made, perhaps, by a brilliant and very confused young man. Bertolucci even throws in a beautifully filmed, lushly scored ode to the environment, in which a minor character delivers a lyrical monologue to the decaying Po River, right near the end – a gorgeous sequence that almost feels like it deserves to be its own short work.

Cine Outsider [Jerry Whyte]

New Yorker essay (Louis Menand) After the Revolution, October 20, 2003, also seen here: Louis Menand

Clouds Pursuing Clouds: Bernardo Bertolucci's ... - Senses of Cinema Neel Chaudhuri from Senses of Cinema, July 22, 2005

Bernardo Bertolucci (Before the Revolution) - The Lonely Place ... Bilge Ebiri, April 10, 2011

Only the Cinema [Ed Howard]

BFI | Sight & Sound | Review: Before the Revolution (1964) Philip Strick, originally published in the April 1969 Monthly Film Bulletin review

The “Wednesday Evening Show” – Before the Revolution ... Joel from Wonders in the Dark

PFA: THE CLASH OF '68—Prima della rivoluzione (Before the - Twitch Michael Guillen from Twitch, also seen here: The Evening Class: March 2008

Bertolucci's Gay Images by Will Aitken Jump Cut, 1976

The Heart of Things essay (Jonathon Delacour) Before the Revolution, March 20, 2005

Just like starting over Tony Rayns from Senses of Cinema, May 2011

Bernardo Bertolucci's The Dreamers - Senses of Cinema Maximilian Le Cain, July, 2004

Before The Revolution Gerald Peary

Before the Revolution Michael den Boer from 10kbullets

DVD Talk Svet Atanasov

Blu-Ray.com [Dr. Svet Atanasov]

BEFORE THE REVOLUTION (Bernardo Bertolucci, 1964) Dennis Grunes

Before The Revolution (Prima della rivoluzione) by Keith Breese also seen here: Bertolucci Core Review (Keith Breese)

Prima della rivoluzione / Before the Revolution - Also Like Life Kevin Lee, December 29, 2008

Edinburgh U Film Society [Spiros Gangas]

Before the Revolution Steve Seid from the Pacific Film Archives, also seen here: Before the Revolution PFA capsule (Steve Seid)

"Protest in Paris 1968: Photographs by Serge Hambourg" BAM Capsule

Before the Revolution Review. Movie Reviews - Film - Time Out ... David Jenkins

Marx at the movies | Books | The Guardian Owen Hatherley from The Guardian, May 27, 2011

Before the Revolution – review Peter Bradshaw from The Guardian, April 7, 2011

Before the Revolution – review Philip French from The Observer, April 9, 2011

The Daily Telegraph Sukhdev Sandhu

The Independent Anthony Quinn

Philadelphia City Paper Review (Sam Adams) also seen here: Philadelphia City Paper Review (Sam Adams)

The New York Times (Eugene Archer) also seen here: The New York Times

DVDBeaver - Blu-ray [Gary Tooze]

PARTNER

Italy (105 mi) 1968 ‘Scope

Chicago Reader (Jonathan Rosenbaum)

Bernardo Bertolucci's third and seldom-shown feature is very much a reflection of its period--1968--but no less fascinating for that. Loosely based on Dostoyevski's The Double, and starring the remarkable Pierre Clementi, who also plays his own doppelganger, the film was made at the height of Godard's influence on younger European directors, and Bertolucci's first color film reflects his master in its loose narrative structure, its focus on student radicalism, its satire on consumerism (which also shows the influence of Frank Tashlin), and its rampant cinephilia (F.W. Murnau being the most important and frequent citation). A bit all over the place, the film lacks the heartbreaking conviction of Before the Revolution, but it soars with manic, runaway energy. 105 min. In Italian with subtitles.

Pacific Heights to Pather Panchali Pauline Kael

Two years before THE CONFORMIST, Bernardo Bertolucci made this inventive but bewildering political vaudeville--a modernization of Dostoevski's The Double, in which a young drama teacher (Pierre Clémenti) has fantasies of extending the theatre of cruelty into political revolution. Clémenti doesn't convey enough intellectuality for an audience to understand the character, who seems to be a comic-strip Artaud. Visually extraordinary, but the meaning appears to get lost in the vivid pop color, the daring tricks of style, and the profusion of great images--in one scene books are piled up in heaps on the floor of a room, like the Roman ruins outside. (It's the most Godardian of Bertolucci's films.) With Stefania Sandrelli, Tina Aumont, and Sergio Tofano. The script is by Bertolucci and Gianni Amico; cinematography by Ugo Piccone. There are versions in French and in Italian. CinemaScope.

Time Out Tony Rayns

In all of Bertolucci's movies, there's a central conflict between the 'radical' impulses and a pessimistic (and/or willing) capitulation to the mainstream of bourgeois society and culture. It's a contradiction that takes on juggernaut proportions in '1900', but it stands as a major source of tension and interest in many of the earlier films. Both Before the Revolution and Partner try to examine it head-on. Revolution is about a middle class 20-year-old who 'discovers' Marxism and tries - for a while - to change his life; Partner is an exuberant response to the student riots of '68, with Clémenti as a timid drama student confronting his anarchic revolutionary alter ego. The first is mostly 'classical' in style, the second aggressively 'new wave', but both are full of interruptions and digressions: they throw out ideas and allusions (usually to other movies) with reckless enthusiasm, and they remain invaluable aids to an understanding of the '60s.

TheThe Village Voice [Michael Atkinson]

Bernardo Bertolucci was only 28, with two features already behind him, when he birthed this high-spirited, subversive 1968 cherry bomb, which adapts Dostoyevsky's The Double to student-revolution-era Italy, where the wiry, vampiric Pierre Clémenti plays a romantic and causeless rebel whose radical consciousness is awakened once his doppelg appears to incite chaos and spur him on. Or something: Partner is not only an energetic thumb-nosing fossil of '60s fragmentation, cinematic upset, and sub-Marxist yowlings, but a double as well, oedipally haunted by the pathfinding precedents of Godard (primary among Bertolucci's anxious influences were La Chinoise and Two or Three Things I Know About Her) and of France itself. (In one of the DVD's multiple interviews, it's reported that Clémenti would fly to Paris on the weekends and bring Bertolucci back the latest in protest slogans.) Presaging both Fight Club and Kurosawa's Doppelgänger , and girded with an Ennio Morricone score as deliberately disjunctive as the narrative, Partner clearly hip-links Freud and Marx, and might be the first conscientiously Lacanian movie. The double-disc set includes screen tests, outtakes, essays, a lengthy promotional making-of doc made at the time of shooting, and an entire second film: His Day of Glory (1969), the rarely seen sole project directed by Italian critic-editor-scholar Edoardo Bruno.

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray] also reviewing LOVE AND ANGER

At the outset of his career, Bernardo Bertolucci toiled in the shadows of monumental Italian directors like Michelangelo Antonioni and Federico Fellini, though Bertolucci's early films were more warmly embraced by the French, who saw echoes of their own New Wave in his restless camera, lively location shooting, and simple, personal stories. He fell in with the Cinémathèque/Cahiers Du Cinema crowd just as Europe exploded with anti-authoritarian youth protests, and as filmmakers were challenging each other to make movies that espoused the ideals of the revolution through aesthetics as well as content. Bertolucci responded in 1968 with Partner, based loosely on Fyodor Dostoevsky's The Double, about a drama teacher whose ambitions are upset when his doppelgänger starts urging him to advance his commitment to the cause from mere political theater to real bombs.

Partner bears the unmistakable influence of Jean-Luc Godard right from its opening credits, which play over disjointed snippets of Ennio Morricone's score. Bertolucci approaches the filmmaking playfully, toying with sound design and lighting—absurdly large shadows appear in more than one scene—and shooting tongue-in-cheek homages to Sergei Eisenstein and TV soap commercials. There's some Luis Buñuel-style satirical surrealism as well, most obviously in the scene where hero Pierre Clémenti and his girlfriend sit in the back of a motionless car while their driver makes "vroom vroom" noises. The point of all the game-playing and sloganeering isn't clear, but for every excruciating moment where Clémenti repeats, "Let's throw the masks away!" with mounting anxiety, there are just as many striking moments like the one where the two Clémentis debate each other while maneuvering around stacks of books. Like the best Godard films, Partner gives a sense of what it's like to be a young, politically active cineaste, living every moment as if it were a movie.

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Chuck Aliaga)

Filmmaker Bernardo Bertolucci is best known for award-winning, mainstream films like The Last Emperor, The Sheltering Sky, and the recent The Dreamers. However, like all great directors, Bertolucci had to start semi-small, and in his native country. One of his earliest films is Partner (1968), an Italian film full of political undertones that were very true to the turmoil of the times. However, such themes have alienated audiences who aren't aware of their historic significance, but No Shame has released a wonderful 2-disc set of Partner, giving those who have studied 1968 Italy the chance to enjoy this forgotten gem.

In 1968, a series of student riots ravaged Paris, sending shock-waves throughout the region and its neighboring countries. These riots stemmed from a decade-long political and cultural struggle that had built up to a boiling point. The strife wasn't Bertolucci's only influence for Partner, though, as the subject matter is clearly inspired by the works of Freud, Karl Marx, and even Jean-Luc Godard and his French New Wave Cinema.

Partner tells the tale of Jacob (Pierre Clementi), a revolutionary who also happens to suffer from schizophrenia. He spends much of his time plotting a social upheaval that will single-handedly change the state of post-war Italy. Jacob devises this plan with a mysterious man whom he shares an apartment with, although they argue quite a bit in-between philosophical and political discussions. Jacob shakes things up when he falls for the daughter (Stefania Sandrelli) of someone from the university. This new love instantly puts his political scheming at risk and doesn't make his "partner" happy either.

Partner wouldn't be half the film if it wasn't for the mesmerizing performance by Pierre Clementi. His work as Jacob is equally haunting and sad, and this Frenchman among a mostly Italian cast doesn't seem fazed at all by the cultural differences, especially impressive given the intense subject matter. Clementi is a study in what distinct features, both physical and facial, can bring to a performance, and if you spend some time, possibly in a second viewing of the film, just watching the actor's facial movements, you'll get a feel for just how effective he is.

Bertolucci does a wonderful job setting the surreal tone, showing us Jacob first sitting alone in a café, then walking into an apartment and seemingly shooting a piano player. If this seems odd, it's only the beginning of the adventurous chances that this now somewhat-straight laced filmmaker took in this early project. He also takes many risks in maintaining this tone, using odd, yet interesting camera movements that were way ahead of their time. These are methods that we would expect from today's visionary directors, and, even though his films since have been praised as straightforward masterpieces, Partner makes you wish Bertolucci had stuck with films like this, one that deserves a place among the foreign film elite.

The easiest comparison to make is to the brilliant, modern classic, Fight Club. The similarities are glaring, but don't go into Bertolucci's film thinking you're going to see the same style of film. Partner relies quite a bit on the viewer having at least some feel for the culture of the times, and isn't the mind-bending, visual delight that David Fincher's masterpiece is, but it is a classic in its own right, one that will leave unsuspecting film fans wanting to watch it again and again.

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson)

DVD Verdict [Dan Mancini]

Partner Michael Den Boer from 10kbullets

Twitch Andrew Howitt

The Context Henry K. Miller

The New York Times (Nora Sayre)

LOVE AND ANGER (Amore e rabbia)

Bertolucci segment "Agonia"

Italy France (102 mi) 1969 ‘Scope co-directors: Marco Bellocchio, Jean-Luc Godard, Carlo Lizzani, Pier Paolo Pasolini

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson]

One of the loveliest free-form ideas to find patronage and popularity in the New Wavey 1960s was the portmanteau film, a rarely successful but always tempting quasi-genre that usually imposed a general theme but was always more interested in enlisting the generation's coolest hotshot filmmakers to whack off and make their special kind of havoc. Often you could hope for one beaut out of five, but 1969's Love and Anger, concerned with the tension between emotional society and bloodshed, is thick with home runs. Pier Paolo Pasolini, whose Christ-movie vignette is the only world-beater in RoGoPaG, scores again with a derisive essay contrasting a cavorting flower child with news footage of contemporaneous atrocities, while Bernardo Bertolucci documents the death of the human race—by way of Julian Beck and the Living Theatre. Carlo Lizzani lambastes modern culture for disaffection (a rape goes unnoticed, while a car wreck victim gets victimized all over again on the way to the hospital), Jean-Luc Godard dialogues about love and war and the film itself, and best of all, Marco Bellocchio chronicles the collapse of civilization in a classroom overrun by 'Nam protesters. Bristly and mad as hell, the coalescent result is both a fabulous time capsule and a prescient rediscovery for today's latent anti-war movement. Supps include new interviews, galleries, and a booklet of background info.

digitallyObsessed! [Chuck Aliaga]

Love and Anger is a collection of five stories that are the handiwork of directors that have made names for themselves in decidedly different ways among the annals of foreign cinema. The heavy hitters of the time are all on board, including Bernardo Bertolucci (The Last Emperor, Partner), Marco Bellocchio (Devil in the Flesh), Carlo Lizzani (Requiescant), Pier Paolo Pasolini (Salo), and, a huge treat, the legendary Jean-Luc Godard (Band of Outsiders, Breathless). Most of these films are extremely surreal, but they all have political undertones. This actually works out quite well, as even if you aren't familiar with the political climate in Italy and France during the 1960s, you can revel in these masters' liberal use of inventive imagery, much of which never comes completely together in a standard narrative structure. The actors come from a pair of renowned theater groups: the Living Theater and Andy Warhol Factory, and include Julian Beck, who made his mark in Hollywood as the creepy preacher in Poltergeist II.

Each filmmaker is at the reins of one of these short films, with Carlo Lizzani handling L'Indifferenza. This tale is only about 12 minutes long, but is also the best. It's amazing just how many intersecting stories come into play in such a short time, but we initially see a woman who is stabbed to death outside an apartment while her neighbors do nothing to help. We then see an injured man asking his wife for help after an auto accident, as a reluctant driver is asked to help out by the police. The performances here are outstanding, but the film's shining point is in its gritty appearance and overall sense of dread, and it delivers an important moral message that has stood the test of time.

Agonia is directed by Bertolucci, and is much longer (about 30 minutes) and paced more slowly than the first entry. It is still very interesting though, if only for the chance to see Julian Beck in something different, and he gives a fine performance indeed. This is basically an experiment in avant-garde theater, with the director employing members of the Living Theatre troupe to pretty much do their thing (including meditation, violent reenactments, etc.) around a dying man (Beck). If you can bear with the sheer strangeness of this piece and it's languid pace, it does have its rewards, despite its flaws.

Next is La Sequenza del fiore di carta by Pier Paolo Pasolini, my least favorite segment. This is basically Ninetto Davoli walking down the streets of Rome just being annoying, while we see stock footage of historical figures whose legacies centered around various wars and other violent atrocities in which they played a major part.

L'Amore is from Godard, and this legendary filmmaker delivers a worthwhile film yet again. The his piece features a pair of couples; one that talks about various issues such as war, love, and politics, while the other pair is actually talking about what has transpired in the film to this point. Godard adds his usual visual flair to the proceedings, which often make up for some rather bland dialogue.

The last short is Discutiamo, discutiamo, helmed by Bellocchio. This ultra-political film attempts to be as real as possible by using student actors from the University of Rome. The director keeps them in their natural habitat by setting the picture in a classroom, focusing on a heated debate between vastly different members of the university. The main problem is that there's really not a single actor we can get a hold of and root for or against throughout the picture. Unless you're really attuned to the politics of the time, this short, in particular will leave you lost about the subject matter.

10kbullets - DVD review Michael Den Boer

DVD Talk (Svet Atanasov)

Monsters At Play Carl Lyon

DVD Verdict [Dan Mancini]

Twitch Andrew Howitt

Coffee, coffee and more coffee [Peter Nellhaus]

Cinema Strikes Back [David Austin]

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray] also reviewing PARTNER

THE SPIDER’S STRATAGEM (Strategia del ragno)

Italy (100 mi) 1970

Sounder to The Star Pauline Kael

Before he made THE CONFORMIST, Bernardo Bertolucci made this adaptation of Jorge Luis Borges' enigmatic "Theme of the Traitor and Hero" for Italian television. Shot in Sabbioneta, a miniature city between Mantua and Parma, with colonnades that suggest de Chirico, the film is mysteriously beautiful; it has heightened colors and evocative imagery. But Giulio Brogi, playing both the son and the hero-father whose death the son is investigating, is given no character as either, and he lacks energy. The film itself is enervated, and the themes are frustratingly elusive; it's all atmosphere and no strength. With Alida Valli, still splendidly handsome, and with that same secret look she had in THE THIRD MAN. Cinematography by Vittorio Storaro. In Italian.

Time Out Tony Rayns

Bertolucci's precipitous decline into political and aesthetic misjudgments (signalled by parts of Last Tango and confirmed by long stretches of 1900) shouldn't make anyone forget that his intelligence, erotic sensibility, and wit once made him the only Italian director comparable to Pasolini. Made after The Conformist and showing Bertolucci at the height of his powers, The Spider's Stratagem transposes a Borges short story to the Po Valley in Italy, introduces a dazzling density of cultural references, and remains thrilling and extraordinary. Athos Magnani (Brogi) returns to his home town, where the defacement of the memorial to his father (a hero of '36) sets him on the trail of the truth about his parent; the world he explores is full of mysteries, omens, ambiguities, and signs of incipient madness, and it resolves itself into a riddle that is the cinema's richest homage to all that's remarkable in Borges.

Bernardo Bertolucci Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

A rare treat! Made just beforeThe Conformist, The Spider's Stratagem, Bertolucci's first film with master cinematographer Vittorio Storaro, ranks as one the director's most important and esteemed works, but was never released in Canada. Based on a short story by Borges, and rendered in ravishing images that evoke the paintings of de Chirico, this ornate, enigmatic, ominous film has a young man returning to the village where his father was murdered by the Fascists some thirty years before. Investigating the mysterious truth of his father's death, he discovers that nothing is quite what is seems, and finds himself drawn into a strange web of intrigue and treachery. "Showing Bertolucci at the height of his powers . . . [the film] introduces an dazzling density of cultural references, and remains thrilling and extraordinary . . . [It] resolves itself into a riddle that is the cinema's richest homage to all that's remarkable about Borges" (Tony Rayns, Time Out). "Bertolucci's best film" (Jay Cocks, Time).

Edinburgh U Film Society [Spiros Gangas]

Loosely based on Borges' "Theme of the Traitor and the Hero", this is perhaps Bertolucci's best film to date. Set outside Parma, it involves the return of Athos Magnani (Giulio Brogi) to his hometown where his father is regarded as an anti-fascist hero. Athos, determined to investigate the conditions under which his father was assassinated, encounters his father's ex-mistress, Draifa (Alida Valli) who is willing to provide him with clues as to the personality of his parent. However, it is through Athos' conversations with his father's anti-fascist collaborators that he gets to discover the truth. And as he enters a world of disillusionment, his identical resemblance to his father instigates erotic desires which lean on the threshold of madness.

Bertolucci constructs here a mysterious web of cryptic hints which Athos is led to discover, a strategem which is so cunningly conceived that its effectiveness is corroborated by the conformism of the person to solve the riddle. This is another exploration into conspiracy theory which wants the oppressed as the users of the same techniques as the oppressors. As the identity of Athos is constantly juxtaposed with one of his father through a series of flashbacks, the Freudian psychology becomes triumphant over Marxist politics.

With The Spider's Stratagem, Bertolucci reaches the climax of his career and provides the conclusion he himself has reached in a nonetheless ambivalent way. The glorious cinematography by Vittorio Storaro has made this film one of the most beautifully photographed in the whole of cinematic history. The perfectly symmetrical shots of a town inhabited exclusively by old people, another indication of the victory of the past over the present, and the strong naturalistic element with an incredible fusion of colours make this one a truly cinematic spectacle.

Jigsaw Lounge (Neil Young)

At barely three and a half pages, Borges’ ‘Theme of the Traitor and Hero’ must be the one of the shortest - if not the shortest - stories ever to be turned into a full-length movie. Except it isn’t really a short story at all, more a loose outline that the unidentified narrator (presumably Borges) intends to develop into a proper-length tale, one day. ‘Traitor and hero’ is a rough sketch of a wider project - what the film world nowadays would call a pitch.

Bertolucci’s version transposes the action from 19^th century Ireland to 20^th century Italy: thirtysomething Athos Magnani (Guilio Brogi) arrives in Tara, the small rural town where, 34 years before, his heroic, anti-Fascist father - also Athos (also Brogi) - was assassinated. Young Athos has been summoned (we aren’t told where from - in fact, we’re told nothing about his life away from Tara) by Draifa (Alida Valli), his father’s mistress, after she spotted his photograph in a newspaper. We aren’t told where he’s been summoned from - in fact, we’re told nothing about his life before he gets to Tara. Tara asks him to solve the riddle of his father’s death and, though initially reluctant, he ends up doing just that.

It’s an intriguing, dazzlingly original story - but those unfamiliar with the original may find the way it’s dramatised somewhat lacking in incident. We switch nimbly between the past (1936) and the present (1970), but most of the action is described, rather than actually shown - if it even happens at all. Bertolucci uses the Borges story as the starting point for an elegant, enigmatic slice of psycholog. Athos Magnani is one divided being, his twin halves unstuck in time - the supporting actors play their earlier selves in the many flashbacks, with no make-up or attempt to make them appear any older - while Tara itself remains in a time-warp, crumbling, silent, (under)populated by static oldsters, like a stage set designed by De Chirico. Bright arc lights illuminate the buildings at night, throwing the shadows beyond into sharper, darker contrast.

On this stage, the two Magnanis are the sole active figures, vivid performers in a seductive dream that occasionally veers towards the nightmarish - young Magnani is stranded in a town full of hostile ‘strangers’ who seem to somehow know him, know all about him, and the film’s baffling final tracking shot indicates entrapment. But who is the spider? And what is his (or, indeed, her) stratagem? Ultimately, too much is left opaque. Borges never got around to filling in the blanks on his canvas (“this investigation is one of the gaps in my plot,” he concedes) but that doesn’t excuse Bertolucci from coming up with satisfactory possibilities of his own. The Spider’s Stratagem weaves a magical, seductive atmosphere - then stops.

The Spider's Stratagem by Jessi Klein

Like The Conformist, The Spider's Stratagem explores the connection between identity politics and fascist politics. In this film, however, we view the story primarily through the eyes of Athos Magnani Jr, whose deceased father is memorialized by a small town as an anti-fascist hero. Although Magnani Jr's search for the truth about his father's assassination is the manifest content of The Spider's Stratagem, Bertolucci constructs an equally important subtext in the film. That is, through his use of mise-en-scene, elliptical editing, and casting, Bertolucci addresses the relationship between the cinema and the spectator in a profoundly reflective manner.

The story begins with Athos Magnani Jr returning to Tara, the town of his birth. From the moment he first emerges from the train, we have the sense that he is not in another geographical space so much as he is in another psychological space. Bertolucci's camera work consistently creates an oneiric, surreal atmosphere, zooming in, for example, on the back of Magnani Jr's head. In his study, Bertolucci's Dream Loom, Jefferson Kline astutely points out the influence of the surrealist painter Magritte on the look of the film; Bertolucci himself explicitly acknowledges that, "...I bought a book on Magritte and studied it at length with Vittorio [Storaro, his cinematographer]...Magritte was the inspiration for the lighting in Spider's Stratagem. "

Athos has returned to Tara at the request of his late father's mistress, Draifa, who reveals to him that his father's murderer was never found and implores him to make that his mission. As the film progresses, we come to perceive Draifa as a "widow spider," in whose web Athos is slowly becoming entangled. The further Athos plunges into his father's life, the more their identities become intertwined, until the boundaries between Senior and Junior are practically indistinguishable. Bertolucci makes this slippage in identity explicit by using the same actor for the role of both father and son. Furthermore, there is a scene midway through the film in which Magnani Jr is being chased through the forest by his father's friends, just as his father was decades ago (Bertolucci also uses the same actors to portray the friends as they were in the thirties and as they are in the present). Using quick parallel editing, Bertolucci cuts back and forth between the father running and the son running so that they seem to physically become one person. Ultimately, Magnani Jr discovers that his father's death was in fact staged; having betrayed his comrades' plot to assassinate Mussolini to the fascists, Magnani Sr decided to redeem himself by becoming an anti-fascist symbol for the people, a symbol of hope. The "staged" aspect of his death is underlined by the fact that his assassination occurs in an opera house.

In this way, Bertolucci links the idea of cinema with that of historical memory. Memory, like cinema, is a social construct; although cinema can temporarily destabilize the viewer's identity, Bertolucci seems to be reminding us that maintaining one's identity is essential to the ability to view critically.

Epinions [metalluk]

Movie Reviews UK Damian Cannon

Camera Journal [Paul Sutton]

The Context Henry K. Miller

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

THE CONFORMIST (Il Confomista) A 100

Italy France Germany (107 mi) 1970 restored in 1995 to (111 mi)

A marriage of direction and cinematography, this is one of the more sumptuously beautiful films in all of cinema, an extraordinarily stylized mix of sexualization and politics that become fused in a cinematic explosion, a candidate for one of the greatest films ever made, perhaps the singlemost influential movie of our times, without which we would not have Coppola’s APOCALYPSE NOW (1979), with the director insisting upon the same cinematographer after having seen this film, or THE GODFATHER (1971, 1974, 1990) saga, which utilizes the same luxurious richness of color along with similar attention to costumes and art design. Along the lines of CITIZEN KANE (1941), Bertolucci’s film is a monumental collaboration of artistic expression on a grand scale, utilizing the breathtaking photography of Vittorio Storaro, the exquisite elegance of art director Ferdinando Scarfiotti, and the sublime 1930’s-era French costume designs by Gitt Magrini, not to mention a musical score from Georges Delerue. One of the memorable central scenes of the film was even recreated in a Soprano’s (1999 – 2007) third season episode entitled Pine Barrens directed by Steve Buscemi. Adapting a 1947 novel by Italian writer Albert Moravia, who also wrote the novel that inspired Godard’s CONTEMPT (1963), the author is known for his psychological realism and open treatment of sexuality that reflect the anxieties of contemporary times. Moravia’s novel was inspired by the 1937 assassination of two of his cousins in Paris who had been working for the French resistance movement. Opening in 1938 in Rome, the story concerns a central protagonist Marcello Clerici (Jean-Louis Trintignant), who identifies with the prevailing political group in power and tries to normalize himself behind a mask of fascist aristocracy, who is petrified at the idea he is a homosexual, making him feel different, like he has something to hide from the world. While the reasons aren’t initially clear, we learn through flashbacks that he’s been traumatized by a childhood incident where he was sexually abused by a family chauffeur, Pasqualino “Lino” Seminara, Pierre Clémenti from BELLE DE JOUR (1967), where Clerici accidentally shot him with his own gun, continually thinking of himself afterwards as a killer and an assassin.

The restless inner workings underneath the narrative continually altering the time structure hold an essential key to understanding what is a remarkable character study. Tormented by memories of his childhood, history intrudes into Clerici’s real life, where the often repressed subconscious rises out of its hibernation with a powerful impact. While the actual structure of the film may not have been determined until the editing room, Bertolucci adopts a complicated flashback technique, constantly shifting backwards and forwards in time, reflecting Clerici’s anxiety-ridden state of mind, as the director’s love for extended sequences are constantly interrupted by informative childhood flashback sequences that comment upon the present, where his family life was also marked by equally decadent and mentally unstable parents. These experiences have left him feeling uneasy and uncomfortable in his own skin, where Clerici’s response to his clearly dysfunctional childhood is to hide from it by acting as normal as possible. To this end, Clerici embraces Italian fascism and joins the Secret Service, where to be a conformist is to be a fascist. It is not enough, however to join the ranks of the organization, as instead his role is to seek out anti-fascists, where he is assigned the job to assassinate his former teacher, leftist Professor Quadri (Enzo Tarascio), who has fled to Paris in exile where his powerful voice constantly railing against Mussolini must be silenced. In contrast to the claustrophobic look of Italy, Paris is expressed as the city of freedom and openness, a veritable fashion center of the world suddenly bursting with a surreal use of color, an altered sense of reality, perfectly represented by the professor’s wife, Dominique Sanda as Anna, the French wife of an intellectual with lesbian tendencies, who represents glamor and beauty, everything Clerici refuses to be, as she is the exact opposite of the wife he chooses. Stefania Sandrelli is Giulia, equally beautiful but a thoughtless, conventional-minded woman who avoids asking questions about his career, the most perfectly content middle class wife for Clerici who craves a traditional marriage, one whose entire background is grounded in family, church, position, and moral values. Clerici uses his own honeymoon in Paris as the time and place to carry out his assignment, where the newlyweds take a train ride to Paris with the sunlight bursting through the window, accompanied by fellow Italian agent Manganiello (Gastone Moschin) who follows his every move throughout, handing him a gun with a silencer at the Italian-French border.

Trintignant is such a perfect choice, immersing himself in the role, as he’s an actor who specializes in being an everyman who can pass through the streets unnoticed, yet exudes intelligence, remaining quietly thoughtful and reflective. As Clerici he’s something of a ghost of a human being, carrying around his hidden secrets inside him that churn around in his anxious and unsettled frame of mind, like his secret attraction to Anna, who is introduced earlier in brief sequences, once in the fascist ministry and again in an Italian brothel, where she exists almost as a fantasy, an ideal woman who exists in a mystery. Bertolucci’s recreation of Paris in the 30’s shows his love for such a grand period of cinema, reflected in the sensuality of the women’s costumes and their indulgence into Parisian glamor, where not everything is seen in a conscious way, but the continual brilliance of the atmospheric mood intercedes into reality. In this vein, one of the strangest scenes in the film is Clerici’s Italian wedding party, called the “dance of the blind” sequence, which was initially cut in the Italian release, but was actually shot in an underground basement location where you can see the feet of people walking by through the street-level windows, a graphic representation of the subconscious. In addition, it includes a large group of blind people in sunglasses, friends of Italo (José Quaglio), Clerici’s blind friend, a fascist that runs a radio station, a reflection of the blind populace that voted for Mussolini, yet the banquet scene is shot in an exotic party atmosphere with streamers and different colored hanging Chinese lanterns. Clerici visits his parents before he leaves for Paris, where his mother is a morphine addict living in a decaying villa surrounded by unswept leaves blowing in the wind while his father is confined to an insane asylum, shown in an outdoor scene at the Palazzo dei Congressi, originally constructed for the 1942 world’s fair, but cancelled due to Italy’s involvement in the war. Bertolucci utilizes the surviving architecture and décor of the period, where this EUR (Esposizione Universale Roma) district in Rome is a remnant of the architectural dream of Mussolini, as it was built to celebrate twenty years of fascism.

Armond White from The New York Press, Before The Devolution | Manhattan, New York ... - NY Press

Three geniuses teamed up to create The Conformist: director Bernardo Bertolucci, cinematographer Vittorio Storaro and designer Ferdinando Scarfiotti. Their 1970 collaboration was as momentous as the work of Welles & company on Citizen Kane, showing a new generation how to look at movies. This was quite a feat after the many high-art film innovations of the 50s and 60s. BSS synthesized it all—playing with edited time, color, space, form—and then upped the stakes: taking modern cinema back to the arch romanticism of the silent era. In 1970 no one had ever seen a color movie that was as much a visual phenomenon. And it’s still a knock-out. This week’s rerelease at Film Forum proves that The Conformist has been the single most influential movie of the past 35 years.

It came before the de-volution. Bertolucci, Storaro and Scarfiotti worked with the belief (now gradually eroding in the digitial-video age) that cinema was, foremost, a visual art form; that its richest meanings and distinctive impact were the result of images. Images designed to amaze, ideas expressed through illustration, emotion conveyed through the tonalities of light. All that is now taken for granted through today’s barbaric video practices where indie films look like home movies. Watching The Conformist is, more than ever, like being a starving man widening his eyes at a king’s feast. The mist-shrouded view of the Eiffel Tower, the stroboscopic train ride, the high-contrast scenes in a radio studio and many other memorable sequences reawaken one’s senses. You seem to taste “cinema” for the first time.

By the time Clerici contacts the professor in Paris, cineastes will appreciate that the professor’s address and phone number actually belonged to none other than French New Wave filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard. While he’s immediately attracted to the professor’s wife, she’s more interested in spending time with Giulia, seen pampering her on a Parisian shopping spree throughout the afternoon while Clerici has his private meeting with the professor, reminding him of his college thesis on the myth of Plato’s cave (Allegory of the Cave), shifting the light in the room, becoming a standing shadow himself, beautifully visualizing a metaphor while commenting on the illusions of politics and sexual desire. In the myth, enchained prisoners see reflections of themselves on the walls of a cave illuminated by a burning fire, mistaking their shadows for reality. It’s a unique separation of light and darkness, between the divine and a human being, where light is a form of consciousness, while darkness reveals the unknown, something that must remain hidden.

Clerici’s privately repressed lust for Anna is revealed through peep-hole sequences, where he’s seen spying on her in various states of undress, where both she and the professor are aware of Clerici’s fascist sympathies and the danger he represents, where Anna’s pursuit of Giulia may largely be for the benefit of Clerici’s roving male eyes. Both women dress extravagantly for an evening dinner and dance engagement, where the virtuosity of Bertolucci’s gliding camera style is especially evident in the operatic dance sequence bathed in a sensuous texture as the two women are entwined in a feverish, erotically charged dance that unleashes itself in an orgiastic frenzy. This leads to a scene in the snowy woods the following day, exhibiting some of the most exquisite use of light and shadow in a motion picture, where the assassination attempt is eloquently photographed as cinematic art — glorious, powerful, and dramatically effective. With sunlight streaming through the trees, the set-up itself is breathtaking to behold, where time literally stops when the optimum moment is at hand. In the lingering stillness, the psychological intrigue accelerates through the agitated inner workings of the killer’s mind, with the viewer wondering where his sympathies lie, but the seemingly peaceful calm is broken by the decisive brutality of the events, turning into one of the more stunning scenes of the film.

While the entire film is shot in a dizzying array of crisscrossing angles that parallel the freely moving flashback technique, it’s a fairly simplistic story told in a beguilingly complex manner, delving into all manner of Freudian psychosexual issues concerning a confused and cowardly man who has for years tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, vowing to “build a normal life” for himself, yet his very soul hinges on the thought of sexual panic. The extreme aesthetic, with an elaborate color scheme, exotic use of light, and the grandeur of nature on display seem to taunt Clerici’s narrowly skewed interests, where the moral turmoil of his political and sexual confusion eventually become overwhelming, especially as time jumps ahead to the fascist defeat, which completely undercuts his fabricated life and everything he’s stood for, exposing his failures, along with others like him whose unquestioned following of a brutal regime allowed fascism to flourish. In the aftermath of Mussolini’s death, when he suddenly sees the man on the street that he thought he had killed earlier in his life, Lino the chauffeur, still alive and trying to seduce another young man, he becomes unhinged, as if he has an internal explosion, publicly denouncing all his former friends as traitors, homosexuals, and murderous accomplices. While the film is an indictment of hypocrisy and fascism, not to mention conformism as a means of finding a safe haven, it is also a tragic psychosexual descent into utter futility, as all his life Clerici’s constant desire to sacrifice his values and surround himself in a normal life of anonymity was based on the idea that he was different, that he was molested and abused, little more than damaged goods in an otherwise decent and moral society. Liberation has always been conformity’s constant enemy, and now suddenly he finds himself alone in a world that makes no sense, where he’s a stranger literally to himself, unaccepted by the new prevailing order, refusing to identify with the collaborating enemy within, shaking his feeble, weak-willed spirit to the core, where his biggest fear rises to the surface and once again looms mysteriously over his life, powerless to turn away, lost in an ambiguous fog of illusion, paralyzed, helpless and impotent.

Joshua Klein from 1001 MOVIES YOU MUST SEE BEFORE YOU DIE:

The title of Bernardo Bertolucci’s film refers to Marcelo Clerici (Jean-Louis Trintingnant), who readily embraces Mussolini’s fascist government. He joins the secret police and is set up with a new life, including a new wife (Sandra Sandrelli), but his honeymoon has been linked with an ulterior motive. He is to assassinate an old college professor (Enzo Tarascio), a leader of the antifascist movement. However, he begins to have doubts about the validity of his mission, provoked in part from repressed childhood memories.

Has there ever been a movie so utterly at odds with its title as The Conformist? Bertolucci’s film couldn’t be more conspicuously immodest in its audacious use of style; conformity appears to be the farthest element from its intent. The film features a nonlinear narrative, leaping back and forth across time with flashbacks to paint a more detailed portrait of Trintingnant’s complicated protagonist. Even more impressive is Vittorio Storaro’s astounding cinematography. The Conformist makes such good use of color, camera placement, and design that the story often seems subservient to the images.

This is eye candy of the highest order, as undercover assassins and political intrigue have never looked so stylish. Yet the politics of Bertolucci’s film never fade entirely to the background. The Conformist is, after all, a damning indictment of fascist collaborators. Trintingnant is depicted as a weak-willed follower who ultimately pays the price for basing his life on the strong (and wrong) convictions of others.

Curiously, Bertolucci does cloud the story with a bit of dubious psychology. Trintingnant’s behavior, it seems, can be traced back to a sexual encounter in his childhood, a literal link between violence and sex at the foot of his desire for order. It’s as if his decision to join the fascist party will in some way keep his homosexuality in check. Like much of the film itself, the psychoanalysis is mostly surface and introduces little substance. But Bertolucci takes advantage of the3 muddy psychology by introducing copious symbolic references and images, some of them obvious, some of them oblique, but all never less than entrancing to watch.

Exclaim! [Travis Mackenzie Hoover]

The Conformist is by far the most opulent film ever directed by a communist. The plot, from an Alberto Moravia novel, is actually rather complex; it’s about a guilt-ridden man (Jean-Louis Trintingnant) running from an episode in his childhood by becoming the ultimate cog in the social order — in this case an Italian fascist spy. But though there are extremely complicated machinations, in which our conformist gets married to a twinkie (Stefania Sandrelli), is sent on his honeymoon to do some spying and falls in love with the daughter (Dominique Sanda) of the dissident he’s pumping for info, you’ll hardly notice any of it. That’s because Bernardo Bertolucci directs like there’s nobody actually in the room; he and cinematographer Vittorio Storaro create such jaw-dropping images with canted angles, tracking and crane shots that you’re likely to forget the plot and just sit gasping for two hours. There are problems with this, of course. One wishes that the images and text could be harmonious — the themes get swallowed up by the imagery, while the film loses pace because of the amorphous flow of the images. But who cares? The pictures are so damn pretty that I’m not going to split hairs about what might have been. This is a highly influential film that presages the luxuriant auteurism of the ’70s (it no doubt led Francis Coppola to poach the cinematographer for Apocalypse Now) and includes a sequence that was deleted from the theatrical release. If you haven’t seen it, prepare to have your eyes refinished. Extras include three featurettes with Bertolucci and Storaro explaining the casting, the shooting and the release itself.

Bernardo Bertolucci Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Widely considered Bertolucci's masterpiece, and among the most splendid achievements of virtuoso cinematographer Vittorio Storaro, The Conformist is a searing study of sexuality and politics set in Italy in the 1930s. Jean-Louis Trintignant has the title role as Marcello, a young man who becomes a Fascist in order to suppress his homosexual tendencies. The film is based on the novel of the same name by Alberto Moravia, and unfolds as series of flashbacks and flashbacks-within-flashbacks. Its noir-like plot has the desperate-to-be-normal, Oedipally confused protagonist sent by the Fascists on a mission to assassinate one of his former professors. The sheer opulence of the film's visual design - expressive lighting, lavish decor, sumptuous costumes, elaborate tracking shots - evokes the classic Hollywood studio cinema of Sternberg, Ophuls, and Welles, and marks a break with radical Godardian aesthetics of Bertolucci's earlier work. (In fact, the Paris address of the man Marcello is sent to kill is actually Godard's address; Bertolucci is nothing if not self-conscious about his own Oedipal neuroses.) The Conformist is Bertolucci's "most stylistically luxuriant film"(Robin Wood), and "a brilliant work of art" (Peter Bondanella).

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Drunk on Freudian analysis, Bernardo Bertolucci capped the first phase of his career with a history of Italian fascism seen through the lens of one man's sexual dysfunction. Marcello (Jean-Louis Trintignant) says that working as a fascist spy makes him feel "normal," but Vitorio Storaro's oscillating camera puts stability always out of reach. Explicitly working through his own Oedipal issues, Bertolucci divorced himself from the radical polemics of Partner, whose star Pierre Clémenti turns up here as the pedophile soldier whose advances scar Marcello for life, although giving the exiled philosopher Marcello is sent to kill the same Paris address as Jean-Luc Godard didn't quite sever their ties. (The exchange of imperial busts for fascist eagles is a joke right out of Weekend.) A cinematographic fetish object since its release, the film's morbid colors don't quite come through in this mildly battered re-release print, and the subtitles have some awkward spots ("avvocato" as "advocate" rather than "lawyer," for one). But even if it doesn't deserve its place at the pinnacle of the Bertolucci canon (I'd put Spider's Strategem above it), The Conformist is more politically engaged, personally revealing and visually elaborate than its contemporaries, then and now.

Pauline Kael - GEOCITIES.ws Pauline Kael

Bernardo Bertolucci wrote and directed this extraordinarily rich adaptation of the Alberto Moravia novel about an upper-class follower of Mussolini. It's set principally in 1938. Bertolucci's view isn't so much a reconstruction of the past as an infusion from it; the film cost only $750,000—Bertolucci brought together the decor and architecture surviving from that modernistic period and gave it all unity. Jean-Louis Trintignant, who conveys the mechanisms of thought through tension, the way Bogart did, is the aristocratic Fascist—an intelligent coward who sacrifices everything he cares about because he wants the safety of normality. Stefania Sandrelli is his deliciously corrupt, empty-headed wife, and Dominique Sanda, with her swollen lips and tiger eyes, is the lesbian he would like to run away with. The film succeeds least with its psychosexual approach to the Fascist protagonist, but if the ideas don't touch the imagination, the film's sensuous texture does. It's a triumph of feeling and of style—lyrical, flowing, velvety style, so operatic that you come away with sequences in your head like arias. With Pierre Clémenti as the chauffeur, Gastone Moschin as Manganiello, and Enzo Tarascio as the anti-Fascist professor (who resembles Godard). Cinematography by Vittorio Storaro. In Italian. For a more extended discussion, see Pauline Kael's book Deeper into Movies.

Film Forum · THE CONFORMIST

(1970) In Mussolini’s Italy, Jean-Louis Trintignant’s repressed haut bourgeois Marcello Clerici, trying to purge memories of a youthful, homosexual episode (and murder), joins the Fascists in a desperate attempt to fit in. As the reluctant Judas motors to his personal Gethsemane (the assassination of his leftist mentor, whose Paris address, in a pointed homage, matched Jean-Luc Godard’s real one), he flashes back to a dance party for the blind; an insane asylum in a stadium; and wife Stefania Sandrelli and lover Dominque Sanda dancing the tango in a working-class hall. But those are only a few of the anthology pieces of this political thriller, others including Trintignant’s honeymoon coupling with Sandrelli in a train compartment as the sun sets outside their window; a bimbo lolling on the desk of a fascist functionary, glimpsed in the recesses of his cavernous office; a murder victim’s hands leaving bloody streaks on a limousine parked in a wintry forest. Bertolucci’s masterwork, adapted from the novel by Alberto Moravia, boasts an authentic Art Deco look created by production designer Ferdinando Scarfiotti, a score by the great Georges Delerue (Contempt, Jules and Jim) and eyepopping color cinematography by Vittorio Storaro (who personally oversaw the film’s 1995 restoration). “Carries with it a rejuvenating jolt of youthful creative energy, the memory of a time when movies were the most important art and their creative possibilities seemed endless.” – Dave Kehr. “Juggling past and present with the same bravura flourish as Welles in Citizen Kane, Bertolucci conjures a dazzling historical and personal perspective (the marbled insane asylum where his father is incarcerated; the classical vistas of Mussolini’s corridors of power, the dance hall where two women tease in an ambiguous tango; the forest road where the assassination runs horribly counter to expectation), demonstrating how the search for normality ends in the inevitable discovery that there is no such thing.” – Tom Milne, Time Out (London).

The Conformist Jessi Klein

Directed by Bertolucci in 1970, The Conformist looks back at Italy's fascist past to weave an epic modern tale in which political and psychosexual dysfunction are shown to be inextricably linked. Based on the novel of the same name by Alberto Moravia, the film uses a non-linear narrative to follow the story of Marcello Clerici, an Italian from an upper class family whose childhood brush with homo-sexuality creates a pathological cycle of shame which can only be eradicated by an overzealous conformity to society's political mandates. When Mussolini rises to power, Clerici seizes the opportunity to prove his loyalty to the Fascist regime by volunteering to set up the assassination of an anti-fascist leader and ex-patriot now located in Paris. The story takes a turn when we realize the target of the mission is Professor Quadri, Clerici's mentor and father figure from his days as a university student.

Upon arrival in Paris, both Clerici and his wife, Giulia, become sexually entangled with Anna Quadri, the professor's wife. The sexual relationship between Clerici and Anna makes the assassination of both her and her husband an even greater indictment of Clerici's perverse morality. The film ends by making a jump several years into the future; with statues of Il Duce being dragged through the streets, the Fascist regime is literally crashing down around the Clerici's house. Right before the end of the film, Marcello Clerici encounters the same homosexual limo driver who made a sexual pass at him decades ago. Although Clerici thought he had killed him, the man, Lino, is still alive--in Clerici's mind, a living piece of evidence that points to his "original sin." In a fit of madness, Clerici blames him for his own acts.

Throughout the film, Bertolucci's cinematic style synthesizes expressionism, invisible Hollywood editing, and "fascist" film aesthetics of the kind articulated in classic German films of the thirties, such as in Leni Riefenstahl's The Triumph of the Will and Fritz Lang's Metropolis. For instance, Clerici's visit to his mother's house is expressionistically shot with the camera blatantly tilted at an acute angle. In Paris, the scene in which Clerici's reluctance to participate in the farandole leads him to be surrounded by an enormous revolving circle of dancers is shot from an angle high above, so that their individual bodies are de-emphasized. Instead, the organization of the bodies into one regular geometry is what we see most clearly. This technique was effectively used by both Riefenstahl and Lang to express the fascist power's complete subordination of the individual and his body in order to construct an impeccably organized mass.

Washington Post [Desson Howe]

In terms of sheer visual mastery, few director-cinematographer teams have outdone the work of Bernardo Bertolucci and Vittorio Storaro. And among their many collaborations, their finest may be "The Conformist," the 1970 movie about aristocrat Jean-Louis Trintignant's obsessive desire to follow the prevailing political winds.

Luckily, under Storaro's personal supervision, a new, pristine 35mm print has emerged from video doom. The latest release qualifies as a restoration, since a previously unreleased scene -- a five-minute interlude known as the "Dance of the Blind" -- has been reinstated. More importantly, "The Conformist" is back to its original big-screen luster, its blues, reds and greens repolished, and its intricate design available to a new generation. For those who haven't seen it -- and for those who have -- "The Conformist" is a wonderful antidote to the Blockbustering of America, an invaluable opportunity to sample (or relive) the state of filmmaking before "Porky's II."

In this free adaptation of Alberto Moravia's novel, set in the 1930s, Trintignant plays a spineless member of the upper class who is psychologically burdened by a sexually traumatic incident in his childhood. Determined to prove his allegiance to the fascist cause, Trintignant's desire is answered when rightist operatives order him to establish contact with a former professor -- now an anti-fascist -- living in Paris. After locating the professor, Trintignant is to report on his movements. Engaged to the devoted, but vacuously bourgeois Stefania Sandrelli, Trintignant decides to combine his mission with a honeymoon.

But on the journey to France, Trintignant is suddenly informed he must kill the professor (Enzo Tarascio). When he locates his man, Trintignant's now-lukewarm resolve is further complicated by slinky Dominique Sanda, the professor's wife, who offers herself sexually to Trintignant, then makes advances toward his new bride. Trintignant, under the watchful eye of fascist agent Gastone Moschin, has an increasingly difficult dilemma. His sense of allegiance utterly confused, he takes the path of least resistance.

In a story full of treachery, cowardice and sexual decadence, with an outcome that doesn't end happily for anyone, the movie remains uplifting for its breathtaking style. Masterfully arranged for color, texture, decor and camera fluidity, "The Conformist" is more like a symphonic poem than a movie. Your breath is taken away by its baroque compositions, like the shot in which Storaro's camera -- powered by Georges Delerue's rhapsodic score -- glides ghostlike toward its characters at ground level, stirring up a flurry of autumn leaves. Images like that -- projected on a big screen -- show you what the medium is capable of. They also demonstrate why going out to the theater remains the best way to see a movie. And frankly, it's the best way to appreciate Dominique Sanda's mouth, which may be the greatest set of lips in movie history.

“The Conformist”: An unsettling political masterpiece returns ... Andrew O’Hehir from Salon

It’s easier to describe the historical importance and immense influence of Bernardo Bertolucci’s 1970 film “The Conformist” than to describe what it’s about, or to discuss the peculiar experience of watching it in 2014. Indeed, I suspect there is no separating form and substance with “The Conformist,” and the minute you say that it’s primarily an exercise in prodigious visual style, or that it’s a political thriller about a Fascist secret policeman on a murderous mission in France, you have committed an important taxonomical error. Either or both of those descriptions make “The Conformist” seem less peculiar, less sui generis, than it is. The unsettling blend of images and ideas in this movie cannot satisfactorily be disentangled or decoded, and it’s the very strangeness of Bertolucci’s masterpiece that has made it so influential in cinema history.

There are various substandard prints of “The Conformist” available on DVD or the Internet, but this new release is the result of a 2011 restoration from original source materials, supervised by cinematographer Vittorio Storaro and approved by Bertolucci. The differences may be subtle in any given scene, but the film as a whole is far more intense, and seems less like an artifact of a bygone era. That said, there’s no doubt that “The Conformist” may feel alienating or confusing to contemporary viewers accustomed to certain conventions of realism, and to stories constructed as a series of familiar “beats.”

That alienating effect was part of Bertolucci’s design from the beginning, which was driven more by a distinctive late-‘60s combination of Freudian psychology and Marxist ideology, and also by the confrontational mode of Brechtian theater, than by the Hollywood pattern. The acting in “The Conformist” is undeniably hit-and-miss, and sometimes deliberately histrionic in the Italian style. Iconic French actor Jean-Louis Trintignant gives a memorable performance in the title role of Marcello Clerici, an Italian aristocrat who volunteers to be a secret agent for Mussolini’s regime, but it’s the kind of performance that reveals by concealing. Clerici is a tormented but impassive figure, imprisoned beneath his debonair surface, who is able to watch a woman he loves being murdered with no evident emotion. (Trintignant’s dialogue was presumably dubbed into Italian by another actor, a common practice of the time.)

The story proceeds in great leaps from one episode to another, many of them unrealistic or dreamlike. In fact, it’s not so much a sequence of episodes as a sequence of images: Clerici goes from the vast, empty spaces of Fascist-modernist office buildings to a mental hospital that appears to be outdoors (in fact, it’s the Roman Colosseum) to a crowded ballroom of Parisian dancers who freeze in place to watch an apparent lesbian coupling between Clerici’s wife and his lover. Bertolucci and Storaro shaped not just film history but the aesthetic of advertising, design, fashion photography and music video. Again, the most memorable moments are blatantly artificial, as when the bars of light coming through Venetian blinds match the stripes on Stefania Sandrelli’s dress, or the famous shot when fallen leaves rush upward from the ground outside Clerici’s crumbling family mansion.

Even if you’ve never seen “The Conformist,” you’ve seen movies or TV episodes or commercials or other elements of visual culture that were shaped by it. To cite one example, I realized after this viewing that the murder of Adriana in “The Sopranos,” one of the most shocking scenes in David Chase’s landmark series, directly quotes the similar killing of a woman in a rural, wooded setting at the moral climax of Bertolucci’s film. Francis Ford Coppola’s “Godfather” films, especially the masterful “Godfather: Part II,” were heavily influenced by the flashback structure, expressionist color scheme and haunted, menacing mood of “The Conformist.” Storaro would go on to shoot several later Coppola films, most notably “Apocalypse Now,” as well as the distinctly Bertolucci-like “Reds” for Warren Beatty.

As John Patterson of the Guardian has observed, the influence also went in the other direction: Marlon Brando went from “The Godfather” to Bertolucci’s “Last Tango in Paris,” and Robert De Niro (who played the young Don Corleone in “Godfather II”) later starred in Bertolucci’s “1900.” In between those two films, De Niro gave his iconic performance in Martin Scorsese’s “Taxi Driver,” a classic of nightmare expressionism that could almost be described a free-form American variation on the theme of “The Conformist,” complete with its unreliable narrator, perverse sexual subtext, violent climax and sustained mood of grotesque surrealism or hyperrealism.

“The Conformist” is a voyage into the past in two different senses, and indeed into two different pasts. It’s hard to say which one seems more distant to us today: the European avant-garde of the late ‘60s, when this film was made, or the high style and severe repression of Fascist Italy in the late ‘30s, the era it depicts. While the fashions and cars and hairstyles are all period-correct, and no one since Leni Riefenstahl had captured the modernist architecture of the Fascist era as Storaro did, you’ll only get frustrated if you expect the kind of dense historical drama that explains the social and political context of Fascist Italy.

Bertolucci was adapting a well-known postwar novel (by Italian writer Alberto Moravia), so the movie certainly has characters and a story. As the senior Fascist official who recruits Clerici observes, the latter’s motivations for serving the regime as a spy, informant and potential killer are not entirely clear. Moravia’s title echoes Clerici’s expressed desire to fit in, to be “normal,” a desire with roots in Clerici’s isolated, aristocratic upbringing, and also in a mysterious episode of childhood sexual abuse in his past. When Clerici goes to church to confess a long ago crime that seems to come with a lurid story attached, his priest wants to hear every detail – but then, once he learns that Clerici is affiliated with the Fascist secret police, grants a hasty absolution.

“The Conformist” has often been interpreted as a story about repressed homosexuality, and while that’s a possible reading it strikes me as unnecessarily reductive. Clerici becomes enmeshed in two overlapping triangles, one involving two men and another two women. If the former is officially about violence and the latter about sex, both can be understood as symbolic realms subject to multiple interpretations. Clerici is first instructed to infiltrate the circle of his former university professor, Quadri (Enzo Tarascio), now an anti-Fascist expatriate in Paris. Then, after a surreal interlude in a brothel on the French-Italian frontier, his orders change: Now he is to “eliminate” Quadri, at a time and place of his choosing.

But the Paris trip is also a honeymoon for Clerici and his dim, fashionable new bride, Giulia (Sandrelli), who immediately befriends Quadri’s seductive French wife, Anna (Dominique Sanda). Meanwhile, Clerici is relentlessly shadowed by Manganiello (Gastone Moschin), a veteran Fascist agent whose respectful and even servile manner clearly masks a darker agenda. (Coppola would enlist Moschin for a vital supporting role in “Godfather II.”) None of this, one might say, makes any sense: Clerici has no training as an assassin and doesn’t even know how to use a pistol, Quadri and his wife seem to understand the nature of Clerici’s mission the whole time, and anyway, what kind of third-rate spy agency sends a new recruit on his honeymoon and a dangerous mission at the same time?

But those are not the important questions. Like “Taxi Driver,” this movie has a profoundly damaged protagonist whose perceptions cannot be trusted. Whether the erotic triangle between Clerici, his wife and Anna or the triangle of violence between Clerici, the professor and Manganiello should be understood literally or as fantasy – and whether Clerici’s own memories of sexual abuse reflect objective reality – is never clear within the frame of the film. Indeed, it cannot be clear in this kind of film, which is meant to illustrate a psychological and political phenomenon that is still very much with us, in which an individual surrenders his autonomy, his sense of right and wrong and his ability to tell truth from lies, and willingly enslaves himself to a dominant ideology.

Poetry in Translation: The Zealousness of Bertolucci's <i>The ... Poetry in Translation: The Zealousness of Bertolucci's The Conformist, by Mostafa Hefny from Film and Cinema (Oct/Nov 2003)

LRB · Michael Wood: At the Movies Michael Wood from the London Review of Books, March 20, 2008

The Relentless Sublimity of Bertolucci's Il Conformista - The ... David M. Meyer from Brooklyn Rail

The Conformist - Turner Classic Movies James Steffen

The Conformist (1970) - Home Video Reviews - TCM.com Lang Thompson

The Conformist (1970) - Quotes - TCM.com

Before The Devolution | Manhattan, New York ... - NY Press Armond White from The New York Press

Only The Cinema [Ed Howard]

PopMatters [Imran Khan]

Slant Magazine [Violet Lucca]

Slant Magazine Blu-ray [Jake Cole]

The ASC -- American Cinematographer: DVD Playback: Kenneth Sweeney from American Cinematographer magazine, June 2007

CONFORMIST, THE – Hammer to Nail Nelson Kim

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson]

Nerve.com [Bilge Ebiri]

Il Conformista Robin Wood from Film Reference

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray]

"Remember, Fabrizio, one can't live without Bertolucci..." Bilge Ebiri from They Live By Night, December 16, 2010

conformist - review at videovista Gary Couzens

Epinions [metalluk]

Movie ram-blings [Ram Samudrala]

Electric Sheep Magazine Tom Huddleston

filmcritic.com [Chris Cabin]

digitallyOBSESSED! [Jon Danziger]

DVD Savant [Glenn Erickson]

DVD Savant [Glenn Erickson] Extended Edition

DVD Verdict [Rob Lineberger]

Epinions DVD review [Stephen Murray]

Blu-rayDefinition.com - UK Blu-ray [Brandon A. DuHamel]

Blu-ray.com Region A [Dr. Svet Atanasov]

DVD Verdict (Blu-ray) [Gordon Sullivan]

ReelViews [James Berardinelli]

Ferdy on Films [Marilyn Ferdinand]

Film Court (Lawrence Russell)

Dragan Antulov

Epinions.com [Steven Flores]

The House Next Door [Vadim Rizov]

Il conformista RAI International Online

thirtyframesasecond: The Conformist (1970, Italy/France/West ... Kevin Wilson

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

Movie Reviews UK Damian Cannon

EyeForFilm.co.uk Ben Sillis

Bill's Movie Emporium [Bill Thompson]

A Full Tank of Gas... [Richard Cross]

The Conformist, Bertolucci's Boldest Film, Showing at Film .. Calium Marsh from The Village Voice

Daily Film Dose [Alan Bacchus]

Edinburgh U Film Society [Alan Smithee]

Classic Film Guide

Erickson, Hal All Movie Guide

All Movie Guide [Lucia Bozzola]

The Context Henry K. Miller

Bertolucci's Gay Images by Will Aitken Jump Cut, 1976

Tativille: The Limitations of Brilliance, Better than Perfection ... Michael J. Anderson, also reviewing AU HASARD BALTHAZAR

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray] also reviewing Bertolucci’s 1900

Visions of Light Cameramen discuss cinematography where Citizen Kane, The Conformist, and Gordon Willis are featured

TV Guide

Guardian/Observer

BBCi - Films James Rocarols

Time Out Wally Hammond

The value of indifference | Features | guardian.co.uk Film Andrew Pulver from The Guardian, October 9. 2004

Guardian Article (2008) 'Films are a way to kill my father,' interview and new insight on The Conformist by Stuart Jeffries, February 22, 2008

The Conformist returns to remind us of the banality of evil ... Shane Danielsen from The Guardian, February 28, 2008

The Conformist | | guardian.co.uk Arts Peter Bradshaw from The Guardian, February 29, 2008

The Conformist Philp French from The Observer, March 1, 2008

The conundrum Tim Parks from The Guardian, March 7, 2008

The Conformist: No 13 best arthouse film of all time Stuart Jeffries from The Guardian, October 19, 2010

Why Bertolucci's The Conformist deserves a place in cinema history John Patterson from The Guardian, February 22, 2012

The Conformist David Thomson from The Independent, July 14, 2002

Washington Post [Hal Hinson]

Washington Post [Desson Howe]

Cleveland Press [Tony Mastroianni]

Minneapolis/St. Paul City Pages [Terri Sutton]

The Conformist Kevin Thomas from the LA Times

New York Times Vincent Canby

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

DVDBeaver Blu-ray [Gary Tooze]

The Conformist (film) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

The Conformist - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia (novel)

The Conformist - "Opening" Opening credits on YouTube (1:35 )

YouTube - Clip From THE CONFORMIST (2:20)

II Conformista / The Conformist (3:31)

YouTube - Il Conformista (the conformist) Bernardo ... (3:47)

IL CONFORMISTA parte 1/2 (6:20)

IL CONFORMISTA parte 2/2 (5:33)

THE LAST TANGO IN PARIS (Ultimo tango a Parigi)

Italy France (136 mi) 1972 US R-rated (127 mi) NC-17 version (129 mi) original Italian cut (250 mi)

"This must be the most powerfully erotic movie ever made, and it may turn out to be the most liberating movie ever made, and so it's probably only natural that an audience, anticipating a voluptuous feast from the man who made The Conformist, and confronted with this unexpected sexuality, and the new realism it requires of the actors, should go into shock. Bertolucci and Brando have altered the face of an art form. Who was prepared for that?" —Pauline Kael (quote from Derek Malcom article below)

from Time Out London (link lost):

'Even if a husband spends two hundred fuckin' years, he's never going to comprehend his wife's true nature,' says Brando, and in reaction to her death he establishes an anonymous, masturbatory relationship with Schneider in an empty Paris apartment. The resentment of his observation suggests that the film is less about coming together than about more private, chauvinist obsessions: partly about Bertolucci's overriding desire to love every image to death and indulge his doubts about the role of director in movie-making (through the whole Léaud subplot). But mostly the film is Brando's, his comeback after too many bad movies. The monumental narcissism is still there, coupled with the inability to take himself seriously - no one else could play a death scene concentrating on removing the gum from his mouth. Against him, Schneider hasn't a chance, which says a lot about the imbalances of the film; Bertolucci doesn't seem too interested in her either.

Bernardo Bertolucci Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Hailed as a breakthrough in the serious treatment of explicit sexuality in film, and denounced as "obscene, indecent, and catering to the lowest instincts of the libido" by the Italian courts, Last Tango in Paris is one of the cinema's landmark films, and the work that established Bertolucci as a commercially bankable director. After the inexplicable suicide of his wife, a middle-aged American man (Marlon Brando) seeks oblivion in an anonymous sexual relationship with a young woman (Maria Schneider) he encounters in an empty Paris apartment. "At the base of modern sex," Bertolucci has said, "you will find sadomasochism. That means, automatically, that you will find a dialectic of violence and aggression in all human relationships." In the film's subplot, featuring Truffaut and Godard regular Jean-Pierre Lé as the young woman's filmmaker fiancé, Bertolucci expresses his ambivalence about the role of the director in filmmaking, and parodies the New Wave cinema that has so influenced his work."The most powerfully erotic movie ever made, and it may turn out to be the most liberating movie ever made . . . Bertolucci and Brando have altered the face of an art form" (Pauline Kael).

The Last American Hero to Law of Desire Pauline Kael

Exploitation films had been supplying mechanized sex-sex as physical stimulant but without passion or emotional violence. Then, in this film, Bernardo Bertolucci used sex to express the characters' drives. Marlon Brando, as the aging American, Paul, is working out his aggression on the young bourgeois French girl, Jeanne (Maria Schneider), and the physical menace of sexuality that is emotionally charged is such a departure from everything that audiences had come to expect at the movies that the film created a sensation. It's a bold and imaginative work-a great work. When Brando improvises within Bertolucci's structure, his full art is realized; his performance is intuitive, rapt, princely. Working with Brando, Bertolucci achieves realism with the terror of actual experience still alive on the screen. With Jean-Pierre Léaud, Massimo Girotti, Catherine Allegret, and Maria Michi. Script by Bertolucci and the editor, Franco Arcalli; cinematography by Vittorio Storaro; music by Gato Barbieri; production design by Ferdinando Scarfiotti; produced by Alberto Grimaldi. (The film has been subjected to many varieties of legal prosecution, particularly in Italy. The version circulated in the U.S. with an R rating is severely cut.) In French and English. For a more extended discussion, see Pauline Kael's book Reeling.

Edinburgh U Film Society [Richard Dewes]

Maybe not the first art-house film with explicit sex, but certainly the most famous. Marion Brando and Maria Schneider play the couple who, meeting accidently in a vacant Paris flat, agree at his instigation to see each other regularly for sex, divulging nothing of their identities or personal lives. This they do for a while until the pressure of expectation from both sides unleashes a murderous catharsis.

The film broke new ground, primarily because this kind of violent, thrusting, uninhibited passion had never before been shown so clearly. It's the emotional oppoaite of the soft-focus couplings we see in most other films; the extreme frankness here makes faintly uncomfortable viewing. Partly this is because the film is framed by Francis Bacon paintings on the credits, suggesting the exaggerated corporeality of the protagonists: denied emotional connections, their union is reduced to the thunderous collision of a couple of slabs of meat. But partly it's because it's never really clear what motivates Jeanne (Schneider). Paul (Brando) says he's "taking a flying flick at a rolling doughnut" after his wife's suicide - but what's in it for Jeanne, beyond the dubious fulfillment of a hoary male fantasy? Count how many times you see her naked, and compare it to how much screen time his bits get.

We're toying with exploitation here, but then maybe that's inevitable in a film dealing with this kind of subject. Even more than In the Realm of the Senses, Last Tango is the sex-film in extremis, and the voyeuristic portrayal of women may just go with the territory. But the lasting power of the film, reprehensible though it possibly is, is in its ability to force us to think about it.

Bernardo Bertolucci: Last Tango in Paris | Features | Guardian ... Derek Malcom from the Guardian

From a court in Bologna that banned Last Tango in Paris: "Obscene content offensive to public decency... presented with obsessive self-indulgence, catering to the lowest instincts of the libido, dominated by the idea of stirring unchecked appetites for sexual pleasure, permeated by scurrilous language... accompanied off screen by sounds, sighs and shrieks of climax pleasure."

If this is scarcely believable, so now is Pauline Kael's New Yorker review: "This must be the most powerfully erotic movie ever made, and it may turn out to be the most liberating movie ever made, and so it's probably only natural that an audience, anticipating a voluptuous feast from the man who made The Conformist, and confronted with this unexpected sexuality, and the new realism it requires of the actors, should go into shock. Bertolucci and Brando have altered the face of an art form. Who was prepared for that?"

The first ban lasted only two months, though an Italian court later had a negative burned, revoked Bertolucci's civil rights for five years and gave him a four-month suspended prison sentence. In Britain, the sodomy sequence had to be cut, presumably so as not to encourage public schoolboys. Kael's 4,000-word review, however, convinced most sceptics that the film was morally serious and a work of art. It is, of course. But there's such a thing as a morally serious bad work of art.

Last Tango is certainly the film that catapulted Bertolucci towards international fame, the story of a middle-aged man, who, devastated by the apparent suicide of his wife, embarks on a purely sexual sadomasochistic affair with a young girl, who, in the end, kills him.

Throughout the film, the girl is naked and the man is not, which caused further controversy. There were two other significant reviews. Molly Haskell pointed out that it was women rather than men who responded to the film. "Our rearguard fantasies of rape, sadism, submission, liberation and anonymous sex are as important a key to our emancipation, our self-understanding, as our more advanced and admirable efforts at self-definition."

Then there was Norman Mailer, who said that the real thrill was the peephole an improvising Brando offered us on Brando.

Maria Schneider, as the girl, was unknown at the time, and Bertolucci, who failed to cast both Dominique Sanda and Catherine Deneuve when they became pregnant, has said he wanted her to be a Lolita but more perverse. He chose Brando after seeing a Francis Bacon painting "of a man in great despair who had the air of total disillusionment".

Certainly it is a performance of extraordinary force. Brando's friend Jack Lemmon claims it was based on his childhood, when he decided not to have any relationship in which he was going to "get murdered emotionally".

This may be the key to the film, since the pair play cruel, often childish games with each other in between and even during their sexual bouts. She is a child-woman - "Growing older is a crime," she says - and he is escaping back into childhood. The film's imagery consistently reflects this as well as commenting on ageing and death.

Whether it really indicts the bourgeois family structures that "civilise" the savage in us all is a moot point. But it clearly tries to do so. In the end, however, it seems too melodramatic to be entirely successful and too much of a neat, if shocking, fantasy psychodrama to get near the truth.

But it does prove Brando to be a great screen actor and Bertolucci to be a director capable of the audacity of Godard and the naked power of Bergman.

Last Tango in Paris Michael Brashinsky from Film Reference

Last Tango in Paris Importance and ultimate failure of Last Tango in Paris, by E. Ann Kaplan from Jump Cut

Bertolucci's Gay Images by Will Aitken Jump Cut, 1976

Last Tango in Paris video and photo analysis by Todd Stabley

DVD Times - Last Tango In Paris Mike Sutton

kamera.co.uk - film review - Last Tango in Paris - Edward Lamberti

"LAST TANGO" STAR SPEAKS OUT - Celebrating Films of the 1960s & 1970s interview with Maria Schneider by Lina Das from Mail Online, July 19, 2007

The Conversations: Last Tango in Paris Jason Bellamy and Ed Howard at Slant, March 7, 2011

Giving Last Tango Another Whirl Bilge Ebiri from They Live By Night, March 15, 2011

Old School Reviews [John Nesbit]

Bina007 Movie Reviews

Movie Magazine International [Moira Sullivan]

Epinions [metalluk] lengthy review

Epinions.com [Steven Flores]

Movie House Commentary Johnny Web and Tuna

Movie Reviews UK Damian Cannon

eFilmCritic.com (Tony Hansen)

Edward Copeland on Film

Eye for Film (Jennie Kermode)

FilmExposed Magazine David Brooks

DVDTown [John J. Puccio]

Movie Cynics The Vocabulariast

Brilliant Observations on 1173 Films [Clayton Trapp]

Exploded Goat [Joe Cormack]

allmovie ((( Last Tango in Paris > Overview ))) Hal Erickson from All Movie Guide

screenonline: Last Tango in Paris Michael Brooke on the film’s prosecution

The Context Henry K.Miller

Last Tango in Paris photo gallery from Screenrush

Guardian/Observer

Maria Schneider dies aged 58 Xav Brooks from The Guardian, February 3, 2011

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times in 1972 (includes Footnote added 1995)

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times in 1995 (This is the added Footnote without the original review)

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times completely new review in 2004

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

Last Tango in Paris - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Last Tango in Paris - Command Performance on YouTube (1:35)

Last Tango in Paris (3:16)

ideas for butter / last tango in paris (4:32)

Last Tango in Paris - Paul's Eulogy (6:05)

Last Tango in Paris - Paul's Past (6:08)

1900 (Novecento)

Italy France Germany (318 mi) 1976 USA R-rated version (245 mi)

Chicago Reader [Dave Kehr] (capsule review)

Great moments stud Bernardo Bertolucci's 1976 Marxist epic, but the end result is ambiguous. Robert De Niro is a landowner, Gerard Depardieu is a peasant; they share a birthday and most of the history of the 20th century--the fall of feudalism, the rise of fascism, and two world wars. In the film's four-hour version, at least, the characterizations are hazy and the narrative seems jerky. Some scenes are banal and offensively simpleminded. But patience, ultimately, is rewarded with a welter of detail and some mighty fine camerawork. With Donald Sutherland, Burt Lancaster, Dominique Sanda, Stefania Sandrelli, and Sterling Hayden.

DVDBeaver.com [Gregg Ferencz]

An epic historical drama and meditation on class warfare Bertolucci's 1900 is also a metaphoric chronicle of the rise and fall of Facism in Italy during first half of the 20th century. Two men born on the same estate on the same day in 1901 portrayed by Robert De Niro as the landowner's heir and Gérard Depardieu as the son of a peasant grow up as friends and later become rivals during the time leading up to WW2.

This a very ambitious film that is highly flawed but still manages to convey its message and remain a compelling story thanks to some standout performances, beautiful cinematography and a typically rich score by Ennio Morricone.

Time Out Tony Rayns

International tensions and discords are often mainsprings of interest in a film, and the fundamental contradiction between political line and status as glossy commodity might have made Bertolucci's 1900 fascinating. But whether one takes the two-part movie as a glamorous epic or as a lengthy advertisement for the Italian communist party, it still looks like a major catastrophe. Even leaving aside the questions about its sexual politics, the film is crippled by its ineptitude as 'popular' drama (the dynastic rivalries spanning the years, the convulsive deaths, the messy marriages are all strictly sub-Jacqueline Susann) and its manifest inadequacy as political argument (Donald Sutherland is established as Fascism incarnate and then metamorphosed into something like a Disney cartoon villain). The mannered elegance of the camerawork and lighting cocoons the whole sad mess within a veneer of utterly spurious 'style'. (Also shown in a 250-minute version.)

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray] also reviewing THE CONFORMIST

The Conformist clearly influenced Francis Ford Coppola's visual approach to The Godfather (if only in a narrow way); and after Bertolucci cemented his cinema superstar status with Last Tango In Paris, he used his clout to make his own Godfather-style epic, 1900. Gerard Depardieu and Robert De Niro co-star as, respectively, a peasant and a nobleman, whose stories intertwine in Italy through two world wars and various economic highs and lows, all taking place over five hours of screen time. The story is almost too small for Bertolucci's sprawling approach, and the ungainliness of his international cast stifles both the dialogue and the performances. Upon its release in 1977, 1900 became an infamous flop.

But seen with diminished expectations, 1900 is just fine: a well-plotted history play studded with artful sequences and Bertolucci's particular brand of earthiness, bordering on vulgarity. 1900 may seem too conventional compared to the blazing fire of Bertolucci's previous films, but as the film rambles toward its beautifully symbolic final shot of a man on train tracks, it takes its place at the center of the director's career-long, fragmentary 20th-century mosaic.

Exclaim! Travis Mackenzie Hoover

I’ve liked this 1976 movie — all five hours of it — ever since seeing it years ago at a marathon screening in my late, lamented hometown rep house. Its epic socialist sentiments are as broadly drawn and hopelessly naïve as ever but its contradictory ambition keeps me watching for the duration. Robert DeNiro and Gerard Depardieu play polar opposites as an heir to a rural Italian “padrone” and a bastard child peasant, respectively. The film tracks their progress from childhood, when the pair can actually be friends despite the gulf of class that lies between them, to WWII and the well-heeled boy’s ascendance to powerful man protected by the fascists. The film would have you believe that the peasants were unwaveringly socialist in their sympathies and that the battle lines were clearly drawn, but no matter: the film is such a sprawling soap opera that it keeps you going throughout its many dead spots and amorphous structure. Worth it alone is Donald Sutherland’s performance as a villainous fascist, who not only supports Mussolini but kills cats and molests children as well. As a Bernardo Bertolucci film, it lacks the immaculate design of The Conformist and the psychological nuance of Last Tango in Paris, but its total commitment to some heavily simplified ideas is somehow more poignant to me than either of those movies. It’s the work of a true believer and my hat is off to the moneymen who backed this wildly communist extravaganza for a gross and unseemly amount of money. Extras include two brief featurettes that interview Bertolucci and DP Vittorio Storaro on the subject of both the planning/casting and production/release of the film.

Bernardo Bertolucci Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Monumental and undeniably melodramatic, 1900 is Bertolucci's lavish paean to the Italian peasantry, a sprawling Marxist epic that charts the course of Italian communism and fascism through the first half of the 20th century. The film follows the intertwined destinies of two men born on same day, January 27, 1901 - the date, not coincidentally, of Verdi's death. Alfredo (Robert De Niro) is born into a bourgeois family whose patriarch is the wealthy landowner Alfredo Berlinghieri (Burt Lancaster). Olmo (Gérard Depardieu) is the illegitimate grandson of Leo Dalco (Sterling Hayden), patriarch of the peasant clan that lives and works on the Berlinghieri estate. Their trials and tribulations encompass the early political organization of the peasant class, the First World War, the rise of Mussolini and fascism, World War II, the partisan resistance, and the liberation. Baroque, bombastic, operatic, didactic, mythic, grotesque - 1900 is magnificent cinema. Originally released in North America in a truncated four-hour form, it screens here in its original, and superior, full-length version (320 mi). "Grandiose and ambitious . . . an Italian equivalent to Gone With the Wind, combining the demands of commercial spectacle with the concerns of Marxist ideology. Fresh from the box-office triumph of Last Tango in Paris, Bertolucci used American capital to finance this Marxist extravaganza, and he employed major American actors in key roles to guarantee the film's reception at the box office . . . it was the most expensive film ever produced in Italy" (Peter Bondanella).

All Movie Guide [Michael Costello]

Bernardo Bertolucci's massive epic, a history of Italy from 1900 to 1945 as reflected through the friendship of two men across class lines, is one of the most fascinating, if little seen, of his films. After beginning with Robert De Niro as wealthy landowner Alfredo, and Gérard Depardieu as labor leader Olmo, the film returns to 1901 with the death of composer Giuseppe Verdi and the birth of the two friends. The opposing class interests of their grandfathers, padrone Alfredo Berlinghieri (Burt Lancaster), and laborer Leo Dalco (Sterling Hayden), is quickly established in the enmity between the characters. The director is graphic in his depiction of ownership as exploitation, and makes the craggy Hayden character a figure of nearly Biblical proportions as he rouses his fellow workers to maintain solidarity and demand self-determination. As they grow, the boys become friends, mystified by the tensions that separate their families. But as time passes and Alfredo assumes the role of padrone, while Olmo works the land, their relationship becomes strained. With the rise of fascism, the director spells out its complicity with business interests, as the diffident Alfredo falls under the spell of a vicious and degraded fascist farm manager played by Donald Sutherland. Bertolucci, as he has in The Conformist (1970) and The Last Emperor (1987), brilliantly uses characterization to imply and contrast the crippling emotional effects of wealth and power. At over five hours in the restored version, the stately film has a kind of cumulative power now rare on the screen. In fairness, parts of the film's second half lack some the richness of the earlier sections, and a number of simple, almost uninflected scenes, seem excessively didactic, even for a leftist polemic. Among the large cast, the two leads are exceptional, with De Niro evincing an unusual vulnerability. Sutherland gives a disturbingly brilliant performance, and Lancaster is also memorable as the stern landowner. Vittorio Storaro, Bertolucci's longtime collaborator, and one of the greatest of cinematographers, produces images of breathtaking beauty, so much so that the rapturous shots of the vast fields almost make one forget the oppression of the workers. One comes away from this majestic undertaking with a sense of wonder, and awareness that it's not likely to be replicated any time soon.

Austin Chronicle [Kathleen Maher]

By virtue of its very size (5 hours and 11 minutes), there is the temptation to call this restored version of 1900 (originally released in 1977 in truncated form) an epic. It is not and the ways in which it is not is very interesting. For it is not the tragedy of one hero, it is instead, the story of an era told through two characters. Bertolucci's characters are not only not heroic, they are often frail creatures unable to withstand the pressures of public opinion or the allure of decadence. Set on a vast farm owned by the landlord Berlinghieri family and tilled by the peasant Dalco family, the story spans the period between the death of Verdi in 1900 and the death of Mussolini in 1945. It begins at the eclipse of feudalism and ends at the beginning of our modern era when fascism was defeated and the united people faced a new history. Now, almost 15 years after its making, it's almost impossible not to wonder what Bertolucci thinks about his beautiful Marxist treatise on the immortal combat waged between the workers and those who would own their work as it is fought in Italy. There are a lot of speeches made from atop tractors, haystacks and over dead bodies that are moving, but at the same time seem like charming artifacts of a more idealistic time. The first part of the film tells the story of two young boys, one a Berlinghieri, a future landowner, the other a Dalco, born to the soil. This first section of the film is owned by two old men, the Berlinghieri and Dalco patriarchs played by Lancaster and Hayden. It is defined by cameraman Storaro's cinematic views of the Po Valley where every shot of mist enshrouded trees, antique furniture in a darkly lit room, or field of grain is not only a cinematic painting but a glimpse into the interior of Bertolucci's psyche. He returns again and again to the Po Valley, most notably in Before the Revolution and Spider's Stratagem to explore the effects of politics on the individual. As the two boys grow up they are played by DeNiro and Depardieu. DeNiro as the Berlinghieri heir is an effete coward. He despises the fascists as represented by his brutal and murderous foreman, Sutherland, but he's afraid to fire him. In contrast, Depardieu fights and struggles every inch of the way. De Niro is amazing here. He is so young, so feckless, so light with none of the tendency to weight and ponderousness, perhaps even rigidity, that he exhibits in later roles. He plays against the enigmatic Sanda, as his wife made wretched by her husband's cowardice. Depardieu is simply gorgeous: a great tree with roots deep into the heart of the earth. There is not enough room to talk about all the great performances in this movie, though Sutherland, as evil incarnate must be mentioned. 1900 is a marvelous movie, Bertolucci is one of the best directors who has ever lived, but this long "director's cut" version of 1900 is not a complete success. There is a shorter version midway between the long European release and the short American release that is probably the best version and it clocks in at around four hours. After a virtuosic first half, 1900 becomes didactic and worse, choppy. I have difficulty deciding what I'd throw out -- there are so many images here that could break your heart -- but I do wish for a tighter film. If you've never seen it, go; it's just a matter of too much of a good thing.

1900 Monique Lamontagne from Film Reference

A Messy Fight for the Final Cut - TIME Time magazine, May 2, 1977

Ferdy on Films [Roderick Heath]

Bright Lights Film Journal Gordon Thomas

DVD Talk - Special Collector's Edition Svet Atanasov

DVD Verdict - Special Collector's Edition [Ryan Keefer]

Film Freak Central Review [Travis Mackenzie Hoover] comparing 1900 to LA COMMUNE (PARIS, 1871)

VideoVista Jonathan McCalmont, struggles to say anything in the least bit interesting

Epinions [metalluk]

Epinions.com [Steven Flores]

Movie House Commentary Johnny Web

CineScene.com (Chris Dashiell)

Bertolucci, Bernardo interview by Gerald Peary

Bertolucci's Gay Images by Will Aitken Jump Cut, 1976

New Left Review - Silvana Silvestri: A Skein of Reversals July – August, 2001 (brief reference)

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

Read the New York Times Review » Vincent Canby

New DVDs - Dave Kehr - Movies - New York Times

1900 (film) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

LUNA (La Luna)

Italy USA (142 mi) 1979

Time Out

An Oedipal parable, in which Matthew Barry's young junkie falls in love with his opera-singer mother (Clayburgh). Ravishing to look at, but the movie's real curiosity is the way it fails to reverse Bertolucci's usual preoccupations: it emerges that the boy's real problem is the lack of a father and need for a family - an emphasis that Bertolucci himself vehemently denies.

Bernardo Bertolucci Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

"Breaking one of the few cinematic taboos left in the wake of Last Tango in Paris" (Peter Bondanella), Bertolucci's controversial Luna is an unsettling psychoanalytical study of mother-son incest. Jill Clayburgh stars as a recently widowed American diva who takes her teenaged son (Matthew Barry) with her to Rome, where she is to embark on a singing tour. There, she discovers that the youth is a heroin addict, and attempts to wean him off the drug by offering herself to him sexually. Bertolucci's modernization of the Oedipal myth unfolds as melodramatic spectacle, mixing Verdian grand opera with Hollywood-style flamboyance. The film contains references to Rebel Without a Cause, Niagara, and Saturday Night Fever, quotes from other Bertolucci films, and suggests the disparate influences of Oedipus Rex à la Pasolini (Bertolucci's mentor) and Sirk's Imitation of Life. Typical of Bertolucci's cinema, the figure of the father looms large, and the cinematography of Vittorio Storaro is stunning.

Channel 4 Film Richard Luck

Bernado Bertolucci drama about an American opera singer who takes her teenage son on a tour of Italy, only for him to succumb to heroin addiction.

Bernardo Bertolucci is no stranger to controversy. When Last Tango In Paris came out in 1972, the press was appalled by the picture's sexual frankness and Marlon Brando's novel application of butter. It created such a fuss that it's easy to forget that other Bertolucci movies have run into trouble for the way they address intimate relationships. The Conformist, for example, was considered a bit strong for cinemagoers in 1970. But neither it nor Last Tango In Paris could prepare audiences for La Luna, an oedipal odyssey that threatened to make Bertolucci's previous sexual adventures look like entries in Robin Askwith's Confessions series.

La Luna is a decidedly odd movie. American actress Jill Clayburgh stars as Caterina Silveri, an opera diva who takes up residence in Rome. With her teenage son Joe (Barry) in tow, Caterina performs in the city's major venues and soaks up the audience's adoration. But while she throws herself into her work, Joe spends most of his days with a needle in his arm. Appalled that her boy has become a heroin addict, Caterina does everything she can to bring him back into the world of the living. And we mean everything.

With its drug use and its frighteningly close mother-son relationship, La Luna feels like a film that was made to shock. Indeed, upon its release, many critics claimed that Bertolucci had shot the movie simply to create as big a stink as possible. But while there is no denying the more sensational aspects of La Luna, Bertolucci does a magnificent job of serving up this superficially unpalatable tale. By far his cleverest move is his use of Giuseppe Verdi's operas as they lend the film an epic quality. And as an opera, La Luna can get away with things conventional films usually can't. Vittorio Storaro's visuals and Ennio Morricone's big score also heighten the drama, as does the casting of larger than life performers such as Roberto Benigni and Fred Gwynne (aka Herman Munster).

For a film about a bizarre family relationship, the making of La Luna is a charming example of familial togetherness, with Bertolucci teaming up with wife Clare Peploe and younger brother Giuseppe to write the script, and cousin Giovanni serving as producer. And while there is oddness aplenty in the picture, the other side of La Luna is the touching tale of a woman searching for her long-lost father. It's this element of the film that brings the best out of the performers, with Matthew Barry very good as the wayward son and Jill Clayburgh so excellent as Caterina, that you imagine she might have won a lot of awards were it not for La Luna's more daring aspects.

Even as a study of incest, La Luna has much to recommend it. Besides the impeccable camerawork and set dressing, the film allows Bertolucci to do what he does best - put adult relationships under the microscope. You might not like what he finds, but it's compelling stuff and certainly preferable to the sentimentality (Stealing Beauty) and longeurs (The Dreamers) that's stood in for sex in the great director's more recent movies.

Verdict

The operatic and oedipal aspects might be a bit much for some, but those who can stomach La Luna's excesses are in for a film that rivals Bertolucci's best work.

ScreenGrab: The Nerve Movie Blog - Indie Film News, Reviews and Gossip Bilge Ebiri, September 18, 2006, also seen here from They Live By Night, November 6, 2010: Some Recycled Thoughts on Bertolucci's "Luna" (R.I.P. Jill Clayburgh)

Bernardo Bertolucci isn’t exactly a filmmaker who needs an introduction. One of the more resilient of the European directors who emerged in the 1960s, the man has signed his name to at least one acknowledged uber-masterpiece of world cinema (The Conformist, an influence to practically every major filmmaker of the 70s), one bona-fide filmic watershed (the scandalous Last Tango in Paris), one genuine film maudit (the star-studded, Hollywood-financed, five-hour Marxist epic 1900), and one acclaimed Oscar juggernaut (The Last Emperor, which marked his return to the international spotlight in 1987).

Along the way, he also made a number of smaller, lesser-known films. Luna has always seemed to be an oddly overlooked work in his career. (Even though it’s a Twentieth Century Fox production, it’s never been available on any home video format.) Following on the heels of the director’s very public fight with the producers of 1900, it was an attempt to make a smaller English-language film for an American studio. What emerged was a film perhaps even more sexually daring than Last Tango, and in its own way even more controversial than 1900. It was also, perhaps, one of the most personal, raw films Bertolucci ever made.

The film begins with a typically Bertolucci-esque scene of Oedipal symbolism, and it’s probably a good indication of what to expect from the rest of the film. A young baby is fed honey by his beautiful mother (Jill Clayburgh) in a seaside villa somewhere in Italy. The baby starts to cough, and cries. A man comes by with a crate of fish and begins gutting them. In the background, an elderly woman plays a piano. The mother, seemingly in defiance, puts on a pop record by Peppino di Capri, comes up to the man, and begins to do the twist with him. (The man holds a knife in one hand, and a fish in the other, giving their dance an oddly suspenseful edge.) The baby begins to walk away from this scene, but he gets stuck on some twine, so that as he walks the twine stretches back to the mother, a symbolic umbilical cord. The film then cuts to a twilight bicycle ride between baby and mother in which the baby looks up and sees her face framed with the full moon behind them. The moon (aka, Luna) thus becomes a symbol of the mother -- more specifically, of the child’s connection to the mother.

After this intro, the film jumps ahead a number of years. The mother, Catherine, is a world-famous soprano living in Brooklyn with her businessman husband and her teenage son Joe (Matthew Barry, making quite an impression in his film debut). After the husband dies suddenly, Catherine takes Joe to Italy, where her neglect and self-absorption help lead him into heroin addiction. When Catherine realizes that her son is spinning out of control, she tries to intervene and to help him. Unfortunately, one of her ideas is to actually buy him heroin and to try to help him administer it. The desperation of this relationship between mother and son, which has always hovered on the edge of taboo, eventually leads to incestuous longings.

The scandalous nature of the interaction between Catherine and Joe tends to color most viewers’ reactions to the film. But look closer and you’ll see that Bertolucci creates a very subtle back-and-forth here, where the son’s adolescent desperation helps unravel Catherine’s own feelings of inadequacy and loneliness. Bertolucci’s previous films had focused on father figures; in Luna we see how the absence of a father figure sends the respective parts of this family spinning off in their own directions. The man that died in Brooklyn is eventually revealed not to be Joe’s real father; his real dad is that shadowy figure dancing with Catherine on the opening scene. Luna thus turns into a search for a father figure, an attempt to complete this broken nuclear family.

Luna is no masterpiece. Bertolucci’s films have always juggled his fondness for remarkably sensuous visuals with more mundane story demands, and Luna tends to drift in the middle, when it becomes basically a chamber piece between mother and son, adrift in their ramshackle Italian villa. I suspect that Bertolucci is taking a page from Ingmar Bergman’s book here, but he doesn’t quite have Bergman’s dramaturgical rigor. Perhaps, though, he possesses something just as valuable: A remarkable visual sense of mood and space that infuses even the simplest gesture or pan with meaning. As the camera tracks around this shadowy, stage-like space, Bertolucci maintains a palpable atmosphere of Freudian dread; we get the sense that anything is possible. It also helps that he has two very fine actors to carry much of the load.

The final act of Luna, in which Catherine and Joe visit the Parma area, where Catherine spent her youth and which is full of nostalgic meaning for her, gives the film extra resonance. For it is in these scenes that the film becomes clearly a journey into the director’s own past. (He too is from Parma.) Catherine’s visit to her old teacher, who doesn’t remember her, recalls a similar scene in The Conformist. A character from The Spider’s Stratagem, notable for his obsessive discussion of ham, pops up again as an innkeeper discoursing on salami. At one point, Catherine and Joe visit the same farm that was the setting for 1900; the bicycle used by Gerard Depardieu’s character from that film is still leaning against one corner. There are echoes in earlier parts of the film as well: Joe leaves his gum under the railing of a balcony, just like Marlon Brando did at the end of Last Tango. There’s even a nod to Bertolucci’s mentor Pier Paolo Pasolini, who wrote the director’s first film, in a scene where a homosexual (played by Pasolini regular Franco Citti) tries to pick Joe up in a dive bar. Thus, we begin to sense that Catherine’s journey into her past also serves that same function for Bertolucci.

Which raises a tantalizing question: Is Bertolucci indulging in a bit of self-criticism by depicting a character whose singular dedication to her art has alienated her from the rest of her world? Perhaps the director, reeling from the brutal battles (and resultant financial failure) of 1900 found himself doing some soul searching in its wake. Is Luna as much an act of exorcism for its director as it is a movie about a troubled soprano and her junkie son? The film, which ends on a powerful, optimistic note, suggests that art and the world are mutually dependent. Catherine needs her family to be together in order to sing again; but once she sings, she can help hold it all together. The film’s final shot of Catherine, reaching towards the camera, her mouth wide open in song, might just be the most insistently personal image in all of Bertolucci’s cinema.

Of course, it didn’t quite work out. While opening to some positive reviews, and despite Clayburgh’s very strong performance, Luna didn’t exactly repair Bertolucci’s reputation. He returned to Italy and made another film in the early 80s, Tragedy of a Ridiculous Man, which also went nowhere. It wouldn’t be until The Last Emperor that the director would become a brand name again. Luna is now rarely mentioned, and rarely ever screened. There are, however, legit-release German and Finnish DVDs of it out there, and crappy VHS copies pop up on eBay now and again. A film this beguiling certainly deserves better, and you’d think that Fox would at least have tried to capitalize on Bertolucci’s later successes by releasing the film. This December will bring us Paramount’s long overdue DVD releases of The Conformist and 1900. It seems like a pretty good time to bring awareness to this underseen gem.

La Luna from Subterranean Cinema, also seen here: Filmmaker Magazine: Blog

GREAT MOMENTS | San Francisco Film Festival Bernardo Bertolucci: Between Epics and Experimentation, by Barbara Alexandra Szerlip

DVD Talk (Svet Atanasov)

The Spinning Image (Pablo Vargas)

TheScreenBug [Justin Deimen]

Between Productions [Robert Cashill]

All Movie Guide [Michael Costello]

La Luna by Bernardo Bertolucci Betaparticle

Luna photo gallery

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

DVDBeaver.com [Paul Haynes]

La Luna 1979 The two best scenes on YouTube (2:58)

TRAGEDY OF A RIDICULOUS MAN (La tragedia di un uomo ridicolo)

Italy (116 mi) 1981

Chicago Reader (Jonathan Rosenbaum)

Bernardo Bertolucci's 1981 film about a self-made cheese magnate (Ugo Tognazzi) in northern Italy whose son is apparently kidnapped by political terrorists. While his French wife (Anouk Aimee) tries to raise the money for the ransom, Tognazzi becomes friends with the two leftists (Laura Morante and Victor Cavallo) who have been sent to him as go-betweens. Perhaps the least known of Bertolucci's features, it is far from the least interesting. In Italian with subtitles. 116 min.

User comments from imdb Author: ruiresende84 (ruiresende84@gmail.com) from Porto, Portugal

I see this film in straight connection with La Strategia del ragno also directed by Bertolucci 11 years before this one. Only with characters inversion, meaning that in this one the father goes along find out things about his son, hidden things, beyond what he looked like. In the 1970 film it is the son who finds out the life of his late father, his hidden secrets. Still I found the older movie much more appealing, in terms of the plot itself but also in terms of the direction also. It is obvious that a good plot estimulates direction but still this one could have been better. It has from times to times the quality seal from Bertolucci, but in general it's not as good as others. The end is very delayed, the film could have less 20 minutes that it would be better to watch. Some beautiful images along the time, as usual in Bertolucci, but than again somewhat meaningless as they are not many times in the context of the story.

Though the film touches some important issues, such as terrorism in Italy's 1980'. Also interesting in exploring how a man can 'use the blood' of his own son just to get himself out of a difficult financial position. Not much more than this. It's worth watching if you like Bertolucci or if you have special interest in italian cinema. But don't judge the director just on this one. It is unfair, specially if we think that his second film after this one was The Last Emperor...

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

A high-angle shot of Ugo Tognazzi near the beginning, groaning in his sleep with fedora pulled over his eyes, sums up his "ridiculousness" -- a former peasant and fighter comfortably grown into bourgeois middle-age, not too rich but enough to forget the past, and probably the present. "Ridiculous, but with style," he thinks, trying on a yachting cap, his birthday present, just in time to try the binoculars from the top of his Parma cheese factory and spot his son being shoved into a car by a hooded gang. Or was he? Bernardo Bertolucci in a pensive, restrained mood following the wackiness of Luna, with results no less oedipal: the camera tilts then untilts within the same shot, though the focus here is on the torturous passage of time, the scrambling for a billion-lire ransom, and the yawning gulf that seems to materialize between generations. Wife Anouk Aimée takes distraught inventory of their belongings, interrupted by Tognazzi: "Why did you marry me?" Secrets come to the fore, but how do the son’s proletarian friends (Laura Morante, Victor Cavallo) fit into the affair? Slippery slaughterhouse montage braids the three in the nation’s moral-political quandaries, where the son’s supposed death becomes the father’s ticket back toward economic safety, disguised (in his mind, at least) as a return to early activist roots. A gag, really, for this is Bertolucci’s subtle satire, Tognazzi chased over town by loudspeakers and helicopters, a roomful of moneyed fogies straight out of Eisenstein, Vittorio Caprioli’s pratfalls over petit-bourgeois furniture. Grim farce ultimately gives way to disillusioned impotence, a difference not just between The Spider’s Stratagem and this film but between 1970 and 1981, revolution congealed into patriarchal guilt and radicalism stalled, like the fluidity of milk into cheese, as societal alternatives become ghosts of the past. Reunion is fragile -- the "enigma of the son who dies and is reborn," scored uneasily to punk rock and indigenous Italian band tunes, yet Tognazzi is the same still, "ridiculous," locked in the obscuring iris of political ordinariness. Cinematography by Carlo Di Palma. Music by Ennio Morricone.

Spirituality & Practice [Frederic and Mary Ann Brussat]

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

THE LAST EMPEROR

Italy France Great Britain China (160 mi) 1987 ‘Scope director’s cut (219 mi)

The Last Emperor - Time Out New York Bilge Ebiri DVD review

One of the seminal bad boys of European art cinema in the 1960s and ’70s, Italian director Bernardo Bertolucci found new relevance in 1987 with this ornate, Oscar-winning epic about the life of China’s last monarch, now available in a lovely four-disc Criterion edition. (The set contains the theatrical cut of the film, a television version that runs about an hour longer, numerous documentaries, and some very enlightening commentary from Bertolucci and his key collaborators.)

Aisin-Gioro Pu Yi was crowned while a mere tot, and then suffered pretty much every indignity the 20th century could throw at him, ending his days as a humble gardener in the People’s Republic of China. That sounds like a recipe for the usual staid historical biopic, but this is, after all, Bertolucci. In his hands, the emperor’s palace in the Forbidden City is not just an impossibly gorgeous world of gold and fabric, it’s also a mental maze of stunted emotions and psychosexual longing. In addition, Bertolucci’s panoramic masterwork presents the reverse of what ennobling historical films usually try to teach us: Pu Yi has no power; from his unwitting elevation to the throne to his unexpected abdication to his pathetic attempts to regain his past glory, this is a man acted upon by history, not the other way around. The result is a bewildering masterpiece—a glorious film about an inglorious man.

Bernardo Bertolucci Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

"A film of unique, quite unsurpassed visual splendour" (Variety), Bertolucci's vast and voluptuous historical epic swept the 1987 Academy Awards, winning in all nine categories in which it was nominated, including Best Picture and Best Director. The film charts the odyssey of Pu Yi, China's last emperor, from his ascension to the Dragon Throne in 1908 at age of three to his dying days as a humble gardener in Mao's People's Republic. Forced to abdicate after the establishment of Sun Yat-sen's first republic, he spends twelve years locked inside Beijing's Forbidden City, then goes into exile as a Western-style playboy in Tientsin. He is later installed as the puppet emperor of Japanese-controlled Manchuria, before his eventual imprisonment and "re-education" by the Communists. As portrayed by John Lone, the film's protagonist is a sympathetic but weak-willed mediocrity, swept along by historical and political forces much beyond his grasp or control. The Last Emperor marked the first time that westerns were allowed to film in the Forbidden City; in the opinion of many, the true star of the spectacle is China - and, of course, the great cinematographer Vittorio Storaro, here winning a much-deserved third Oscar (the previous two were for Apocalypse Now and Reds). "A masterpiece . . . The use of color and space, of Beijing and history, of John Lone and Peter O'Toole were all masterly. The Last Emperor is a true epic but with an alertness to feelings as small and humble as a grasshopper" (David Thomson).

Time Out

The odyssey of Emperor Pu Yi, from ruler of half the world's population to humble gardener in the People's Republic of China, is a saga of tidal historical turbulence with a small, often supine centre. Nations treated Pu Yi as a blank screen upon which they projected their ambitions, but Bertolucci's epic strives not to follow suit. The vast, gorgeous tapestry of visual delights is built around the question of one man's capacity for personal redemption, which - up to a point - transforms the puppet into protagonist. Pu Yi ascended the Dragon Throne at three but was forced to abdicate at six when China became a republic, and from then until his expulsion from the Forbidden City, his puissance was an empty charade, his palace a prison. This section of the film is sumptuously rich and strange, from the bewildering maze of the Forbidden City itself (with its 9,999 rooms) to the daily rituals surrounding the little Living God. Thousands of courtiers indulge his every whim, but can never allow him to venture outside; to some extent his Scottish tutor (O'Toole) replaces the forfeited warmth of his mother and wet nurse, later supplemented by an Empress (Chen). Given this outlandish upbringing, it is impossible to judge his subsequent showing as playboy in exile and dupe of the Japanese - neither section memorable. The film covers over half-a-century in flashbacks, contrasting at the start the rainbow glories with the grey reality of Communist confession, and gradually monitors its spectrum as Pu Yi rejoins the human race. John Lone is superb as the sad mediocrity; and if spectacle finally triumphs over sympathy, it is not without a decent struggle.

The Last American Hero to Law of Desire Pauline Kael

Bernardo Bertolucci tells the story of Pu Yi, who was not quite 3 when, in 1908, he was set on the Dragon Throne in Peking's Forbidden City and became the titular ruler of a third of the people on earth. After being deposed and then enthroned again in Japanese-occupied Manchuria, he was in Soviet custody for 5 years, and then spent 10 years being "re-educated" in a Chinese war-criminals prison. The movie doesn't have the juicy absurdity that seems to pour right out of the historical story. And it suppresses the drama. But it has pictorial grace and a dull fascination. Bertolucci presents Pu Yi (John Lone) as a man without will or backbone who lives his life as spectacle-who watches his life go by. And so we're given a historical pageant without a protagonist. There's an idea here, but it's a dippy idea-it results in a passive movie. This epic is meant to be an attack on privilege (and at times it's like a replay of THE CONFORMIST in Manchuria). Bertolucci and Mark Peploe, who wrote the script with his assistance, want us to believe that Pu Yi became a model citizen through the ministrations of the kindly prison governor (Ying Ruocheng), and that in his later years, when he worked as an under-gardener, he experienced freedom for the first time. They want us to believe that what some might disparage as Communist brainwashing actually cleaned away his decadence and healed him. With the gifted Joan Chen as the empress, the likable Wu Jun Mimei as the No. 2 wife, Peter O'Toole as Pu Yi's tutor, and Maggie Han as the lesbian spy. Cinematography by Vittorio Storaro; sets by Ferdinando Scarfiotti; costumes by James Acheson; music by Ryuichi Sakamoto, David Byrne, and Cong Su. (The film shows the palaces and courtyards of the 250-acre Forbidden City.) Academy Awards: Best Picture, Director, Adapted Screenplay, Art Direction, Cinematography, Costume Design, Film Editing, Score, Sound. Released by Columbia. (166 minutes.) For a more extended discussion, see Pauline Kael's book Hooked.

Edinburgh U Film Society [Spiros Gangas]

Covering a period of more than fifty years, Bertolucci's epic follows the rise and fall of the Chinese emperor Pu Yi (John Lone). From his crowning at the age of three until practically his fall, Pu Yi was treated as a mere puppet manipulated by the Western nations and Japan. But when China became a republic, Pu Yi found himself a prisoner in his own palace (the Forbidden City with its 9,999 rooms!). His Scottish tutor (Peter O'Toole) tries tirelessly to open Pu Yi's eyes and to offer constructive advice. He also provides a kind of friendship which the emperor has never experienced before.

Having swept the Oscar Awards, The Last Emperor could have been made in America for the simple reason that it displays all the characteristics of magisterial cinema. The use of English language though seems to be detrimental to the faithful depiction of the cultural climate in China, although the excellent performances throughout the film, especially from John Lone, function well in turning away the viewer from that fact. The glorious photography displays impressively the imperial rites in the palace, as well as the atmospheric interior scenes of personal confrontations. It's interesting also to observe that the latent lesbianism in previous Bertolucci films, such as The Conformist, manifests itself in the scene involving the empress (Joan Chen) herself.

An interesting film, especially in historical terms, The Last Emperor ultimately places too much importance upon the visual element, which might indeed be essential but it works at the expense of the psychological element in Pu Yi's relationship with his surroundings. And although inferior to similar films such as Kurosawa's Ran, it still remains quintessential magisterial cinema.

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson] (November 1998) a new review here: Cinematical (March 2008)

I saw The Last Emperor the week it opened in 1987, and haven't seen it since. Now, 11 years later, the movie is being re-released, in a "director's cut," supervised by cinematographer Vittorio Storaro, with almost an hour of footage restored. The 11 years in-between viewings of The Last Emperor has dulled my memory, and I wasn't able, for the most part, to distinguish which scenes were new.

I think the reason for this is that The Last Emperor is such a passive movie. Most of the scenes that were there before don't work to "drive" the movie forward. The new scenes are there more as dressing -- to give you more a of an idea of character of Pu Yi, and just how empty his life was.

The Last Emperor was directed by Bernardo Bertolucci, from a screenplay by Bertolucci and Mark Peploe, and it shows a strange dulling of Bertolucci. He was once dark and intense, with Before the Revolution (1964), The Spider's Stratagem (1970), The Conformist (1970), and Last Tango in Paris (1972). He also made another international epic before The Last Emperor, 1900 (1975), which was a mad, enthusiastic monster of a movie. I wonder if that experience left him gutted and drained. We now know that his work since The Last Emperor has shown no signs of returning to past glory; The Sheltering Sky (1990), Little Buddha (1994), and Stealing Beauty (1996).

The Last Emperor may be the last strains of the artist in Bertolucci. The new cut runs about 3 hours and 40 minutes, and yet it's never boring. It never falls into cliché, or panders, or dumbs itself down. It seems fresh after 11 years. (The same could not be said for The Big Chill also being re-released after 15 years.) I think it speaks highly of the movie that the new footage is seamless and doesn't distract from what I remember from the original, shorter, cut. Bertolucci was the first Westerner allowed to film in the Forbidden City, and he took marvelous advantage of it. He fills each frame with a full representation of what the space is like. We are never confused as to where we are. The colors are brilliantly used, too. Greys are used for the present day, as Pu Yi is telling his story in prison, to Golds for the glorious past, when Pu Yi actually ruled as a child.

Still and all, for all this remarkable beauty, Bertolucci doesn't quite get to the poetry of the situation. We're fascinated, using our brains, but there's nothing here to touch the heart. It's an ironic story. I think director Martin Scorsese cut closer to the truth with Kundun (1997), which was a similar story in many ways (about the Dhali Lama and his escape to India after the Red Chinese invaded Tibet).

The Last Emperor set a record at the Academy Awards, winning every category it was nominated for; a total of 9 Oscars, including Best Picture and Best Director. I wouldn't take any of these away. I think the movie is perhaps the last of the great old-time Hollywood epics, in a class with Intolerance (1916), The Godfather Trilogy (1972-90), Barry Lyndon (1975), The Right Stuff (1983), and Once Upon a Time in America (1984); and much better than Gone With the Wind (1939), Ben-Hur (1959), The Sound of Music (1965), Gandhi (1982), The English Patient (1996), or Titanic (1997). I think this form needs to be celebrated sometimes. Although, just because a picture is big, doesn't mean it's the best. I think I respect The Last Emperor because it doesn't overwhelm you the way Gone With the Wind and Titanic do, pounding deliriously on you, begging you to love them. The Last Emperor is quiet and respectful of the audience. It allows us to join it.

One Oscar that got away is for John Lone as Best Actor (the winner was... Michael Douglas in Wall Street?!?). John Lone is a very good Pu Yi, even though the passivity of his character prevents him from giving a blow-out performance. He has a striking face, and he ages from 18 to 62 during the course of the movie. (The age make-up does not draw attention to itself like in many other movie epics.) Pu Yi, as everyone must know by now, ascended the throne at the age of 3, and abdicated at the age of 7. He was given a tutor, Reginald Johnston (Peter O'Toole), and was married to the new empress (the wonderful Joan Chen) at 15. He remained in the Forbidden City of China until he was 19, a token symbol of the former China, now under rule by the Republic. He then was seduced by the Japanese to become ruler of Japan-occupied Manchuria, again to be nothing more than a puppet emperor. As that position crumbled, he was imprisoned for 10 years, and "reeducated" to become a Chinese Communist. He lived out his last years as a gardener.

For a nearly 4 hour movie, The Last Emperor seems complex, but is really very simple. The best I can say for it is that it is a smart epic, and I think it will age very well. It would have succeeded more if it had found a way to worm itself into our hearts. As of now, I suspect that the film community looks upon the movie with a kind of awe and respect, rather than a real adoration. I think sometimes -- when you've got a story as fascinating as this one -- there's a place for that, and I think people should go see The Last Emperor.

Emperor 2.0 Criterion essay from Peter Becker explaining the Criterion change in aspect ratio, February 25, 2008

The Last Emperor, or The Manchurian Candidate Criterion essay by David Thomson, February 25, 2008

The Last Emperor (1987) - The Criterion Collection

Entering Cinecittà Criterion comments, March 11, 2010

The Rules According to Bertolucci Criterion comments, March 3, 2010

The Sounds of The Last Emperor Criterion comments, January 11, 2010

The House Next Door [Andrew Chan] also seen here: The Criterion Collection Database

Images (David Ng)

Criterion Confessions Jamie S. Rich, DVD review here: full article at DVD Talk

Turner Classic Movies James Steffen

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Filmcritic.com Jason Morgan

"The Last Emperor"'s new dimensions Glenn Kenny from In the Company of Glenn, February 26, 2008

Storaro and widescreen Glenn Kenny from In the Company of Glenn, February 27, 2008

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12 REGISTRI PER 12 CITTÀ

Bertolucci segment: Bologna

Itlay (90 mi) 1989 omnibus film with 12 Italian directors

User comments from imdb Author: Ben_Cheshire from Oz

Antonioni films great monuments and sights in Rome, ending up at the roof of the Cistene chapel in Vaticano. He films it so beautifully that, at an art gallery screening, you almost forget that this is essentially a tourism film.

It is a rare treat to see such beautiful celluloid expended on just sight-seeing. But, having been to Rome, i know the sights really deserve seeing!

This is really Antonioni's passion. He probably enjoyed making this much more than he enjoyed making La Notte (which was all about character).

But I personally wish Antonioni wouldn't spend his time filming other people's great works of art instead of making the next Blowup - but he's 83 at time of writing, and that's how he did choose to spend it, so we have to just savour those few features he did make.

THE SHELTERING SKY

Great Britain Italy (138 mi) 1990

Time Out

Paul Bowles' novel presents the problem of interiorisation, and a presiding morbidity that would clear most movie-houses. Bertolucci has wisely elected to open things out and to humanise his characters, relenting a little in favour of romance. The American travellers in North Africa, Kit and Port Moresby, still go down the drain, but in this version you care. Remote husband Port (Malkovich) unwisely samples Arab prostitutes, neurotic Kit (Winger) has a fling with their travelling companion Tunner (Scott); but where the story really hooks in is their realisation, after an abortive attempt at sex, that reconciliation is impossible. Port contracts typhoid, and the couple's frantic search for help in increasingly primitive terrain makes for horrifyingly powerful cinema. After Port's death, Kit loses both identity and compass bearings, wanders into the desert, and enters into a sexual delirium with the Tuareg Belqassim (Vu-An). As you'd expect, it's a big, handsome film, rich and strange in psychological depths and eroticism. Malkovich and Winger play woundingly well.

Bernardo Bertolucci Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Bertolucci's much-anticipated follow-up to The Last Emperor was this visually sumptuous adaptation of the celebrated novel by Paul Bowles. Set in North Africa in the late 1940s, The Sheltering Sky follows the existential peregrinations of Port and Kit Moresby (John Malkovich and Debra Winger), an American couple whose marriage is unravelling while their travelling companion Turner (Campbell Scott) looks on. Turner takes advantage of the situation to seduce Kit; she is later captured and held in a harem by a Tuareg nomad. The film renders its protagonists' journey as symbolic, and uses the desert as metaphor; it recalls Last Tango in Paris"in its disturbing portrait of a consciousness in search of its own annihilation"(Robert Burgoyne). Bertolucci himself has said, "Isn't the empty flat of Last Tango a desert and isn't the desert an empty flat?" The work benefits greatly from its tour-de-force production values: spellbinding cinematography (by Bertolucci regular Vittorio Storaro), richly detailed costumes, exotic locales, and bewitching North African music."As you'd expect, it's a big, handsome film, rich and strange in psychological depths and eroticism. Malkovich and Winger play woundingly well" (Time Out).

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Jeff Ulmer)

American-born author, composer and poet Paul Bowles first discovered Morocco in the 1930s on a suggestion by Gertrude Stein, while he was travelling and studying under Aaron Copland. After a successful career writing scores for numerous ballets, films and Tenessee Williams plays, Bowles returned to Morocco in 1947 with his wife, author Jane Auer. Settling in Tangier, he took up writing again, penning his first novel, The Sheltering Sky, which was published two years later, and has since been recognized as one of the top 100 works of twentieth century literature. In 1991, Italian director Bernardo Bertolucci adapted the novel to the screen, with Bowles himself providing the narrative voiceover.

The Sheltering Sky takes place in the years shortly following the second World War. Leaving behind a life of indolence in their native land, three Americans arrive in Africa to set out on an adventure, as perhaps the first Westerners to return to the continent since the war. Port Moresby defines himself as a "traveller," one whose journeys need not have a point of return. His wife Kit describes herself as "half and half," somewhere between the carefree wanderer of her husband and the more definite "tourist" that their uninvited companion, George Tunner, embodies. As intellectuals and authors, the Moresbys have come to this exotic location to search for some element that will rekindle their ten-year marriage and free them of the underlying tension that haunts them. Tunner's inclusion is very much a lark, escaping the boredom of societal high life, and the Moresbys plot to rid themselves of his presence as soon as possible.

Almost immediately they are set upon by another pair of ex-patriots: a hideous man in both appearance and character, Eric Lyle, and his mother, who claim to be creating a travelogue, but whose intentions may be more parasitic than anything else. Losing patience with city life, the Moresbys decide to head into the desert, but their plans for doing so together fall apart when the means of travel requires enduring either the train—which Kit is morbidly afraid of—or the company of the Lyles. After reuniting at their next stop, Port and Kit reaffirm their love for each other, but the African desert has its own plans for the pair. As their wandering continues, the drift further from their past and their insignificance in the grand scheme of things is made clear with deadly decisiveness.

Bertolucci's films rely more on character study than action or plot, which for some may mean the story drags. For others, it is that depth of character and immersion into the world and minds of the players that captivates, and here we witness the lives of the principles as their story weaves to its inevitable conclusion. While the film begins as a story of the Moresbys, peeling back the layers that makes up their lives, it evolves into the experiences Kit faces as she finds herself in an alien world, without the familiar comforts of language and culture. From trying to maintain a façade of the tangibility to her marriage, to her sojourn into the desert, she becomes more and more consumed by her environment and further detached from anything resembling conventional normalcy.

Malkovich and Winger excel in their roles, he as an unpleasant and grating character, and she as a woman slowly retreating from anything within her former experience. The supporting parts are equally well cast, from Timothy Spall's repugnant Eric, to Campbell Scott's (son of George C. Scott) cautiously adventurous Tunner, fascinated by Port while being drawn to Kit.

Although The Sheltering Sky is steeped in cinematographer Vittorio Storaro's luscious imagery of the North African landscape, basking in amber hues and a glorious richness of color, the film is also permeated with a darker, more sinister experience, juxtaposing the poverty of the narrow streets in somber greyish tones, seething with flies and disease. From expansive crane shots to tight, detailed portraiture, the camerawork conveys a sense of claustrophobia even amidst a seemingly boundless background. Set against Ryuichi Sakamoto's award-winning score, the visuals combine in an atmosphere of listless, emotional emptiness that becomes an hypnotic and voyeuristic plunge into the alienation of its characters. It is a love story with an aftertaste that is haunting and unforgettable.

The Sheltering Sky Adrian Gargett (Azimuté, 2002)

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LITTLE BUDDHA

Great Britain France Liechtenstein (140 mi) 1993 ‘Scope USA release (123 mi)

Time Out

Nine-year-old Jesse (Wiesendanger), son of Seattle teacher Fonda and architect Isaak is identified as a possible reincarnation of a Tibetan Buddhist lama. On a visit to their apartment, dying lama Norbu (the sympathetic Ying Ruocheng) gives Jesse a picture-book of the life of Siddhartha/Buddha and suggests a visit to his monastery. Facing bankruptcy, Jesse's father accepts, and on the subcontinent Jesse witnesses Siddhartha's cosmic battle to banish evil, the multi-form Lord Mara, and finds he is just one of three candidates from whom Norbu must choose. Bertolucci's epic is a disappointment. With its once-upon-a-time structure, it has the feeling of a beautiful but very expensive kids' movie, intercut with a '50s 'Scope sandal-saga. Reeves makes a pretty, exotic, bare-breasted icon as the damask-cloaked prince turned rasta-style ascetic. On a deeper level, the film seems not to be specifically about Buddha, but about resistance and acceptance, weirdly resolving itself into an confusing essay on the deification of children.

Bernardo Bertolucci Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Many didn't know what to make of Bertolucci's sumptuous Little Buddha. An attempt to bring a genuinely Buddhist sensibility to a film about the Buddha? A trippy throwback to the hippy-dippy 1960s? Keanu Reeves as the Buddha??!! A magical, fairytale-like film, sans the sex, politics and Freud one usually expects from the director, Little Buddha interweaves the ancient story of Siddhartha's search for enlightenment with the contemporary tale of a young Seattle boy who may be the reincarnation of a famous Tibetan lama. Chris Isaak and Bridget Fonda play the boy's parents. Cinematographer Vittorio Storaro employs a breathtaking palette of colour, light and texture to contrast the vibrant, spiritual Far East, all reds and golds, silk and wood, with cold, dispirited Seattle, all blues and greys, glass and steel. In the bare-chested Reeves, as the ancient Buddha-to-be, we have "the spiritual leader as supermodel (Anthony Lane, The New Yorker). "It is, Bertolucci has said, a film without dramatic conflicts, a story in which the dualism and division that animates his other films is resolved into a kind of harmonious unity . . . The film aims for a simplicity of tone and address that could be understood and appreciated by children: indeed, Bertolucci has called Little Buddha a film for children, arguing that when it comes to Buddhism, everyone in the Western world is a child" (Robert Burgoyne).

Austin Chronicle (Marjorie Baumgarten)

Tibetan monks on the Seattle monorail. A fair-skinned, blond-headed, American gameboy in a sea of dark-haired residents of Kathmandu. Such are the images in Bertolucci's new film Little Buddha, forming not so much dichotomous contrasts as modern-day assimilations of East and West. Bertolucci's last three films -- the multi-Oscar-winning The Last Emperor, the North African-set The Sheltering Sky, and, now, this exploration of Buddhist thought, Little Buddha -- find the director looking eastward toward spiritual and mystical dilemmas. This recent concentration marks a shift from Bertolucci's earlier focus on Oedipal knots and their sociopolitical manifestations in films such as The Conformist, 1900, Luna, and Last Tango in Paris. It suggests that humanity's grappling with the infinite and mortality and change are also central life issues and that resolutions are not necessarily attained through Western-style conflict and opposition. Out of this comes Bertolucci's presentation of the legend of Prince Siddhartha who, while searching for the “middle way” 2500 years ago, found enlightenment and became the Buddha. This story is set off by a contemporary one in which a Tibetan monk, Lama Norby (Ruocheng), journeys from his monastery in Bhutan to Seattle to visit a young boy, Jesse Conrad (Wiesendanger), who is believed to be the reincarnation of an important Buddhist monk, Lama Dorje. (The story is reportedly based on similar visitations that have actually occurred to certain American children.) Jesse's parents (Fonda and Isaak), though incredulous, are willing to let their son spend time with the benign Lama Norby, who presents the boy with a children's storybook of the life of the Buddha. When Jesse reads from the book, the movie slips into almost magical recreations of key episodes in the life of Prince Siddhartha (Reeves) on the path toward enlightenment. These scenes are fantastically photographed by Bertolucci's longtime cinematographer Vittorio Storaro, with an eye toward the superordinary and oracular. Even Reeves' occasional surfer dude-isms and speeches peppered with modern language terms like “ego,” don't get in the way of the mystical experience and transmission of Buddhist thought. Some very visually based metaphors and juxtapositions are used to eloquently demonstrate concepts, and when Bertolucci sticks with this sort of visual narrative, he never falters. Not as much can be said of the plot's progression. Oftentimes, it feels too calculated, as if it were a Buddhism Made Easy course for jaded Westerners. In many ways, the situation resembles the East-meets-West experience of reading Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha. But the plot also gets muddied by the introduction of two other children who are also being considered as reincarnated Lama Dorje candidates. It raises questions of plot developments that never occur, thereby stranding the viewer without a compass. Jesse's parents are also ill-developed as characters (though they are well-played by Fonda and Isaak). Their tensions, conflicts, and desires are presented but glossed over and one suspects that in real life, the parents' involvement would have a greater hand in steering the events. The parents' very willingness to accept into their lives these Tibetan monks who literally just appear on their doorstep, and, furthermore, allow these strangers -- though they be sweet and gentle men of religion -- unsupervised access to their son, strikes me as unlikely during this modern American crisis of missing children. But maybe that's the point -- to allow the mysterious in. In that case, Little Buddha is a portal. Some of the movie's mysteries are more unsuccessfully secular than rapturously eternal, but the doorway opens far enough to offer a few glimpses of nirvana.

Old School Reviews [John Nesbit]

James Berardinelli's ReelViews

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

Pedro Sena

Trincoll Journal (Camden Hubbard)

Steve Rhodes

Michel Hafner

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Washington Post [Joe Brown]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

All-American Boy Who May Be a Buddha - New York Times Janet Maslin

STEALING BEAUTY

Italy France Great Britain (113 mi) 1996 ‘Scope

Time Out Geoff Andrew

When Lucy (Tyler), a 19-year-old American, whose poet mother has recently died, visits friends in a Tuscan villa, her plans involve more than a simple holiday. For one thing, she cherishes memories of a first kiss, four years earlier, from young Niccolò to whom she'd now like to lose her virginity; for another, she's puzzled by a note in her mother's diary hinting that the man she's considered her father isn't her real parent. At the same time, she soon becomes the focus of interest for the villa's inhabitants, notably the jaded menfolk who are revitalised by her innocence and burgeoning womanhood. The self-obsessed complacency of the arty, Chiantishire expats tries the patience, and the camera's relentless ogling of Tyler's limbs opens the film to charges of voyeurism. And yet, after the deliberate, over-blown portentousness of his recent epics, the looseness, leisurely pacing and the intimacy of mood are a welcome reminder of Bertolucci's directorial assurance. He brings a light touch to small details: the expats' isolation from the 'real world' being revealed through deft short scenes depicting, say, their reaction to the building of a nearby television mast or their encounter with an army officer. But there's also a real sensuousness, less in the emphasis on Tyler herself than in the evocation of the colours, aromas, temperatures and sounds of a particular time and place.

Bernardo Bertolucci Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Stealing Beauty was Bertolucci's first film in Italy since 1981's The Tragedy of a Ridiculous Man, and only his second in twenty-five years not to have been shot by master Vittorio Storaro (Tragedy of a Ridiculous Man was the other). Gorgeously filmed in sunny Tuscany by up-and-comer Darius Khondji (who also shot the disturbing 1995 thriller Seven), Stealing Beauty features young Liv Tyler in a much-hyped lead performance as Lucy, an improbably virginal American sent to spend the summer at a villa populated by an eccentric assortment of her late mother's friends. The excellent cast includes Jeremy Irons as a writer with a terminal illness, and French great Jean Marais (star of Cocteau's Beauty and The Beast and Orphée) as a crackpot art dealer. The premise - the beautiful wide-eyed virgin at loose in a villa full of decadent Euro-types out to deflower her - struck some as a dated throwback to 1960s sex comedies, but Tyler is undeniably a magnetic screen presence, the settings are sumptuous and seductive, and the film had an intimacy not seen in Bertolucci's cinema since his pre-epic days. "Playfully Chekhovian . . . a richly satisfying chamber piece that is both literary and utterly contemporary . . . Darius Khondji again proves himself a major new talent" (Variety). "This harmonious little symphony [is] Bertolucci's most personal statement in decades" (Lorenzo Codelli).

Mike D'Angelo

Stealing Beauty is altogether too classy a title for this movie -- it could more accurately be called Liv Tyler Gets Laid. Not a love story so much as a hymen story, and not remotely the Profound Journey of Discovery that it clearly aspires to be, Bertolucci's latest is surprisingly vacuous; I never thought I'd see Bernardo shoot a gauzy, soft-focus sex scene, complete with the requisite closeups of intertwined limbs...much less set such a scene to a Mazzy Star number. (If I wanted a Tony Scott picture, I'd damn well go see one.) The narrative is slight, the characters disappointingly one-dimensional, the scenery distractingly gorgeous, the frequent use of American pop/rock songs (Liz Phair, Hole, Sam Phillips, &c.) a poor substitute for genuine emotion. And yet I found it impossible to hate the film as much I wanted to, and was surprised to find myself warming to it again and again, between spurts of source music. Bertolucci is a master at creating a mood, and here he demonstrates (or, rather, reminds us) that he's just as capable with a small, intimate setting as he is with the sprawling tableaux that typified recent films like The Last Emperor and The Sheltering Sky. The opening scenes of Stealing Beauty, following the annoying credits (don't ask what happens to that cassette, by the way; the payoff scene was cut during post-production), in which Lucy wanders silently through the apparently empty villa in which she's to spend her vacation, is thrillingly evocative, wordlessly suggesting mystery, wonder, and an eerie sensuality. Bertolucci (who replaced longtime cinematographer Vittorio Storaro with the young upstart Darius Khondji for this picture, enabling the latter to show off his considerable versatility -- this movie looks as much like Se7en as Liv Tyler looks like Todd Rundgren) works miracles here, and intermittently throughout the film. So skilled is his direction, so fluid his rhythms, that he frequently managed to fool me into believing that something magical was just about to happen. Sadly, nothing ever does, but I appreciated the effort all the same.

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Jeff Ulmer)

I first discovered this film on cable, and was immediately captivated by its sumptuous cinematography, and the simmering sensuousness with which this coming of age drama unfolds.

Stealing Beauty tells the story of Lucy Harmon (Liv Tyler), a nineteen-year-old American girl returning to Italy, where she fell in love for the first time four years earlier, while on summer holiday with her mother's bohemian friends. At a villa situated in the sun drenched hills of Tuscany, word of her virginity ignites the imaginations and passions of all around her, as they try to find an ideal candidate for her rite of passage into womanhood. Lucy, however, is holding out for more than just the fruition of passion—she wants to be in love.

Alex (Jeremy Irons), a dying writer, becomes her confidant, reinvigorated by the youthful and blossoming energy Lucy represents. For the owners of the house, Ian and Diane, Lucy is a reminder of her mother, a noted poet, whose portrait Ian had worked on many years prior. Now it is Lucy's turn to pose, but she is searching for answers in this foreign landscape, and hoping to bask in the intoxication of love under the warm summer skies of the vineyards and olive groves of the community.

Academy Award®-winning director Bernardo Bertolucci, known for his exquisite visual style, returns to his native Italy after a 10 year absence for this journey of discovery. Few filmmakers can capture the depth of color he does, exuding a warmth and earthiness rarely achieved. As the camera flows through each scene, details are exposed; whether exploring the interior of a room, or taking in the sensory elements of the surroundings, these add immeasurably to the character of the film. The composition is wonderfully executed by moving characters in and out of shadow and light, or shooting through elements, using the form of doorways, curtains or windows to frame and add dimension to the depth of the shot. His camera is almost always in motion, bringing new perspective to each scene, and judicious use of long, medium and extreme closeup, pull the viewer into the film as necessary. Bertolucci excels at introductions, often bringing characters into play as abstracts, either silhouetted from behind, or emerging from shadow, or by moving through space before finally revealing the facial features. The use of language is also critical to the film, as it moves from English to Italian and French, as is Bertolucci's passion for poetry, which intertwines the sections of the film through Lucy's writings.

The casting is perfect, with excellent performances from the entire ensemble. Tyler exudes a raw yet innocent sensuality, embodying her role fully, while her costars each play their part in exposing her story and character. Jeremy Irons conveys the hopeless optimism of a man enjoying his last frivolity before his demise, envisioning the world through the eyes of this young girl with her whole life experience ahead of her. Donal McCann (Ian) and Sinéad Cusack (Diane) offer a mature reflection on the young woman's burgeoning sexuality, while D.W. Moffett, who plays Rachel Weisz' slimy boyfriend, adds great comic relief in his hapless, and none too discrete, pursuit of Lucy.

While elements in the content will be offensive to some, the luscious visuals and cool sensuality make this a feast for the senses, and the appropriate musical inclusions by Liz Phair, Issac Hayes, Hole, the Fine Young Cannibals, and the Cocteau Twins punctuate the insuppressible emotions and confused vulnerabilities of a young woman opening the door to sexuality, as the eyes of her eclectic spectators witness and revel in the anticipation of her journey.

Scott Renshaw

In Defense of Stealing Beauty. Yes, Stealing Beauty. Bilge Ebiri from They Live By Night, May 14, 2011

Stealing Beauty Vern’s Reviews

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BESIEGED A 97

Italy Great Britain (93 mi) 1998

Besieged David Denby from the New Yorker

An art film in the bad sense of the term. In an old Roman house, an eccentric English pianist (David Thewlis) and his beautiful housekeeper (Thandie Newton), a refugee from an African dictatorship, circle around one another in a series of frustrated and (for the viewer) frustrating semi-encounters. The director, Bernardo Bertolucci, who wrote the screenplay with Clare Peploe, shies away from the intensity that we want and need in this chamber drama by using a variety of trick editing processes that slow or interrupt the action; the characters not only elude each other, they elude us, too. Only the handsome cinematography and the music that the pianist plays—passages of Bach, Beethoven, and Grieg—make a direct, unaffected appeal to our senses and emotions.

Time Out

Shandurai (Newton), an African refugee in Rome, pays her way through medical school as a live-in cleaner for English pianist and composer Kinsky (Thewlis). Shy and timid, he woos her with gifts and music, but she rejects his overtures; her husband's a political prisoner in her homeland, she says. Kinsky responds with an act of love simple, profound and pivotal. Like Welles' The Immortal Story, this is a beautiful cameo from a mature artist. The scale doesn't signify a retreat - unless love is counted a minor theme - but it does seem to have had a liberating effect on the director, who embellishes a piquant short story by James Lasdun with dazzling mise en scène: delirious travelling shots, jumpcuts and an innovative soundtrack, all edited with seamless flair. This is cinema with music's fluid purity of form - indeed, it runs for 15 minutes before Bertolucci has recourse to anything so base as the spoken word. Kinsky plays Bach and Mozart; Shandurai, Salif Keita and Youssou N'dour. Some may find it pretentious, but Thewlis (clumsy, remote, rarefied) and Newton (contained, honestly bewildered) provide innumerable points of entry. It's a film about the limits of art, about civilization at this moment of flux, and about a gentle connection between a man and a woman.

Bernardo Bertolucci Pacific Cinematheque (link lost)

Bertolucci's most recent work has been hailed as "a return to the kind of intimate filmmaking that we have not seen from this director in over a decade" (Piers Handling, Toronto I.F.F.). Thandie Newton plays Shandurai, who has left her African homeland for an exile in Rome. By night, she is studying to be a doctor; by day, she works as a domestic in the palatial home of eccentric Englishman Jason Kinsky, a musician and composer, played by the always-impressive David Thewlis (Naked)Bertolucci's subtle, moving film focuses on the fits and starts of the relationship between these two lonely exiles, co-existing in a rambling house where more than their tastes in music (his classical, hers African) clash. When Kinsky professes to have fallen in love with her, Shandurai she makes it clear that she is not at all interested: she is still loyal to the husband she is unable to contact, a political prisoner in her native land. "Understated, elusive, elliptical, this is a film that reveals its secrets slowly . . . leading to an ending that is shattering in its emotional complexity and power" (Handling).

Austin Chronicle [Marjorie Baumgarten]

It's been many a luna since Bernardo Bertolucci has given us a movie as potently charged with emotional interiority as he does with his new one, Besieged. Made in collaboration with his wife Clare Peploe (who co-wrote the screenplay and associate produced), Bertolucci's Besieged is an elemental love story told in gestures and intimations. Words and declarations of feelings play so minor a part in this love story that they can hardly even be thought of as playing second fiddle to the film's thematic motifs, which are expressed in broad visual and aural strokes. Very little beyond the essentials is spoken in the film; nearly the first 20 minutes pass without dialogue. Yet, Besieged is far from austere -- in fact, quite the opposite. It is a compact little story that raises more questions than it answers. To describe too much of the plot is to give too much of it away, for there is little more to it than what is there on the surface. The surface, however, is so intriguingly come-hither that you wish to dive below and discover its inner workings. Much is left to the imagination in this story of a beautiful African refugee medical student who cleans house for an eccentric pianist in his Roman villa not far from the Spanish Steps. Shandurai (Newton) and Kinsky (Thewlis) live in this handsomely decorated home -- he in the upper floors and she in the lower servants quarters, their domains connected by a circular marble staircase and a dumbwaiter that she uses as a closet shelf and he uses to lower romantic offerings into her realm. One day, Mr. Kinsky (for this is what Shandurai calls him, even when writing him a love letter), grabs Shandurai and asks what would make her love him. Impulsively, she replies that he would have to get her husband out of prison in Africa. For these people passing wordlessly -- he playing the piano while she dusts and vacuums -- it is the first knowledge Kinsky has that Shandurai is already married. In the end, Kinsky gives his all for love; it earns the husband's release and maybe Shandurai's love. In ways, they are reminders of the nameless lovers who meet in the empty apartment in Bertolucci's Last Tango in Paris; then they take the shape of the transgressive inter-familial lovers in Luna. Bertolucci's early career obsessions with the collisions between Freudianism and Marxism have softened, though they are still clearly relevant; his latter obsessions with Eastern spirituality (The Last Emperor, The Sheltering Sky, Little Buddha) have grown into more personal questions about love and its objects and objectives. Beseiged creates a beautiful interplay between the characters' oppositions: between up, down, and circular movements within the house; the culture clashes between the African refugee in Italy and the British artist in Rome; the contrast of the rhythms of the African popular music and the classicism of the Western canon; the differences in skin color; the bright light of the exteriors and the stark shadows of the interiors; and the colonialist bent of the emotional paradigm versus the irrational nature of the sources from whence come love. There is an unreality to the story (for example, how can this political escapee from a small African village manage to ace medical school and clean house, all while speaking three different languages?), but so much of it derives from the scarcity of background we are provided for the characters. Yet one suspects the occasional shallowness of the film's approach is a wholly intentional thing. Newton (Beloved, Jefferson in Paris) and Thewlis (Naked) are impeccable choices for Shandurai and Kinsky, both so expressively watchable and haunting. Bertolucci uses them as representational figures besieged by the war within.

Besieged Sally Chatsworth from Sight and Sound

In Kenya, Shandurai's husband Winston is arrested for opposing the military government. Shandurai moves to Rome to study medicine; she cleans the house of an English composer and pianist named Kinsky in exchange for lodgings and befriends a gay fellow-student named Agostino. One evening Kinsky gives Shandurai a diamond ring and declares his love. She tells him she cannot understand his music or accept the ring. When he offers to do anything to win her love, she asks him to get her husband out of jail. Kinsky listens intently to the music at an African church service.

Passing an antiques shop, Shandurai sees Kinsky's statuettes on sale; the paintings have disappeared from the walls of the house. She vacuums Kinsky's piano-room while he plays music infused with black rhythms, at which she smiles and almost dances. She sees him meeting an African priest. Later, she receives a letter saying that Winston is to receive a civil trial, and catches Kinsky bargaining for the sale of his piano. He invites her to a private recital at his house, where she receives a telegram saying that Winston, now freed, will arrive in Rome the next morning. She asks Kinsky if Winston can stay at the house and he agrees. That evening, after covering whole pages with "Thank you", Shandurai writes, "Dear Mr Kinsky, I love you," on a note and goes to bed. She awakens, takes her note upstairs and lies down beside a drunken Kinsky in his bed. The next morning, Winston rings the bell repeatedly while Shandurai lies beside Kinsky. Finally she gets up.

Review

Bertolucci's favoured genre has always been melodrama in which feelings are vehicles for meanings. Besieged establishes a triangle between Shandurai, Winston and Kinsky which develops throughout the film: Shandurai moves from one man to the other. One might wonder whether she loves Kinsky because he gets Winston freed from jail. But what makes Kinsky so lovable is that he expresses his love for Shandurai by restoring her husband to her.

The main characters are all cultural outsiders. Kinsky's world is made up of music, art and love. His love for Shandurai makes him interact with others, but his love for music is too great to let him play in public. Shandurai is a foreign student, an outsider within Roman culture, as is her gay friend Agostino. Winston is opposed to his government, and consequently in jail. After his release he arrives to be with his wife – at that moment in bed with Kinsky. The film ends with Winston's attempts to gain entry to what has become a 'community' of outsiders.

Shandurai and Kinsky also change in cultural terms. To seduce Shandurai, Kinsky transforms his music, bringing it closer to African composition. We do not see the genesis of his infatuation with her – it is there at the outset of the film, which delicately portrays Shandurai's growing sympathy and affection for him. She inhabits two worlds: on the purely material level Rome, on the emotional level Kenya, kept apart from others by something inside her. In her case, we know what that is; in Kinsky's case, it seems to be art. For both of them, love breaks down this sense of 'being elsewhere'. The film uses sound, framing and montage rhetorically. The music (diegetic music as opposed to background, non-diegetic music) comes from within the story so forcefully it seems stronger than the images. The same is true of the noise of Kinsky's dumb waiter. Both we and Shandurai are besieged by two sets of sounds: those of Kenya, and those of Kinsky, so that sound, rather than the camera, creates a perspective for the viewer.

Much use is made of a handheld camera, filming close up and cutting very swiftly on movement, a style of cinematography Bertolucci once eschewed. A long and beautiful pull up the stairwell away from Shandurai washing the floor is broken up by cut-aways to other shots. We are no longer at an observer's distance from what is photographed, and the slow-motion, stop-action cinematography is part of the attempt to communicate feeling. Bertolucci has always used montage to manipulate time, to convey what is inside his characters and the presence of the past in the present. Shandurai lives in a present Rome through a Kenyan past, an 'elsewhere' both cultural and geographical. Bertolucci is constructing what he calls "a dramaturgy without conflicts, one that is held up by feeling". Unlike characters in his films from Prima della rivoluzione to The Last Emperor, these characters do not struggle for a social identity – they are resigned to not belonging.

Besieged is an intimist film – an intimate chamber work – but it is not shot with the restraint customary of intimist films. It rides current Italian bandwagons – third-world immigrants, gayness, art – yet it is not essentially 'Italian'. With its mostly English dialogue, it is an Italian product projected at the international market. The production companies, however, are based in Italy (Silvio Berlusconi's Mediaset, and therein lies a tale), so this is no Jeremy Thomas-produced international blockbuster.

Does this allusive, delicate story work? The answer is yes, provided you are sympathetic with what Bertolucci is trying to do.

Jonathan Rosenbaum, Chicago Reader

BESIEGED Yahoo Production Notes

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village voice > film > Artists in Love by J. Hoberman

BESIEGED Steve Erickson from Chronicle of a Passion

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Harvey S. Karten

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[safe] review of the movie

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THE DREAMERS C+ 77

Italy France Great Britain USA (115 mi) 2004

I felt I was watching a remake of CABARET without music, as the storyline is so similar, two guys and a girl, in this case a twin brother and sister allow a budding young American cineaste to join them in teenage sexual exploration and what it means to be a youth in Paris 1968. While the world around them is exploding, they draw inward, protected by a world where they know no responsibilities, and are completely protected by their privileged middle class status, where they can talk about war and revolution as easily as films, without ever actually having to participate. While CABARET is so etched in the political decadence of the age, a trait this film tries so hard to emulate, it just doesn’t work, and it’s embarrassing in the ways it doesn’t succeed. Adolescence should explode off the screen, only here, it uses film clips of French New Wave films where it certainly did, but this trio of lovers is simply not that interesting, as they talk about life or love without knowing the first thing about it, so we’re filled with a monotonous self-indulgence that is hard to bear. The scene where the parents return home to silently witness the mess this group has made of their lives, is all too simplistic, as they turn away and do absolutely nothing, or the idiotic nature of how easily the storyline then changes from suicide deaths in Jonestown to the police riots of Chicago. This trio is ill prepared to handle any and all possibilities. While there is plenty of nudity, it seems awkward and ill at ease, staged, and not at all spontaneous. Louis Garrel, the brother, at least he has a dark side about him which is brooding and curious, buried in some repressed fury he felt towards his bourgeois father, while the two others unfortunately seem superficial at best and amateurishly miscast. While I liked the outstanding music of Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin, and there were a few lines of clever dialogue, this is yet another failed attempt to get the 60’s right.

Time Out Geoff Andrew

Bertolucci's engrossing, elegant film is a seductive adaptation by Gilbert Adair of his novel The Holy Innocents. In Paris, as a student in the spring of 1968, Matthew (Pitt) is a young American usually to be found glued to the smoke-stained silver screen at the Palais de Chaillot. There, during a demo against the government's firing of Henri Langlois as head of the Cinémathèque, he meets and falls in with Isabelle (Green) and Théo (Garrel), a brother and sister as beautiful as they are bent on making their lives resemble the movies they adore - Les Enfants Terribles, perhaps? When they invite him to move into their apartment while their parents are on holiday, the relationship becomes more intimate, and intense. Meanwhile, things are also heating up out on the streets. An evocative reminiscence of an era when cinema and politics could count for as much as carnal passion, this delicious movie is written and directed with feeling and flair, and played to near perfection by its appealing young leads. The film benefits hugely from the fact that Bertolucci and Adair were caught up in the exhilarating mood of change that made '68 a year to savour. Besides being stylish, sexy and witty, the film feels authentic. The ménage-à-trois and its members are treated sympathetically but never romanticised; the cinéphile allusions are many, correct, illuminating but never overdone; the music is equally well chosen and expressive; the shifts between the erotic hothouse atmosphere of the apartment and the heady air of liberation outside skilfully handled. A real pleasure.

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

Although The Dreamers is not actually based on the events of May ’68, clearly remembered by Bertolucci, the story can only be understood when considered from that context. Cinema and life merge in this movie, an homage to a kind of young idealism and hymn to the search for new experiences as valid 35 years ago as they are today.

Bertolucci now in his 60s – never exactly very cutting-edge in terms of his visuals (no matter how often content of his movies pushed the envelope). Seems an odd choice to adapt Gilbert Adair’s novel of movie love, and passions of the more carnal variety – set in Paris 1968, characters infected with very nouvelle vague temperament (one even claims her first words to have been ‘New York Herald Tribune!’ a la Jean Seberg in Breathless). Spirit of Godardian revolution – plot kicks off during protests at Henri Langlois’ sacking from the Cinematheque Francaise: Jean-Pierre Leaud seen in archive footage rabble-rousing, intercut with present-day Leaud apparently playing himself in dramatisations. It’s here that raw American lad Michael Pitt (much closer to decadent camp of Hedwig than Sandra Bullock vehicle Murder By Numbers) meets Parisian brother-and-sister duo Philippe Garrel and Eva Green. They set about educating him in film – and politics, culture, and sex. All are living in their own movie, but it certainly wouldn’t look like this picture (apart from the many clips that punctuate the action, best of which is Garbo in Queen Christina.) However, on reflection perhaps Bertolucci isn’t such an unlikely choice: the trio’s talk of revolution is just that: talk. Especially with Pitt, who narrates in vaguely Damon-as-Ripley style. All are much more bothered about sex - until violent revolution forcibly breaks their bourgeois, hermetic world: brick through the window. When bro and sis do commit to action, film instantly ends. Circular: finishes as it began, with Hendrix’s terrific ‘Third Rock from the Sun’. In between Hendrix blasts, we get odd but beguiling mixture of social satire, sex film and freewheeling comedy. Very funny moments – even Eva’s “suicide” attempt has very witty punchline. Doesn’t outstay welcome, though essentially light stuff that doesn’t add up to a great deal.

The Dreamers Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

This film prominently features some music by The Doors.  When I watched the credits, I saw that only one Doors song, "I'm a Spy (in the House of Love)," was actually included, but it seemed at the time like the film was teeming with Doors music.  Then I realized that The Dreamers is just steeped in that sweaty, smarmy, creepily "transgressive," dallying-with-incest vibe that I've always hated about The Doors.  Bertolucci has re-envisioned his youth as a kind of house-arrest at the Morrison Hotel.  Yuck.  Nevertheless, I found The Dreamers oddly compelling, and enjoyed quite a lot of it even as it was inducing cringe after cringe.  On the one hand, Bertolucci depicts cinephilia as a kind of incest, a refusal to open out onto the world, a blinkered turning-inward into a cult world of quotations and fixed images.  As much as I wanted to reject this portrayal, I felt looped into the main characters' fucked-up world every time I guessed one of their movie quizzes or recognized an interpolated shot from a classic film.  And I think that was the point; Bertolucci is both flattering and indicting his own fan base.  Likewise, the unheroic trio of decadent youngsters at the center of the film have created a cult of three, and the power, such as it is, of The Dreamers is Bertolucci's success at drawing us into their secret world, including us in their private games, and simultaneously making our skin crawl as we fumble towards the nearest exit.  Granted, I'm a little biased.  Back in college, I was the strait-laced guy always on the periphery of free-love-and-radical-aesthetics cliques, nodding my approbation in theory but never quite feeling right about diving in.  The Dreamers captures the appeal of shutting out a world that refuses to adhere to your ideals, but it also drives home the point that only by engaging with the messiness of the social world can we play any role in real (not reel) history.  Nevertheless, despite the film's strengths, the saturated atmosphere of exhibitionist sex and frying eggs is too pervasive to really function as a critique. I haven't read the Gilbert Adair novel The Dreamers is based on, but it seems safe to say that the film version is muddled because the material is clearly so close to Bertolucci, and immanent critique is really hard to pull off.  In the end, the film feels too besotted with the possibilities of its moment to fully face up to its failures.  (But even this is excusable in a way, given the times we're living in.  I don't know how much say, if any, Bertolucci had over the design of The Dreamers's website, but it tips the auteur's hand by placing the film's images of May '68 against footage of European and American protests against the Iraq war.  In the face of inexorable odds, a little Deleuzian delusion might not be such a bad thing.)  One final point: Michael Pitt captures the American outsider quite well, coming off as a well-meaning but inarticulate doofus;  Eva Green is fantastic, nailing Isabelle's sophisticated dress-up act (even if the emotional place Bertolucci has her character end up is a rote, thankless task); but while Louis Garrel acquits himself nicely, the film skimps on fleshing Theo out.  In true Euro New Wave fashion, Bertolucci is too fascinated with the mysteries of female sexuality to explore Theo's conflicting desires.  He should have been the focal point, since his youthful sex-is-politics brio would be Bertolucci's most logical point of identification.  Again, in The Dreamers, what's closest to the director ends up seeming way too far away.

The Dreamers Chris Fujiwara from the Boston Phoenix

The law of nostalgia might be: those who repeat history are condemned to forget it. With The Dreamers, his handsome but pointless look back at Paris in May 1968, Bernardo Bertolucci becomes the latest filmmaker to demonstrate this rule.

The Dreamers wears its fond heart on its sleeve, and the best case that can be made for the movie is that Bertolucci is able, at moments, to communicate his warm feelings about the student protests of May ’68. Starting a film with Hendrix’s "3rd Stone from the Sun" can’t be a bad move: with the sinuous, driving music comes firmness and a sense of discovery. Unfortunately, Bertolucci seems to have made this film in a spirit of well-meaning condescension, as if he were saying, "These poor young people today know nothing of May ’68; I’ll try to explain it to them in a way they can understand." For our guides to the turbulent period, Bertolucci could scarcely have chosen worse than his three main characters: fresh-faced Matthew (Michael Pitt), a French-language student lately come to Paris from San Diego, and the sister-and-brother friends he makes while protesting the firing of Henri Langlois from the directorship of the Cinémathèque Française: impulsive Isabelle (Eva Green) and troubled Théo (Louis Garrel), two wealthy young cinephiles.

Illuminating nothing, though alluding to much, about the causes that inspired the revolutionaries of the time, The Dreamers turns inward with its three protagonists, who lock themselves in the sprawling apartment of Isabelle and Théo’s vacationing parents and wait out the storm playing psychosexual games with one another. Perhaps following Gilbert Adair’s source novel, Bertolucci dances up to but tiptoes away from all that might have been interesting about the trio’s overfamiliar imbroglio. The film never challenges Matthew’s privileged position as a voice for American normality and an advocate for the heterosexual couple against the bisexual ménage à trois. Meanwhile, the journey Isabelle and Théo make to the brink of madness generates no suspense, and the awaited sexual fireworks, though rewarded by an NC-17 rating (for clear views of Pitt’s penis and Green’s vagina), prove mild.

Better acting would have helped. Neither Pitt, with his DiCaprio–like blandness, nor the glowering Garrel (son of director Philippe Garrel) gives himself the right to be in the film: instead, they seem to be waiting for it to flow around them (Bertolucci’s virtuoso camera movements only emphasize the weightlessness and futility of his concept of the story). As for Green, her Isabelle is meant to be hot stuff — the film’s equivalent to Jeanne Moreau’s Catherine in Jules et Jim — but her nakedness is practically her whole performance, and it’s not apparent that Bertolucci tried to get anything more from her.

Another big problem is that Bertolucci wants to get by on what he can quote from and appropriate. In the first sequence, before the film has a chance to find its own point of view and its own images, The Dreamers is already basking in the reflected light and shadow of greatness, as Matthew watches Shock Corridor at the Cinémathèque. This lengthy sequence sets up the guessing game of film references that runs through the movie. No sooner does a character mention or contemplate À bout de souffle, Bande à part, Freaks, or some other classic than clips from the movie appear. But the characters’ obsession with film lore reveals nothing about them or their time; instead, their own lack of stature reduces the films they love to instant trivia. During his contrived climax, Bertolucci’s use of the sublime ending of Mouchette only makes apparent the hopelessness of his attempt to give The Dreamers a dignity it doesn’t deserve. (I did feel grateful when, a few minutes later, he let go an obvious chance to splice in the last scene of Viaggio in Italia, though I suspect it was only because he couldn’t get the rights.)

Maybe the most regrettable thing about The Dreamers — which in itself can be forgotten as painlessly as Bertolucci’s previous five or six films — is that it cheapens the memory of his own movie about youth, love, and politics, Before the Revolution. That was made in 1964, when Bertolucci, at age 24, was not only more passionate than the director of The Dreamers but also more intelligent.

After the Revolution Louis Menand from The New Yorker

The Dreamers Ginette Vincendeau from Sight and Sound

Before the Revolution: The Dreamers Maximilian Le Cain from Senses of Cinema

Bright Lights Film Journal Zubatov and Yaniv Eyny

World Socialist Web Site David Walsh

Cinepassion Fernando F. Croce

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More on The Dreamers Matthew Plouffe from Reverse Shot

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culturevulture.net, Choices for the Cognoscenti Arthur Lazere

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ME AND YOU (Io e Te)

Italy (97 mi) 2012

Still dreaming wild things: Bernard Bertolucci goes underground Geoff Andrew at Cannes from Sight and Sound, May 23, 2012

There was a gap of nine years between Bernardo Bertolucci’s The Dreamers and Me and You, due mainly to the fact that the back problems which have long plagued the director eventually meant that he became a wheelchair-user. Having come to accept his diminished mobility, he found a subject – in Niccolò Ammaniti’s novel Io e Te – that suited his purposes: the meeting of teenage boy, hiding out in the basement of the apartment block where he lives with his parents, with the 25-year-old half-sister he barely knew existed.

It’s more or less a two-hander, then, though Bertolucci opens the movie with Lorenzo (Malcolm McDowell-lookalike Jacopo Olmo) reluctantly undergoing a session with a psychiatrist (himself also, as it happens, in a wheelchair). Judging by the boy’s tantrum when he insists his mother let him out of the car at some distance from the bus where his schoolmates are gathered to go on a skiing trip, it’s clear that Lorenzo has his problems – though the real reason he wants to be dropped off away from the kids is that he’s no intention of joining them at all; he’d rather relax in secret in the cellar, alone with his books, music and ants for a week.

All that changes when Olivia – a junkie going into cold turkey – turns up out of the blue, looking for long-lost belongings. Inevitably, sharing both the cramped space and revelations about their father’s familial arrangements makes for conflict… but also, in time, for mutual support and even intimacy. As alert (and largely sympathetic) as ever to the confusions, curiosity, vitality and delusions of youth, Bertolucci makes the most of the pair’s few days together; since Lorenzo had already embarrassed his mother with some transparently Freudian questions, it’s hardly surprising that there’s a sexual element in the siblings’ responses to one another. (Fascinatingly, when we first glimpse Olivia, it’s a little difficult to tell if this hieratically handsome creature is a woman or a transvestite.)

Bertolucci explores the strange, subterranean realm of these enfants terribles with characteristic visual flair: décor, costumes, colour and camera movements combine to create a faintly feverish atmosphere. Interestingly, however, the mise en scène is not especially baroque; though expressive, it’s carefully controlled so that the style suits the parameters of the story.

A modest film, then, but enjoyably so: the two lead turns are spot-on, and the use of a reworded Italian version of ‘Space Oddity’ (but still sung by Bowie) deftly captures not only the dynamics of the pair’s brief encounter but the aching, fragile hopes of a boy in need of a friend.

Me And You Dan Fainaru at Cannes from Screendaily

Nine years after The Dreamers and following a long bout with back trouble that put him in a wheelchair, Bernardo Bertolucci is once again behind the camera, shooting in Italian and trying to make some sense out of the younger generation of adolescents around him, with whom he evidently wants to sympathise but can’t bring up good enough reasons to really like them.

With Me And You (Io Et Te) he looks at a 14 year-old boy who hides for a week in the family cellar and at his older half-sister who invades the refuge, as if they were “space oddities” - to use the title of the David Bowie song prominently featured in the last act - a species whose acts deserve to be researched with the same avid curiosity that the boy displays in the film towards insects in general and ants in particular.

But once it’s over, the audience won’t really know much more about the two protagonists or what makes them tick and there is very little reason to believe that the characters themselves had learned anything more about themselves in the process. Bertolucci’s name may open some festival doors for this film, but there is limited hope for either critical or market support.

Lorenzo (Jacopo Olmo Antinori) is 14, he doesn’t like much in life -  neither his parents; his schoolmates; his analyst and not even himself. Sexually confused, constantly hiding behind a wall of music pumped directly into his head by a pair of earphones that never leave him, all he wants is to be left alone with his computer, his comic books, and his favorite toy, a real-life anthill in an aquarium. When his class leaves on a school trip to a ski resort, he pretends to join them, but instead pockets the money and hides in the cellar of his house, which he had prepared for a week of peace and quiet.

But the arrival of Olivia (Tea Falco), his father’s twentysomething daughter by a previous wife. She’s drugged to the gills and threatens to kick up a fuss unless she is let in. Left with no choice, Lorenzo opens the door and over the course of the following days will discover a bit more about the sibling he never really knew, her semi-artistic background as a video-artist and photographer, the heroin addiction she is trying to beat before joining a potential new boyfriend and her passionate hatred for Lorenzo’s mother, who has taken her father away from her.

Working from a novel of the same name by Niccolo Ammaniti, Bertolucci and his team of scriptwriters (including Ammaniti), were obviously respectful of the original - or not sufficiently creative - because the ultimate result looks like a series of novel excerpts taking place in the cellar, loosely tied up together with exterior shots. The two essential components of claustrophobia and the passing of time are sorely missed and neither of the two characters are sufficiently developed to offer new insights into youth today.

Me and You: Cannes Review David Rooney at Cannes from The Hollywood Reporter, May 24, 2012

Bernardo Bertolucci's first film since "The Dreamers" in 2003 takes the veteran director back once again to the turbulence of youth.

CANNES – Truffle hounds of rare vintage Europop will be delighted to discover David Bowie’s “Ragazzo Solo, Ragazza Sola.” This 1969 Italian redo of “Space Oddity” is featured prominently on the soundtrack of Me and You, its lyrics seemingly tailor-made to fit the searching, solitary boy at the film’s center. But that musical nugget, sadly, is among the more tangible pleasures of Bernardo Bertolucci’s attenuated consideration of the turmoil of youth, his first feature in almost a decade.

The 20th century maestro’s best films, like The Conformist, pack layers of psychological, sociopolitical, sexual and emotional complexity that make them still riveting today. Bertolucci’s health issues have drastically reduced his mobility in recent years, leaving him plagued by chronic pain and largely dependent on a wheelchair. It’s a testament to his strength of will that he was able to make another movie at all, and the small scale and concentration in one primary location of this project clearly were planned to make the shoot as physically manageable as possible.

The director’s first Italian-language feature in 30 years, Me and You recalls two of his most recent chamber pieces – neither of them among his best work. It evokes the claustrophobic confinement of Besieged and, like The Dreamers, it indulgently observes adolescent affectation in a hermetic world.

The screenplay was adapted from the novel of the same title (originally Io e Te) by Italian author Niccolo Ammaniti, best known internationally for the more dramatically robust 2003 Gabriele Salvatores feature, I’m Not Scared. But based on the evidence of what’s onscreen here, this book seems more like a protracted short story; it remains stubbornly literary, precious and thin in the hands of co-writers Ammaniti, Umberto Contarello, Francesca Marciano and Bertolucci.

Perhaps suggesting how he sees his role these days, Bertolucci introduces the main character of 14-year-old Lorenzo (Jacopo Olmo Antinori) finishing up a session with his wheelchair-bound psychotherapist (Pippo Delbono). Something of an outsider at high school, Lorenzo’s antisocial behavior is hinted at in the smothering concerns of his mother (an insufferably strained Sonia Bergamasco). She is thrilled that he has agreed to go on a week-long school ski trip, hoping it will draw him out of his shell.

Pocketing the money for the trip, he spends it instead on provisions, faking his departure and holing up alone in the basement of the family’s apartment building with music, books, an ant farm and an active fantasy life for entertainment. But when his heroin-addicted older half-sister Olivia (Tea Falco) crashes into his hideout needing a place to go cold turkey, his carefully planned isolation is destroyed.

Their days and nights of shared clandestine confinement yield an uninvolving chronicle of clashes, confessions, flirtation and growing closeness. With scant incident, the encounter inches toward the mutual pact that Olivia will stop hiding from reality in drugs if Lorenzo will just stop hiding from the world, period. The issues of neither character are explored with great subtlety, though making Olivia a visual artist with a photographic series titled “I Am a Wall” is really clobbering us over the head.

A lot of banality gets passed off here as profound thought. That and the somewhat self-conscious actors make it difficult to engage much with either character.

Themes of class have often surfaced in Bertolucci’s work, and there are glimmers of them in the half-siblings’ unseen father having ditched Olivia’s mother, a flashy shoe-saleswoman from southern Catania, in favor of the more bourgeois Roman model of Lorenzo’s mother. The debris of the impoverished aristocracy also fills the basement in the possessions of a now-deceased countess from whom their father bought the apartment for a fraction of its worth. But none of this musters much heft in what’s pretty much an apolitical film.

Bertolucci remains an elegant craftsman. The crisp definition and textured lighting of Fabio Cianchetti’s cinematography, as well as Jean Rabasse’s resourceful production design lend visual life and density to the confined setting. And Franco Piersanti’s fretful, scratchy string score is interspersed to good effect with tracks by The Cure, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Arcade Fire, as well as both versions of the aforementioned Bowie song.

As rewarding as it would be, however, to report that Bertolucci has returned with a meaningful work, this is a film that adds little of significance to the much-traveled cinematic roads of youthful solitude and confusion.

Kevin Jagernauth at Cannes from the indieWIRE Playlist, May 26, 2012

Cannes 2012, Day Eight: The director of Silent Light drops a bold curiosity and Bernardo Bertolucci makes his first movie in nearly a decade. Mike D’Angelo at Cannes from The Onion A.V. Club, March 24, 2012

Camille De Marco at Cannes from Cineuropa, May 26, 2012

DAILY | Cannes 2012 | Bernardo Bertolucci’s ME AND YOU » David Hudson at Cannes from Fandor, May 26, 2012

Peter Debruge at Cannes from Variety

Cannes 2012: Me and You (Io e Te) – review Peter Bradshaw at Cannes from The Guardian, May 22, 2012

Bertrand, Diane

THE RING FINGER (L'Annulaire) A- 93

France Germany Great Britain (100 mi) 2005

Take me to the laboratory

This is an astonishingly beautiful, yet gloomy film, shot in ‘Scope by Alain Duplantier (a photographer) with an artistic eye that is immediately recognizable the minute the film opens. Adapted by the director from a short Japanese novel by Yoko Ogawa, which apparently inspired the director to see the story in her head, which lends itself to an Asian sensibility, much of it wordless and meditative, collaborating with Portishead lead singer Beth Gibbons, who composed a gorgeous musical score, piano driven including blues oriented songs with a heavy throated voice, all enhanced by the luminous beauty of Olga Kurylenko, who plays the quiet introverted lead. A unique factor with this film is the perfect film composition of every shot, using the entire screen, moving things around, keeping the viewers eyes moving, creating a hypnotically beautiful effect, with extraordinary use of color and locations, especially the Hamburg waterfront shipping docks which lend themselves to a surprisingly avant garde architectural design. Into this world walks Iris, surrounded by the immense size of enormous ships being loaded and unloaded, where a man in broken English warns her she doesn’t belong there, as it’s dangerous. Ominous warnings are repeated throughout this film, to an eerie effect, as we’re never made aware of their dire meaning.

The film opens with an industrial accident where Iris loses the tip of her finger, which precipitates her move to a thriving port city looking for a different line of work. As she searches on foot, she may as well be lost on another planet as she is literally consumed by this new world. However, she finds a nearby hotel where the manager allows her to share a room with a dock worker, so long as she’s out by 7 am. In this manner, she has the room all to herself, as does the worker, as they keep separate hours. Purely by accident, as she wanders through a bit of urban forest, lured by the sound of a flute, does she find a help wanted sign posted in front of a solitary old building. A weird doctor, Marc Barbé, who is never seen without a white smock, needs a receptionist to greet customers who wish to preserve “specimens,” something associated with a particular memory which they want immortalized, which they may come and see whenever they wish, but they rarely visit, due to the nature of the memory. Iris tags the specimens which are handled by “the man in the laboratory.”

Due to the eerie nature of their business, which is highly personalized, the doctor occasionally takes her to remote rooms in the basement. The feeling between the two is as if he can see right through her to the very core of her soul, and she’s aware of this instantly. He holds a strange power over her, and she willingly relents, leading to several sexual encounters which have a mild sado-masochistic flavor. Within this same building, there are other residents, a small boy who is seen observing from strange locations, two elderly women, one a pianist, the other a former telephone operator, both of whom have been living there for years, since earlier days when it was apparently a women’s boarding house. The doctor on the other hand, owns the building and it appears he never leaves. He appears unexpectedly out of nowhere, like an apparition, or a vampire, or like the Phantom of the Opera, living in the domain of this ethereal underworld. Eventually, Iris wants to spend more time with the man in the laboratory, but it’s not so easy, as he obsesses only over his highly prized specimens.

Balanced against the subterranean dreaminess of her job is her route back to the shipping docks which are equally unworldly. Though it’s a completely different artistic expression, it brought to mind the highly stylized artificiality of the Genet/Fassbinder collaboration of QUERELLE, which accentuated a mysterious world where anything goes. Her mysterious room-mate leaves her little notes, and without ever actually being together, they secretly commune with one another in that shared empty room. This film accentuates shadow relationships, being in the grips of something you can’t see, or don’t really understand, yet you don’t want to let go. Inflamed by the doctor’s attentiveness to an attractive and alluring young customer (Doria Achour), who could be an alternative version of herself, who he takes to “the laboratory,” a special place she thought reserved only for herself, Iris is doubly confounded with her curiosity perked at the same time, battling conflicting emotions within herself of just what constitutes free will. The end is ambiguous, but completely in keeping with the mysterious and contemplative tone of the film, which is a breathtaking example of how beautiful a film can look. Creepy, perhaps vacuous, but stunning.

User Reviews from imdb Author Richard from Toronto

I saw this film at the 2005 Toronto International Film Festival.

L'Annulaire is the second feature film from director Diane Bertrand, who also wrote the screenplay for this adaptation of Yoko Ogawa's novel.

The film follows Iris (Olga Kurylenko), who moves to a port town after cutting off the tip of her ring finger in an industrial accident. She quickly finds lodging in a hotel down by the harbour, but is forced to share a room with a sailor who works at night and sleeps while she is out in the day. While searching for work, by chance she comes across an old girls' school that now houses a man (Marc Barbe) who preserves and stores personal artifacts that people bring to him.

Taking a job as the man's office assistant, she soon becomes involved in a sort of relationship with him, while at the same time being intrigued by the sailor (Stipe Erceg), whom she only knows through the things left in their shared room.

The movie, filmed in Hamburg and just outside Paris, is beautifully shot. Bertrand favours many tight shots of the characters, giving a more intimate feel to many of the moments in the film. Noah Cowan, the co-director of the festival, described the film as combining the contemplative feel of Asian cinema with the sexual energy of European cinema. Thus, the film is very spare in its dialogue, leaving only the words that are spoken and the looks between characters as the framework on which to interpret the story.

The preservation of personal artifacts in the film causes one to wonder about the nature of memories, loss, and the desire or need to move on, extending even to Iris' own life. This helps to draw the viewer into what is a very quiet and meditative film.

I found the actress playing Iris was quite good, especially given that it was her first film and that she had to communicate so much non-verbally. A few of the scenes between her and the preservationist were charged with a lot of sensual energy, even in something as simple as him putting a pair of shoes on her feet.

Notes from the Q&A with director Diane Bertrand: - L'Annulaire is very open-ended, and Bertrand herself admitted the film doesn't give any answers; the audience can imagine what it wants.

- She tried to be faithful to the novel, but it is very short. Bertrand added the sub-plot with the sailor.

- When asked why she adapted this novel, Bertrand said when she first read the book, she couldn't stop, and had all these images in her head, which was unusual since the atmosphere in the book is not European. But even upon re-reading the novel she still had the same feelings. She felt aspirations to explore the desire, love, and mysteries of the story.

- Olga Kurylenko is from the Ukraine, and this was her first film, thus making it difficult to obtain financing. Thus, there was lots of time for her to work on her character; Bertrand asked her to watch lots of films and read a lot of books. Kurylenko felt a bond to the character.

- The director of photography is also a photographer, which accounts for the look of the film.

- Bertrand wanted to film something slow like a painting, to make the audience feel as though they are watching moving images.

Minor spoilers below:

- Bertrand had less direction for Marc Barbe, but she did ask him to not play his scenes with Kurylenko like he wanted to seduce her, even though the character seems to know exactly what she needs. Iris is supposed to feel that he sees inside her as soon as they meet. Barbe agreed that the character does not need to explain himself.

- In the novel, the shoes which play an important role in the story are black, not red, however Bertrand has a bit of an obsession with the colour red.

- Bertrand feels the story really starts with the scene where the preservationist puts the shoes on Iris' feet. It is Ogawa's theme that Iris has a feeling of being possessed by the shoes. But when Barbe's character tells Iris that she can't take the shoes off, she gives him a quick look that says "ok, so you want to play this game" and decides to do it, preferring to live something rather than nothing.

eFilmCritic.com [Erik Childress]

SCREENED AT THE 2006 CINEVEGAS FILM FESTIVAL: Are memories are a foundation that we cannot live without? How far would we go to preserve them even if we never had any intention of revisiting them? Those questions are just the tip of the languidly odd L'Annulaire, which puts a ravishingly Amelie-like heroine in a place of employment where secrets are contained and the past sealed. In other words, it’s French. Very French. The kind of French where nudity and sex is a staple and its existentialist finale is overflowing with interpretation and the ability to make most audiences go “Huh?” I can’t say with any certainty that I have the definitive explanation of what our heroine walks into but the journey was easily intriguing enough for me to pursue further theories.

Iris (Olga Kurylenko) should be featured in an industrial safety film after she slices off part of her finger on a bottling line. (Makes you think twice about ordering the pink lemonade.) Searching out a more digit-friendly job, she comes across a man (Marc Barbé) operating the business of memories. Customers come to his office and ask to have precious items preserved. A restoration here, a jar there and some formaldehyde later and you’ve got a client base that never reclaims their mementos and only occasionally revisits them. Certainly giving new meaning to “odd jobs”, but Iris takes the position of his receptionist and will find herself with many other positions soon enough.

Her new boss has a few fetishes (or uniform requirements) such as the red pumps he prefers her to wear around the office. There’s also the matter of the previous secretaries, all of whom never seem to be heard from again. And what of the converted office where they do business? Once home to an all-girls school, their ghosts are occasionally a reminder of both tragedy and sensuality that Iris could be walking straight into with the doctor’s casual acts of containment.

Kurylenko, with her ravishing beauty, makes the mysteries of L'Annulaire go down smoother as we lose sight of the peculiar operation and head into more metaphysical ruminations. As a professional model, Kurylenko is no stranger to silence (saying it all with her face), and she turns Iris into a suitable replacement for the romance-starved Amelie as she pines for the sailor sharing her flat and her perplexed commitment to her new employer. The soft, sterile cinematography by Alain Duplantier adds to the omniscient limbo which Iris finds herself in.

L'Annulaire has both an eccentric sensibility and, ultimately, a spiritual quality that should have audiences debating the final scene for hours. Iris’ journey from bored girl on the assembly line to woman faced with free will in the presence of being controlled; just another memory. Kurylenko is certainly a presence worth remembering and one definitely worth holding onto. Much like Steven Shainberg’s Secretary, it depicts a relationship not always meant to be understood by paying customers where the sexual control does reside with the woman, proving that one doesn’t always need a wedding band or a place to wear it in order to feel complete.

Bertuccelli, Julie

THE TREE B 87

Australia France (101 mi) 2010 ‘Scope

Australian films have received a favored nation status lately largely due to the gorgeous landscape scenery captured in so many films, where this one is no exception, shot in ‘Scope by Nigel Bluck, set on the grounds of a rural country house with a view of the distant mountains. In a shocking opening, even before the audience gets settled, the husband of the family living there suddenly dies unexpectedly. The mother, Charlotte Gainsborough, and her four quirky kids are left to fend on their own, where a certain fascination follows each one of the children characters, as little by little we learn a little more about each one. The real star of the show is the most outgoing, Simone (Morgana Davies), an 8-year old blond who is surprisingly mature, offering amazing insight at times, yet also shows off a stubborn side that is hardly flattering. But her real claim to fame is her refusal to let go of the spirit of her father, who she secretly talks to in the enormous tree outside their home, sharing this secret only with her continually distraught mother. Simone even builds a comfortable house in the tree, with blankets and with illuminated lanterns at night. One younger brother never says a word, but no one shows any anxious concern, while another older brother is perhaps the most bizarre, chopping off his hair, collecting things that make sense while he can also be seen playing an electric guitar, while the oldest brother is the most reasoned, about to graduate from high school, and yearns to get away the first chance he gets. Gainsborough is in such despair that she can barely make it out of bed each day, allowing her kids the total freedom to spend each day as they please. This aptly describes the family, but also the giant tree with large extended branches that extend to the house itself, and whose gigantic roots seem to be sprawling out of the ground in all directions, much of it crashing into her neighbor’s wooden fence and creeping into her yard, something we hear her endlessly whine and complain about, calling it a public nuisance.

While there is a free-wheeling spirit exhibited by this household, there’s also the bizarre occurence when frogs come out of the toilet, and despite continual flushing, they appear quite capable of remaining inside the bowl, crawling out if they’re not shut inside. Gainsborough is forced to go into town and find a plumber, but finds a job instead working for a plumber, George (Marton Csokas), who fast becomes her new lover, where they even spend Christmas holiday together (and this takes some getting used to) with the kids in the summer breezes of the ocean where he has a trailer parked in the sand. Simone is heartsick about spending her first Christmas without her dad with some strange new guy that she finds an insult. This meeting of the minds tête-à-tête comes to a head when a giant tree branch falls through a house window, where there’s nothing to prevent this from happening again, where George proposes cutting the tree down as the only sensible thing to do, but Simone defiantly refuses, as the tree stands for her missing father. When George and his crew arrive to chop it down, Simone stands her ground, defying reason in the process, as the tree won’t get any less dangerous, but it’s significant that Gainsborough respects her daughter’s interests, knowing what it really means to her. Largely told through a series of vignettes, like little pieces of a puzzle, the children receive as much prominence as the mother, where all become inevitably linked to the house, the tree, and the surrounding landscape. Grégoire Hetzel writes the music, but the soundtrack also includes haunting songs by Israeli artist Asaf Avidan & The Mojos, which are surprisingly personal and lend themselves perfectly to the mood of this individualistic film.

User reviews from imdb Author: gregking4 from Australia

Filmed in Queensland, this French Australian co-production is a moving family drama that deals with universal themes of loss, grief, and redemption. The film has been adapted from Judy Pascoe's novel Our Father Who Art In The Tree, and follows a rural family struggling to cope following the sudden death of Peter (Aden Young), the man of the house. The recently widowed Dawn (Charlotte Gainsborough) is having trouble coping, and her family starts to fall apart.

Young Simone O'Neill (newcomer Morgana Davies) believes that his spirit lives in the big Moreton Bay fig tree next to their house. She refuses to allow it to be cut down even when its roots and branches threaten to wreck the house. Meanwhile, Dawn finds romance with local plumber George (Marton Csokas), which begins the healing process. However Simone is resentful of his presence and this puts further pressure on the family.

There are a few too many subplots here, some of which are never satisfactorily resolved. The Tree explores some painful emotions, and French director Julie Bertucelli (Since Otar Left, etc) handles the material with a sense of compassion and sensitivity. She draws good performances from her small but effective cast, with young Davies a standout with her prickly performance. Nigel Buck's gorgeous cinematography enriches the film.

moviereview [Colin Fraser]

My Father Who Art in the Tree, by Australian novelist Judy Pascoe, is given the cinematic treatment by French director Julie Bertucelli (Since Otar Left (2003)). Starring Francophone Englishwoman Charlotte Gainsbourg (I’m Not There), this local production would begin to feel like something of a Eurasian-pudding if not for Bertucelli’s strong hand and sense of place. For this is an Australian story from its red dusty roots to the blue-green tips of The Tree.

Dawn (Gainsbourg) is the recently widowed mother of three, barely holding things together in rural Australia. Landing a job not only helps with the grieving process, it brings benign local plumber George (Martin Csokas) into her life, and that of her kids. At this point The Tree might sound like another tired, family drama and would be if not for the weight (and more importantly, levity) lent though the spiritual thread that takes over the narrative. For Dawn’s daughter Simone believes her Dad’s ghost resides in a tree that dominates their property. She talks to him, and sleeps with him. And Dad’s not too happy about George.

A novel of this nature doesn’t make for an easy film adaptation. Yet Bertucelli, working with screenwriter Elizabeth Mars, has caught the raw emotion that defines the trials dominating this family: abandonment, loneliness and the fear of hope. Weighty stuff. She also imbues The Tree with enough humour and earthiness to wrestle it free of the art house circuit. There’s a confidence shared by all the cast that give it a particularly Australian voice, once which cuts through the pretension that would otherwise ensnare the film. Quite an achievement for a French director.

Undoubtedly it is the universality of the story that is so appealing. But that would be for nothing if not for a uniformly excellent cast, with special notice to Morgana Davies as Simone, utterly bewitching in only her second feature. As matters approach a crescendo, one that quite literally explodes across the screen to take the heat out of their anguish, The Tree blossoms into a rare and beautiful film. Earth bound yet metaphysical, raw and refined, calm and dramatic – it forces a response to that most human condition: love, and how do we deal with it.

The Tree (L’arbre) Dan Fainaru at Cannes from Screendaily

Seven years after her successful debut, Since Otar Left, Julie Bertuccelli is finally back with her follow-up feature. She went all the way to Australia to shoot it and her heroine this time is not an octogenarian but only eight years-old, but otherwise the theme is strangely similar: dealing with a loss.

In this case, it is little Simone (Davies), whose father dies and she somehow believes is reincarnated in the huge fig tree next to her home. A small, intimate, moving little picture, with Charlotte Gainsbourg’s presence in the role of the mother certain to help its prospects, this surprisingly unprepossessing item, chosen for Cannes’ closing night spot, should do respectably well theatrically and much better, later on, on TV and home entertainment.

A sudden heart attack deprives Dawn (Gainsbourg) of her loving husband, Peter (Young). Devastated, she can hardly cope with his death, while each one of her four children reacts differently. The two older boys seem to be pretty much in control, though little things indicate they are deeply shaken. The three year-old toddler doesn’t speak yet, while angelic looking Simone decides to live in a sort of denial.

Father hasn’t departed, he has simply moved into the gigantic tree next to their home, and when she climbs into it she claims she can hear her dad talking to her, advising her, giving her pointers on her school chores. She even convinces Dawn there might be something to it, mother and daughter sharing a symbolic tie with the tree.

Eight months later, Dawn, who has never worked in her entire life, is hired by George (Csokas), the local plumber, to be his assistant and soon seems ready for more intimate relations. Simone naturally interprets this as a betrayal of her father’s memory, and the tree seems to respond in a similar fashion and sends its mighty roots to shaking the house’s foundations. When it seem the only option is to cut it down, Simone sets up house among its branches. George’s attempt to do something about it is thwarted at the last moment and it is only the forces of nature that finally provide the ultimate solution.

Given the house’s location and the landscape around it, nature is an essential component of the story, intervening every once in a while and with all due respect to little Morgana Davies and to Charlotte Gainsbourg - both touching in their respective parts - the real star of the movie, as the title indicates, is the huge fig tree which sends its branches and roots in every direction, looking for all purposes, like a giant octopus, to quote one of Dawn’s distraught neighbours.

Glowingly shot by Nigel Bluck, Bertuccelli’s film has all the compassionate approach required for the occasion, but somehow, seems to deliberately refrain from probing beyond the skin-deep appearance of the circumstances. Working from a novel by Judy Pascoe, both the direction and the script’s attitude are somehow a bit too literal and objective, by adopting the p.o.v. of one character might have added to its dramatic impact.

DVD Bits Blog [Sarah Ward]

The process of grieving is a deeply personal and unique experience for each and every one of us. For some, it involves retreating into isolation, with little more than the bed covers for company. For others, it is about going with the flow of emotion, whether positive, negative or a combination of both. For certain members of the population, rebellion, rebirth and even redemption are part and parcel of coping with death. For a select few, acceptance and pragmatism come early, with the loss incorporated into everyday life. And for more still, it is about holding on to whatever is left by identifying and coveting any remaining connection to those that have passed on. Most commonly, it involves elements of the above in varying quantities, in an affecting and inimitable ordeal capable of shaping the course of lives.

In Julie Bertucelli’s poignant second feature The Tree, all of the above aspects of mourning come together in a story of an ordinary family dealing with the extraordinary aftershocks of the inevitable yet still unexpected end that awaits us all. A French / Australian co-production shot in south eastern Queensland’s scenic Boonah region, it adapts Judy Pascoe’s unique novel “Our Father Who Art in The Tree” into a poetic, powerful and somewhat predictable depiction of grief starring Charlotte Gainsbourg (The Science of Sleep), Marton Csokas (South Solitary) and Aden Young (Mao’s Last Dancer) in the key adult roles alongside a cast of talented child actors including Morgana Davies (in her first feature role), Tom Russell (Last Ride), and Christian Byers (December Boys).

The closing night film at the 2010 Cannes Film Festival, The Tree opens with Peter (Young), a young father and husband returning from a day at work. Collecting his tomboy daughter Simone (Davies) from an afternoon spent skylarking unsupervised, he heads towards the iconic Moreton Bay fig tree that adorns his quaint country home. Mere metres away from his front door – at the foot of the tree, infact – a sudden pain in his arm announces the end of his life, with Simone watching on unaware. Arriving too late, his wife Dawn (Gainsbourg) and sons Tim (Byers), Lou (Russell) and Charlie (toddler Gabriel Gotting) are devastated, with their happy family unit shattered by the abrupt loss of their patriarch.

Left in a remote town with a family of four children, Dawn spends months wallowing in sorrow, oblivious to the goings on around her and the attempts by all and sundry to help her face her grief. By necessity Tim takes the practical approach and assumes the role of provider, however his impending tertiary schooling ensures his stint in charge is short-lived. Lou divides his time between fighting with his sister, running about with his friends, and watching his mother in silence – a silence that Charlie has embraced as the baby of the family. Only Simone seeks a different path, finding solace in the limbs and leaves of her beloved tree – a tree that she believes holds the spirit of her dearly departed father.

In an effort to divert Dawn from sadness, Simone shares the secret of the tree with her mother, who dismisses her original disbelief to similarly accept the seemingly far-fetched notion. Awakening from a veil of gloom, her new-found conviction inspires her to venture into town, where she takes an admin job working for local plumber George (Csokas). As time moves on, a relationship blooms, coincident with the roots and branches of the Moreton Bay fig threatening to destroy the family home. Faced with the choice of a new future or retaining her links to Peter through Simone’s beloved tree, Dawn is forced to confront her status as a mother, wife and woman left behind in the midst of tragedy and second chances.

Grief is a common subject in film, popularised of late by everything from Father Of My Children to Boy, The Waiting City to Inception, with further recent DVD releases Five Minutes Of Heaven, Quiet Chaos and Genova also broaching the subject. Although a potentially trying topic, the breadth of coverage in everything from comedies to drama has ensured that a number of notable cinematic offerings exist. Indeed, deserved recent Academy Award nominee A Single Man may earn its place as the most masterful of current efforts on the topic, however The Tree also excels in this realm, ranking amongst the most enigmatic and realistic modern explorations in the territory.

Made seven years after Bertucelli’s debut effort Since Otar Left, The Tree catalogues the grieving process to great effect, embracing themes of humanity, intricacy and intimacy so keenly demonstrated in her earlier work – and perhaps influenced by her stint as an assistant director on Krzysztof Kieslowski’s Three Colours: Blue and Three Colours: White. A saga of desolation and regeneration wrapped up in a reflective and authentic package of mourning, it unravels a complex and fractured family unit reaching out and hanging on in a time of need, with obvious and intended comparisons drawn to the uneasy journey of the tree that gives the film its title.

Yet despite the best of intentions, The Tree falls just short of heights it strives for, let down ever so slightly by the coupling of a formulaic plot with a little too much sentiment for many tastes. Similar in tone and style to Scott Hicks’ The Boys Are Back, it remains expected but enchanting nonetheless, lifted by an emotive script (adapted by Bertucelli from Elizabeth J. Mars’ screenplay of the novel), powerful performances from newcomer Davies and screen favourite Gainsbourg (in a role far removed from her turn in Antichrist, despite similar subject matter), and an accurate representation of grieving that shines through as the film’s salient strength, albeit with a slight supernatural bent.

Cinema Autopsy (Thomas Caldwell) review [3.5/5]

IFC.com [James Rocchi]

Urban Cinefile review Andrew L. Urban and Louise Keller

Digital Spy [Mayer Nissim]

User reviews from imdb Author: chrisliz57 from Australia

User reviews from imdb Author: ihrtfilms from Australia

The Hollywood Reporter review Ray Bennett

Variety (Robert Koehler) review

SCHOOL OF BABEL (La Cour de Babel) B+ 90

France (89 mi) 2014 Official website

A unique approach in exploring the diverse nature of the global community is placing a film camera inside schools with newly arriving students from all over the world. In France these are known as “reception classes,” delving inside the La Grange-aux-Belles secondary school in Paris, where the ages of the students are anywhere from 11 to 15, which includes 24 students with 24 different nationalities. Most are unable to speak French, so they need intensified training with others in a similar situation, where the goal is to be able to integrate these kids into the regular classrooms where they can communicate with their fellow French students. While they begin with the simplest tasks, like identifying themselves or saying hello in their native language, their teacher, Brigitte Cervoni, slowly tries to engage them in French, very similar to leading an ESL, or English as a second language class here in America. Many kids have to overcome various levels of shyness, cultural stigmas, preconceived notions, and often poor educational skills, which might be the norm, but they all carry some degree of excess baggage that is their own personal story. In addition to the teacher, the filmmaker helps draw out several introverted students whose stories are heartbreaking, often filled with abuse within their own families, where some were denied access to any education for several years, while others have been sent to aunts, uncles, or extended family in France with near delusional hopes and expectations, as if this is their only hope. Still, the mood of the classroom is upbeat and positive, where everyone is urged to dream what kind of life they’d like, and then attempt to make that happen. Initially we only see the kids in the classroom, where some are more dominant verbally, while others are aloof and sullen, where every single one of them has been picked on and humiliated by the intolerant French students for their poor language skills. This commonality has a way of bringing these kids together, as no one wants to live in shame. School gives kids a chance just to be kids, but it also offers them educational opportunities they might not have otherwise, where the goal is to educate each and every one of them, leaving no child behind, where they at least have a fighting chance. It’s curious to learn where may of these kids live, a dozen fitting into a one-room apartment under emergency circumstances, where they continue to seek new living accommodations, but even if they succeed, it means leaving the few friends they have in this classroom, the only thing that represents stability in their fractured lives.

Parent-teacher conferences expand the universe for many of the kids, as we’re able to see their living situations, where kids are expected to succeed in school or be sent back home to their country where African girls will be married off at 14 with or without their consent. In this way, education is a threat, learn or else, as their young lives have no way to conceive the possible outcomes, where it’s not exactly a motivating technique. It may leave the kids feeling more helpless, as realistically no one is on their side, where often they are literally dumped into these schools with little or no parental supervision. Xin, a Chinese girl, is urged to speak more, as she’s easily the shyest one in class, but her mother works two jobs and is never at home when her daughter’s there, so she’s raising herself all alone and literally has no one to talk to, where her mother eloquently reveals “Not speak, all alone.” We learn later, almost by accident, that she hasn’t seen her mother in ten years. Oksana fled from the fighting in the Ukraine, but has hopes one day of returning as a pop singer, breaking out into an a cappella song at one point, a rare moment of beauty and artistry, where we see her later helping translate for other Eastern European students. Miguel is a classical cellist from Venezuela who practiced 9-hours a day for three months prior to an audition into a French music conservatory, playing an atonal 20^th century piece in the classroom that couldn’t have felt more uplifting. Luca is from Northern Ireland, but has been shunned by students wherever he’s gone due to signs of Asperger’s Syndrome, where his mother tries to protect him by explaining his failings in math, but you can see she’s only reinforcing failure in his mind. Mihajlo and his family are Jews that were attacked by neo-Nazi groups in Serbia. When asked if he might spend a little more time doing his homework, we discover he’s been filling out all the copious paperwork for the entire family in requesting asylum in France, while also providing all the interpreting services for every family member, leaving him no available time. Ramatoulaye is the class diva from Mauritania, regularly driven to tears when she discovers the difficulties others have had to endure, but when asked, she can’t name a single student as a friend. We discover she lived with her father in Senegal where she was kept out of school and beaten regularly, now living with her mother who can’t read or write, but threatens to send her back to her father if she doesn’t succeed. One can sense the hostility seething under the surface with this young woman, who has known nothing but mistreatment her entire life, finding it impossible to believe there is any real hope.

The multicultural immersion is like a United Nations school for refugees, yet it also recalls the provocative French teacher in Laurent Cantet’s Palme d’Or winning film The Class (Entre Les Murs) (2008), where the classroom discussions about race, religion, nationality, and prejudice couldn’t have been more lively, where the situations at home provided so little support due to the economic circumstances, where these young kids are largely expected to raise themselves on their own by the time they’re age 10, as the parents are forced to work. It’s also reminiscent of Greek filmmaker Lucia Rikaki’s Dreams in Another Language (Oneira se alli glossa) (2010), featuring refugee students at the Faneromeni school in Cyprus from 21 different nationalities in primary and high school. The beauty of these films is what these kids bring to the classroom, which is a fierce spirit of hope as well as a deep, profound loss as the viewer begins to understand what their shattered lives have been like, much of which is unimaginable to Western families. The teachers in these films are indefatigable, offering encouragement to each student, no matter the errors or mistakes, trying to paint in their minds and imaginations the possibility that they may meet a different future, where if they’re prepared for it, they might have a different outcome than whatever it was that led them to these classrooms, which is largely family abandonment. Each of these kids brings their own story and their own personal insight, often becoming an ambassador for their reflective cultures. When Maryam, a fierce defender of Islam from Libya is pulled out of the school as they’ve located a larger home in another town, the impact on the other students is literally heartbreaking, as the solidarity among themselves is all they have to hold onto, and when one link of the chain is lost, they feel suddenly more exposed and vulnerable. Filmed without narration or explanation, the entire story evolves in the classroom, where the most unique features are the emotional responses from the kids, who have a way of expressing the universality of childhood, where it’s something that happens in every nation around the world, irregardless of political events, where this film shows them on the cusp of young adulthood, where they can be seen still clinging to the innocence of their youth. Part of their frustration is the inability to communicate in a foreign language, where they are regularly teased and derided by other students for trying, yet their goal is to be able to be in the same classroom with this bullying majority. That is the immigrant experience, poignantly expressed by the heartfelt experiences shared by the kids in this film.

School of Babel | Filmlinc.com | Film Society of Lincoln Center

At a secondary school in Paris’s 10th arrondissement there is a “reception class,” where students between the ages of 11 and 15 are taught their first lessons in French. Some of these immigrant children, newly arrived, know a few phrases in the language of their adopted country; others can’t speak a word. Their families have come from all across the globe, from Ireland, Senegal, Morocco, Brazil, and China, fleeing persecution or just looking for a fresh start. Shot over a year, this observational documentary by Julie Bertuccelli (Since Otar Left, The Tree) is a kind of nonfiction counterpart to Laurent Cantet’s Palme d’Or-winning The Class, staying within the confines of the school and recording the children’s candid, sometimes heated discussions and interactions between parents and teachers. The result is both illuminating and extremely touching, a multifaceted look at the French melting pot, its frustrations and its hopes for the future.

Rendez-Vous with French Cinema 2014 | Film-Forward Kent Turner

Julie Bertuccelli was a TV documentary filmmaker before she made one of the best family dramas of the ’00s, Since Otar Left. She returns to nonfiction film with School of Babel, with students who hail from all over the world—Morocco, Venezuela, Romania, Senegal, the Ukraine—in a French middle school immersion class. Disruptive, acting their age and acting up, and behaving diffidently—the (pre)teens are uninhibited; they are even comfortable being filmed at a swimming lesson. The pace matches the jaunty orchestral score, and because the students take their time speaking, it’s also a good way to brush up on your French. Much may feel familiar to an American audience or to those who saw the ever-patient teacher in Nicolas Philibert’s To Be and To Have or Laurent Cantet’s The Class, which had a real-life teacher acting as the central character. But the last day of school in Babel is a doozy, a teary reminder that these preteens are not yet old enough to hide their feelings when saying goodbye to each other or their retiring teacher, Brigitte Cervoni.  À Madame, avec amour.

The Evening Class: April 2014 Michael Guillen, also seen here: preview capsules

While Julie Bertuccelli is best known for narrative features such as Since Otar Left and The Tree, is it in the documentary realm where I believe she really shines. Her latest is a compelling and compassionate look at one year in a Parisian "reception" class for 11-year-old immigrants, where they study French language and culture, as well as a general curriculum. The disparate students include a Jewish boy whose family fled neo-Nazi attacks in Serbia, a girl from Guinea who faces genital mutilation if returned home, and a boy with Asperger Syndrome whose single mother left Ireland in search of economic opportunity. They're guided by an empathetic but resolute teacher, Brigitte Cervoni, who will also help them produce a class video they'll bring to a youth film festival in Chartres. The parent-student-teacher conferences, where students are frequently put in the awkward position of playing interpreter, are particularly illuminating. School of Babel begins on Day One with each student writing "hello" on the chalkboard in their native language and ends with intensely emotional farewells on graduation day. Be sure to have a handkerchief in hand.

Spirituality & Practice [Frederic and Mary Ann Brussat]

The United Nations estimates that there are about 175 million immigrants worldwide or about 3% of the planet's population. In developed countries, one in 120 people is an immigrant. By contrast, in developing countries, only one in 70 people is an immigrant. This huge number of people moving from one place to another is both a cause and a consequence of globalization.

The immigration issue is one of the most contentious debates in countries all around the world. Are immigrants good for the local economy or not? How do you define "us" and "them"? Are they becoming too great a drain on society in terms of their needs for education, health care, and social services? Some of these questions come up in Julie Bertuccelli's (Since Otar Left, The Tree) enlightening documentary School of Babel.

Teacher Brigitte Cervoni welcomes students from around the world into the school La Grange aux Belles in northern France. Her task is a formidable one: to provide a transition for immigrant children who spend a year learning French and a core curriculum which will enable them to enter regular classes. The children range in age from 11 to 15 and they prove to be a versatile group. They come from China, Serbia, Venezuela, Ireland, Guinea, Ukraine, Libya, and other countries.

The students have been encouraged by their parents to do well in school so they will raise the standard of living for their families. Interviews with the parents are very informative, revealing what their kids experienced in life. The most controversial topics discussed in the classroom have to do with religion and the fears about the future.

The sensitive filmmaker puts the spiritual practice of hospitality at the center of this documentary. We are enriched by her portrait of students struggling to respect the "others" they have been taught to fear and not trust. Here the sharing of stories (and the beautiful song of a blonde girl) opens the hearts and then the minds of students.

School of Babel, The/La cour de Babel (Julie Bertuccelli 2013) Chris Knipp from Filmleaf

Julie Bertuccelli's documentary is beautiful and colorful from the start, when some of the dozen or so 11-15-year-old "reception class" students at the school of La Grange aux Belles in Paris's 10 arrondissement go up and say and write "hello" in their native languages on the blackboard. They are black and white, Hispanic and Arab, and speak many languages. An argument breaks out right away about religion and language. Can a Christian use as-salaamu 'alaykum as a greeting, since it comes from Islam? It doesn't matter. They are instant friends. Though we see some acting out from several of the African girls, everyone is there to learn and to help each other as they all struggle to adapt to the French environment, academic program, and the French language. The prevailing spirit is of giving and sharing.

This is these infinitely various young people's "homeroom," the teacher, Brigitte Cervoni, who is patient, encouraging, but firm in constnatly correcting errors, is their faithful helper. Yes, this film is a bit like a non-fiction version of Laurent Cantet's Palme d'Or winning French classroom feature Entre les murs, but also will recall Nicolas Philibert's memorable study of elementary school To Be and to Have, with the similarity to the latter that the end-of-year farewells (this film too shot over the course of a year) are especially emotional because the teacher is retiring from the classroom, in this case to become a government inspector.

It's hard to imagine anything more touching than the group hugs at the end of the year, or the moment when a Ukrainian girl sings a beautiful song for classmates.

The kids tell about how they have come from bigger houses and have to face tiny accommodations in this expensive city. The very pretty Lebanese girl (who has also lived in Egypt) must leave because the government has found an apartment for her and her mother in Verdun. It seems a raw deal, but it means they will have a comfortable place to live, and they fear refusing the offer would offend authorities when their status is still uncertain.

Details emerge about many of the students. In particular Rama, from Senegal, has a way of acting out all the time, refusing to admit any fellow students are her friends. IIt turns out she was mistreated b her father's family back home, and the anger lingers in a hostile manner and neglect of her schoolwork. The lack of affect of Xin, a girl from China, is explained when it turns out her mother came to France ten years ago and she was by herself, and they're still cut off since her mother is working at a restaurnat all the time. But thanks to the new culture and the friendship of classmates Xin becomes a happier, more outgoing girl. Luca, from Northern Ireland, who his mother says was diagnosed when young with Asperger's and who hates math, also seems to grow into an otherwise good academic performer who is sometimes outspoken. A Serbian boy, typically for immigrants, turns out to be the bet in his family at French, acting as translator for his parents. And always Brigitte Cervoni is present in the background quietly prompting, encouraging, and correcting.

The theme of the French title, "The Courtyard of Babel," is rhythmically asserted with recurrent overhead shots of the school's courtyard, where students mingle freely.

All in all, this adds up to a glorious advertisement for the French social system. Except for a severe swimming instructor who sidelines a girl who has come to the pool repeatedly without the proper gear, we see only kindness, and it's hard not to make comparison with the US's current ruthless treatment of the undocumented, who are in jails, not schools.

Little White Lies [Cormac O'Brien]

Dog And Wolf [Laura Bennett]

ScreenRelish [Rachel Willis]

School of Babel (La cour de Babel [2014]) - Kamera.co.uk Colin Odell and Michelle Le Blanc

Review: School Of Babel | battleroyalewithcheese or BRWC Daryl Bär from Battle Royale With Cheese

School of Babel | SFFS Tim Sika

Part three: Bad Hair, School of Babel, South is Nothing ... David Walsh from the World Socialist Web Site

Wylie Writes [Addison Wylie]

School of Babel | Cambridge Film Festival

Reeling Reviews [Robin Clifford]

Daily | San Francisco 2014 | Keyframe - Explore the world of ... David Hudson from Fandor

SFIFF Women Directors: Meet Julie Bertuccelli (School of ... Melissa Silverstein interview from indieWIRE, April 28, 2014

School of Babel (La Cour de Babel): Rome Review - The ... Boyd van Hoeij from The Hollywood Reporter

Film Review: 'School of Babel' - Variety Jay Weissberg

School of Babel - Time Out Tom Huddleston

School of Babel review - The Guardian Andrew Pulver

Bessis, Lola and Ruben Amar

SWIM LITTLE FISH SWIM B 84

USA France (95 mi) 2013 Official site

An offbeat coming-of-age movie written, directed, and produced by a husband and wife team that is actually about the choices made by young child/adults as they navigate their way into adulthood, as if it is a foreign territory to be avoided at all costs, where the perilous consequences are likely to be unalterable once entered. This is a film where things happen not in any particular order, but in the randomness of the moment, where caught up in this idiosyncratic world are Leeward (Dustin Guy Defa), a perennially unemployed musician that appears to exist out of the 60’s or even an earlier era, as he routinely allows strange people to crash in their home, spends all day making music with friends and neighbors, and has little thought about personal responsibilities, though he seems to be a devoted father to his young 4-year old daughter that he insists upon calling Rainbow (Olivia Costello). Mary (Brooke Bloom) is a full-time nurse that has to work extended hours just to make ends meet, whose nerves are tested by the seemingly anything-goes philosophy of her husband, who she finds lazy and irresponsible, an overgrown adolescent who seems incapable of holding down a job, though she believes he’s certainly talented enough musically, as he writes songs all the time, but refuses to get paid for them, while insisting upon calling their daughter by her real name, Maggie. Into this blissful existence comes Lilas (Lola Bessis, co-writer and director), a perky young French artist struggling to find her way into the New York artworld and the daughter of a world famous painter (Anne Consigny) in Paris. What each of these characters has in common is their perception of feeling misunderstood, believing they are doing the right thing for the right reasons, but feeling lost and alone as no one else seems to care.

The film has an interesting New York City vibe to it, centered around the East Village filled with Bohemian artists, street musicians, rollerblade skaters and the everpresent bustle of street activities, much of it taking place in a cramped Chinatown apartment that seems to attract a myriad of people when Leeward is home during the daytime, most all of whom are ushered out when Mary arrives back home, completely flustered at having to deal with all these strange people. One of these is Lilas, a video artist that walks around the streets of the city with a portable projector in hand, who is promised a spot on the living room couch for a few days, much to the chagrin of Mary, who is rarely allowed to crack a smile, as she’s the only one working to pay for the supposed comforts of others. After a bit of browbeating, she gets Leeward to agree to check out a job writing music for a commercial, something that wouldn’t particularly be that hard for him, but Leeward has an anti-capitalist bent about him, a holdover from the more radical leanings of his grandmother we later learn, who encourages him every step of the way to walk to the beat of his own drum irregardless what others think. Mary, however, is led to believe he is performing the required work assignment and is in line to receive a hefty paycheck, so on her own she explores a cute little house in the suburbs of Jersey City, thinking this could finally become a reality. Instead, however, it’s Lilas that is having an effect on her husband’s choices, both struggling artists, where they mutually agree they should simply quit stalling and go for it, where Lilas intends to get an art exhibition at MoMA PS1, a move that could extend her expiring VISA, as it would make her a working artist, while Leeward makes arrangements to cut his first record in a studio. Simultaneously, each pursues their own dream while concealing it from a significant other.

While the film is about freedom and self-expression, often expressed in a joyous communal celebration, it’s also a film of emotional neglect, as Lilas’s overcontrolling mother is more used to telling her daughter what to do instead of listening to her, while Leeward is tone deaf to his wife’s increasing stress about their financial hardships, where she’s tired of living hand to mouth while supporting the entire neighborhood. When Mary gets serious about making a down payment on a house, it’s out of desperation for a better future, concerns that Leeward simply ignores, as he’s too caught up pursuing his own dreams. Their daughter, despite the mixed signals, seems to be happy and content, where Lilas takes to her like a long lost daughter she never had, while Maggie seems to be thrilled by all the activity taking place in her home very day. To that end, filmmaker Nathan Punwar contributes stunning Super 8 video footage that is tastefully interspersed throughout the interweaving narrative, that may as well be a world seen through a child’s eye, filled with bright colors and an unmistakable magic and charm. While each is trying to achieve something they want, including the build-up of their own heightened expectations, reality can be a sobering reminder of how difficult dreams are to achieve. As it happens, Lilas’s mother is planning an exhibit of her own at MOMA in New York, asking her daughter to come help out, but she’s disappointed to learn that her own project has been short circuited, denied a place in the exhibit, sending her back into the control of her mother. Undeterred, she does so on her own terms, using the moment to express herself anyway, even if no one’s listening, an affect that finally gets her mother’s attention. This is one of those quirky little films that is all about wacky artists, absurd personalities, and lofty ambitions that wind up with an altogether different expression than anything imagined, becoming, of all things, an intriguing family drama about the worth of each individual, with an appropriate musical soundtrack accredited to Toys and Tiny Instruments.

The House Next Door [Elise Nakhnikian]

Brooklyn is a fish tank full of naked artists, happy street musicians, cool rollerblade dancers and basketball players, and endless riffs on the theme of self-expression vs. selling out in Swim Little Fish Swim, a portrait of the artist as a (very) young woman as inchoate as its main characters. What comes through strongest is its Woody Allen-esque treatment of Brooklyn, complete with golden light, beautiful young women, glamorous locations and plenty of appealingly tortured—or insufferably neurotic, depending on your point of view—artists.

Lilas (Lola Bessis, who also co-wrote and co-directed) is a girlishly beautiful art-world princess from Paris, the daughter of a famous artist and a graduate of what her mother calls "the finest art school in Paris." Lilas expects the world to embrace her and it must not disappoint much, judging by the bitchy torrent of self-pity she unleashes the one time someone says no to her. Her glossy self-absorption meets its match in Leeward (Dustin Guy Defa), the passive-aggressive husband half of a stunningly uncommunicative American couple she crashes with for a week or two. As Leeward and Mary (Brooke Bloom) pull hard in opposite directions, their three-year-old daughter (Olivia Durling Costello, feisty and only occasionally self-conscious) caught in the middle, Lilas inserts herself between them. Oblivious to Mary's mounting irritation, she nudges Leeward to spend all his time being a capital-A artist (he makes quirky music on toy instruments) rather than earning money to help support his family.

Bessis and her filmmaking and life partner, Ruben Amar, shot the film while living in Brooklyn for a year or so. As Bloom put it after the Tuesday screening, there's "kind of a foreign romanticism" in their film. "This reminds me of the thing—what's the word for it?—when you romanticize a place so much that actually being there is disappointing," Bloom said.

Swim Little Fish Swim | Film Review | Slant Magazine Nick Prigge

When we first meet Leeward (Dustin Guy Defa), he's holding court over an assembly of peers in his apartment, stumping for a book with ideas intended to break capitalism's bad karma by "building a society based around happiness and creativity." Soon after, upon welcoming into his home a French experimental visual artist, Lilas (Lola Bessis), needing a place to stay, he strums an original ditty on ukulele, with others joining in on his three-year-old daughter's (Olivia Costello) assorted instruments. They may suggest an infantile liberal-arts cult, but throughout the sequence, writer-directors Lola Bessis and Ruben Amar purposely juxtapose the excessive sentimentality with images of Leeward's wife, Mary (Brooke Bloom), working a mundane shift at the hospital, making up beds, changing out IVs, offering a kitchen-sink alternative to the all the good vibrations. Swim Little Fish Swim's aesthetic is born of the same schmaltzy never-never land as John Carney's Begin Again, feasting on cloying pop songs and its main characters' passion projects. But rather than espouse the cliché that creative expression can save your life, the first-time filmmakers subtly counteract it by making their protagonist a hipster Peter Pan whose creative expression is an excuse not to grow up.

Though the central couple may seem devoid of common ground, Bloom's performance gracefully hints at a shuttered past in the name of being an adult. And her palpable stress is born not of regret for a previous life, but the weariness of hopelessly waiting for an emotional growth spurt from her husband. They can't even agree on what to call their daughter. He prefers Rainbow, she Maggie, a droll demarcation of battle lines in their marital strife. Traditionally her character would be the shrew, and at one point she does bust up a party, but Swim Little Fish Swim is laudable for resisting that archetype and making her point of view empathetic. Her husband's incessant irreverent verbal dodges and resistance to taking a paying gig for composing a commercial jingle to maintain "integrity" come off irresponsible considering the daughter in his charge.

This irresponsibility is worsened when Lilas enters the fold. Rather than have her predictably metamorphose into the carnal couch-crashing bomb, the script transforms her into an ideological interference. Though she and Leeward don't match up in age, they match up in maturity, and she casually enables Leeward's creative process to the point of relationship combustion. And with her visa set to expire in 10 days, she's forced to apply for an extension. But upon declaring herself an "artist," the immigration agent matter-of-factly advises that such an assertion requires sufficient evidence that she, you know, makes a living making art. At times, it's fair to wonder if Swim Little Fish Swim believes too readily in the sanctimony of the starving artist, yet in this comical moment all the precious snowflakes finally melt away. And even if the film ends with mother and daughter listening to one of Leeward's sweet songs, it sounds more like a sugary shiv, an effortless reminder that music is but a temporary remedy. Mary may appreciate what his artistic muse has wrought, but she won't let him off the hook, leaving him to wander in man-boy purgatory, threatening to dissolve in a cloud of tweeness.

The Dissolve [Sheila O'Malley]

There are small moments that shiver with chaos and uncontrollable emotion in Swim Little Fish Swim, the first feature film by co-directors and co-writers Ruben Amar and Lola Bessis. Those are its best moments, the moments when it’s not in control of itself. Filmed in a fragmentary, collage-like style, Swim Little Fish Swim presents New York City in its silliness and random grit and beauty in a way that seems to “get” the city, especially now, when so much of New York has become homogenized beyond recognition. New York is still the place where hopeful artists cluster, where dreams are stronger than reality, where all of life is made up of “the substance of things hoped for.” The film explores familiar territory, and it’s trite in its particulars, but it has a strange emotional power that emerges almost despite itself. 

The artists in Swim Little Fish Swim live in and around the East Village, where they gather in bars, each other’s apartments, and at sparsely populated open-mic nights, trying to keep the dream alive. Someone is always ready to bust out a ukelele at any given moment. Despite Amar and Bessis’ clear sympathetic tenderness toward this community, there’s something in the way they tell their story that allows other far more interesting things, ugly and angry, to explode to the surface. 

Brooke Bloom gives such a strong performance as Mary, the hard-working wife of aspiring musician Leeward (Dustin Guy Defa) that the film tilts chaotically in her favor. It feels unintentional. Leeward and Mary have a 3-year-old daughter named Maggie (nicknamed Rainbow, played by Olivia Costello), and Mary’s goals for her family are conventional and out-of-step with the artists around her: She wants to move to a house in Jersey City, and can’t go on living in a one-bedroom walkup much longer. Leeward refuses to take a job writing commercial jingles, even though Mary begs him to because they need the money. He can’t, it will ruin his artistic integrity! (Defa’s performance is a small, ugly masterpiece of denial, bald-faced lying, and passive-aggressive pouting. To his credit, he doesn’t soft-peddle any of it.)

Wandering into this world like a chic somnambulist is Lilas (played by Bessis), a French girl in New York, trying to get a gallery to show her experimental videos so she can extend her visa. Lilas’ mother (Anne Consigny) is a world-famous artist preparing for an upcoming MOMA retrospective. She leaves bossy messages on Lilas’ phone, demanding that her daughter return to Paris and get a real life. Lilas needs a place to stay, and a mutual friend who is also crashing on Leeward and Mary’s couch invites Lilas to stay there too. Nobody checks whether this is all right with Mary. The message of Swim Little Fish Swim is, ultimately, just keep doing your art, and everyone in your life will be happier because you are happy! But Mary’s arc tells a different story, which takes over the film. 

Lilas’ presence in the household exacerbates the tensions between husband and wife, especially because Lilas shows smiling support of Leeward’s dreams, all while wearing red lipstick, a white lace shirt, and a big bow in her hair. Bessis is sweet and simple in the role, but she isn’t the actor Brooke Bloom is. Lilas’ issues with her mother seem shallow, her desire to be an artist is muted and vague, and her explosive drunken moment in a bar one night doesn’t come off at all. On the flipside, Mary’s desire to create a stable life for her family feels specific, raw, and visceral. 

What Swim Little Fish Swim gets right is the details of life in New York in a certain meandering hipster demographic. The impromptu gatherings at Leeward’s apartment, with Christmas lights twinkling on the walls, people talking about life and the “bad karma” of capitalism, all as Rainbow is kept up long past her bedtime—these scenes are filmed with a jagged, intuitive understanding of behavior and mood that’s a lot of fun to watch. In the snippets of overheard conversation (“My fear of dinosaurs then became totally irrational…”), between the obligations of the shallow plot-points, Swim Little Fish Swim feels alive. 

The ending feels confused rather than uplifting. Something awful has been revealed in the course of the film, something that contradicts the obvious themes glorifying the artist’s dedication to his art. Mary—wearing scrubs, leaning against her car and smoking a cigarette, staring up at her tiny hoped-for home in Jersey City with a touching gleam in her eyes, as though the house is a Newport mansion—emerges as the only authentic dreamer in the film.

Review: 'Swim Little Fish Swim' - Film.com Calium Marsh

Early last summer, while inhaling screeners in preparation for New York’s BAMcinemaFest, I happened upon a short film that I liked about as much as any of the slate’s more illustrious features. It was a fifteen-minute piece called “Lydia Hoffman, Lydia Hoffman”, about a young woman (Hannah Gross) who fights with her boyfriend in public and shortly thereafter invites a drifter home for drinks. It was directed by Dustin Guy Defa, a Brooklyn-based filmmaker whose previous film, “Bad Fever,” I had remembered finding somewhat affected and false; imagine my surprise, then, when I found that the revelation of “Lydia Hoffman” was owed precisely to its appropriation of these qualities. It’s quite a coup: The weight and force of the film are derived from the tension between its soft, amiable surfaces (and credit is due here to cinematographer Sean Price Williams, who delivers some of his best work) and the depths of ferocity barely restrained beneath. It was a film that, in the tradition of Cassavetes, seemed to contain within its vigorous sprawl deep pools of anger and sadness and hurt — you could practically taste the venom in every line or laugh.

“Lydia Hoffman” was on my mind for much of Lola Bessis and Ruben Amar’s debut feature “Swim Little Fish Swim,” and for good reason: It features none other than Dustin Guy Defa in the starring role, as Leeward, a sad-sack indie folk musician whose indefatigable integrity seems to cause more harm to those around him than good. What’s more, “Swim Little Fish Swim” evidently shares with its lead performer the desire to smuggle pain in under a pretense of otherwise likeable comic drama, which is to say that, like “Lydia Hoffman”, this is a film that trades in total (and particularly tonal) misdirection. Take, for example, its method of introducing the central players: We open on a close up of Lilas (co-director Bessis), the story’s co-lead, elaborately bound in what appears, at first blush, to either be a kidnapping situation or some kind of ceremonious pre-coital ritual. It soon transpires, of course, that Lilas has been willingly arranged as a painter’s contorted model, and the scene shifts into the register of an outrageous pre-credits gag. Naturally this scene is capped by a requisite (and funny) punchline — the painter instructs Lilas to stay perfectly still before wandering out of the room in search of new paint, leaving our hogtied hero stranded — but what’s really going on here? A young Parisian abroad is quite literally tied up and restrained, left alone and without comfort or a way to escape, and all in the name of artistic ambition. And this just happens to be the subject of the film.

Such a concise expression of theme ought to be appreciated — it betrays an elegance of construction, not to mention a basic foresight of thought, scarcely seen in likeminded indie comedies. Defa’s introduction as Leeward, a few scenes later, is somewhat clunkier both as drama and, unfortunately, as comedy (a recurring joke about a passed-on book of communal advice isn’t funny and rings false for the character), but it nevertheless lays the groundwork for friction better developed in the big picture. We meet Leeward in what we can gather are fairly ordinary circumstances: he has invited a number of guests to his house, which he shares with his overworked wife and three year old daughter, to hang around, talk politics, and jam on ukuleles. (If this description suggests an image of the insufferable hipster, it’s deliberate and, I suspect, more knowing than it lets on — even the beards look like they’re partly in jest.) It isn’t until the return of his wife, Mary (Brooke Bloom), that the film shows its hand a bit: the contrast between Leeward’s lackadaisical, exaggeratedly carefree existence and the exhaustion in which Mary remains perpetually shrouded instantly dispels any sense of the film as typical indie quirk, grounding in realities of class most films of this kind conveniently avoid.

The film’s shrewdest move to this end, in fact, is making Mary both a peripheral character and its emotional foundation: she is the only one who seems resigned to the hardships of responsibility rather than the anxieties of ambition, and it is her mounting impatience with the behaviour of Leeward (and, implicitly, Lilas, who stays with them as a guest) that serves to remind us of the privilege of an loftily artistic lifestyle. “Swim Little Fish Swim” has been compared in some circles to Lena Dunham’s “Tiny Furniture,” but its major narrative distinction — that the leads share a young child — makes it a film of very different kinds of interests and insights by default: it has something to say about the difficulty of reconciling the romanticized bohemian lifestyle with the less glamorous nuts and bolts of raising a family, earning a living, and making another person happy in a long-term, substantive way. It isn’t exactly cynical, but it is harshly realistic: it suggests that pursuing a creative dream is a luxury afforded only to some and, even then, at great personal, social, and even romantic expense.

There are precedents for this kind of illusion-shattering realism, of course — the film shares with Terry Zwigoff’s “Ghost World” the need to prove how much damage some sense of ‘integrity’ can inflict on other people, and even with “Catcher in the Rye” the reminder that one person’s view of the world rarely coheres completely with the real thing. And in the constant hardships, disappointments, failures and dead-ends it deals out to its characters, who stick to their dreams to the point of alienating everyone close to them, it’s not unlike the more recent “Inside Llewyn Davis,” which also rendered artistic practice as a kind of masochism. But what distinguishes it from all of these cases is the same thing that made “Lydia Hoffman” so unique: that deep well of sadness and pain still rests beneath of apparent sweetness, of an appearance of lightness and affection that makes the hard parts harder to see.

What ultimately holds the film back, I believe, is its tendency to err too far on the side of that sweetness — it indulges too often in the hallmarks of the mediocre indie, the stuff a press release might call ‘quirk’, to level its more substantial points with real seriousness. Mary and Leeward’s three year old daughter, Maggie (Olivia Durling Costello), is frequently the source of much wide-eyed fawning from her parents and the filmmakers alike, an understandable desire but, alas, a misguided one; it is only when Maggie’s innocence is threatened by her parents (in a brief but quite powerful seen involving the death of a pet fish) that the somewhat precious quality of her presence becomes fruitful thematically. And though it’s difficult to fault a pair of first-time filmmakers for wanting to end their feature on a note of spirit-raising satisfaction, the effect proves a regrettable, if not catastrophic, miscalculation — too much is at stake in the twin failures of the leads to be compromised by a flourish of emotional gratification, and the moment they chose doesn’t feel true to the ideas they’ve been working through elsewhere. Maturity, in this case, needs conviction, even at the risk of depressing the audience. But we need to hear the truth even if it hurts.

Review: 'Swim Little Fish Swim' | Indiewire Eric Kohn from indieWIRE

SXSW 2013 Review: SWIM LITTLE FISH SWIM Is A ... - Twitch Ben Umstead

Swim Little Fish Swim - Sound On Sight Christopher Clemente from Sound on Sight

Smells Like Screen Spirit [Don Simpson]

Sound On Sight David Tran

Facets : Cinematheque Schedule: Swim Little Fish Swim

'Swim Little Fish Swim': Film Review - The Hollywood Report Frank Scheck from The Hollywood Reporter

Rotterdam Film Review: 'Swim Little Fish Swim' - Variety Jay Weissberg

Review: 'Swim Little Fish Swim' - Los Angeles Times Sheri Linden

Swim Little Fish Swim - The New York Times Neil Genzlinger

Besson, Luc

"Morel vs. Besson" Ignatiy Vishnevetsky from Mubi, February 10, 2010

JOAN OF ARC

France (158 mi) 1999

BFI | Sight & Sound | Joan of Arc (1999) Ginette Vincendeau from Sight and Sound, April 2000

LUCY C 74

France (90 mi) 2014 ‘Scope Official site [Japan]

Luc Besson is a director who has the subtlety of a Mack truck, preferring to accentuate an adolescent, comic book style version of ultra violence, where this is little more than another shoot ‘em up movie, as bullets are flying throughout this film. While the film attempts to establish tension and pace, using standard movie techniques of big budgeted Hollywood films, this is something of a cross between the ludicrous and most ridiculous realms of Christopher Nolan’s INCEPTION (2010) and Brian De Palma’s The Fury (1978), though arguably less entertaining, where at $40 million dollars this plays out more like a futuristic B-movie where the accent is on the visual design. Short on ideas (written by the director), the film borrows liberally from other sources, mainly the sadistic violence of Korean films, where Choi Min-sik as Mr. Jang is one of the faces associated with Park Chan-wook’s The Vengeance Trilogy (2002 – 2005), mixed with an exaggerated Eurotrash action sensibility that attempts to boggle the mind with macho action sequences and the achievement of Godlike human consciousness, where Scarlett Johansson as Lucy, the same name as the original ape primate that was estimated to have lived 3.2 million years ago, goes from a helpless kidnapped victim drugged with a high concentration of a mysterious wonder drug that suddenly gives her superpowers. It’s like the ultimate H.G. Wells fantasy from The Island of Dr. Moreau, his 1896 science-fiction novel, where he incorporates genetic experimentation through his ideas on The Limits of Individual Plasticity, where animals can theoretically be bio-engineered into stronger and more intelligent versions of their natural molecular components, becoming super creatures that can rule their species. Rather than a race of defective, genetically altered mutants, the result of failed experimentation, this one inexplicably succeeds, turning Lucy into a highly evolved being with super consciousness, including superhuman strength, telepathy, telekinesis, time travel, or the ability to stop time altogether, where she can alter physics and matter with her mind. The scientific narrator droning on throughout is Morgan Freeman, completely wasted as Professor Norman, an expert on human consciousness seen giving a lecture where he claims humans can only use 10% of their brain, where anything beyond that is pure conjecture.

Perhaps unwittingly, once again it’s Scarlett Johansson playing this super consciousness, as she did as a computer generated voice of artificial intelligence in Spike Jonze’s Her (2013), where she was only heard and never seen, evolving too fast for the human race, eventually connecting to other forms of artificial intelligence, creating their own metaphysical world of superior intelligence. In Jonathan Glazer’s Under the Skin (2013), she plays a more highly evolved extraterrestial creature visiting earth with vile ulterior motives but becomes fascinated with the idea of being human, where here she is again in human form, where her capabilities are too complex and can only be expressed through computer generated special effects that include some cheesy forms of animation. In every one of these performances, Johansson adds her own sexual emphasis, using her female guile like a black widow spider to lure unsuspecting men into traps where they may remain stuck or destroyed in some capacity. All the more interesting that she is the one initially trapped by the smoothtalking charm of her boyfriend Richard (Pilou Asbæk) that she’s only known for a week, attempting to coerce her into running an errand for him by delivering a locked suitcase to a Mr. Jang at the front desk of an upscale hotel. Not knowing the contents, she refuses, but before she can walk away, he handcuffs her wrist to the briefcase. Only Mr. Jang has the key. This set of circumstances is intercut with footage of wild animals stalking their prey, cheetahs hunting antelope or a mouse approaching a baited trap, giving an all-too-obvious, over-the-top feel of forced exaggeration, where characters are entirely expressed through stereotypes, as Mr. Jang ominously arrives with his armed yakuza henchmen and life as she knew it is over. From behind the desk of a penthouse suite in a sleek skyscraper, Mr. Jang is consolidating the world’s supply of CPH4, an experimental pharmaceutical drug used in pregnancy to help regenerate cell growth. Taken in huge quantities this has superhuman effects, but we only discover this when they surgically insert plastic packages of this drug into the intestines of unwitting subjects, turning them into drug mules where the plan is to transport packages all over the world. In Lucy’s case, the bag bursts inside her abdomen sending the drug racing through her bloodstream, expressed in a mind-altering moment that alters the power dynamic. From that point on, men with guns are no longer a concern for her, which she quickly demonstrates in amusing fashion.

Shot in Taipei, Taiwan (though Mr. Jang and his henchmen speak Korean), Besson often uses fast-motion, stream-of-conscious speeds, while also backtracking to prehistoric conditions when humans had not yet evolved, where only apes roamed the earth. Similarly, modernity is expressed in animalistic fashion by a world run by the mob, street gangs, drug addicts, and corrupt cops. Like Superman eradicating crime from the streets with superpowers, Lucy takes on the force of evil initially through telepathy, as she has the capacity to absorb knowledge instantly, but can also move objects with her mind while discovering she is immune to pain. She begins accessing more and more of her brain capacity, where the screen continually updates her current status until near the end she reaches the maximum of 100%, sharing much of her experience with Professor Norman, who can’t offer much wisdom in the area where she’s traveling, seen working two computers simultaneously at blazing speed. While there should be an accompanying mental challenge to the viewer as she reaches new realms, but it’s all done by special effects, copying much of what we already saw in INCEPTION, spending much of her time inside her head, focusing on the instantaneous expansion even as she knows her life cycle will end soon, where she’s literally fighting against time. All the more reason that the continuing attempts by Mr. Jang to exact his mob revenge against the escaped Lucy seem silly, becoming absurdly ridiculous when bringing out a bazooka, carrying no element of suspense, adding nothing to the story except predictability, where Besson litters the screen with endless shootouts that prove nothing, especially when Lucy is rapidly evolving before our eyes into the future of humanity, all within 24 hours. Besson delivers the film that he envisioned, as it resembles all his other heavy-handed works of stereotypical cliché’s and mindless violence, though special effects nerds may love to watch while staring at a badass Scarlett Johansson who has little acting required, growing increasingly distant and cold, as she simply looks pensively into her own head. Unfortunately, the effects aren’t any more unusual than watching Spielberg’s MINORITY REPORT (2002), which was more than a decade ago, a more intriguing futuristic story by Philip K. Dick that featured much better acting. There is no room for character development in a film that can only deliver cardboard cutouts, generating little sympathy for anyone onscreen, even a superhero lead character that is supposedly saving the world.

Slickly Sci-Fi, Lucy Only Feigns at Depth | Village Voice Amy Nicholson

Scarlett Johansson has always seemed more human than human, her round lips and hips signaling something primordial to us cavemen huddled in the dark of the movie theater. How odd then that her last three films have reduced her to a robotic destroyer of men: as an operating system in Her, a man-eating alien in Under the Skin, and now Lucy, in which an overdose of CPH4 -- the chemical that develops embryos in the womb -- turns her into a blank-eyed assassin with 100 percent mental control over her brain, as opposed to the 10 percent that merely allows us mortals to solve Rubik's Cubes and blast astronauts into space.

Director Luc Besson must think the audience is operating with even fewer synapses. Here, his style is slick but hand-holdingly literal. In the opening when Lucy's boyfriend-of-the-week (Pilou Asbæk) forces her to deliver a briefcase to a Taiwanese gangster (Min-sik Choi), Besson edits in a shot of a mouse in a trap. When that gangster sews drugs in her stomach, he splices in a cheetah snapping the neck of a gazelle.

Later, as the newly bionic Lucy seeks vengeance, Besson even tries to convince us she's a strong female character, which to the majority of male action directors simply means a sexy, silent badass. The real females in the audience may wonder why a genius would limp across a multi-continental gunfight in five-inch Louboutins. (Hey smarty-pants, wear sneakers.)

There's enough mumbo jumbo about space and time and cellular division to allow Lucy to feign depth, but what lingers is Besson's regressive belief that even the most intelligent woman on earth can't figure out how to get her way without a miniskirt and a gun.

Lucy / The Dissolve Matt Singer

Luc Besson has an uncanny ability to boil any premise, no matter how singular or distinctive, down to a bunch of guys shooting a bunch of other guys. Whether it’s a movie about a jail in space, a man who thinks he’s a dog, a far future where a perfect woman is humanity’s only hope to defeat an alien evil, or a dystopia where people are rounded up into ghettos and also do parkour, Besson always seems to find a way to tie things up in an elaborate gunfight. In Besson’s new film Lucy, a woman achieves godlike intelligence in one room, while two groups of dudes shoot at each other in the next. One even uses a bazooka!

This is the danger inherent in movies about extremely smart characters: They can only be as smart as the people who create them, and Lucy plays like 2001: A Space Odyssey as reimagined by a pothead college dropout who watched clips of Stanley Kubrick’s masterpiece on his iPhone while taking a self-defense class. Equal parts high-minded (or maybe just high) science fiction about the origins and destiny of human consciousness, and low-brow Eurotrash action flick complete with sadistic violence, breakneck car chases, and, yes, a bazooka, Lucy earns points for its unpredictable treatment of its vaguely superhero-ish premise and an appealing silliness, but it struggles to match wits with the genius at its center.

That’s Scarlett Johansson’s Lucy, introduced in ultra-short skirt and cheetah-print jacket as her new boyfriend seduces (and then coerces) her into delivering an all-important package. In short order, the boyfriend is dead and Lucy is cowering before the package’s intended recipient, a ruthless Korean gangster named Mr. Jang (Oldboy’s Choi Min-sik). Besson playfully intercuts this sequence with stock-footage punchlines; when Lucy senses danger, Besson inserts a shot of a mouse approaching a baited trap. As Jang’s men surround her and toss her in an elevator, the screen fills with images of cheetahs stalking a gazelle.

What follows could be described as the story of a gazelle who becomes a cheetah. Jang forces Lucy to mule the package’s contents—an experimental new drug called CPH4—back to the United States, but before she even makes it onto her flight, the bag containing the electric-blue narcotic bursts inside her abdomen, leaking its contents into her bloodstream. The CPH4 enables Lucy to access the 90 percent of the human brain most people never use (at least according to a persistent urban legend and Luc Besson), which gives her all kinds of superpowers that are helpfully explained in occasional lecture sequences featuring Morgan Freeman’s Professor Norman. Dolphins, Norman says, have access to 20 percent of their brains, which gives them sonar. At 30 percent, he speculates, someone could gain telepathy, or even telekinesis. After just a few hours on CPH4, Lucy proves him right—by coldly killing her captors, setting off on a wild chase for the last remaining supply of the magical drug, and unlocking the secrets of time and space. She even acquires a French cop sidekick (Amr Waked), because the only thing more obligatory in a Luc Besson movie than a gunfight is a French cop sidekick.

It’s a pretty dopey way to make a movie about superior intelligence, but it’s a perfectly satisfactory introduction for a thriller, and the opening scenes are filled with tension and humor. The payoff doesn’t live up to the premise, though. Lucy evolves too quickly from super-smart badass to unfeeling robo-woman with access to all earthly knowledge, and Besson, who’s more focused on pacing than logic, never slows down to establish any rules regarding her abilities. One minute, she can read minds; the next, she can swat people into the air with a wave of her hand. Later, she explodes into a million tiny particles, then reconstitutes as if it never happened. While the characters yak about evolution, the film’s third act devolves into a series of meaningless special-effects sequences.

Part of that is surely by design; Lucy’s rapid ascent to the status of human computer reinforces the ever-widening gap between her and the average viewer. But that doesn’t make her parade of powers any more dramatically satisfying. Neither does Johansson’s performance as Lucy. Besson’s screenplay requires her to grow increasingly distant and cold as she approaches intellectual perfection. Returning to the same blank glare she used to greater effect in Under The Skin, Johansson’s Lucy strips herself of any vulnerability (“obstacles,” as she calls them) and, in turn, strips the character of any reason to root for or care about her.

The sheer weirdness of its plot twists (including a trip back to the dawn of man), a couple of decent action scenes (including a white-knuckle race through Paris), and Besson’s flair for upending expectations (as when he teases a big kung-fu fight between Lucy and Jang’s goons, and then does something else) keep Lucy an entertaining watch right up until the extremely disappointing finale. Besson may have wanted to make his 2001, but he’s a lot more successful when he sticks to the over-the-top action he does best. The film’s straining for any kind of grander meaning or importance just comes off like druggy rambling—not shocking for a movie whose basic message seems to be, “The more drugs you do, the smarter you get.”

Scarlett Johansson Effortlessly Carries the Fun, Unscientific Lucy Chris Packham from The Village Voice

With his stately drawl, Morgan Freeman has narrated nonfiction documentaries about penguins, slavery, the lemurs of Madagascar, ancient Egyptian pharaohs, and the expansion of the universe. His is a voice of authority tempered by warmth and wisdom, capable of evoking felt human experience and the majesty of creation. In writer-director Luc Besson’s taut, fun Lucy, Freeman narrates several documentary sequences of soulful, unscientific horseshit about the human brain.

It’s not as if anyone will go all “Mythbusters” on Lucy as Neil deGrasse Tyson does on Gravity, but it’s fair to say that only people who actually use 10 percent of their brain capacity still believe that humans only use 10 percent of their brain capacity. But that’s the whole premise of Lucy, in which Besson classes up a pulp-superhero plot with half-understood evolutionary science and that old, smelly, percentage-based chestnut about brains.

None of that matters; it makes exactly as much sense as a radioactive spider bite or an overdose of gamma radiation. Besson’s film is about a woman who needs to find the meaning of life in a serious hurry. He opens Lucy with the image of a woman manipulated psychologically and physically by a man, who keeps grabbing her arm so she can’t walk away; he concludes with the image of a woman who men literally can’t touch.

Scarlett Johansson carries the film effortlessly, bridging Besson’s narrative and logical ellipses by fully embracing his crowd-pleasing intentions and convincingly depicting Lucy’s psychological transformation. While Johansson is a high-status figure and a giant movie star, she lacks Maleficent-grade remoteness, alternating between accessible vulnerability and dispassionate violence without losing the audience’s empathy.

Probably because she only uses 10 percent of her brain’s capacity, Lucy, an American student living in Taiwan, fails to recognize her new boyfriend’s corn curl–shaped cowboy hat as an obvious creep signifier. Bullied into delivering a mysterious briefcase to a Taiwanese syndicate boss (Choi Min-sik), she’s knocked unconscious and wakes up with a bag of an experimental drug sewn into her abdominal cavity.

It’s a synthetic version of a human growth factor and when the bag breaks open, the overdose stimulates Lucy’s brain into an evolutionary process that heightens her senses and gifts her with superhuman powers of cognition and memory. Besson tracks her cognition meter’s increase with title cards — at 20 percent brain capacity, she can shoot around corners; at 30 percent, she can see through walls. Ultimately, she controls physics and matter with her mind. So that’s the mob’s plan: to sell a transhumanism-inducing drug to club kids, which futurist Ray Kurzweil probably never saw coming. Chased by police and the mob, Lucy travels halfway around the world in pursuit of the other drug mules.

However gaudy and baroque Besson’s films can become, the director has a core of sincerity that drives (and sometimes overpowers) his films. Lucy, with her enhanced neurology burning brightly and quickly, becomes aware that the drug will kill her in 24 hours. Amid the film’s cross fire of revenge confrontations, shoot-outs, and gravity-flouting car chases, Besson includes a surprisingly poignant moment in which Lucy, whose personality is evaporating in the heat of her transformation, makes a sad, final telephone call to her mother.

In a hurry to find the meaning of life before the drug burns her up, she turns to Freeman’s Professor Norman, a famous evolutionary biologist and stirring voice-over narrator. He tells her that the meaning of life may be to do what individual cells do: pass on their genetic knowledge to a new generation. This Promethean task becomes Lucy’s quest and the film’s arc, which vectors toward an unexpectedly huge and cosmic finale — one perhaps best explained in the warm, sonorous tones with which the best life-affirming, science-y bullshit is conveyed.

Lucy: The Dumbest Movie Ever Made About Brain Capacity Christopher Orr from The Atlantic

Every now and then a movie comes along that’s so beyond-the-pale sloppy, so disastrous in both conceit and execution, that it simply defies conventional analysis. It happened with The Happening. There was something unspeakably wrong with The Words. And Broken City was utterly beyond repair.

So, too, with Lucy, writer/director/producer Luc Besson’s mind-bendingly miscalculated sci-fi vehicle for Scarlett Johansson. In its defense, I can offer only that Johansson is a moderately charismatic presence (despite playing a character who barely qualifies as a character) and that the film clocks in at a mercifully brief 89 minutes. That said, the sheer quantity of inanity that Besson squeezes into his limited screen time beggars that of awful movies of substantially greater length.

Consequently, what follows is not a review but a spoilereview. If you are genuinely considering watching Lucy—and I urgently recommend that you reconsider—you should stop reading now. If, by contrast, you plan to give the movie a pass and would like to have your good judgment ratified (or, alternatively, if you have stumbled out of the theater bewildered and seeking commiseration), read on. Because while Besson has made very, very bad films in the past—most recently, last year’s The Family—this is the first time he has made a film so idiotic that the only way to properly convey its flaws is to enumerate them.

1. The movie’s first image is of a single cell, shimmying in the light; then, in huge letters “Scarlett Johansson”; then, the cell dividing via mitosis into two identical duplicates, and then four. This is what is referred to in Hollywood as “wishful thinking.”

2. We watch as an early hominid, Australopithecus, drinks water from a stream a few million years ago. In voiceover, Johansson asks us, “Life was given to us a billion years ago. What have we done with it?” Flash forward to a montage of modern metropolises buzzing away, full of cars and buses and skyscrapers and clothed people engaging in spoken language. Was Johansson’s question rhetorical? Because it actually seems as though we’ve accomplished quite a lot since we were naked and furry, drinking water from streams.

3. Ah, but now we’re in Taipei, and we get the point. A moderately unkempt Johansson—her character’s name is “Lucy,” and she is a student, though the latter fact is entirely irrelevant—is talking to a chump in a beard and foolish sunglasses outside a fancy office building. This is what she meant about our having wasted a billion years of life on Earth: However much we may have evolved otherwise, some of us—even some who look like Scarlett Johansson—still date jerks as self-evident as this one. This regrettable beau (they’ve been together a week) confirms the lesson by telling Lucy, against all available evidence, that he’s recently visited a museum. There, he made the discovery that “The first woman was named Lucy.” Yes, that was the Australopithecus we saw by the stream. Yes, this is the kind of movie we are in for.

4. Now it’s time for some plot, though I’m being generous with the term: Lucy’s semi-boyfriend is acting as a courier, transporting a small silver briefcase to someone in the office building. But he’s had trouble with building security in the past, so he asks her to take it in for him—he assures her it’s “only paperwork”—and to deliver it to a “Mr. Jang.” When she declines, he handcuffs her to the case, claiming that only Jang has the combination. So Lucy reluctantly goes into the building, asks for Jang, and is whisked upstairs by goons. The boyfriend is immediately executed, which can only be regarded as a relief all around.

5. Intercut with the previous scene is footage of a cheetah stalking, and ultimately downing, an antelope on the Serengeti. (Besson was evidently among the very few fans of Ridley Scott’s The Counselor.) It’s a metaphor, you see, for the bad guys who are closing in on helpless Lucy. In a little while, we’ll be treated a few more nature reels, though these will be used in a more literal fashion. After that, the movie will abandon the gimmick altogether. Rarely does one have the acute, real-time experience of watching a film recognize that one of its principal stylistic flourishes is so lame that it must be summarily discarded.

6. But back to Lucy. Upstairs she meets Jang, who is the kind of businessman who brutally murders people while wearing a $10,000 suit, and then rinses the gore off his hands with Evian. (He’s played by South Korean actor Choi Min-sik, of Oldboy fame.) Jang speaks no English, nor do any of the many flunkies attending him, which seems odd for a big-time Taipei businessman. So he calls an interpreter on the phone in order to communicate with Lucy. He then has her open the case, which contains a crystalline blue powder. His goons wheel in a junkie to test the stuff. After one snort, the junkie starts giggling wildly and they shoot him. Then Jang offers Lucy a “job,” she says no, and one of the goons punches her in the face.

7. It’s around this time that we’re introduced to our secondary star, Morgan Freeman, brought in with the obvious (though wildly unsuccessful) mission of lending scientific and philosophical gravitas to the proceedings. Freeman plays a renowned neuroscientist, “Professor Norman” (no first name necessary), who is delivering a lecture to a packed crowd of well-heeled attendees. He explains that most species use only 3-5 percent of their “cerebral capacity,” that human beings use 10 percent—a complete falsehood, incidentally—and that dolphins use 20 percent. (So long, and thanks for all the fish!) He goes so far as to suggest that if we used more of our own brainpower, we’d be able to echolocate too, though he’s mum on the question of whether this would require us to wander around clicking all the time.

8. In addition to offering a variety of silly, daily-calendar-level bromides, Professor Norman makes the point that, when endangered, species focus on self-preservation, but when circumstances are safe, they focus on reproduction. This is an excuse for the second (and last) phase of the wildlife footage, in which we have an opportunity to watch a variety of creatures (rhinoceroses, tropical frogs) humping. I have no doubt that there is a fetish community devoted to such fare, but I suspect it requires a more rarefied taste than that of the average summer moviegoer.

9. Back to Lucy. When she awakes from her punch to the face, she’s taken to a fancy high-rise office suite, offered a drink in a cut-crystal glass, and told she’s had a minor surgery to implant a packet of that blue-powdery drug, called CPH4, in her abdomen. She and a trio of other mules are to smuggle the drugs back to their home countries, where they’ll be retrieved by Jang’s men.

9a. A side note: When told about her unwanted surgery, Lucy replies “I don’t care about the scar.” Attentive viewers may recall that Johansson made light of a nearly identical injury/blemish in Captain America: The Winter Soldier. Is this a thing now? Is 2014 the year of the Scar-Jo abdominal scar?

10. Lucy is inexplicably taken to a cell that is as dingy as the office suite was opulent. There, a guard sexually harasses her and then kicks her in the stomach exactly where the packet of drugs is stashed. You’d think that a massively well-financed international drug cartel would remember to tell its heavies not to do this. The drug seeps into her system, and onscreen text shows us that she has now hit 20 percent of her cerebral capacity. Alas, she does not start echolocating. Instead, she immediately begins to levitate. (Take that, dolphins!)

11. As the movie progresses, we will regularly be kept abreast of Lucy’s increasing cerebral capacity (30 percent! 60 percent!). It’s a useful tool, enabling viewers to judge just how much more of the movie they will have to endure before she hits 100 and it’s over.

12. A non-comprehensive list of the powers Lucy acquires over the course of the film: perfect marksmanship, extreme agility, and instantaneous reflexes; the ability to control TVs and cell phones from thousands of miles away; immunity to pain and fear; telepathy, telekinesis, and clairvoyance; expertise in driving a car really fast into oncoming traffic; teleportation across time and space; and the capacity to alter her existing body parts or grow new ones. The one power she doesn’t seem to have—oddly, given the initial levitation—is flight. This is presumably because if she did, Besson would have no excuse to have her exercise her aforementioned car-driving skills to create rampant vehicular mayhem in Paris. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

13. So, to recap: A small amount of CPH4 makes you giggle. Somewhat more begins giving you all the powers noted above. Does this not make Mr. Jang the most inept criminal mastermind of all time? Why sell the stuff to junkies, when you could use it to create an army of super-soldiers, or to grant yourself god-like powers? And how can it be that no one else in the film, witnessing Lucy’s remarkable paranormal abilities, thinks, “Hey, maybe I should try a little of that CPH4 myself!” Half the film is spent chasing down the packets stashed in the other mules, yet despite rampant opportunities no one other than Lucy ever actually takes any of this all-powerful super-drug.

14. A couple more choice bits from Professor Norman’s speech, which is still being interspersed with the main plot: He notes with self-satisfaction that the human race needs to advance from “evolution to revolution,” which his upscale audience applauds enthusiastically, suggesting that they can’t tell the difference between a genuine insight and a sneaker ad. He also laments that “We don’t know anything more than a dog that watches the moon.” I fear that on the basis of this film it might be plausibly presumed that we actually know less.

15. But back, again, to Lucy and the central plot. She learns Chinese in a few minutes and busts out of her cell and into a hospital. There, she shoots a patient on the operating table and dumps the body onto the floor to make room for the surgeons to instead operate on her to remove the CPH4 from her abdomen. (This is an okay thing for her to do, because she’s also taught herself enough radiology and oncology to be confident that the other patient was going to die anyway.) The very concerned doctors explain to Lucy that CPH4 is a substance that occurs naturally in women during their sixth week of pregnancy (note: it’s not) that gives fetuses the “energy” to build their skeletal structure. How this fits in with everything else we’ve been told about “cerebral capacity” is left to viewers to puzzle out. Moreover, again, how is it that a bunch of random Chinese ER doctors seem to know more about the power and perils of CPH4 than, say, the pharmaceutical industry, the military-industrial complex, and the actual global crime syndicate that is smuggling the drug around the world?

16. While the doctors are operating on Lucy, she calls her mother back in the States. The first thing mom asks is whether Lucy is partying too much, which suggests (along with other hints along the way) that she may have had lifestyle-related issues in the past. Lucy says no, she’s fine, and then proceeds to go on a stream-of-consciousness soliloquy about all the things she can now, thanks to her enhanced cerebral capacity, remember with perfect accuracy—every kiss mom ever gave her, a cat they had when she was one-year-old, etc. It all culminates with this doozy: “I remember the taste of your milk in my mouth.” (Needless to say, this is a line that I will spend the remainder of the summer trying to un-remember.) The truly crazy part, however, is that after this long, super-creepy monologue, Lucy’s mom doesn’t ask the question that any parent in the world would ask under the circumstances: “Are you on drugs?” Instead, it’s just: Thanks for calling, hon. Great to catch up. Kudos on that whole recovered memory about the taste of my breast milk.

17. Lucy busts back into Jang’s place, stabs him through both hands, and reads his mind to discover the destinations of her three fellow mules, specifically Paris, Berlin, and Rome. My first thought was that Besson assumed that these are the only European cities with which an American audience would be familiar. But no, it’s worse than that: When the mules arrive at their stops, onscreen text announces “Paris – France,” “Berlin – Germany,” and “Rome – Italy.” This is doubtless to assist dimly provincial Americans who might otherwise have thought the mules were all headed for Texas, which has its own Paris, Berlin, and Rhome.

18. Lucy calls a policeman in Paris and tells him to alert law enforcement in the other two cities. She also gets in touch with Professor Norman, who is conveniently visiting Paris himself. She tells him that she’ll be at his door in 12 hours, which is impressive, given that a nonstop flight from Taipei to Paris takes a couple hours more than that and she hasn’t even headed to the airport yet. Is she bending time? Using her mind to make commercial airlines move faster? Put me on a flight with that girl!

19. Okay, Lucy’s not even at 30 percent yet, and this exercise is already beginning to feel as lengthy and punishing as watching the movie itself. So let’s start wrapping things up by noting that from here out, almost nothing of narrative consequence occurs. After a brief interlude in which Lucy starts disintegrating on her flight, she arrives safely in Paris and drives past the Tuileries at ill-advised velocity, causing a large number of presumably fatal car wrecks. She, the crime lord Jang, the other mules, her new policeman friend, and about 500 French cops and Asian gangsters converge on a hospital, where the latter two groups shoot at one another interminably, except for a brief lull when Lucy intervenes and makes everybody float through the air helplessly. She meets Professor Norman and some colleagues of his who, despite their accumulated scientific wisdom, do nothing except gape at how awesome she is and then help her to take all the CPH4 in order to crank it up to 11 and achieve 100 percent cerebral capacity.

20. Along the way, Lucy explains that “sounds are music that I can understand, like fluids.” I just had to get that line in. There are a dozen others nearly as bad/good.

21. She kisses the French policeman as a “reminder” of her humanity.

22. At 70 percent, Lucy starts vomiting pure energy and light.

23. At 80 percent, she grows slithery black tendrils and transports Professor Norman and his colleagues with her into an all-white limbo, kind of like where Harry Potter went when he was dead in that last movie.

24. At 90 percent, she begins journeying through space and time while wearing a black cocktail dress and sitting in a cut-rate ergonomic office chair. (She couldn’t at least conjure herself a nice Aeron?) She visits Times Square, meets some American Indians, and encounters dinosaurs constructed out of CGI so primitive they look like a first-generation game on a Nintendo DSi.

25. 99 percent…

26. At 100 percent, Lucy vanishes out of her cocktail dress at the exact moment that an inconceivably still-alive Jang shows up to shoot her. What has become of our heroine? One of the random scientists gasps, “Look! The computer—it’s moving.” And indeed the machine, which is now also sporting slithery black tendrils, is forming something new, an object that it wants to offer to Professor Norman. It’s slender and obsidian and dotted with shimmering points of light. Is it some kind of otherworldly totem or talisman? No, it’s a…. flash drive.

I promise that I am not making this up.

Johansson closes the movie with a voiceover echoing the one that opened the film: “Life was given to us a billion years ago. Now you know what to do with it.”

That’s right. What we are meant to “do” with this precious gift of life, our highest destiny and the final stage of human development, is to take massive quantities of drugs so that we can all leave our mortal flesh behind and evolve into glittery disco flash drives. Now you know.

World Socialist Web Site [Hiram Lee]

No Brain, No Gain « - Grantland Wesley Morris

Lucy - Slate Dana Stevens

Little White Lies [David Ehrlich]

Film Racket [Bill Gibron]

The Wonderfully Demented 'Lucy' Crosses High-Octane ... David Sims from The Atlantic Wire

Lucy : DVD Talk Review of the Theatrical Jamie S. Rich, also seen here: DVDTalk.com - theatrical [Jamie S. Rich]

Moria - The Science Fiction, Horror and Fantasy Film Review [Richard Scheib]

Krell Laboratories [Christianne Benedict]

ErikLundegaard.com [Erik Lundegaard]

Critic After Dark [Noel Vera]

LUCY Movie Review: Using 0% Of Your Brain | Badass Digest Devin Faraci

Eternal Sunshine Of The Logical Mind [Bob Turnbull]

The Film Stage [Nathan Bartlebaugh]

PopMatters [Chris Barsanti]

Flavorwire [Jason Bailey]

Filmleaf [Chris Knipp]

Review: Scarlett Johnasson kicks butt in the thrilling ... - HitFix Drew McWeeny

Surrender to the Void [Steven Flores]

Seongyong's Private Place [Seongyong Cho]

Horror, Sci-fi & More! [Bucky Schuyler]

PopMatters [Jesse Hassenger]

In Review Online [Matt Lynch]

Cinemixtape [J. Olson]

Lucy | Film Review | Slant Magazine Abhimanyu Das

Lucy - Reelviews Movie Reviews James Berardinelli

Twitch [Peter Martin]

Spectrum Culture [Jake Cole]

outlawvern.com [Vern]

Ruthless Reviews [Vandel] (potentially offensive)

Review: Luc Besson's 'Lucy' Starring Scarlet Johansson And ... Gabe Toro from The Playlist

PopMatters [Cynthia Fuchs]

IONCINEMA [Nicholas Bell]

Sound On Sight (J.R. Kinnard)

Movie Metropolis [William David Lee]

DVD Talk [Jeff Nelson]

Home Theater Info DVD [Douglas MacLean]

AVForums - Blu-ray [Cas Harlow]

DVD Talk [William Harrison] Blu-Ray

DVD Verdict (Blu-ray) [Clark Douglas]

Blu-ray.com [Kenneth Brown]

Blu-ray.com [Brian Orndorf]

DoBlu.com Blu-ray [Matt Paprocki]

Review: 'Lucy' - Film.com Kate Erbland

Angeliki Coconi's Unsung Films [Theo Alexander]

theartsdesk.com [Jasper Rees]

Luc Besson's Lucy is pure lunacy Ignatiy Vishnevetsky from The Onion A.V. Club

Georgia Straight [Ken Eisner]

Punch Drunk Critics [John Nolan]

Sound On Sight (Mark Young)

Film Freak Central Review [Walter Chaw]

ReelTalk [Diana Saenger]

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

Lucy (2014) Movie Review from Eye for Film Richard Mowe

Eye For Film: Luc Besson interview from Locarno Richard Mowe interview, August 6, 2014

'Lucy': Film Review John DeFore from The Hollywood Reporter

Film Review: 'Lucy' - Variety Justin Chang

The Japan Times [Kaori Shoji]

Examiner.com [Chris Sawin]

Examiner.com [Michael Adams]

The Huffington Post [Olivia Cole]

The Cleveland Movie Blog [Bob Ignizio]

Kansas City Star [Jon Niccum]

Austin Chronicle [Louis Black]

'Lucy' is an action-packed waste of brain power Kenneth Turan from The LA Times

'Lucy' has more firepower than brain power, reviews say ... Oliver Gettell from The LA Times

'Lucy': 5 reasons the Scarlett Johansson film ruled the box ... Oliver Gettell from The LA Times

Lucy Movie Review & Film Summary (2014) | Roger Ebert Matt Zoller Seitz

Deep in Her Gut, She Knows She's Not Ordinary Manohla Dargis from The New York Times, also seen here: New York Times [Manohla Dargis]

DVDBeaver Blu-ray [Gary Tooze]

Beyer, Frank

MoMA.org | Film Exhibitions | 2007 | Frank Beyer: In Memoriam

Frank Beyer (1932—2006) directed some of the most powerful and historically significant films made in the German Democratic Republic (GDR). He studied directing in the early 1950s at the renowned Prague Film School (FAMU) with Milos Forman, among others, and he joined the Deutsche Film-Aktiengesellschaft (DEFA) Studio for Feature Films as a director in 1957. His first feature film, Two Mothers, dealt with a theme—coming to terms with the Nazi period—that would reappear throughout his life's work. From 1958 to 1966 Beyer directed films such as Naked among Wolves, the first German film to portray life in a concentration camp; Five Cartridges, on the Spanish Civil War; and one of the most highly regarded German film comedies ever made, Carbide and Sorrel. In 1966, when his Trace of Stones was banned by GDR officials for being "politically inappropriate," Beyer was expelled from the studio, and his career came to an abrupt halt. He did not direct another film until his return to DEFA in 1974 with the internationally successful Jacob the Liar. Beyer continued making television and theatrical films until his death.

Excerpt from the Films of Frank Beyer (link lost)

Frank Beyer was born in Nobitz, Germany. in 1932, graduated from FAMU, the Prague Film School, in 1957, and shortly thereafter began making features for DEFA, the state-run film studio of the now-defunct German Democratic Republic.

Beyer's films are known for their anti-war and anti-fascist themes, their discreet, understated style -- and, often, for a comic deftness rare in East German cinema. His Naked Among Wolves (1963) and Jacob the Liar (1974) are amongst the most powerful and most accomplished anti-fascist films produced in East Germany. The former is credited with being the first German film, East or West, to deal with the subject of Nazi concentration camps. The latter was the only East German film ever nominated for an Academy Award (in the Best Foreign Film category in 1976), and has won glowing comparisons to Kadár and Klos's Czech masterpiece The Shop on Main Street as one of the rare films to tastefully and touchingly mix comedy with tragedy in dealing with the Holocaust.

Beyer's comic bent is also evident in Carbide and Sorrel (1964), his follow-up to Naked Among Wolves, a comedy set in the normally solemn milieu of Germany's immediate postwar period; The Hiding Place (1977), his follow-up to Jacob the Liar, a popular domestic comedy that took satirical swipes at everyday life in the GDR; and The Trace of Stones (1966), a sprawling, stylish, satirical mock-epic -- replete with spaghetti western flourishes -- that may rank as Beyer's major achievement. Traces was also the film that marked the beginning of Beyer's ongoing difficulties with the East German authorities.

At the now-notorious Eleventh Plenum of the Communist Party's Central Committee in December 1965, a year of aesthetically innovative and politically challenging films by a new generation of East German filmmakers was summarily banned and shelved -- the so-called "rabbit films," named after Kurt Maetzig's I Am the Rabbit, the ban's first high-profile victim. Traces initially escaped the repression, and premiered to great fanfare in Berlin in 1966 -- only to be quickly denounced by party hardliners, yanked from screens, and prohibited on the grounds of its "failure to properly portray the political and moral strength of the Party."

Beyer was not permitted to make another theatrical feature for eight years. In 1974, he made a very successful movie-house comeback with Jacob the Liar. In 1976, Beyer and a number of other prominent East German artists signed a petition in favour of author and songwriter Wolf Biermann, whose citizenship had been revoked by the government. In 1977, Beyer's contemporary comedy The Hiding Place was pulled from GDR screens after lead actor Manfred Krug emigrated to West Germany. In 1978, Private Party, a Beyer-directed television film, was suppressed. Beyer promptly accepted an assignment to direct a film for West Berlin television -- and was promptly stripped of his membership in the East German Communist Party. In 1983, Beyer's Held for Questioning (aka Turning Point), a powerful anti-fascist drama in the mode of Naked Among Wolves and Jacob the Liar, was withdrawn by East Germany from competition at Cannes, apparently because Eastern Bloc ally Poland objected to its subject matter.

Beyer's first two post-reunification features, Suspicion (1991) and Nicolai Church (1996), were, not surprisingly, stinging critiques of East German tyranny and repression. The subject of the latter is the dying days of the GDR itself -- and the moment, on October 9, 1989, when "the backbone of the power in East Germany broke" (Beyer).

"Justice: that is the central idea of the films of Frank Beyer. For him it is more important than all the personal ambitions --with regard to the content as well as to the artistic aspect of his work. This is what sometimes makes his films somewhat unwieldy, because he never allows himself to be misled into applying comfortable solutions, and instead of using some sort of effect, he prefers putting forward counterarguments. But it is precisely this unconditional seriousness, however out of fashion as a virtue it have may become, that makes Frank Beyer's work significant" (Hans-Günther Pflaum).

Frank Beyer Leonie Naughton from Senses of Cinema

DEFA Film Library Catalog brief bio and filmography

Frank Beyer - In Memoriam at the Museum of Modern Art DEFA Memorium

Germany.info : Information Services: Publications: The Week in Germany Memorium from the German Embassy

GreenCine Daily: Frank Beyer, 1932 - 2006. Memorium, October 3, 2006

Frank Beyer, 74, East German Who Directed ‘Jacob the Liar,’ Dies ... Memorium by Agence France-Presse from The New York Times, October 3, 2006

FRANK BEYER | Independent, The (London) | Find Articles at BNET by Philipp Blom, October 7, 2006

Frank Beyer - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

NAKED AMONG WOLVES (Nackt unter Wölfen)

Germany (122 mi) 1963 ‘Scope

Chicago Reader (Fred Camper)

Frank Beyer's 1963 East German film, written by Buchenwald survivor Bruno Apitz, effectively presents the camp's brutal conditions. Set during the last year of the war, it shows SS officials wondering how to proceed now that the war is lost and prisoners debating a possible rebellion. A young boy is smuggled in and hidden by the prisoners, but relying on the natural appeal of a child seems like an easy choice for a Holocaust film, and Beyer shows little visual sensitivity in depicting the camp’s architecture and the horrors the prisoners endure. Despite a few references to Jews, the film gives the false impression--as did most communist-bloc memorials to the Holocaust--that the principal victims were communists. With Armin Mueller-Stahl.

Excerpt from the Films of Frank Beyer (link lost)

Credited with being the first German film to deal with the issue of Nazi concentration camps, Frank Beyer's impressive 1963 feature (the director's fifth) is set in Buchenwald in the bleak spring of 1945. With American forces but a few miles away and advancing, the prisoners fear that their SS captors are about to execute them. A secret camp resistance group, organized by the Communist inmates, decides that the time for an uprising is at hand. Their plans are jeopardized, however, by the arrival of a new prisoner with a small boy hidden in his suitcase. ... A compelling portrait of the triumph of solidarity and human dignity over fascism and fanaticism, Naked Among Wolves is based on a novel by Bruno Apitz, who was himself a camp inmate. Current euro-fave Armin Mueller-Stahl (Music Box, Avalon, the recent Shine) stars as one of the principals. “The script is excellent, rich in visual comments and lines of dialogue that etch in a gallery of characters... [An] intelligent, bitter film” (Peter Cowie). “Frank Beyer's early masterpiece... a film that even today can by all means stand up to the comparison with Schindler's List” (Hans-Günther Pflaum).

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson)

Naked Among Wolves is a lavishly-mounted prison camp film that can compete for tension and emotionalism with Western thrillers like The Great Escape and King Rat. It's the true story of the extreme risks taken by dozens of Buchenwald prisoners to hide one small child from the SS guards, who would have shot him on sight. I should say almost true; some key facts have been altered to hype the storytelling and better align events with Eastern bloc politics.

The First Run Features presentation is their best yet for quality; more on that subject below. First Run has a strong hand to play with this release, as it is not only a good film with an unusual angle on a commercially viable subject, it has a star well known in the West -- a very young Armin Mueller-Stahl.

Buchenwald labor camp, 1945. Prisoners and SS Guards nervously await the approach of the Allies; the SS officers are concerned with avoiding reprisals and punishment for their crimes, and the prisoners worry about when to stop obeying orders, to stall just long enough to survive. Then a tiny Polish boy, a Jew, is smuggled into the camp in a suitcase. The Communist Kapos who run the camp for the Germans attempt to keep the boy hidden, with the leader Walter Kraemer (Erwin Geschonneck) doing a good job of motivating the prisoners. Tailor shop inmates Pippig, Kropinski and Höfel (Fred Delmare, Krystyn W&ocatue;jcik, Armin Mueller-Stahl) take the brunt of the grief when a particularly cowardly SS officer (Wolfram Handel) plays both ends against the middle -- pretending to help hide the child to curry favor with the prisoners, and secretly turning the conspirators in to save face with his superiors.

The familiar concentration camp themes are all here, although with a different twist than in American films. Buchenwald is actually more of a work labor camp and it is true that Communists took over the prisoners' government instead of the criminal element that the Nazi guards encouraged at other camps. Famous Buchenwald survivors include Konrad Adenauer, Bruno Bettelheim, Robert Clary, and Elie Wiesel. But other details are glossed over. There is no mention of the mass killings that took place at the camp, nor the medical experiments. Although the East Germans filmed Naked Among Wolves at the real Buchenwald site, the camp looks much too clean at the time of liberation, and we see nothing of the malnutrition, sickness and death that were daily realities. The film exaggerates the prisoners' armed resistance when the Nazis flee, and collapses the hiding of the young boy into what seems at most like a couple of months -- elsewhere on the disc we're informed that the camp prisoners kept him secreted away for almost three years. Finally, the Communist ringleaders are almost all Kapos - German appointees presented in most Western accounts as compromised by their servitude and bitterly cruel to their own. Here, they're the equivalent of the inspirational ringleaders seen in pictures like The Colditz Story.

The East German film makes it seem as if Communist solidarity within the camp was the spark that kept hope alive in the darkest days just before the liberation. In reality, after the fall of Germany the Russians kept Buchenwald open for five years, using it to house Nazi war criminals as well as dissenters to Soviet rule. In the new order, some prisoners liberated by the U.S. Army found themselves again behind the same barbed wire. This fact doesn't mesh well with the film's final jubilant tone of freedom for all.

As a drama Naked Among Wolves is instantly arresting. The script presents an intelligent conflict between desperate prisoners and their conniving Nazi captives, all of whom are played by interesting actors free of the stereotypes found in American films. The cowardly warder Zweiling gropes for the right scheme to avoid capture and trial as a war criminal, to the point of pretending he's one of the prisoners. He's henpecked by a nagging wife. Two other officers push for harsh measures for the hated Communist ringleaders, and take pleasure in torturing Kropinski, Höfel and Pippig to find the whereabouts of the hidden boy. A real Gestapo interrogator uses a clever psychological trick to get information that can't be obtained through torture, and the pair make up lists of dozens of Communists to be shot. The camp commandant stalls before approving the plan, convinced he'll soon be facing a hangman's noose.

The U.S. 3rd Army (is that George Patton?) advances so quickly that plans for evacuation and mass murder have to be abandoned. The prisoners take up hidden arms just as the last guards are fleeing. It's exciting and uplifiting -- and probably a tad distorted -- to see a concentration camp film that doesn't end on an entirely depressing note. One can't help that think that the Nazi atrocities were lessened to keep the focus on saving the boy, and away from the nagging thought that Stalin's oppressive prison systems were equally as brutal and inhumane.

Frank Beyer's sharp direction strikes a balance between intimate drama and visual impact. All of the actors are excellent, with Armin Mueller-Stahl and the charming Fred Delmare having the strongest effect. Top comrade Erwin Geschonneck is a solid performer, but he still delivers a speech or two about Communist unity, as seen in earlier DEFA work like The Sun Seekers. This script is more subtle with its messages. It's also uncommonly fair in odd ways - as the Nazi guards flee, SS torture expert Mandrill (Fred Ludwig) curses Hitler for losing the war while preparing to release two of his prisoners. But Mandrill then tries to systematically kill everyone in the prison bock, cell by cell - he obviously wants as few witnesses as possible to be giving his name to the Allied authorities.

First Run Features' DVD of Naked Among Wolves is a fine enhanced widescreen transfer of a flawless film element. It's the best-looking First Run Features disc Savant has seen to date, and hopefully will be a yardstick for the future. Earlier DEFA releases have been letterboxed-flat, and some have suffered in quality.

The picture has been outfitted with a fat gallery of East German newsreel bits. We see the film's premiere in Moscow and appearances by the famous author. The fully-grown boy partially raised in Buchenwald is seen at a party. Text panels tell more of the history of the camp and give data on the filmmakers and actors who made it; an extra called Verdict on Auschwitz is a color featurette about the camp today. A photo gallery turns out to be made mostly of frozen images from the film (tsk, tsk).

Naked Among Wolves is a title most of us have never heard of. It turns out to be a pleasant surprise, an engrossing and intelligent study of the dynamics of the last days in a Nazi labor camp, with plenty of jeopardy and suspense to satisfy any viewer. Seeing the Soviet-bloc 'version' of these historical events will provide informed viewers with plenty to discuss.

DVD Verdict [Steve Evans]

NAKED AMONG WOLVES Northwest Film Center

CARBIDE AND SORREL (Karbid und Sauerampfer)

Germany (85 mi) 1963

User comments from imdb Author: Vortrek from United States

Filmed by the famous East German DEFA studio, this 1963 film looks back at the immediate post war life in the Soviet zone of defeated Germany in 1945. As such, political notes are not to be missed. The one American character is a stupid Army officer with incredibly ugly teeth patrolling the Elbe River in a nice little motorboat. On the other hand, a Soviet officer is a handsome, intelligent, decent man. There are ruins, but people aren't in absolute misery; they're rebuilding the future. This film does not have the despair and nihilism of the real Truemmer Filme produced in the early post war years. Geshonneck delivers an excellent character, an Anthony Quinn with a subtler touch. Despite the political touches, this is a sweet comedy, the type that keeps you smiling, not guffawing. A good film for people interested in post War Europe, even if it looks back with a telescope of almost twenty years.

User comments from imdb Author: dr-bonkhead from Mannheim, Germany

The main-actor Kalle tries to get seven barrels of carbide to a factory he's employed at. While on his way from Wittenberg to Dresden he comes into several strange situations like Russian patrols who arrest him because he doesn't have legitimation papers for transporting the barrels from one allied zone to another. As he is doing the big trip without a vehicle its very difficult to complete the task, but he manages it to move along in little steps. One of the best scenes is the one where he is getting mad through the fact that he hasn't any food for days and gets the idea to collect mushrooms in a little wood. One man who walks on the road beside the wood gets almost crazy and starts yelling when he sees Kalle moving in the wood cause it's a minefield and everywhere are signs like "Danger", "Don't move", "Keep out", "Warning", etc. that Kalle didn't see. Highly recommendable movie that is suitable for all ages and shows the time after world war II without depressing the viewer.

Goatdog's Movies [Michael W. Phillips Jr.]

It's odd enough that this film is a comedy about negotiating the devastated landscape of a war-torn and Russian-occupied Germany; it's odder that it's an East German comedy, made just two years after the construction of the Berlin Wall. Two years later, the communist government would institute harsh censorship measures that would make even this film's light ribbing of the authorities verboten. The next film by director Frank Beyer earned him a 10-year ban from filmmaking before he returned to direct Jakob the Liar, the only East German film to be nominated for the Best Foreign Language Film Oscar. This film isn't so serious as all that: it's a lighthearted, mildly slapstick comedy about an everyman negotiating the sometimes hostile terrain of a postwar Germany still under control of the Allies.

Karl (Erwin Geschonneck) is a repairman in bombed-out Dresden at the end of World War II. He used to work in a cigarette factory, but the factory is buried under heaps of rubble. To repair the equipment, they need carbide for welding, and there's no carbide in Dresden. Figuring that the vegetarian Karl will find it easier to forage on the road, the workers send him to distant Wittenberge to buy some carbide. Getting there is easy, but getting back with his seven barrels is an epic journey. He encounters a randy widow (Marita Bohme) and an itinerant opera singer (Rudolf Asmus); finds love with Karin (Margot Busse), a beautiful young woman who dreams of film stardom; defrauds an "American" soldier with a German accent; and delivers a eulogy in a town with no men left alive. Mostly, though, he encounters Russian soldiers who arrest him, extort his carbide, and arrest him yet again.

The acting is broad without being too hammy, a perfect fit for the film's brand of comedy. Erwin Geschonneck has a rubber face suited to the film's comedic style; he's equally at home with the more manic scenes and the more droll interactions with his fellow citizens along the way. Geschonneck knew a thing or two about hardship: he spent time in German concentration camps because of his communist background, and was one of a few survivors of an RAF-bombed transport after being freed. He has some great comic timing with Busse, including a fair share of sexual innuendo.

I'm still not used to the idea of German comedy, especially of such a broad and light kind. The film has the aesthetics of slapstick: goofy sound effects punctuate Karl's actions and lilting music underscores the mood of each scene; fast-motion cameras capture impossible physical feats, like when Karl seems to leap 15 feet in the air into a tree. But there's a darkness here that was absent from slapstick: Karl leaps into the tree when he discovers that he's picking mushrooms in a minefield, and many of his manic escapes are from Russian troops who will send him to Siberia if he's caught smuggling the carbide. Other comic setups make light of the privations Germans endured, like Karl's repeated inability to find enough food to eat, and the devastation caused by bombings, like when he's stranded on a cement island in the middle of a river, the only remnant of what used to be a bridge. This dark undercurrent gives the comedy a subtle bite that sneaks up on you: the focus is on the humor, but it's hard to be completely tongue-in-cheek about minefields, Siberia, starvation, and carpet bombing.

Reel.com DVD review [Tim Knight]

DVD Verdict [Jim Stewart]

DVD Talk (Matt Langdon)

THE TRACE OF STONES (Spur der Steine)

Germany (138 mi) 1966/1989 ‘Scope

Chicago Reader

This 1966 East German feature by Frank Beyer, about the struggles between the head of a construction site and a less than competent communist-appointed administration, was banned by the government for decades. In German with subtitles. 139 min.

User comments from imdb Author: Margot (margot@skizo.hu)

A delightful film that is far more truthful about life in GDR than one might expect from DEFA--understandably but unfortunately banned by the government for how thoughtfully and ambivalently it portrays the party. Rather straightforward style, with some wonderful shots but altogether rather conservative and uneventful in terms of camera shots. All the better for the characters and the plots, though, which are compelling enough. Not a trivial love story, though with its cliched moments, it is more poignant and ambiguous and unpredictable than similar DEFA films. Balla is great to watch, and nicely tempers the potential melodrama of Kati and Werner. None of the characters is simpleminded or heroic, all are fleshed out well.

User comments from imdb Author: Frandy Gangcuangco from Philippines

Trace of Stones is a film about Socialism in GDR or East Germany which is compared to a construction site in Schkona in the early 60's. It tackled sensitive and serious issues at that time without losing its touch of creativeness both technically (on how shots were developed) and script wise. The film was made through series of flashbacks yet it wasn't boring at all, actually it made you stick on the film by craving more information that will lead to the present.

The clash of personalities of the three main characters in the film, namely Balla, Kati and Horrath is very entertaining to watch. They played their roles efficiently thus creating a world full of emotions, from rivalry, love, anger, humor, etc. The theme of the film may be serious yet it won't fail to make the audience laugh at some scenes. The brevity invested by the filmmaker in doing this film is worth it, even though it was banned for two decades due to the issues it tackled about the GDR Party and Socialism, the re-opening of the film in 1990 made it an art-house hit in Germany and most of importantly its message was clearly conveyed to the audience especially to the German people.

Excerpt from the Films of Frank Beyer (limk lost): http://www.cinematheque.bc.ca/archives/beyer.html

An art-house hit in Germany in 1990, over two decades after it was made, Frank Beyer's witty and stylish political epic is set around a large East German construction site in the early 1960s. Popular actor Manfred Krug stars as Balla, a hard-working, hard-drinking carpenter with little interest in socialism and absolutely no interest in the Party. He falls in love with Kati, a young engineer, but finds he has competition when Horrath, a frail Party secretary completely unlike Balla, arrives on the scene. The vagaries of work and politics soon conspire to turn the two rivals into allies. Kati, in the meantime, becomes pregnant. . . A winning mix of high comedy and high seriousness, complete with mock spaghetti western flourishes, The Trace of Stones initially escaped the notorious repression that followed the Party's Eleventh Plenum in December 1965, when an important new wave of East German movies was summarily banned. The film was released to great fanfare in 1966, but its Berlin premiere was disrupted by Party hecklers, and the film was withdrawn within a matter of weeks. An official explanation cited the work's failure to properly portray the political and moral strength of the Party. Director Berry, unrepentant, was not permitted to make films again for several years. "We are left with the astonishment that a film can still be so fresh and vibrant after twenty-five years" (Regine Sylvester).

DVD Talk (Svet Atanasov)

Fulvue Drive-in Nicholas Sheffo

JACOB THE LIAR (Jakob, der Lügner)

Germany Czechoslovakia (100 mi) 1974

Channel 4 Film

Czech actor Brodsky received the Best Actor award at the 1975 Berlin Film Festival for his extraordinary performance in the title role of the man who survives - and helps others do the same - in a Polish ghetto. It is a theme echoed feebly in a later film, but here, instead of sentimentality and farce in a concentration camp, Jacob's situation (he passes on news he has clandestinely heard on a Nazi wireless) is tinged with menace. He knows the Russians are coming, and builds on this information to create the most precious commodity in confinement - hope.

Excerpt from the Films of Frank Beyer (link lost)

The only East German film ever nominated for an Oscar (in the Best Foreign Film category in 1976), Frank Beyer's Jacob the Liar has been compared to Kadár and Klos's masterful The Shop on Main Street for its trenchant, tragicomic treatment of the Holocaust. Czech great Vlastimil Brodsky -- named Best Actor at Berlin in 1975 for his performance -- stars in the eponymous lead as a denizen of the Warsaw Ghetto who gets trapped in a snowballing lie. His false claim to own an illegal radio escalates into a series of made-up reports that liberation at the hands of the Russians is imminent -- lies which provide his desperate and dying fellow Jews with much- needed hope. Beyer and screenwriter Jurek Becker had originally planned to make the film in 1965; the project was shelved, and Becker turned his script into a best-selling novel. He adapted that novel for this film. "A major breakthrough . . . a rich comedy of illusions that etches scenes indelibly in the memory like few films of this nature. . . Brodsky is outstanding" (Variety). "An extraordinary film. . . remarkable in wringing much full-blooded, absurdly funny comedy from a situation in which every resonance appals, and doing so without giving offence" (Bloomsbury). "A movie of quiet power, deep integrity and shattering irony" (Jack Kroll, Newsweek).

San Francisco Chronicle [Peter Stack]

Audiences gave at best a lukewarm reception to Robin Williams' recent ``Jakob the Liar'' when it played at Bay Area theaters. It's likely that the original 1977 German version of the film will get more respect.

Director Frank Beyer's touching film, in German with English subtitles, begins a rare run today at the Rafael Film Center in Marin. Rereleased by University of Massachusetts DEFA (Deutsche Film-Aktiengesellschaft) Film Library, this extraordinary film is the only East German movie ever nominated for an Oscar.

With a screenplay by Jurek Becker, on whose book it is based, ``Jacob the Liar'' is a heartrending, brutally funny and ultimately devastating story of a Jewish man (Vlastimil Brodsky) trapped in a Polish ghetto during World War II. Detained for violating curfew, Jacob overhears a radio broadcast at Gestapo headquarters -- news that the Russians are advancing. He tries to keep the information to himself, but he can't because of what it could mean for his fellow Jews, starving or awaiting deportation to Nazi death camps. He tells them he heard the hopeful news on a radio he has hidden away.

A simple, somewhat dour man, the stubble-bearded Jacob suddenly becomes a hero as old friends and neighbors flock to him, pressing for information about the latest reports. As he makes up news, guilt gnaws at him. A symbol of hope, Jacob cannot control the reactions to his well- intentioned lies nor stop the horrors that may await. He's at once powerful and powerless.

The beauty of this film is its simplicity. There's no mugging for co medic effect, no pat jokes, no elaborate fantasies as in ``Life Is Beautiful.'' Set in a confined neighborhood and filmed like a play on spare yet realistic sets, the bitter comedy is loaded with human quirks and nuances.

To distract himself from the trap his lies have created, Jacob ruminates sadly on old friendships. To bolster the spirits of a young orphan girl, he hides and imitates radio voices.

Slowly the vise of history closes on this decent, innocent man, and the viewer is simply left speechless.

DVD Talk (Gil Jawetz)

The story of the Holocaust has been told from many different angles, but the approach that East German director Frank Beyer took in his 1974 film Jacob the Liar (spelled Jakob the Liar in the film's credits) must have seemed especially brave. At times this tale (which won the best foreign language Oscar) of a simple Jewish ghetto resident who innocently fabricates a story about having an illegal radio on which he hears tales of the approaching Russian army uses different types of comedy: Sweet humor, sardonic wit, black humor, and straight deadpan. A few films have approached this subject matter with humor since, but Beyer's original doesn't go for the overt sentimentality of Roberto Benini's emotional Life is Beautiful or the maudlin obviousness of the Robin Williams remake Jakob the Liar. Instead, Beyer's film is dry and mostly unsentimental. It approaches its material, even the comedy bits, with a sobriety and a shuffle that underlies the hopelessness of the situation.

What makes the mundane, lifeless existence of the Jews under Nazi control even more clear is Beyer's sprinkling of the film with bits of fantasy and remembrance of times past. These sequences employ a beautiful color saturation that the bulk of the film replaces with sepia toned drabness. These stylistic touches are rare enough that they don't give the impression that the film is trying to skirt the life-and-death issues at hand, but they do open the look of the film up enough that there is no question of whether or not these prisoners know what they're missing.

Part of what makes the film so powerful is the way the cast consistently underact. Vlastimil Brodsky is exceptional as Jacob. His sleepy-eyed, weather beaten face betrays the hardness that life under these conditions has given him. In flashbacks to his former life, however, Brodsky transforms to a different person, not just in wardrobe and make-up but in the way his entire physical presence appears. He straightens up and beams. Similarly, his friend Kowalski (Erwin Geschonneck) is seen to be falling apart in his current condition. Jacob's lies give Kowalski hope, however, and his demeanor changes noticeably. When the truth is revealed later on the transformation becomes visible. He practically shrinks at the news. Manuela Simon plays Lina, a small parentless child who lives alternately with different residents of Jacob's building. Her sweetness and innocence are so strikingly at odds with where she lives that just simple acts like her listening to a story about a princess are heartbreaking.

(One note: Noted character actor Armin Mueller-Stahl is given top billing on the packaging, but his role is minimal.)

When dealing with such an impossibly huge subject it's easy to get caught up in morals and lessons. By approaching the material from such a seemingly small, personal viewpoint Beyer was able to really drive at the tragedy of the Holocaust. Through the sudden, sickeningly sad ending, Jacob the Liar is one of the subtlest, most effective films ever made on this subject.

Jacob the Liar is a beautiful, simple film that doesn't attempt to tell more of a story than it can handle in its short running time. Instead, it sketches out a few interesting characters trapped in a life that is both deadly and mundane and, through their very human emotions, makes a statement about how all people need even the slightest glimmer of hope to survive.

Jacob, the Liar Stefan Herrmann, May 2002

Apollo Movie Guide [Wesley Lovell]

The New York Times (A.H. Weiler)

HELD FOR QUESTIONING (Der Aufenthalt)

aka: The Turning Point

Germany (102 mi) 1983

Time Out

Beyer's film is a study of prison life and of personality. A young German soldier is imprisoned after the end of the war in 1945: is he wittingly or unwittingly a war criminal? Are the other inmates more dangerous than the guards? Never less than interesting, the film is flawed by a central inconsistency of approach: never quite a study of the minutiae and banality of the day-to-day existence of the prisoner, it also never fully explores the possibilities of a potentially Kafka-esque situation.

User comments from imdb Author jim-314 from Lubbock, TX

I was lucky to catch this movie (English title: "The Turning Point") at a university mini-festival of East German films. As far as I know it was never commercially released in the U.S. Based on a fictionalized memoir, it concerns a teenage German soldier captured in Poland at the end of W.W.II and falsely accused of war crimes. It's an extra-ordinary and complex exploration of the concepts of guilt, innocence, betrayal, justice, and self-deception. It's not a movie about good guys and bad guys, winners and losers. Rather, it concerns issues of both personal and institutional responsibility during war and its aftermath, and it's immensely moving. Not flashy cinema on the surface, but so beautifully written and acted that it stands out as one of the most haunting war films I've seen in the last several years (far more so than the recent jingoistic Hollywood blockbusters). It poses difficult, complex questions about human behavior during war, and offers no simple answers.

Excerpt from the Films of Frank Beyer (link lost)

Frank Beyer's Naked Among Wolves (1963) and Jacob the Liar (1974) rank amongst the strongest anti-fascist films produced in the former East Germany. The director added to that illustrious list in 1983 with the harrowing, highly regarded Held for Questioning, an intense, claustrophobic, heavily psychological prison drama set in the immediate aftermath of World War II. Based on an autobiographical novel by Hermann Kant, the film stars Sylvester Groth as a young German POW who is transferred to a Polish jail after being mistaken for an SS war criminal and accused of the murder of a child. Harassed by his captors, despised by the Polish inmates, and shunned by his fellow German prisoners (mostly hardline Nazis who recognize that he is not one of them), he begins to contemplate the nature and meaning of guilt, complicity and collective responsibility, and starts to think differently about his own innocence. Held for Questioning was slated for competition at Berlin in 1983, but was withdrawn by East Germany at the last minute, apparently due to Polish objections. "Beyer's direction is fluid and suspenseful, while [screenwriter] Wolfgang Kohlhaase's dialog is appropriately sparse. . . Pic would have been in easy contention for laurels in direction or acting departments at the Berlin fest, and it's a shame that a filmmaker of Frank Beyer's integrity and standing should fall amiss of an oversensitive national film commission" (Variety).

Fulvue Drive-in David Milchik

Bi Gan

KAILI BLUES (Lu bian ye can) A 96

China (113 mi) 2015

佛告须菩提：尔所国土中，所有众生，若干种心，如来悉知。何以故？
如来说：诸心皆为非心，是名为心。所以者何？
须菩提！过去心不可得，现在心不可得，未来心不可得。

The Buddha said the living beings in all these world systems have many different minds which are all known to the Tathagata. Why?

Because the minds the Tathagata speaks of are not minds, but are (expediently) called minds. And why?

Because, Subhuti, neither the past, the present nor the future mind can be found.

—opening quote from the Chinese Diamond Sūtra, a central text of Mahāyāna Buddhism, and the oldest dated printed book in the world, dated May 11, 868

Best film of the year so far, literally an enthralling experience, one of the few outstanding films that doesn’t really feature a developed central character, or impressive acting skills, yet demonstrates a unique ability to capture the viewer’s imagination through the sheer verve and originality of the film style. Winner of the FIPRESCI Prize and Best New Director at the 2015 Taipei Golden Horse Festival, the youngest recipient of that honor at the age of 26, also the Best First Feature and Best Emerging Director at the Locarno Festival, this intensely poetic film could be described as an existential journey into the subconscious that passes through a spiritual netherworld of the past, the present, and the future, seamlessly merged into an impressionistic mosaic that may exist in an altogether mystical realm. Completely unpretentious and profoundly meditative, though some may find it slow arthouse cinema, as there’s no action to speak of, with much of it existing only in the head, where the entire film could just as easily be imagined, the director uses several members of his own family as feature characters, using exclusively nonprofessional actors except two characters that appear late in the film, Yu Shixue (the older Weiwei) and Guo Yue (Yangyang). What’s particularly intriguing is the film style resembles gritty social realism, for the most part, yet is also a ghost story, where there is a recognizable storyline throughout, yet the film moves in and out of dream and memory, darkness and light, and various modes of travel while encountering misty mountain roads, passing through extreme fog banks, where it’s easy to get lost along the way. Passages of obscure poetry are read by a narrator, written by the writer and director himself who is from the town of Kaili, yet these poems are somewhat obtuse and ungraspable, not necessarily offering insight or commentary on the images onscreen, yet remain highly atmospheric, offering suggestions of an almost omniscient state of mind that exists outside our knowledge. Like Homer’s Odyssey, there are extended travels, mostly by motorbike, often broken into mini-sections, where the handheld camera has its own inclinations, seemingly with a mind of its own, actually becoming the most prominent character, as the perspective follows the camera’s roving and constantly inquisitive eyes, where the film is not so much about the journey as the detours taken along the way.

Little effort is exerted to distinguish one character from another, where the director is not going for character development, as only the barest outline of a story exists, with details only sporadically released, if at all, often quite randomly through casual conversation, instead establishing the mood is paramount, very similar to the lush tropical eroticism depicted in Wong Kar-wai’s DAYS OF BEING WILD (1990), yet without the sexual overtones. Set in the Guizhou province, we are introduced to Chen Sheng (Chen Yongzhong, the director’s uncle, who was associated with the gang triads, managed a gambling house in Myanmar, and gone to prison, but now works in a factory leading an ordinary life), a doctor in a small rural clinic nestled under the mountains in the rain-drenched town of Kaili that he shares with another elderly female physician, Guanglin, (Zhao Daqing, his grandmother’s hospital roommate), who declares at the outset, “It’s just another normal day.” Stringing together a series of ordinary moments, the opening credits are read aloud by Chen Sheng while simultaneously matching Chinese script is shown on an old black and white television screen showing street scenes from Kaili in the background, acknowledging the poems in the film come from his anthology called Roadside Picnic, the identical title of a Russian science fiction novel by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky used in Tarkovsky’s Stalker (1979). Much like Chen has flashbacks of his dead wife Zhang Xi, the old physician dreams of a former lover from the Cultural Revolution, but hasn’t kept in contact, encouraging Chen to visit him as she’s heard he is severely ill, providing him with a shirt, an old photograph, and a musical cassette tape to offer him. Chen’s brother is something of a criminal layabout known as Crazy Face (Xie Lixun, a pigfeed salesman in real life), usually found in gambling dens or pool halls, leaving his young son Weiwei (Luo Feiyang, the director’s stepbrother) alone to fend for himself, where there’s nothing in the refrigerator and the television only has a single channel. As a result, Chen looks in on him from time to time, taking an interest that is altogether missing from his own father, even offering to adopt him, but Crazy Face warns Chen to butt out of his personal business. Mysteriously, Weiwei disappears, with Chen thinking his brother may have sold him for money. Instead, the child was sent to Dangmai to visit one of Crazy Face’s criminal friends, Monk (Yang Zhuohua), who is also a watchmaker and a collector of hundreds of watches, viewed in a remarkable, mindboggling scene with an upside-down train passing just outside their window, KAILI BLUES - Clip #1: “The Upside-Down Train” on Vimeo (1:59). Since he promised his mother on her deathbed that he would look after Weiwei, he sets out to find him, hopping on a motorbike that we see twisting through the mountain curves with the lush green foliage in the background, also riding old trains, like those seen here, The Iron Ministry (update) (2014), reminiscent of the brilliant railway scenes from Hou Hsiao-hsien’s Dust in the Wind (Lian lian feng chen) (1986), reflecting a timeless, stream-of-conscious imagery where it’s evident a journey has begun, KAILI BLUES TRAILER (with english subtitles) on Vimeo (1:52).

As if on cue, the title sequence appears more than 30-minutes after the film begins. Accompanied by the extraordinary music of Lim Giong, who’s been composing the music for Hou Hsiao-hsien ever since GOODBYE SOUTH, GOODBYE (1996), which happens to be a big influence on this film, especially the punk sensibility of the gangsters, also the films of Jia Zhang-ke since THE WORLD (2004), the two artists brilliantly collaborate on producing a dreamy, intoxicating mood that features lusheng pipes, a traditional music instrument of the Miao culture, an ethnic minority (including the director) in China that happen to inhabit the town of Kaili, producing a sound Chen associates with his dead mother. While this may well be what Gaspar Noé had in mind by entering the spiritual realm of The Tibetan Book of the Dead in ENTER THE VOID (2009), or Alexander Sokurov’s ORIENTAL ELEGY (1996), this is more of a shared communion between the living and the dead, where thoughts, feelings, and memories intersect in a void of timelessness, where all happen to occur simultaneously in one’s head. On the train ride to Dangmai, Chen is the only passenger, getting lost in a dreamlike reverie where he is continually haunted by ghosts of the past, where nine years earlier he ran with the gang triads and was imprisoned for avenging a particularly gruesome murder of triad boss Monk’s son, forced to suffer his own indignities, none greater than being locked up at the time his mother and wife died, unable to regain what time was lost. Up until this point, characters often speak of dreams, mirror reflections are seen in motorcycle rear view mirrors, storage areas resemble cavernous caves, alcohol is carried in plastic jugs, waterfalls are just off a back porch, trains flow through walls, there are constant rumors of a wild man sighting in the vicinity, repeated references to a character named Pisshead, poolhalls, hanging laundry, foggy roadways, recurring images of a disco ball, while mechanical equipment always seems to break down. Suddenly the film turns and focuses on two entirely different characters, Yangyang, an attractive girl who works as a seamstress with aspirations to be a Kaili travel guide, followed incessantly by an older Weiwei on his motorbike (constantly breaking down), who obviously has a major crush on her, and seems to be a more grown up version of the child previously seen. Yet there is Chen not showing any familiar recognition riding on the back of his bike searching for Miao musicians who can play the lusheng. This is the beginning of a miraculous 41-minute unbroken shot that is the centerpiece of the film, incredibly shot by cinematographer Wang Tianxing, including 360-degree pans, following winding roads, multi-leveled streets and pathways, moving down alleyways, where the past is displayed by graffiti on the walls, climbing stairs, peeking into the open space of tiny shops, listening in on conversations, crossing rivers and walkways, moving back and forth between characters before finally discovering musicians playing a street concert, a virtuoso existential experience completely altering the viewer’s perspective.

The hand lit up by fate

Erects forty-two windmills for me

The steady flow of nature

The universe stems from balance

The nearby planets stem from echoes

Swamps stem from the sleeplessness of the land

Wrinkles stem from the sea

Ice stems from wine.

The emergency light on the staircase of time

Seeps into the gaps in the stones where I write my poems.

There is bound to be one who will return

To fill an empty bamboo basket with love.

There is bound to be a crumbling of clay

As the valley unfolds like an opening fist.

Easily the most startling juxtaposition of the entire film comes when Chen hitches a ride into the town of Zhenyuan on the back of a pick-up truck of young Miao musicians who only play pop music. Passing through a narrow road of pedestrians on roadways and buildings under construction, it’s clear at this point that something startling is happening with the single shot, yet the intense social realism expressed throughout is completely broken by the playing of a children’s song called “Little Jasmine,” a popular Taiwanese song of the late 1970’s, aka Xiao Moli ( 小 茉莉 ), or Small Jasmine, Une des chansons de Kaili Blues (merci Panda Ly) - Facebook (2:42), reminiscent of the train sequence over water in Miyazaki’s SPIRITED AWAY (2001), especially in its ability to transport viewers into a uniquely different dimension, like a parallel universe or an alternate spiritual plane. Incredibly, while waiting for Yangyang to mend a shirt that had lost buttons on route, Chen discovers a hairdresser named Zhang Xi who looks exactly like his dead wife. Unable to wait, he grabs the shirt Guanglin offered for her long-lost friend, chasing after Zhang Xi, getting a haircut, telling her the sad story of his life, while Yangyang teasingly ignores her admirer, takes a boat across the river, practicing her tour guide speech along the way, with Weiwei offscreen helping her with forgotten lines, as he has it memorized, always following her from a distance, crossing a suspension bridge and down several pathways until she finally agrees to walk with him, all heading for the street concert of the young musicians seen earlier, who can be heard, but just barely audible throughout much of this extended journey, growing louder as they move closer. Yangyang, Weiwei, Zhang Xi, and Chen all find themselves together on the street listening to the band. Perhaps out of sorrow for what he’s lost, Chen sings a horribly out of key version of “Little Jasmine,” which he learned in prison to sing to Zhang Xi, discovering this one is already married, offering her the musical cassette he’s been carrying. Driving Chen to a river ferry that will take him to the Zhenyuan Hotel, Weiwei offers a mystical story about wild men and altering time, with Chen only then learning his name is Weiwei, a moment where Chen appears to have aged considerably, concluding the lengthy shot with the remark, “It’s like being in a dream.” Finally meeting up with Monk the watchmaker, Chen intends to collect Weiwei, but the old gangster has grown fond of him, wishing to keep him for just a few more days, as the child has blended in complete harmony with the rest of the kids in the countryside, exhibiting a playful spirit, where Chen can only stare at him across a distance, realizing that perhaps his nephew is completely happy. Featuring an extraordinary sound design and exceptional music, where in the second half, perhaps turning the clock backwards or ahead, character names become mirror images of previous characters, not so much a futuristic shift in time as an example of how minds merge memory from the past into the present with little distinguishing difference, where both may appear in the same thought, capable of evoking powerful emotions. By the time that Chen reaches his partner’s friend, all he has left to offer is the old photograph, discovering too late that he has already died. Part of the strongest feeling throughout is that of regret, where the film recreates a multitude of inexpressible sorrows, perhaps best expressed near the end by a funeral procession of aging and nearly forgotten Miao musicians paying tribute to the man in the photograph, their honored teacher.

All twists and turns are concealed in dense flocks of birds

The sky and seas cannot see them

But with dreams they become visible

Moments where all has gone topsy-turvy.

All memories are concealed in similar days

The spiders of my heart try to emulate the way humans decorate their homes

Even nomads with instruments cannot express

How close such gazes are to those of our ancestors

How close they are to the starlit sky.

Another 70’s Taiwanese pop song, “Farewell,” composed by Li Tai-hsiang, an indigenous member of the Amis Taiwanese aboriginal community, is sung over the closing credits, 唐曉詩 & 李泰祥 - 告別 / Farewell (by Hsiao-Shih Tang & Tai-Hsiang Lee) YouTube (5:27), suggesting, among other things, that despite all the artistic accolades, the film is making a very visible and concerted effort to support Chinese ethnic minorities. Considering the history of social justice in China, or lack thereof, all one can say is Bravo, as this is truly conscious-raising material.

The film may be seen in its entirety here: 路边野餐Kaili Blues HD720p 完整版高清完美音轨- YouTube (1:49:57)

Kaili Blues | Chicago Reader Andrea Gronvall

Dreams of the dead weave through this enigmatic drama about a widowed physician who journeys from the Chinese provincial city of Kaili to distant Zhenyuan to find his missing young nephew and deliver a gift to the dying friend of a coworker. En route the doctor reaches the village of Dang Mai, and in one bravura 41-minute tracking shot he’s driven around town by a motorcyclist who may be the nephew, mysteriously grown to adulthood. This looping shot, reflecting a Buddhist view of the universe as an endless cycle of life, death, and reincarnation, adds to the film's hallucinatory aura, as does a trippy, ethereal score by Lim Giong (a frequent collaborator of Jia Zhangke and Hou Hsiao-hsien). Bi Gan directed this boldly original debut feature. In Mandarin with subtitles.

Kaili Blues - Lincoln Center also seen here: Kaili Blues | New Directors/New Films - Film Society of Lincoln Center

A multiple prizewinner at the Locarno Film Festival and one of the most audacious and innovative debuts of recent years, Bi Gan’s endlessly surprising shape-shifter comes to assume the uncanny quality of a waking dream as it poetically and mysteriously interweaves the past, present, and future. Chen Sheng, a country doctor in the Guizhou province who has served time in prison, is concerned for the well-being of his nephew, Weiwei, whom he believes his thug brother Crazy Face intends to sell. Weiwei soon vanishes, and Chen sets out to find him, embarking on a mystical quest that takes him to the riverside city of Kaili and the town of Dang Mai. Through a remarkable arsenal of stylistic techniques, the film develops into a one-of-a-kind road movie, at once magical and materialist, traversing both space and time.

Review: Kaili Blues | Bi Gan - Film Comment Andrew Chan, May/June 2016

Like the work of many young filmmakers, Bi Gan’s debut feature pulsates with a cinephile’s admiration for his predecessors: there are leisurely motorcycle rides reminiscent of Apichatpong Weerasethakul, lonely locomotives borrowed from Hou Hsiao-hsien, and symbolic clocks out of Wong Kar Wai’s Days of Being Wild. Yet the voice resonating behind these familiar motifs is one of such dazzling originality, it’s hard to emerge from this waking dream of a film without feeling the shock of the new.

A member of China’s Miao minority, Bi immerses us in small-town life in the subtropical province of Guizhou, where the mountains are lush and the buildings ramshackle. It’s the kind of location that lends itself to ruminative establishing shots and slow pans, but the voluptuously executed cinematography is made all the headier by a dizzying plot, which involves a formerly incarcerated doctor on a journey to find a nephew who has been sold off to a watchmaker.

The missing-person narrative is a pretext for a mesmerizing search for lost time. Midway through, Bi plunges us unawares into 40 minutes of long-take heaven, with his camera crossing bridges and streams, winding its way through a village’s honeycomb structure, landing on a street-side rock concert, and floating between perspectives with the shape-shifting agility of a ghost. It’s one of the rare moments in recent cinema where ostentatious screen-craft proves equal to the task of channeling a multitude of inexpressible sorrows.

Kaili Blues | Vancouver International Film Festival Shelly Kraicer

This remarkable, dreamlike, intensely poetic feature is one of the most auspicious debuts of a young Chinese director in recent memory. Set in mystical Guizhou province, the story follows country doctor Chen Sheng, a man with a chequered past. He defended a bereaved gangster from even worse thugs, which landed him in jail for a spell. On his release, he bought into a rural medical practice with elderly and wise country doctor Zhao Daqing. Zhao harbours mementos of her old lover. Chen, post-release, remembers his dead wife Zhang Xi while worrying about his nephew young Weiwei, whom he thinks his ne’er-do-well brother Crazy Face wants to sell.

When Weiwei disappears, Chen heads out to find him, on a trip to riverside Kaili and the mysterious town of Dang Mai. There, his now grown-up son, his dead wife, and mementos from Doctor Zhao all combine in a near-miraculous, dreamlike sequence that transports the film into an enchanted, quasi-Buddhist realm (the Diamond sutra plays a key role) that seems to knit together past, present and future.

Time flows mysteriously but magically: a beautiful tour guide Yangyang materializes, siren-like, in an ancient river; a rock band plays Taiwanese oldies; trains flow through walls; a clock-man wields mastery over chronology. As lost love flows uninhibited and impassioned, Chinese lyric poetry casts its spell over this radiantly impressionistic film.

Lu bian ye can – Poetry Travelling - Festival del film Locarno Mark Peranson

Kaili City, the center of minority Miao culture, is located in the verdant subtropical province of Guizhou in southwestern China. Far from the industrial zones, it’s an area rarely seen in indie cinema, and in Lu bian ye can (Kaili Blues), director Bi Gan creates a poetic entry point to his home region, with a mysterious, sometimes mystifying film steeped in Miao culture (Lim Giong’s score relies on traditional Lusheng pipes).

Chen, the film’s protagonist, shares a medical practice with an older woman, who hears that an old lover living in Zhenyuan is on death’s bed. She requests that Chen deliver him some items from their past, as he’s headed that way to search for his young nephew, Weiwei. A selection of Chen’s poetry provides for an enigmatic voiceover, featuring couplets like “Human enzymes are stubborn. The enzymes of the soul are like water lilies.” (It’s director/writer Bi Gan’s own work; his collection Roadside Picnic provides the Chinese title.) Bi Gan’s long-take style begins with circular pans, moves to long tracking shots from moving vehicles, and finds its apex when Chen stops in an otherworldly town named Dangmai, with a tour de force, 40-minute plan-sequènce that commingles his past, present and future (it’s no coincidence the film’s opening quote comes from the Diamond Sutra).

This magic realist show-stopper traverses multiple kilometers, and features no less than four modes of transportation, impossible camera movements, the reappearance of multiple characters, two version of the same Chinese pop song (one live), and all the geographical information you’ll ever need to know about Kaili. Let it not be said that Bi Gan and cinematographer Wang Tianxing took the easy road in their stunning debut. 

Next Projection [Kamran Ahmed]

Clearly influenced by Hou Hsiao-Hsien and Andrei Tarkovsky, Gan Bi’s Kaili Blues boasts a contemplative rhythm of long takes which invokes greatly a sense of time’s passing while poetic language is heard via voice-over narration. Telling the story of two brothers who are at odds with one another, the film chronicles one, a doctor and uncle, who searches for his nephew after his brother, Crazy Face, attempts to sell him. There is really not much more to the narrative, and even this is more plot than the film truly exposes. In fact, Kaili Blues would readily be describes as an abject film drawn with the intentions to reject narration in lieu of poetic rhetoric and retroactive substance.

Most notable of the film is its incredible long-take, which takes up the second half of the film. This multi-sequence shot retains a constant sense of presence as it follows Doctor Chen through rural Taiwan in search of his nephew. Shot with a hand-camera while on and off a motorcycle, it shows Chen travel great distances by car, motorcycle, and foot. The shot sometimes leaves the protagonist to follow other characters only to later reinstate its vision of Chen. One girl leaves the screen to be seen a few minutes later eating; the camera follows her for a while as Chen gets a haircut. Everything here is in perfect time and choreography, never missing a beat. The only jarring aspect of this memorable long take is the photographic distortion which occurs when the focus is being adjusted. This sometimes creates an odd and disorienting aesthetic wherein one side of the frame looks closer than the other before toggling back to normal. This is all to say that while the long take is affective, it proves itself to be a mere experiment of an amateur.

Kaili Blues focuses much on movement, distance, and location. It gives a sense of the countryside through showing in stark close-up the atmosphere it emits. The film feels unbiased, unstaged, and even unscripted, with the long-take in particular appearing rather spontaneous. A kinetic approach to visual language is found in the many dash-cam and motorcycle tracking shots, which often invoke aesthetic qualities reminiscent of the great Taiwanese auteur Hou Hsiao-Hsien. In particular, the near final shot of a train exiting a tunnel as the camera tracks along the railroad into the distance echoes highly the opening tracking shots of Goodbye, South, Goodbye, and Dust in the Wind, which both feature trains, railways, and tracking motion.

The strongest motif in Kaili Blues is that of time. Besides its use of long-takes, the film displays many images of clocks, including a shadow on a windshield and an impression on a darkened window. Both these shots are seen near the end of the film and are quite clearly intended to provide a thematic tie in to what we have seen before. Having left jail not too long before, the passing of time is found especially relevant to Chen, who is revealed as a man eager to save every precious moment of life he has left. Such is the film’s tender spirit, to capture and convey the tiny moments found in the everyday.

Cinema Scope [Shelly Kraicer] also seen here: Kaili Blues (Bi Gan, China) - Cinema Scope and here: Kaili Blues review | MCLC Resource Center

The protagonist of Kaili Blues, Chen Sheng, is a small-town medical practitioner and ex-con. He bought his practice in Kaili, in southwestern China’s Guizhou province, with a small inheritance after his mother died while he was in jail. He’s not exactly a doctor; he’s more of a dreamer, a poet, and a traveller. In Bi Gan’s remarkable debut, winner of Best New Director prizes at Locarno and the Golden Horse Awards, it seems that only dreamers like Chen can see what’s real. He often falls asleep, when we hear examples of his surrealist poetry read in his flatly expressive voice—which, like his face, seems stiff but barely conceals emotional tensions roiling under the surface. The poems are in fact Bi Gan’s, from a collection titled Roadside Picnic (Lubian yecan), which is the Chinese title of Kaili Blues, after Bi’s original title (Huang ran lu, the Chinese name of Pessoa’s The Book of Disquiet) was rejected by censors as too downbeat. These poems lead him, and us, into cinematic dream spaces where Bi’s camera animates a free, curious, and observant subjectivity—maybe a person’s, maybe a poem’s. Even if viewers don’t know exactly what’s going on, we can intuit the emotions, connections, routes, and channels of feelings that course through the film. This isn’t standard art-cinema-approved social realism: it’s a realer sort of realism, bringing us through sounds and images into direct contact with a vividly imagined dream world, but one that’s quite specifically grounded in details of place, biography, and community.

Rather than setting out plot in a somewhat artificially schematic manner, the film builds intricate skeins of narrative that connect all the main characters in complicated ways, with loops and paths that seem spontaneously but organically generated. Still, some clarity can be provided to aid the viewer. Nine years before the story proper begins, a rival gangster buries alive the son of Chen Sheng’s gang boss Monk, and also cuts off the son’s hand. The latter act being intolerable, Chen attacks and perhaps kills the rival, and then goes to jail. When he’s released, he finds that he has lost his wife Zhang Xi to illness. He also assumes responsibility for ensuring the safety of his half-brother Crazy Face’s son Weiwei. Crazy Face is a piece of work, and sells Weiwei (who is fascinated with timepieces) to a watchmaker, who takes him away to Zhenyuan. Chen’s senior medical colleague Guanglin had a lover or close friend named Airen from that town. When she learns that Chen is heading there to find Weiwei, she entrusts him with a mission: to find Airen and give him a cassette tape and a long-ago-purchased shirt.

Chen’s departure splits the film in two. From Kaili we head to Dangmai, a riverside town on the way to Zhenyuan, where Chen is also searching for a group of Miao minority traditional lusheng pipe players, who could lead him to Airen. Bi Gan himself is from the Miao minority. In the film, we see and hear traces of Miao culture: the architecture of old houses in Dangmai; a Miao woman listening to the roadside pop concert; the lusheng pipe music occasionally audible, and the instruments themselves depicted on Miao batik fabric, which itself plays a role in yet another subplot connecting Chen, Guanglin, her dead son, and a fabled “wildman” haunting the film’s margins. In Dangmai, Chen encounters characters from his past and his future. Chen hitches a ride with a band whose teacher studied under Airen, a fact he only finds out later. He encounters a young man, also called Weiwei, with a bucket on his head, having been bullied by rival motorcycle drivers. Weiwei, who is about ten years older than Chen’s nephew, then takes Chen on a long motorcycle ride to meet a young woman, Yangyang, who is planning to be a tour guide back in Kaili. Yangyang mends Chen’s shirt, and leads him to a hairdresser, Zhang Xi, who looks exactly like Chen’s long-dead wife. All four—Yangyang, Weiwei, Zhang Xi, and Chen—find themselves at the band’s streetside concert where Chen, overcome with sadness for the people he has lost and perhaps found, sings, badly, a children’s song. Later, he heads to Zhenyuan where further plot nodes solidify, the watchmaker reappears, and time starts rolling backwards.

Untangling the narrative endoskeleton isn’t easy, but it is also far from what Bi Gan’s film is “about.” What is it about, then? Such a densely worked and intensively designed film has many entry points, throughlines, and endpoints. Bi offers one right at the top: he quotes a Buddhist text from the Diamond Sutra, whose lovely apposite parallelism in Chinese is not reflected in the English subtitles, but it is important:

guoqu xin bu ke de

xianzai xin bu ke de

weilai xin bu ke de

which translates roughly as:

the past mind cannot be attained

the present mind cannot be attained

the future mind cannot be attained

The dilemma is existential and moral. A complete understanding of our minds, feelings, and our world is unavailable. This dilemma has a specifically temporal dimension. That we experience mind, feeling, and the world through time—exactly as cinema can only record and present these through time—is what perhaps makes it unattainable. That narrative cinema is forced to present reality through time is also what limits it.

Bi Gan proposes a kind of way around this problem (I’m not sure we can call it a solution). And it happens during an astonishing tour de force of mise en scène in Dangmai: a 41-minute-long handheld take that starts with Weiwei waiting with his motorcycle for Yangyang and Chen, progresses through rides on bike, pickup truck, and boat, and strolls up, down, and across stairways and into and out of at least two buildings, a river crossing by ferry and return by bridge, walks up and down stairs, through a wine shop, tailor’s, and hairdresser’s (where Zhang Xi washes Chen’s hair), encompassing Chen meeting the older Weiwei, Weiwei courting Yangyang, and Chen encountering his dead wife Zhang Xi, the four of them listening to the concert. This is a long take that feels long, in a viscerally exciting way. Its pressure grows and intensifies, as we realize that Bi Gan is not going to cut, and that he has the technical skill and audacity to take us through a novel’s worth of interlocking incidents and characters without stopping his camera (well, there is one slight bit of post-production legerdemain, but I’m not going to ruin it for you). It’s exhilarating, it’s tension-filled, and it feels impossible.

In narrative terms, of course that’s precisely the point. How can Chen, who has come to Zhenyuan to look for an eight-year-old nephew, find an 18-year-old future version instead? How can his wife return from the dead? We see it happen; Chen feels it happen. In the mind, the past is attained, the present is attained, and the future is attained. In Bi’s poetic vision, the real—symbol-suffused and visible—is something interior, much more “real” than something “out there” in physical reality. Throughout the film, his camera registers this surreality so much more vividly than merely recording the existing light-reflecting world. The intense blues and greens, the saturated, tangibly thick light and shade of the settings, the impossible visions of twirling, ever-present disco mirror balls, of trains and waterfalls that seem to rush through Chen’s home, defying space, are conjured into light and sound, and, via poetry, into cinema.

Recent Chinese independent fiction cinema has often borne the traces of a social burden, one that is processed via its commitment to a kind of “social realism.” Chinese artists for millennia have assumed the role of socially engaged actors, moral commentators, or guardians of certain autonomous systems of values, and find themselves set against the various oppressive ruling ideologies that have burdened Chinese society. But there are an unlimited number of modes of engagement. Too many direct, cookie-cutter resistance narratives pop out like readymade art-politics products and, sometimes, all too easily find resonance in non-Chinese markets and societies. Bi Gan’s art is something completely different. While it is clearly deeply embedded in contemporary culture, its poetry—not its politics—makes meaning. There is something uncanny, something quietly, modestly rapturous about Bi’s world: it’s seemingly grounded in a specific location, circumstance, and personality, while at the same time freely roaming, and not delimited by space, time, and character. We’re in one place—an obscure little corner of small-town China today—and we’re everywhere, unbounded, set free to wander in a single shot, in a dream without limits.

A New Language for Chinese Film J. Hoberman from The New York Review of Books, May 19, 2016, also seen here: J. Hoberman

VIFF Review • Senses of Cinema Why Vancouver? by Bérénice Reynaud, March 2016

Kaili Blues - Reviews - Reverse Shot K. Austin Collins, May 23, 2016

FIPRESCI - Silence of the Mountains Madhu Evavankara, also seen here: Twenty Sixth Issue - FilmFocusIndia | Promoting Non-Mainstream ...

Writing: Movies [Chris Knipp] also seen here: Chris Knipp • View topic - Bi Gan: Kaili Blues (2015)--New ... and here: New Directors/New Films 2016; Film Comments Selects - FilmLeaf

Kaili Blues (Bi Gan) - Film Parlato James Lattimer

Slant Magazine [Ela Bittencourt]

Director Bi Gan On His Stunning Debut, 'Kaili Blues' | BLOUIN ARTINFO Craig Hubert

New Directors/New Films 2016 – Critic's Choice | Independent Magazine Kurt Brokaw

Kaili Blues - Joyless Creatures Joseph Houlihan

Kaili Blues: Notes on the Long Take | ENCLAVE Joseph Houlihan provides the script and brief analysis for the entire 41-minute shot from Enclave, June 8, 2016

« Kaili Blues » : quête ésotérique de Bi Gan scandée par ses poèmes ... Chinese movies (in French)

Kaili Blues (2015) - Projected Figures Anton Bitel

[ND/NF Review] Kaili Blues - The Film Stage Michael Snydel

'Kaili Blues', Gan Bi's Astonishing Debut - Brooklyn Magazine Jeffrey Dunn Rovinelli

Time, Life, and Death Get Gloriously Jumbled in Bi Gan's 'Kaili Blues ... Michael Nordine from The Village Voice

Review: KAILI BLUES, The Most Impressive Debut In Years Dustin Chang from Twitch and Screen Anarchy

Kaili Blues takes a mysterious journey through memory and time Ignatiy Vishnevetsky from The Onion A.V. Club

Strangers in a Strange Land: Perry Lam reviews 'Kaili Blues ... Perry Lam from Rochford Street Review

Way Too Indie [Pavi Ramani]

Short Reviews « CON LOS OJOS ABIERTOS Roger Koza

Kaili Blues » IsolaCinema.org Varja Močnik

Kaili Blues Makes Magic Out of the Ordinary - Film - The Stranger Kathy Fennessy

SINGLE TAKE: Jonathan Demme on “Kaili Blues” - Grasshopper Film

KVIFF | Kaili Blues Jakub Jiřiště from the Karlovy Vary Film Festival

BI Gan | AICHI TRIENNALE 2016

Apollo's Girl | don't miss it - WordPress.com

Bi Gan's Film “Kaili Blues” Has a Majestic 41-Minute Take - Paris Review Dan Piepenbring

The Best (and Worst) Films of May 2016 - Brooklyn Magazine Benjamin Mercer

Kaili Blues de Bi Gan (2015) - Capricci.fr

10/10: Bi Gan - Grasshopper Film The director of Kaili Blues lists his ten favorite films from the last ten years

Bi Gan on Kaili Blues, the most heralded Chinese debut in years ... interview from Time Out Shanghai, June 1, 2016

Interview: Director Bi Gan Talks 'Kaili Blues,' The Influence Of ... Aaron Stewart interview from The Playlist, May 27, 2016

'Kaili Blues' Filmmaker Bi Gan Explains How Magic And His Own ... Kate Erbland interview from indieWIRE, May 19, 2016

Hollywood Reporter [John DeFore] also seen here: Film Review: Kaili Blues | Film Journal International

'Kaili Blues' Review: A Dreamy Chinese Trip Through the Past | Variety Nick Schager

Kaili Blues | Film review - Time Out Alexandre Prouvèze

Movie review: Kaili Blues 路邊野餐 - Taipei Times Ho Yi

'Kaili Blues' reveals a new approach for art films - Global Times Wei Xi

From weddings shooter to arthouse wunderkind | Shanghai Daily Vanessa Xu

Review: Kaili Blues | Sino-Cinema 《神州电影》 Derek Elly, also seen here: Film Business Asia [Derek Elly]

Boston Hassle | REVIEW: Kaili Blues (2016) dir. Bi Gan Vanessa Quintero

An astonishing film debut where dream and reality meet - The Boston ... Peter Keough from The Boston Globe

KAILI BLUES - : Chile Reviews - The Santa Fe New Mexican Michael Abatemarco

'Kaili Blues' an ambitious Chinese indie worth a look - SFGate G. Allen Johnson

Review: 'Kaili Blues,' a Dreamy Trek With Otherworldly Beauty - The ... Ken Jaworowski from The New York Times

Biberman, Herbert J.

SALT OF THE EARTH A 98

USA (94 mi) 1954

Have you been to a movie this week? Are you going to a movie tonight, or maybe tomorrow? Look around the room. Are there any newspapers lying on the floor? Any magazines on your table? Any books on your shelves? It’s always been your right to read or see anything you wanted to. But now it seems to be getting kind of complicated. For the past week, in Washington, the House Committee on Un-American Activities has been investigating the film industry. Now, I have never been a member of any political organization. But I’ve been following this investigation and I don’t like it. There are a lot of stars here to speak to you. We’re show business, yes. But we’re also American citizens. It’s one thing if someone says we’re not good actors; that hurts, but we can take that. It’s something else again to say we’re not good Americans! We resent that!

—Judy Garland, 1947, speaking on the coast-to-coast radio program called Hollywood Fights Back!

Essential viewing, the lone film to fight back against McCarthyism, made by blacklisted filmmakers *after* being blacklisted, as this historical gem from 1954 is the only film in U.S. history to be blacklisted itself, not fully released in American theaters until 1965, a rousing effort and a genuinely inspiring film, where the director Herbert Biberman was one of the Hollywood Ten who were cited in 1947 for contempt of Congress and blacklisted after refusing to answer HUAC questions about their alleged involvement with the Communist Party. Biberman and the other nine were given jail sentences of 12 months while also banished from the film industry, where a group of studio heads met and declared they would no longer employ anyone suspected of being a communist or belonging to organizations having communist sympathies. Hundreds in the film industry suddenly found themselves out of work and unemployable. Many people on the blacklist simply believed in civil rights, but that was decidedly “Un-American” in this postwar Red Scare. While the committee was ostensibly seeking proof into alleged communist propaganda and influence in the Hollywood motion picture industry, finding little evidence, they instead cast a broad net of fear and condemnation largely based on unsubstantiated rumor and hearsay, where artists were forced to name names or face jail sentences, fear tactics more typical of the communist methodology. The East German Stasi secret police in the 70’s and 80’s became experts at it, where as many as two million informants were used, infiltrating every aspect of East German life, where spouse’s often spied on one another and an entire nation lived under fear, or the Chinese Cultural Revolution of the 60’s which alleged that bourgeois elements were infiltrating communist society, insisting that those revisionists be removed and sent to re-education camps, where literally millions were subject to public humiliation, arrest, and torture, including seizure of their property. Based upon public denunciations of alleged traitors, children often denounced their own parents, family members, or neighbors, as a large segment of the population was systematically displaced. While not on such a massive scale, a similar method was used by witch-hunting congressmen, who were basically anti-Semitic and anti-labor and wanted to purge all liberal thought from American culture.  While liberal ideas certainly influence films and literature of every era, in hindsight it’s incredulous to think so many in positions of power actually believed people were attempting to smuggle communist ideology into Hollywood screenplays, where the prevailing fear was rampant.

Forming a group called the Independent Productions Corporation, the idea for the film came from blacklisted screenwriter and film producer Paul Jarrico who took his wife and son to New Mexico, spending time at a ranch outside Taos with union organizers Clint and Virginia Jencks who informed them about a zinc miner’s strike in Grant County in the southwest portion of the state, eventually joining the picket lines. With fellow blacklisted friend Michael Wilson writing the screenplay, spending three months living with the primarily Mexican-American miner’s families, what he discovered was that Mexican miners were forced to live in unsanitary conditions while performing the most dangerous work, subject to more frequent accidents while earning half the pay of their white Anglo counterparts. So the primarily Mexican-American miners went on strike at the Empire Zinc Mine & Mill demanding safer working conditions and equal pay, creating an especially tense and violent atmosphere between Anglos and Chicanos. While the film is blisteringly realistic, shot in the Italian neo-realist style of Rossellini resembling a non-fiction documentary, yet it’s a fictionalized composite of real events based on what actually happened, partially funded by the miner’s themselves and their union, the International Union of Mine, Mill and Smelter Workers, Local 890, who are credited as producers in the film, who themselves had been expelled from the CIO in 1950 on charges of Communist domination, where the script was continually updated and revised based on input from the local miners, where most of the roles are played by the miners themselves and local Anglos working alongside blacklisted actor Will Geer as the troublesome sheriff, Grandpa from the popular television series The Waltons (1971 – 1981), one of only five professional actors. It’s the only major American independent feature made by communists, where Jarrico later reasoned that since they'd been drummed out of Hollywood for being subversives, they'd commit a crime worthy of their punishment by making a subversive film. The narrative thread provided throughout is by Rosaura Revueltas, a highly successful Mexican film star who was herself born in a mining town in northern Mexico, very familiar with the circumstances, playing the fictional character Esperanza Quintero:

How shall I begin my story that has no beginning? My name is Esperanza, Esperanza Quintero. I am a miner's wife. This is our home. The house is not ours. But the flowers... the flowers are ours. This is my village. When I was a child, it was called San Marcos. The Anglos changed the name to Zinc Town. Zinc Town, New Mexico, U.S.A. Our roots go deep in this place, deeper than the pines, deeper than the mine shaft...

Her broken English is highly effective, as it’s a perfect balance to the dirt poor setting, with families living in tiny identical houses owned by the mining company, where this kind of hard scrabble life eking out a bare-bones existence has rarely been portrayed with such authenticity. Esperanza’s husband is played by real-life Union Local president Juan Chacón as Ramon, whose grandfather once owned all the land in the region, but here they’re just like everybody else where all the men work in the mines. After a series of routine accidents in the mine, causing additional hardships because only miners manned by Mexicans are ordered to work alone and not in teams, where all pleas to the boss fall on deaf ears, as the one argument the company can make to the white Anglos is that they have it better than the Mexican miners, so a systematic anti-Mexican prejudice is clearly built into the status quo, where they are the only families living in unhealthy sanitary conditions. After yet another accident when the men are ordered to return to the mines, they refuse, calling a strike vote, demanding equal parity with the Anglo workers. While this is a demand the company never intends to meet, they refuse to even negotiate with the striking miners, allowing the strike to drag on endlessly for months, where the sheriff, at the behest of the company, would round up the picket line ringleaders and arrest them, often beating them up as well, hoping non-union replacement workers (scabs) would be able to break through the picket line afterwards, but after a few fights with scabs where only the striking miners are arrested, the scabs, usually brought in from out of town, are more reticent to try again. There’s one particularly intense crosscutting sequence that’s far ahead of it's time, going between Esperanza giving birth (without a doctor, who would not cross the picket lines) and her husband not being able to help her because the police are beating him up in the back of the squad car. When a ruling comes down from the court ordering them back to work, in accordance with the Taft-Hartley Act of 1947, their only choice appears to be either to capitulate to the bosses and end the strike or go to jail. In one of the more powerful moments of the film, Frank Barnes (Clinton Jencks), the international union representative, indicates this is a democratic union and the members will have to decide for themselves what course of action to pursue. This is a chilling moment, rarely seen in other pro-union films, especially considering the staggering effect of democracy on those blacklisted.

What follows is unprecedented in any other film of its era, as the wives of the miners come to the union meeting and volunteer to man the picket lines, claiming the law only pertains to the miners, not their wives. Most of the men are against the idea, believing women belong at home with the children, which certainly reflects the “backward” attitudes of the times, where men, including respected strike organizer Ramon, treat their wives like second class citizens. The union doesn’t allow non-members to vote, so after a lengthy and somewhat indecisive debate by the members, they adjourn into an all-inclusive community meeting on an issue that affects every single family and vote to accept the idea, as it’s better than the men going to jail. The Women’s Auxiliary Committee quickly gets organized and takes action to form a new picket line, often looking after their children while picketing. Even so the men, as well as the police, think they’ll quickly fold, but they stand firm, even when approached by scabs, surprisingly holding their own without their husband’s intervention, which would mean immediate arrest. Many of the men feel useless at home with the children, and tend to go out drinking at night, or disappearing altogether on alleged hunting trips, where the marriages are strained, but others, faced with the drudgery that is women’s work, including laundry, cooking, cleaning, and child care, discover a newfound respect for their wives. Esperanza is hesitant at first, pregnant with their third child, but the idea of saving her family by assuming greater responsibilities helps her grow more confident over time, where she takes ownership of her role not only in the family but in the community, where women’s equality is one of the essential forces that sustains the striking families over a 14-month period of food rationing, police brutality, trumped up charges, forced evictions, and strained home lives, made even worse when no doctors are allowed into the community, even for childbirth. In fact what stands out today is the film’s depiction of women as brave and unyielding, taking nothing from anyone, where included in their conscious raising awareness is an idea of what could be achieved by working together. No longer seen as an extreme leftist propaganda film, instead, it’s a surprisingly realistic look at the inequalities mining workers faced, not to mention a behind-the-scenes history lesson on the politics of the time. The social realist film carries tremendous weight in its feminist, pro-labor views, causes that are just as relevant today, where the message for exploited workers is in the power of joining together, where it’s equally important to get the support and involvement of the larger affected community.

Because of the unvarnished depiction of human lives, expressed with moral conviction and a sense of urgency, the film has a rare and unusually profound strength, showing historical precedent and the importance of truly independent American filmmaking. The film was immediately denounced by the U.S. House of Representatives for its communist sympathies, with film critic Pauline Kael calling it simplistic and “as clear a piece of Communist propaganda as we have had in many years,” the American Legion called it “one of the most vicious propaganda films ever distributed in the U.S.” while The Hollywood Reporter claimed the film was made “under direct orders from the Kremlin.” In fact it’s a movie where the Hollywood industry and the FBI did everything they could to insure it was never made, as described in James J. Lorence's 1999 book, The Suppression of Salt of the Earth: How Hollywood, Big Labor, and Politicians Blacklisted a Movie in Cold War America, and Biberman’s own book Salt Of the Earth: The Story of a Film, 1965. During the shooting, production was hampered when they were unable to hire a union crew, as Roy Brewer (Roy M. Brewer : Biography), head of the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees, and one of the chief cooperating witnesses at the HUAC hearings in identifying and denouncing communists within the industry (eventually naming over 150 anti-American subversives in his pamphlet Red Channels), refused to allow union personnel to participate, so the all-union crew largely consists of blacklisted members and black technicians who were otherwise unable to obtain work within a white-only industry, while other professionals were reasonably afraid they would be blacklisted for working with communists. Brewer told reporters that he and other union officials, including Walter Pidgeon, president of the Screen Actors Guild, had been trying to halt production of the film for over a year. Since the shooting took place during the Korean War, conservatives on the right were convinced the film was a Stalinist conspiracy to encourage the strike in order to hinder the mining of precious metals needed in the production of weapons needed for the war. Vigilantes disrupted the production, shot at the filmmakers’ cars, and attacked some of the crew, including Clint Jencks, while town merchants wouldn’t do business with them. The union hall in nearby Bayard was set on fire and the union hall in Carlsbad was burned to the ground, while Anglo cast member Floyd Bostick’s home was also destroyed by fire. The FBI arrested and deported the film’s star Rosaura Revueltas on a technicality as an “illegal alien” midway through shooting, as her passport had not been stamped at the border, requiring a production team to shoot footage illegally in Mexico, where they allegedly filmed her voiceover narration, while billionaire RKO chief Howard Hughes banned laboratories from processing any post-production footage, so the filmmakers were never able to see the rushes, where editing reportedly took place in the ladies room bathroom of the closed but still standing Rialto Theater in South Pasadena. Once completed, premiering at an independent theater in Yorkville, New York, and at the Grande Theatre in New York City, unionized projectionists were directed not to screen the film, while the FBI inspected license plates of any cars parked in the lots of the 12 theaters nationwide that eventually did show the film, languishing unseen for ten years until resurrected during the rebelliousness of the mid 1960’s, eventually selected into the Library of Congress National Film Registry in 1992.

From The Suppression of Salt of the Earth: How Hollywood, Big Labor, and Politicians Blacklisted a Movie in Cold War America, by James J. Lorence, 1999:

[I]n the final analysis, then, Salt of the Earth remains an enduring document of Cold War America and an emblem of determined independence. A film little seen in its own time has become a symbol of an alternative vision of America in the 1950s, a view that emphasizes conflict and confrontation. The Salt story challenges the consensus view of race relations, gender roles, and class harmony and signifies a historical counter-trend, which existed side by side with a ‘culture of conformity.’ The age of McCarthy and ‘the Committee’ also produced the dissent of the Salt group and its supporters among the friends of intellectual and artistic freedom in a nation under siege. For all the vicissitudes of its troubled history, Salt of the Earth remains a fragile, celluloid monument to that culture of resistance.

From the IMDb discussion forum, by hezmodo» Sat Aug 26 2006 01:42:26

My grandmother, Virginia Derr Jencks Chambers (Ruth Barnes), who died in 1991, wrote this in the 1980's (I think). The typo's are hers, by the way, as she typed it on a manual typewriter. This may answer some of the questions by some of the posted discussions. I am open to PM's if anyone has additional questions.

"Salt of the Earth grew out of an explosive mixture: Mexican-American nationalism, working class consciousness, cultural workers of middle-class intelligentsia who refused to be relegated to decay and who wanted to give film goers a radical view of life and, finally, a blacklisted union thrown out of the CIO, besieged by the U.S. government which willingly did the work for the great metal mining giants of this country. SALT grew out of anti-communist hysteria in Washington and the militancy of a section of the American working class. It was conceived in 1950, filmed in 1953, shown a year or two later and has been blacklisted with the U.S. commercial film market ever since.

Herbert Biberman, one of the Hollywood Ten who had spent a year in prison, as well as Paul Jarrico and Michael Wilson, two blacklisted writers, after meeting members of the Local 890, Int’l Union of Mine, Mill and Smelter Workers, located in Bayard, New Mexico, talked to other black and graylisted artists in Hollywood about making such a picture. Their goals were:

1. Put to work those among them who were unable to work because of political views and/or accusations.
2. Make a contribution to a culture of reality and hope, counteracting the deluge of *beep* coming from Hollywood at this time.
3. Show political identification and sympathy between the working class and intellectuals of the left.
4. Demonstrate to the powerful Hollywood movie makers that the Left-Liberal artists had unity, a degree of power, and were not helpless in the face of the terror waged against the Left in the U.S.

After approaching Local 890 leadership they went to Denver to talk with Mine’s top people. IUMM&SW at that time was still a very powerful organization, still with locals in Canada, fraternal ties in Mexico. It had been expelled from the CIO in 1947 (?) as communist-dominated and the even more powerful union, the Steelworkers, which in the early 30’s had been organized itself by Communists, awarded itself the jurisdiction of Mine-Mill’s 130,000 members. This led to the end of this historic union, a union which grew out of the Western Federation of Miners. By 1965 (date?) all of Mine-Mill was in Steel; however, before the pact was signed Mine-Mill was able to win a number of concessions for its locals and its staff—so while wounded almost to death, there remained enough power to exert pressure after almost 15 years of facing the government in the form of arrests, “fellow” raiding unions, and the strength of companies such as Kennecott, Phelps-Dodge, American Smelting and Refining, Anaconda, U.S. Refining and Smelting, etc.

In the hope that the film might help and could do no harm the officers agreed in 1952; the event to be documented through a semi-fictional story was a strike by one unit of Local 890, an amalgamated local, against Empire Zinc. The unit was less than 200 people against a small piece of a huge cartel represented by John Foster Dulles, an attorney for the cartel. The strike started in October 1950 for parity in the district; in June, the woman, almost all Mexican-American, took over the picketlines after a local court gave the company an induction. Waves of arrests and violence follows: the press of the company followed the strike and the valiance of the women won much support through-out the country. A tiny strike caused the NY Times to send a reporter to Silver City, New Mexico ----.

Mike Wilson, one of Hollywood’s top talents but then blacklisted, came to the picketlines in November, 1951. He stayed around for some weeks, just observing, departed, and returned six weeks later with what became essentially the SALT script. However, upon the return, a group of union men and women gathered in a tiny living room and upon Mike’s request read and criticized the script, suggesting some significant changes. The changes were made, in the next year. Later the film crew arrived in Silver City and set up, warmly welcomed by business people, aware of the dollar potential. There is no question that the community was puzzled by why a Hollywood group had come to make a picture for that communist-union bunch in their midst, which had such a radical history. But pride and money won and for about one month the townspeople could not do enough for the crew.

But within less than a month the situation changed. Victor Riezdl (spel?) a venomous, anti-union, anti-“red” syndicated columnist, ran an article attacking the film makers and Mine-Mill and the continuing strike within Local 890. It was picked up by Walter Pidgeon and John Wayne, members and officers of a crypto-fascist “artists” organization, AWARE, which then demanded that the House Committee on UnAmerican activities pillory those associated with the film. AWARE was the response of the Hollywood right wing to opportunities afforded by McCarthyism and HUAC. Many people lost their livelihoods through the attempts of AWARE.

At this point a cresendo of hate was launched from Washington, D.C., through the HUAC and the press. The Catholic church in spot radio announcements told its followers they would be excommunicated if they persisted in helping make the film. The local vigilantes started a series of violent attacks on the union families and film people, beatings and smashing of equipment. The vigilantes were mostly businessmen, some foremen and company people, and ranchers, and they were assisted by the Silver City Press and El Paso Times (150 miles away) both carrying editorials and huge headlines calling for the reds to be run out of the Silver City area. There was an attempt to burn the union hall, a successful effort to burn the home of one 890 member, an Anglo, especially hated. The phone calls to the Jencks home, hate-filled and anonymous, came at all hours. In increasing cresendo of hate and violence until the New Mexico governor sent in state police to quell the storm.

Rosaura Revueltas, the star or SALT and Mexico’s leading actress who was flown from Mexico City to Juarez, crossing the border by bus at El Paso to work in the film, was pre-emptorily picked up in the midst of making SALT, hustled back to El Paso, locked up, and deported within a few hours for having crossed the border illegally – despite the fact that her papers were in order. This made innumerable problems in completing the picture – but all were solved by patching and planning.

The tension held constant for about two weeks but soon after that a few friendly small businessmen, two sympathetic priests and the head of the Highway Patrol – who had grown up in SC [Silver City] and was a very unusual Anglo because he truly like the Mexican people -- all these met with the film people and union leaders and said the situation was out of hand – that the crew must finally leave or lives would be lost. By then the local radio station had public announcements on the half hour on quotes from HUAC re Mine Mill etc., along with the threat of excommunication from El Paso. The Press daily called for violence. The entire scene was one of great terror. It became impossible to buy gasoline at stations, food for necessities. The union leadership and the Hollywood people were outcasts in a small area where everyone knew each other. Soon after the warning and demand – because those sympathetic felt that they could not hold back the flood – the film crew and actors left in small convoys at night, silent and unannounced, fearful of the black unoccupied roads before them. And the union people were left alone to do what they could. Even so, no one – then – among the hundreds who had given time and help in making the picture and any regrets. They did not get to see the fruit of the labor until almost two years later when cars drove into a local drive-in, the only place that would show it, and union people communicated their emotions over scenes in the movie by blowing their car horns! Two families from the Hollywood area joined in the celebration: a gripsman and a carpenter.

After the crew left another event too place: within a few weeks Jencks was arrested by the FBI, barefoot, playing ball with his children at the dinner hour. The charge was perjury of the noncommunist affidavit of the Taft-Hartley law, $10,000 bond, put up some hours later by IUMM&SW out of Denver, its headquarters.

The situation became untenable for either working or living and so early in June, 1952, Jencks together with his family was transferred to Denver to service mountainous locals in that area and to prepare for trial. From public records of the Health, Education and Welfare Committee of February, 1952 it became obvious why the arrest had been made; for in that time the public relations representative for Empire Zinc had appeared before a subcommittee on labor and demand that the communists making the movie, agitating in Grant County, New Mexico, be stopped. He was specific about Jencks, as well as a few others. Approximately two weeks later his wishes were met. The film crew was disbanded and Jencks had been arrested – a few days before the statute of limitations on his Taft-Hartley affidavit would have expired.

Because there was an agreement and conspiracy between the film industrialists, especially that great anti-communist Howard Hughes, the U.S. Dept of Justice and FBI and HUAC and Senate Sub-Committee on Internal Affairs (the McCarran Committee), along with the Motion Picture Film Operators Union – one of the most corrupt and degenerate company unions this nation has ever seen – the makers of SALT and unbelievable difficulty in getting the film printed, spliced and edited. Pieces of the work were farmed out to a score of print labs all over the LA area and editors were asked to do what they could at night with these bits and pieces. It took almost a year to get one print.

Finally, there was a big movie-type preview in NYC, which cost the desperate filmmakers a lot of money they no longer had. Juan Chacon and Henrietta Williams were guests, coming from Bayard. TIME magazine, the Nation and a few other publications gave favorable reviews but the political climate was such in 1953-54 that professional people were afraid to come too close; in addition, it soon became impossible to see the picture. Between the film projector’s boycott, and that of the distributors who would threaten a theatre owner that he would get no more movies if he tried to show SALT. The cooperation of the FNI was almost superfluous in getting rid of SALT. On occasions there was a tiny art of film house where the owner ran the project and was not dependant on Hollywood films (Paramount, Fox, MGM, Warners, etc.) the FBI would make its warning visit.

This blackout continued until the early 60’s, approximately ten years, although SALT had been acclaimed abroad, winning honors in France and Scotland, being dubbed into other languages, including Chinese. However, it took the student movement, the fightback against HUAC in SF [San Francisco] and Berkeley, the rising women’s movement, Viet Nam, La Raza, Black Panthers – all, all the great human movements associated in the United States with the 60’s to bring SALT to life in America. It served many aspects of these movements: class, national oppression, women, minorities, revolution – and best of all, humankind through love, a demonstration of the best in all of us.

With all its flaws – and they are there – SALT turned out to be far more meaningful than its creators could ever have hoped.

Almost universal in its appeal, creation of disparate forces, this film will continue to make a statement to and about our country for years to come."

Salt of the Earth | Chicago Jonathan Rosenbaum

This rarely screened 1954 classic is the only major American independent feature made by communists; a fictional story about the Mexican-American zinc miners in New Mexico then striking against their Anglo management, it was informed by feminist attitudes that are quite uncharacteristic of the period. The film was inspired by the blacklisting of director Herbert Biberman, screenwriter Michael Wilson (A Place in the Sun), producer and former screenwriter Paul Jarrico, and composer Sol Kaplan, among others; as Jarrico later reasoned, since they'd been drummed out of Hollywood for being subversives, they'd commit a "crime to fit the punishment" by making a subversive film. The results are leftist propaganda of a very high order, powerful and intelligent even when the film registers in spots as naive or dated. Basically kept out of American theaters until 1965, it was widely shown and honored in Europe, but it's never received the recognition it deserves stateside. If you've never seen it, prepare to have your mind blown.

Time Out

Director Biberman, producer Paul Jarrico, writer Michael Wilson, composer Sol Kaplan and actor Will Geer were all blacklisted at the time, and this extraordinary film was a unique act of defiance. Production was subject to constant FBI harassment, the leading actress was repatriated to Mexico (shots of her final scenes were done surreptitiously), and projectionists refused to screen the finished film, which still looks incredibly modern. Financed by the American mineworkers union, it deals with a strike in the New Mexico community of Zinc Town, formerly San Marcos. While the Anglo workers enjoy reasonable living conditions, the Mexicans live without adequate sanitation in a form of apartheid. At pains not to feature traditional romantic leads (like Matewan or The Milagro Beanfield War), it focuses on two decidedly unglamorous people, a Mexican worker (Chacon) and his pregnant wife (Revueltas), who are victims of an economic trap, and whom America's post-war boom - symbolised by the gleaming cars that drive through the picket line - has passed by. As the strike for better conditions progresses, the women play an increasing role, overcoming the traditional macho ethos by doing both picket duty and time in jail (while the men, fed up with washing dishes, go off hunting). The film's targets multiply - workers' rights, racism, feminism - and for 1953 this is pretty amazing.

CINE-FILE: Cine-List - CINE-FILE Chicago Ben Sachs

Produced independently by Hollywood Blacklistees--who were inspired to make a pro-labor film as a way of getting even with HUAC--SALT OF THE EARTH is a landmark act of civil disobedience and the rare film that's entitled to masterpiece status without having to be any good. Thankfully, its artfulness is commensurate with its conviction. A docudrama about a lengthy miners' strike in New Mexico, shot on location and featuring many of the actual miners as extras, it's also one of the few American films of the period comparable to the Neorealist masterpieces made in Italy around the same time. Arguably, the makers of SALT OF THE EARTH went even further than Roberto Rossellini in developing an artistic process that reflected their collectivist ideals: The script was frequently revised according to input from the miners and their families--most notably, to devote more attention to the role played by wives and mothers in organizing the strike. (Jonathan Rosenbaum has called this ahead of its time in its feminist sentiment.) Telling the miners' story in their own words often gives this the stolid feel of community theater; but on the other hand, it lends the film a certain no-bullshit authenticity that separates it from slicker--and ultimately patronizing--stuff like NORMA RAE. It's also plenty suspenseful. A sort of moral inversion of the hostage-standoff movie, the prolonged strike sees the workers' community become more unified as pressure increases from bosses and police. (1954, 94 min, 35mm)

The Boston Phoenix Peter Keough

Once upon a time, making a film wasn’t a cynical financial investment but an act of political courage. In 1953, writer/director Herbert J. Biberman, undaunted by the months he’d spent in a federal prison for refusing to squeal to the red-baiting House Un-American Activities Committee, made Salt of the Earth, an earnest, sometimes wrenching, definitely subversive look at a real-life strike by Mexican miners in New Mexico. The film was marginally produced and virtually blacklisted itself (the projectionists’ union, for one, refused to show it), and it endures now more as a tribute to Biberman’s spirit (as well as to the other " Hollywood Ten " filmmakers who collaborated on the picture) than to his talent.

Although portrayed in many cases by actual miners and non-professionals, most of the characters rarely emerge from stereotype; the evil Anglo lawmen and mine-company officials (Will Geer’s affably venal sheriff excepted) are especially cartoonish. What makes the film revolutionary is the strength and grace of veteran Mexican actress Rosaura Revueltas as the long-suffering Esperanza, who defers to her macho husband’s chauvinism until a Taft-Hartley injunction makes it necessary for the womenfolk to replace the miners on the picket line. As the women find their voice, so the film finds its own, and the coda affirming perseverance, justice, and equality appears almost as radical and rousing today as it did in the dark days of McCarthyism.

Salt of the Earth - Film (Movie) Plot and Review ... - Film Reference Michael Selig

Salt of the Earth formed Independent Productions Corporation in 1951 with $10,000 from theater operator Simon Lazarus, and another $25,000 from an array of sympathetic businessmen. The group was unable to decide on a project until Jarrico returned with his suggestion to film a story based on the miners' real experiences in the strike he had just witnessed. Screenwriter Michael Wilson then ventured to Grant County three months prior to the end of the almost one and a half year strike. Wilson made several trips between Los Angeles and Grant County, each time preparing a new script incorporating the input of the miners and their families. In its final form, the film tells a fictionalised story of New Mexico's Union of Mine, Mill, and Smelter Workers strike against Empire Zinc, lasting from October 1950 to January 1952. The strike was characterized by an especially tense and violent atmosphere between Anglos and Chicanos. Ultimately, the miners' wives took over the picket line to avoid a court injunction against the all male union workers, an event which profoundly affected the Chicano community's attitudes about women's rights. The emotional tensions generated by the strike—between Chicano and Anglo, and when the women walked the picket line, between husbands and wives—are portrayed in their impact on a fictional married couple, Ramon and Esperanza Quintero.

Collective decision-making distinguished not only the script's preparation but all aspects of the film's production, marking an abrupt change in the hierarchical collaboration that characterized Hollywood filmmaking. Most of the roles were filled by the miners themselves and local Anglos, including the male lead Ramon, played by unionist Juan Chacon. The heroine was originally to be played by Gale Sondergaard, already involved in the project, but was finally cast with Rosaura Revueltas, a highly successful Mexican film star. Her participation in the film led to her deportation from the United States, and ultimately to the end of her film career.

The production and post-production of Salt was hampered by constant harassment from industrial and political leaders. Hiring a union crew proved impossible as Roy Brewer, red-baiter and head of the I.A.T.S.F., refused to allow union personnel to participate. During the film's shooting, the project and all those involved were denounced by union representatives in Hollywood, the trade press, and Congressman Donald Jackson in the House of Representatives, all leading to increasing tension in Grant County which hindered the film's completion.

Post-production was impeded not only by Hollywood union recalcitrance but also by Howard Hughes's attempts to organize an industry-wide boycott of the film by post-production facilities throughout the country. The film's exhibition encountered such strong resistance from I.A.T.S.E. projectionists, who under Brewer's orders refused to project the finished film, that it was and still is seen most widely at union activities and outside the United States.

The film is marred aesthetically by these outside pressures, since the tension and violence that marked the final shooting days and Revueltas's deportation necessitated the inclusion of some poor sound footage and mismatched edits. Nevertheless, even today the film presents in its fictionalized account of the strike a powerful statement on workers' conditions, union organizing, and changing relations between women and men and Chicanos and Anglos.

Austin Film Society [Chale Nafus]

Salt of the Earth Ideology and structure in Salt of the Earth, by Deborah Rosenfelt from Jump Cut, 1976

Filmjourney Doug Cummings

Apercu [Rohan Berry]

Salt of the Earth - Turner Classic Movies Stephanie Thames and Lang Thompson

Salt of the Earth (1954) - Notes - TCM.com

Why suppress Salt of the Earth - Humanities Academic essay

Random Movie Club Rich

CineScene.com Chris Dashiell

Raging Bull Movie Reviews Mike Lorefice

Ozus' World Movie Reviews Dennis Schwartz

That Cow Andrew Bradford

Apollo Movie Guide [Brian Webster]

Variety

The New York Times Bosley Crowther

Herbert Biberman - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Salt of the Earth - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

The Hollywood Ten Remembered - Alt Film Guide Andre Soares

Bickel, Rolf and Dietrich Wagner

VERDICT ON AUSCHWITZ (THE FRANKFURT TRIAL: 1963 – 1965) – made for TV B+ 91

Germany (180 mi) 1993

A German made-for-TV documentary that played in 3 one-hour segments, entitled “The Investigation,” “The Trial,” and “The Verdict,” playing on German TV around 1993, released on DVD in 2005. What it examines is a year and a half trial that took place in the mid 60’s, rounding up twenty German war criminals who were responsible for transporting European Jews to Auschwitz, charged with immediately separating the prisoners on the spot to those that would live working as concentration camp slaves, luring the others unsuspectingly into the gas chambers where they eventually perished, usually on the same day as their arrival. What distinguishes this feature is the meticulous documentation presented as evidence in court, much of it provided by the Nazi’s themselves, who kept copious notes about every detail of their operations, from the running of the trains, to the trucks delivering the poisonous gas pellots, to the recorded number of dead. One of the prosecutors mentioned this evidence alone was enough to make their case. After hearing over 300 witnesses from 19 countries, including over 200 Auschwitz survivors as well as the testimony from former Nazi SS guards, what happened was indisputable, yet the perpetrators themselves continued to claim the allegations were false, that they had no knowledge, and to a man they could not remember anything, as if they had been hypnotized into performing these foul deeds, trying to pin the blame on the Führer, claiming he led them to do it. Yet documentary footage of Nazi rallies showed thousands of Germans applauding enthusiastically in approval, hardly the sentiments of one lone man.

This film raised the difficulties of the witnesses who came forward, many of whom didn’t speak German, who were traumatized at hearing the German language again, which was associated as the voice of the Nazi’s, and some got lost in transit and couldn’t even find the court, yet they bravely offered their testimony. One interesting aspect of the trial, which was conducted by German judges, was the German people as a nation finally taking responsibility for their own history, something they and the Japanese have had a hard time doing since WW II. Instead, it’s something tucked under the rug, something never spoken about. But this trial brought it back to the nation’s attention, as does this film. 300,000 Hungarian Jews were cremated over a period of 6 months, as the operations went into overdrive, trying to accomplish the final solution even after it became apparent they were losing the war. One other forgotten aspect of this systematic operation was the looting, as every single Jew was robbed of whatever possessions they owned or were able to bring with them to the camps. One witness even testified that killing them was secondary, robbing was the Nazi’s primary interest in order to help pay for their military conquests.

Initially, the film is confusing, as multiple languages are speaking at once, which inadvertently makes comprehension all the more difficult. But by the end of the first segment, the film grows even more powerful, as over time we become familiar with who the people are that are being charged, what their role was at Auschwitz, and those offering testimony, what they were forced to endure that brought them to this stage in history. We even hear the comments of a young lady who lived near Auschwitz, who witnessed blazing fires, believing there would be a subsequent riot in the streets. Afterwards, after calling the camp guards, she was told, in the company of others present, that they were burning potatoes. As she refused to believe this lame explanation, she later met the guard in private over drinks and heard his real explanation, that they were burning as many Jews as possible. Some of the more interesting testimony came from one of the Sonderkommandos, a group of Jewish prisoners employed by the Nazis to exterminate their fellow Jews, who would also clean up after the dead in exchange for special privileges, before they themselves would suffer the same fate. He mentioned his fellow prisoners would occasionally jump into the fire themselves, as suicide was an option in dealing with the horrors of Auschwitz. Due to the court presentation of facts and evidence, this is a brilliantly concise examination of the historical circumstances that led to the construction of Auschwitz, and to the full blown operations of meticulously mechanized death camps where there wasn’t a shred of evidence left of anything resembling culture, where there was instead only government sponsored murder and an imposed wrath of terror.

The Village Voice [J. Hoberman]

After 20 months and 300 witnesses, "the horrific has become almost routine." So the narrator notes late in Verdict on Auschwitz, a 1993 German documentary on the mid-'60s trial of 22 SS men, just now getting an American release. If anything, the story of the Auschwitz genocide factory is today even more familiar—which makes the defamiliarizing "German" quality of this three-hour doc all the more necessary.

Directed by Rolf Bickel and Dietrich Wagner, Verdict on Auschwitz is less epic in its aspirations than Claude Lanzmann's monumental Shoah and less critical in its approach than The Specialist, in which Eyal Sivan revisited the Eichmann trial as theater. The model is Alain Resnais's Night and Fog; Verdict on Auschwitz similarly juxtaposes archival footage and postwar material (both 1963 and 1993) to produce shocking eruptions of past atrocities in the context of an orderly everyday Europe.

Verdict on Auschwitz is divided into three parts. The first, "The Investigation," introduces the defendants—well-fed war criminals who have just been hanging out in Germany—while noting other figures (Josef Mengele, Adolf Eichmann, Rudolf Hoess) made unavailable by death or disappearance. Soviet footage graphically documenting the liberation of Auschwitz is followed by a former Nazi judge's testimony on his wartime trip to Auschwitz. Given by a German, this detailed account of the extermination procedure is, as the prosecuting attorney dryly notes, "a rare exception."

The movie's second part, named "The Trial" for maximum double meaning, describes daily life in Auschwitz from the perspective of surviving inmates—a few of whom, notably Filip Müller and Rudolf Vrba, will be familiar to viewers of Shoah. Witnesses emphasize Auschwitz as the site of state-sanctioned looting as well as a facility that mass-produced death on an unprecedented scale. Vrba, who escaped in 1942, maintains that the concentration camp was essentially "about robbery—murder was a by-product." But other testimony suggests that Auschwitz was more like an orgy of spontaneous (as well as organized) killing and that once hundreds of thousands of Hungarian Jews arrived in 1944, the extermination mechanism went into inconceivable overdrive.

A key event in that thing the Germans call vergangen heitsbewältigung (coming to terms with the past), the Frankfurt trial served as the basis for Peter Weiss's "documentary" play The Investigation. Indeed, staged throughout West Germany in the mid '60s, Weiss's drama had at least as much influence on public opinion, particularly the burgeoning New Left, as the trial itself. Weiss organized actual testimony to make a Marxist argument that Auschwitz was the logical culmination of capitalism (rather than, for example, the logical culmination of European anti-Semitism). This is an ideological line that the filmmakers are eager to avoid.

The emphasis here is on the Jewishness of the victims. A brief digression acknowledges the difficulty that German authorities had in encouraging and arranging for surviving witnesses to travel from Israel or America to Frankfurt. Their presence is crucial, although at one point the prosecuting attorney says that he could have made his case purely on documentary evidence. The filmmakers only refer indirectly to the sort of cross-examination the victims endured: In the movie's final third, "The Verdict," it's noted that the chief defense lawyer intimidated witnesses by asking for precise details: At what time exactly was it that you saw your mother beaten to death?

The SS men, 20 of whom were found guilty, largely refused to testify. Verdict on Auschwitz ends with the adjunct officer to the camp commander claiming that he knew nothing about the gas chambers. (It's a pity Saddam was hanged before anyone could ask him about gassing the Kurds.) Among other things, Verdict on Auschwitz establishes that the Holocaust's perpetrators were also its first deniers.

Reel.com [Tim Knight]

Cinematical Ryan Stewart

DVD Verdict [Dylan Charles]

Variety.com [Ronnie Scheib]

Chicago Tribune [Michael Phillips]

New York Times (registration req'd) Neil Genzlinger

Bielinski, Fabián

THE AURA (El Aura)

Argentina France Spain (134 mi) 2006

 THE AURA Steve Erickson from Chronicle of a Passion

The title of "The Aura" refers to the feelings experienced by an epileptic just before a seizure starts. It's a state characterized by confusion and disorientation. "The Aura" is a fitting moniker for late Argentine director Fabian Bielinsky's second and final film, which heads very slowly toward its own dramatic seizure.

Half-thriller, half-art film, this hybrid doesn't really succeed as either, as if someone decided to make a mash-up of Andrei Tarkovsky's "Stalker" and Quentin Tarantino's "Reservoir Dogs." Although it's never boring, it runs a leisurely paced 138 minutes without ever establishing the storytelling chops or thematic depth to justify such a running time. Martin Scorsese's "The Departed" is seven minutes longer but goes by much quicker.

The protagonist of "The Aura" is a nameless taxidermist (Richardo Darin) who works in Buenos Aires. Standing in line at a bank, he imagines how a perfect robbery could be executed. Gifted with a flawless memory, he spends his leisure time plotting such crimes. He travels to Patagonia with his friend Sontag (Alejandro Awada) for a hunting trip. There's a great deal of tension between the two men, which comes to a head when the taxidermist accuses Sontag of beating his wife. The taxidermist heads off into the forest alone and accidentally shoots a man. Inspecting the corpse, he discovers clues indicating that the man was planning to participate in a casino robbery. He jumps at the chance to live out his criminal fantasies.

Bielinsky's plot takes off from a staple of film noir-a law-abiding man suddenly makes one misstep and finds himself trapped in a world of crime. Novelist Patricia Highsmith could have worked wonders with the premise. However, Bielinsky's direction is more "film vert" than noir. Unlike his debut, "Nine Queens," "The Aura" has a distinctly rural feel. Given that much of it takes place outside, green is the dominant tone. This color scheme is reflected even in Darin's clothes. Cinematographer Checo Varese tones down bright colors. While not actively threatening, nature is never very attractive in "The Aura"-most of the film's violence occurs in the woods.

Apart from the slow pacing and long takes, the film's artiest characteristic is its avoidance of psychology. The taxidermist spends long periods of time by himself. One character even expresses shock when he initiates a conversation with her. Bielinsky offers no explanations for the taxidermist's rich fantasy life. Darin's performance is largely silent, although many close-ups of his face offer some clues about what's going on inside him. "The Aura" is full of images of Darin staring pensively.

In another context, such a performance might carry some real mystery, but Bielinsky overloads his film with so much portent that its eventual morphing into a rather routine story of robbery and betrayal is quite disappointing. The sub-Philip Glass score exemplifies the problems of "The Aura;" at first, its droning synthesizers are genuinely ominous, but the more they repeat themselves, the less impact they have.

Moral corruption is a familiar noir theme, but the taxidermist never has enough presence for us to be sure that he's losing anything by participating in the robbery. Conversely, he may be rising up from a living slumber and actively engaging with life for the first time. The taxidermist's passivity-partially a product of his epilepsy, which can leave him helpless at inconvenient moments-makes him a rather dull anti-hero. A less plot-driven film based around him might have been more effective; as "The Aura" develops, its reliance on chance and coincidence seems all too contrived. The taxidermist's leap from dreaming about crime to engaging in it is never fully believable.
Bielinsky made a major splash with "Nine Queens," an unpretentious B-movie that used an elaborate con game to reflect on Argentina's recent economic free-fall.

Superficially more ambitious, "The Aura" is actually less substantial. The director died last June at the age of 47. Based on only two films, it's impossible to tell how he would have developed or contributed to the burgeoning Argentine New Wave.

The confusion reflected in "The Aura" is telling, however; the film seems torn between American genre roots and a European contemplativeness. Out of this mix, something distinctly new and Argentine could have formed, but the product here is mostly a muddle. Sadly, we'll never get to know if Bielinsky could have pursued the same aesthetic with happier results.

The Aura Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

I must admit, I was no fan of Bielinsky's previous film, Nine Queens. In fact, I walked out of it about twenty minutes before the end. I found it slick and hollow, and a bit too satisfied with itself. But it's always my policy to give filmmakers a second chance, and given the sad fact that Bielinsky passed away earlier this year, I figured it was the least I could do the check out his final film, The Aura. And although the film certainly has its flaws, I'm very glad I did. Bielinsky was moving in a promising direction, foregoing Hollywood-manqué showmanship in favor of an exploration of light, texture and mood. The story of Esteban (Ricardo Darín), an epileptic taxidermist (and yes, Mike, it is a wee bit overdetermined) who has spent years of idle thoughts planning the perfect heist, but as the film progresses, this is almost beside the point. The story of a man who sculpts dead things, whose wife has gone AWOL for undisclosed reasons, who isn't even allowed to drive due to his medical condition, The Aura is ultimately a portrait of a life limited to spectatorship. Once he stumbles into another man's shoes, he discovers the chance to insert himself into an in-progress casino job. But more than this, The Aura hinges on a turning point for Esteban, one that the shier and more recessive among us can certainly relate to. Has his completely inward, unlived life of silent observation and grand plans been a waste, or has it maybe been a steady build to one crucial moment of action? Those who've mistaken The Aura for an actual heist picture have no doubt been nonplussed by its torpid pace and Darín's careful, barely-there performance. (He's not an especially charismatic actor, but here it works to his advantage. He's like a photosensitive plate, registering the impact of others around him.) Bielinsky clearly had a bit more on his mind; The Aura owes a substantial debt to The Passenger, another film about an observer who slips into the role of a man of action. Esteban describes the sensation of "the aura," his pre-seizure state of heightened sensitivity to light, sound, and motion, and in a way this frozen moment is just the metonymic condensation of his overall existential situation. (Bielinsky does such a beautiful job of conveying the aura -- migraine sufferers have them too -- that it's a shame he feels the need to have Esteban explain it verbally.) In keeping with this theme, Bielinsky employs complex cinematographic compositions, especially in the many scenes in the woods. The frame tends to be dappled with dense shadow and piercing light, so much so that we, along with esteban, often cannot immediately make out exactly what we're seeing. The Aura is ultimately too tied to Bielinsky's earlier populist gestures to be truly forbidding. You can see the better, more rigorous film it could have been had Bielinsky allowed shots to last a bit longer, or used straight-cuts instead of his impact-blunting dissolves. But The Aura has a cumulative effect of having spent time submerged in a developing talent's presence, as he explores film's capacity to generate a sensory sphere all its own. And although the final shot is a bit obvious in retrospect, it's also a lovely tip of the hat to La Jetée. Unfortunate though Bielinsky's untimely death may be, he managed to end his career with an undeniable grace note.

Bier, Susanne

FREUD LEAVING HOME (Freud flyttar hemifrån...)

Denmark Sweden (103 mi) 1991

User reviews from imdb Author: Ankh-11 from Luxemburg

The overall plot - a young woman on the verge of moving away from the home of her parents for the first time - may seem trivial enough. What makes the film so remarkable is, however, the extraordinary good dramatic - and funny! - use made of this plot. The acting is vivid and the main character (the girl, called "Freud" due to her excessive interest for psychoanalysis and her persistent analyses of her family ...) is brilliantly played by Susanne Röör. A good-hearted, warm film to be recommended to anyone interested in a film depicting "ordinary life" in an extraordinary, funny and yet thought-provoking way!

FAMILY MATTERS (Det bli'r i familien)

Denmark (98 mi) 1994

User reviews from imdb Author: Magnus Aberg from Uppsala, Sweden

Jan is a Swedish-Danish grown-up who, after his mother's death, discovers that he was adopted as a child. When, because of this, all his world begins to crack, he decides to look up his real parents. This hunt leads him to Portugal in a taxi, and there some more surprises await him.. This film, you might say, is typically Danish, since it doesn't hesitate to bring up really difficult, but nevertheless completely possible, circumstances. Everything is hidden behind a facade of humour, but behind it you see the seriousness of unpleasant things that you can't help. I guess what happens in the film is among the worst discoveries a person can make, but still it is not a totally absurd plot, since nothing in it is really impossible. In spite of all family miseries and the desperate tries to keep up the normal looks of it all, I think the most absurd and improbable element actually is the taxi driver, gladly coming along with his passenger all the way from Denmark to Portugal! I like this film very much, since the plot is suggestive and interesting, and the humour is wonderful. Some of Sweden's and Denmark's (and maybe Portugal's - I cannot speak for them) greatest actors help to make the details in the film a persisting enjoyment. I still remember the tiny facial expressions and the strong lines, five years after having seen it, and I especially remember the breathtaking music when Jan gets to know he was adopted. Altogether a great film.

PENSIONAT OSKAR (Like It Never Was Before)

Denmark Sweden (108 mi) 1995

User reviews from imdb Author: (oliversbfrench@yahoo.com) from Stockholm, Sweden

Well-directed and with marvelous acting, this is a film that may initially seem to be your average comedy only touching on the surface, but that eventually becomes a profound questioning of the values of the "normal life". Loa Falkman is great as Runeberg, a man whose life is slowly coming apart, although he tries to keep up the appearance in front of his family. As he is tempted by the forbidden (having an affair with a young man), he has to come to terms with what he really wants with his life. Ultimately this film asks the question: Am I really happy with myself just because everything seems fine?

User reviews from imdb Author: Laffe from Uppsala, Sweden

Brilliant story about a middle-aged man's life-crisis when he realizes that not only he doesn't love his wife, but he may be gay as well. This film is not about homosexuality, rather it is about escaping the cage social rules and expectations have forced you into and accepting who you really are.

Loa Falkman as the frustrated family father Rune Runeberg is very good. Stina Ekblad as his wife however is brilliant, portraying a house-wife in the middle of a crumbling marriage, trying to salvage what can be salvaged.

The script is witty, sharp and very spot-on, detailing the Swedish middle-class suburban hell as we expect from Jonas Gardell. We have some laughs at the expense of the family as their problems get them into various absurd situations, but the next instance we choke on them instead when it dawns upon us just how unhappy the main characters are with their lives.

As the main song goes; "What I was looking for, and what I found instead."

Passport Cinema [Chris Luedtke]

A simple man named Rune Runeberg (Loa Falkman) leads a simple life with a simple family. During a simple family vacation Rune meets a not-so-simple aspiring magician working at their resort named Petrus (Simon Norrthon) who suddenly complicates Rune’s simple ways. 

The plot for Like It Never Was Before isn’t complex but it doesn’t try to be. It starts off simple enough setting up a dissolve between Rune and his wife Gunnel (Stina Ekblad). The family takes a vacation with Rune hoping that it will help rekindle what he has with Gunnel. Fast forward, Rune meets Petrus and everything in Rune’s life changes. I wish it had more to it than that but it doesn’t. Still what it does it does well with its point A to point B storytelling techniques.  

As far as the character designs go, Rune is clearly made out to be an obvious optimist push over making his character easily impressionable. I even brought into question a few times in the beginning if this guy could ever think for himself. Gunnel is pushy and no clearly longer in love with Rune but obviously sticking out the marriage for the children. Petrus is the “different one” in the story that corrupts Rune by performs magic tricks and introducing different ways capture the heart of Rune and change his life. The characters aren’t all that original and with the life that is led by Rune, it’s easy to see why he’d want a change.  

The camera work is pretty grainy and was probably shot on a 35mm. This film was obviously shot on a low budget but that should be obvious just from the look of the box. Only a few scenes really caught my attention, mostly the scene where Rune caught Petrus swimming during a storm. Another notable camera shot is at the end where Petrus is hiding among a cliff wall. Other than this, pretty standard. I should note that the entire movie is very gray and I found this to help capture the often gloomy atmosphere of Rune’s family and life.  

Like It Never Was Before is probably the perfect title for this because it summarizes the movie in exactly one sentence. It was a feel good flick I just find it unfortunately I have seen movies like this before. I think that director Susanne Bier probably could have done something more with it but at the same time I don’t want to complain too much about it because I’m content with the outcome. It’s hard to say anything bad about this movie because there really isn’t anything terrible about it, it just really lacks in the originality department. Characters probably could have use a little bit of an overhaul to give them some more depth and make some of the story less predictable. The ending was good to further prove my point on Rune.  

Those looking for originality will probably find themselves sighing at the predictability of this one but if you’re in the mood for a movie that’s going to make you feel good and break your heart a little at the same time do check this out. It’s not bad but it’s not extraordinary.

SEKTEN (Credo)

Denmark (87 mi) 1997

User reviews from imdb Author: McBuff from Slagelse, Denmark

Unbelievably stupid rich bitch (Sofie Gråbøl) and her reckless friend (Ellen Hillingsø) get involved with a mysterious cult and, erm...well, that´s it, really! Sofie looks great in the buff, but her character is so abrasive and obnoxious that you really don´t care whether she´ll escape the mind-controlling secret society or not. Besides, her personal life is already controlled by her dominating wheelchair-bound mother-in-law to be (Ghita Nørby) to a degree that it wouldn´t make a difference, anyway. Deadly slow pace, one-note performances (especially among the cult members) and a predictable, stupid script kill this one. Ulrich Thomsen appears briefly as a suicidal cult member. Director Bier should stick with romantic comedies. *½ (of ****)

DEN ENESTE ENE (The One and Only)

Denmark (106 mi) 1999

User reviews from imdb Author: Klodomir from Amsterdam, The Netherlands

Will the wonders never cease? First Denmark introduces a long line of Dogme films, many of them better than anything out of Hollywood, and now they have developed a talent for romantic comedies as well? If someone had told me 10 years ago that this would happen, I wouldn't have believed them.

This is a wonderfully warm and funny movie. It's great to see Niels Olsen in this type of role, not playing his usual wacky roles but instead a romantic lead - yet another surprise. And what can I say about Paprika Steen - she's fast becoming one of my favourite actresses, Danish or otherwise. What a comedic talent!

I recommend this movie to anyone who doesn't mind subtitles - comedy is a language in itself.

User reviews from imdb Author: doobeedoo2 from Scotland

Prior to watching this film, I'd never heard of it, so I didn't know what to expect (I hadn't read reviews or anything). My initial thoughts were that it would be a bit like another Danish romantic comedy, "Italian for Beginners", which, while I thought was a great film, was a bit bleak for me. Hence, I wasn't really expecting much more from this one.

However, I must say this is probably one of the best films I've seen over the years - much, MUCH better than the similar Richard Curtis efforts such as Four Weddings or Love Actually. The chemistry between characters is electric and, while it is arguable that the film is a little contrived with an oh-so predictable ending, it's very much a "feel good" film. The supporting cast are great - especially Mgala (she only has one word throughout the film, and I won't repeat it!) and Mulle/Merete, who you just feel sorry for.

The only problem I had with this film was that the Italian character, Sonny, was a complete caricature - big bushy eyebrows, lots of hand waving, and, when he broke into Italian, used the most obvious Italian phrases ("Ti amo!", "Scusi!") - I guess it's because he was played by a Swede rather than a "real" Italian. The acting was fine, just a bit too contrived.

If you can find a copy on DVD, grab it. The version of the DVD I purchased was from Denmark itself (I speak a little of the language), and I was rather surprised and disappointed to find that there were no English subtitles (only those for the three Nordic nations) - I'm sure those outside of Scandinavia would find this a fantastic film, so I cannot understand why such an opportunity was missed. Incidentally, however, the film has been remade using English actors for the British market, as "The One and Only" but is, as far as I can tell from IMDb reviews, is a terrible effort

ONCE IN A LIFETIME (Livet är en schlager)

Denmark (108 mi) 2000

User reviews from imdb Author: Niels Buus from Denmark

Mona Bergström is a sweet eurovision-obsessed woman in her 30's. She is married to a lazy husband and have 4 children, all named after her favorite Swedish eurovision popstars. Her brother is a crossdressing guy selftitled "Candy Darling". Mona works on a retirement home for disabled people, where she is responsible for taking care of a young man named David who suffers a movement restricting disease forcing him into a wheelchair. Davids parents has abandoned him as they wanted a normal child. Mona holds a big place in Davids heart, and vica versa. Davids goal is to get his parents to come and visit him, and he wants to show them that he is a great person, despite his handicap. Therefore he works with music on his computer, and his goal is to create a song, send it to "The Cardigans", a famous Swedish band and have them play the song and credit him, hoping his parents would spot it and want to visit him. One day when Mona is seeing David, she listens to one of Davids songs. Surprised by the great melody, she *steals* a copy and brings it home, where she writes lyrics for it. Being satisfied with the result, she records her voice along with the song and send it to "Melodi Festivalen", the Swedish preliminaries for Eurovision Song Contest, hoping she could archieve the fame she had dreamed about many times. Weeks later she gets a call from Swedish television, saying her song has been approved and she will be one of the 10 performers in the Swedish eurovision preliminaries...

I'm not spoiling anymore here.... view this movie - you have my best recommendation to do so. :)

User reviews from imdb Author: KatySWE from sLOVEnia, Planet Earth

I just love this movie. OK, I admit, it is a bit cheesy plot, BUT I still love it. Helena Bergström is just brilliant as Mona, a women of 4, who's obsessed with Melodifestivalen and with Swedish pop scene. Her obsession is so hard, that she even named her daughters after Carola, Lena Ph, Kikki and Anna Book. She lives with an unemployed husband(hot Thmas Hanzon), who doesn't help her at all. She works with an disabled guy David(If I haven't seen Jonas Karlsson in Gustav den IIIs Äktenskap and Miffo before, I would think he's really disabled!He was just amazing!).She has a brother Candy, who is a transvestite with AIDS.Candy is good brother, he's always in a good mood, although he's very sick and he's quite similar as Mona, 'cos he's also Eurovision fan.Well a little bit more about David.Mona is his only and real friend.He talk with her about everything.But, he's also a good musician, who has a vision to send one of his songs to the group The Cardigans.They would credit him and then his parents, who were avoiding him would visit him.But Mona thinks, that the song is just perfect for Melodifestivalen, so she "steals" the tune, writes a lyrics and her husband puts the CD into the envelope. Mona then sends it to Swedish television. And then, couple of weeks later, she gets a phone call, that David's song with her lyrics has been accepted to the selection.When David founds out, he's really hurt and he doesn't want to talk to Mona. Mona doesn't understand why, but she becomes a star. She's invited to the "VIP party" where she meets her and also my idol, singer Carola.Later she comes to Melodifestivalen on first rehearsals, she feels really nervous and she's singing false all the time. Then another thing happens, when she lies on TV, that song is entirely hers. David, of course goes crazy. Then, then, she's really in trouble.First, all her family stops trust her and also her attitude changes. But then, on the big night, she goes to the hospital gets a dress her brother made.Then she runs into another hospital, where she becomes friend with David again. She's rushing, the program is interrupted because of her.But then, she gets a chance to perform after all and at the end..........well I won't tell you everything. Watch the movie and enjoy! Highly recommended. And the music is great also. My favorite song is If Life Was A Song, by Carola and the song, that is all about, Aldrig ska jag sluta älska dig by Helena Bergström herself.

This movie rules!A++++++++!

OPEN HEARTS (Elsker dig for evigt)

Denmark (113 mi) 2002

Open Hearts Time Out London

Opening in a happy place - vivacious flirtation in one household, familial intimacy in another - this Dogme drama pivots on a shocking calamity that opens the gates to an adulterous affair, and its attendant fall-out. Left without his motor abilities, Joachim (Kaas) casts off his fiancée Cecilie (Richter), in anger or in sorrow. Forsaken, she takes comfort in the arms of Niels (Mikkelsen), a doctor at Joachim's hospital, whose wife Marie (Steen) unwittingly authored Joachim's tragedy. It's a schematic melodrama on paper, but the film's achievement, carried through from an intrepid screenplay to the consummate performances, lies in the conviction of its characterisation. Everyone has their emotions; no one is vilified or sanctified. Besides the de rigueur Dogme hand-held camerawork, Bier tries a couple of quite effective technical effects: grainy wish-fulfilment projections, thermogram street shots of Copenhagenites by night. The accompanying Dido-esque mood music is a little over-easy, but illustrates the sort of romantic fluff Cecilie still fills her head with - which in turn raises the nub of the tale: in the wise words of Pat Garrett, 'What you want, and what you get, are two different things.' Unless, this once, you're in the market for a savvy relationships drama.

Seattle Post-Intelligencer [Sean Axmaker]

Susanne Bier's anatomy of an affair and its emotional ripples, as seen through the shaky intimacy of the Dogme school of filmmaking, is launched with tragedy.

The day after he asks sweetheart Cecilie (Sonja Richter) to marry him, athletic young Joachim (Nikolaj Lie Kaas) is paralyzed in a traffic accident and pulls into a bitter, sullen ball of self-pity.

Cecilie giggles indulgently as Joachim sneers and snaps at her, escaping into fantasies of denial until his stream of insults finally drives her to find solace with sensitive doctor Niels (Mads Mikkelsen), the husband of Marie (Paprika Steen), the guilt-ridden driver who hit Joachim.

"It isn't your fault," Niels assures both Marie and Cecilie as they struggle through inner turmoil. It becomes the film's mantra when Niels falls in love with the beautiful, sad Cecilie.

"Open Hearts" benefits from the best qualities of Dogme, the manifesto that was supposed to get cinema back to the basics, while avoiding the movement's tendency to dwell on the worst impulses of human behavior. The documentary aesthetic of natural lighting and location shooting and the rough, unglamorous intimacy of lightweight hand-held digital video cameras (with sharper, clearer images than past DV efforts) makes the actors look and act like the people we meet every day.

The sonic jumps of the "live" sound adds to the feeling of eavesdropping on reality, and the accident itself, little more than an abrupt blur through a car window, has a startling, heart-grabbing authenticity.

Bier plumbs the contradictions and complications of the emotional human animal with dignity and empathy, from the sudden thrill of new love, the guilty defensiveness of an affair and angry explosions of betrayal, to the serious business of picking up the pieces and facing up to responsibility like adults.

While the characters lack the quirks and affectations that have enlivened the impulsive figures from past Dogme films, the passion of the players and Bier's sensitive direction give these utterly normal figures a vivid aliveness, along with dignity and everyday beauty. Such empathy and clear-eyed directness gives the manifesto meaning all over again.

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

Five years have passed since the Dogme '95 manifesto kicked off with Thomas Vinterberg's powerful The Celebration, which not only dignified the group's Spartan "tenets" as more than a silly publicity stunt, but also promised an exciting new wave of low-budget, no-frills cinema. Since then, the movement has devolved to such a degree that the "official certification" paper has become cause for a snickering backlash against dozens of films that have followed the ultra-realist rules, but missed the meaning. Finally, that initial promise flickers again in Susanne Bier's intermittently powerful melodrama Open Hearts, which transforms the Dogme limitations into a raw, intense commitment to acting and characterization. Though the plot's soap-opera turns become tidy and predictable, the film shows remarkable attunement and sympathy toward a group of characters whose lives intersect and unravel on a cruel twist of fate. The charming opening scenes suggest the beginnings of a sweet romantic comedy, as Sonja Richter and Nikolaj Lie Kaas, a playful young couple from Copenhagen, profess their eternal love with a few laughs and a gaudy engagement ring. Kaas' impending departure for a rock-climbing expedition raises a red flag, but the city streets prove more dangerous when he's sideswiped by a car, leaving him paralyzed from the neck down. Consumed with bitterness and self-loathing, Kaas angrily pushes Richter away, which causes her to turn to hospital doctor Mads Mikkelsen, who happens to be the husband of guilt-addled driver Paprika Steen. The intimacy of Richter's counseling sessions with Mikkelsen lead slowly and irrevocably to a physical and emotional relationship that opens up a painful rift in his formerly stable marriage and complicates Richter's steadfast devotion to Kaas. Bier charts these developments with a great understanding of human nature, particularly in the way two people can slip into an affair lightly, even while aware of the wreckage it will cause in their lives. The strongest scenes in Open Hearts consider Richter and Mikkelsen's budding affair non-judgmentally, peering into their destructive bond with honesty, insight, and refreshing pockets of warmth and humor. But once the inevitable consequences are doled out, the film's melodramatic conventions begin to squeeze out some of its tender realism, bringing it closer to a well-executed TV movie. The Dogme signposts are mostly negligible, save for an annoying technique that expresses the characters' occasional desires for affection in grainy "fantasy-cam," then pulls back to reveal the cold truth of their situation. Reality by way of a gimmick: Now, there's the Dogme touch!

Slant Magazine Nick Schager

Susannne Bier's Open Hearts, the latest film shot under the guidelines of Dogma 95's "vow of chastity," opens with a marriage proposal and ends not with a union but with disintegration. Joachim (Nikolaj Lie Kaas) and Cecilie (Sonja Richter) are engaged, although domestic bliss is not in their future: about to depart on a mountain climbing trip, Joachim is struck by a passing automobile while kissing his fiancée goodbye in their car doorway. The driver is Marie (Paprika Steen), who has struck Joachim unintentionally after foolishly obeying her argumentative child Stine's (Stine Bjerregaard) requests to drive faster. At this precise moment, their lives come to an abrupt and momentous halt.

Learning that the accident has left Joachim a quadriplegic, Marie decides to have her nebbish husband Niels (Mads Middlesen), a doctor at the local hospital, personally look after the distraught Cecilie, not realizing the life-altering ramifications of her request. Niels falls madly in love with Cecilie, and their clandestine romance is aided by the bitter Joachim, who pushes Cecilie out of his life with a series of hateful gibes. Niels takes Cecilie furniture shopping, and the two have a grand time trying out elevating mattresses (a salesman calls one particular brand the "the Ferrari of mattresses"); the juxtaposition of their tasteless glee with Joachim sitting upright in his raised hospital bed straining to use an automatic page turner hammers home Bier's point that unalterable tragedies force people to find comfort and solace in unexpected, and sometimes cruel and destructive, ways.

Biers makes the mistake of focusing too heavily on the machinations of adulterous behavior—the couple furtively call each other on cell phones, meet to have sex and eat pizza, and concoct lies to protect their secret—and the film, by settling into a typical "cheating spouse" routine, sabotages much of its dramatic momentum. Niels and Cecilie's tryst is soon discovered by Stine and Marie, and Neils is faced with a choice: to dispatch his paramour and return to the monotonously cozy confines of his middle class home, or abandon his family for a chance at wild, unpredictable love with Cecilie. As with most Dogma films, Open Hearts has an unattractively scraggly home video appearance, and Biers crafts her familiar story with equal doses of austerity and sympathy. The director intercuts many of her scenes with grainy close-ups of the characters' facial or body features (an eye, two intertwined hands, a mouth), providing subliminal images of each person's desperate longing for a happy conclusion to their tumultuous situation. What they end up with is something more muted, imperfect, but nonetheless worth living for.

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson]

PopMatters Elbert Ventura

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

filmcritic.com Jules Brenner

FilmJerk.com [Ray Caligiure]

JamesBowman.net | Open Hearts (<i>Elsker dig for Evigt</i>)

Open Hearts - March 2003 Mike O’Connor from Hybridmagazine

Open Hearts (Elsker dig for evigt) - Culture Vulture Arthur Lazere

kamera.co.uk - film review - Open Hearts - Tim Smedley

Open Hearts (Elsker dig for evigt) - FILM FREAK CENTRAL Walter Chaw

Movie Review - Open Hearts - eFilmCritic Brian McKay

european-films.net Boyd van Hoeij

Eye for Film : Open Hearts Movie Review (2002) Angus Wolfe Murray

Open Wounds Chris Dashiell from CineScene

Urban Cinefile (Australia) Andrew L Urban and Richard Kuipers

Laura Clifford

eFilmCritic Reviews Joe Cooper

Cinelogue [Jack Eason]

Jon Popick also seen here: Planet Sick-Boy

Combustible Celluloid film review - Open Hearts (2003), Susanne ... Jeffrey M. Anderson

Creative Loafing [Curt Holman]

Film Intuition Jen Johans

Open Hearts Trailer, Reviews and Schedule for Open Hearts ... TV Guide

Variety.com [Gunnar Rehlin]

Guardian/Observer

BBCi - Films Nev Pierce

Open Hearts - Film Calendar - The Austin Chronicle Kimberly Jones

Austin Chronicle [Marjorie Baumgarten]

San Francisco Chronicle [Ruthe Stein]

San Francisco Chronicle [C.W. Nevius]

Los Angeles Times (Kenneth Turan)

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

New York Times (registration req'd) Stephen Holden

DVDBeaver.com [Henrik Sylow]

BROTHERS (Brødre)

Denmark (117 mi) 2004

Brothers Bruce Diones from the New Yorker

A soldier (Ulrich Thomsen), presumed dead in Afghanistan, returns from a brutal imprisonment to his wife (Connie Nielsen) and children in Denmark and finds that they are being taken care of by his formerly shiftless brother (Nikolaj Lie Kaas). The director, Susanne Bier, crafts a dark, gripping tale of a disintegrating marriage, and Thomsen's taut, monosyllabic portrait of a man slowly falling apart is riveting. The film has a rocky beginning—the scenes inside a Taliban prison are overly graphic—but once Thomsen's character returns home, Bier beautifully conveys a family's struggle to cope with the casualties of war. In Danish.

Reel.com [Kim Morgan]

Well positioned on that slippery cliff called melodrama, Susanne Bier's grainy, intimate, almost claustrophobic family drama Brothers keeps its footing, never falling into the deep chasm of Soap Opera. It's an assuredness that feels surprising even while watching the film—as we wonder when this thing's going to take that eye-rolling turn into bathos, pulling us out of the movie and into Harlequin Romance. But thanks to the film's naturalistic, powerful performances, the drama remains true—even when the high drama (complete with definitive mental meltdown) domestic violence sequence hits.

Running down the plot gives you a clue as to where this film could have gone. Michael (Ulrich Thomsen), brother number one, the favorite son—a career military man and seemingly perfect dad and husband—picks up brother number two, an angry bad-boy/perpetual screw-up, Jannik (Nikolai Lie Kaas), after he's released from prison. Upon driving home to their respective, middle-class Danish parents (Mom is trying; hard-drinking Dad is bitter and openly disdainful of Jannik), the brothers immediately have a row after Michael reveals he's communicated with the woman Jannik harmed during his crime. Good Michael thinks bad Jannik should apologize. But the two make up before Michael, as part of the Danish United Nation forces, is shipped off to Afghanistan, leaving behind his beautiful wife Sarah (Connie Nielsen) and two young daughters.

The worst fear is realized when Michael's helicopter is shot down and he's declared dead. The family is shattered (in a terrifically genuine moment, the mother attempts to distract her pain by feverishly organizing LPs), leaving Jannik in the position of tentatively, and perhaps guiltily, getting to know Sarah. Coming over to the house, he fixes the kitchen, plays with the girls, and (not surprisingly) realizes his attraction for Sarah—something the two attempt to keep in check. But while all this change is happening, Michael is actually alive—picked up by Afghanis and put in a POW camp, where he's forced to commit an act so horrible, he'll never be the same again.

You can imagine the tension once Michael returns home, but to Bier's credit, she moves the film into deeper concerns than simply Michael's suspicion over his gorgeous wife and wild-haired, wolfishly handsome brother: It's that the suspicion is fuelled by Michael's own intense guilt that makes this film so heartbreaking. And though the set-up is easy—perfectly laid out for the emotional psychodrama to come—the actors never take a wrong turn. You'll be involved enough to be cringing and almost cowering once Michael's agony is realized (it feels like a horror movie at this point), wondering just what this family is going to do. Since the film never demonizes any of its characters, you're left with a depressing, but intimately powerful portrait.

by jessica winter from Cinema Scope

Much of the recent Danish cinema to reach international audiences has collectively resembled a post-traumatic stress centre. In Per Fly’s Inheritance (2003), suicide, money, and smothering familial obligations conspire to strip a formerly good man of his family, principles, and personality. The upscale couple of Paprika Steen’s recent directorial debut, Aftermath, shattered by the death of their 12-year-old daughter in a traffic accident, becomes dangerously estranged from their friends, professional obligations, and each other. In Susanne Bier’s previous film, the Dogme-certified Open Hearts (2002), a car mows down a young man and leaves him a quadriplegic, destroying his life and known self, and unravelling both his relationship with his fiancée and the marriage of the driver (played by Steen). Like Inheritance and Aftermath, Bier’s new film, Brothers, observes the fallout from a tribulation that utterly vanquishes its victim’s inhibitions against violence—a slippage that effortlessly carries a sharp political charge. (It’s difficult to discuss Brothers in any detail without letting drop a key plot turn, so here’s your spoiler alert.)

On first impression, it’s hard to believe that siblings Michael (Ulrich Thomsen of Inheritance and Thomas Vinterberg’s The Celebration [1996]) and Jannick (Nikolaj Lie Kaas, the accident victim in Open Hearts) come from the same genetic material, much less a shared family tree. Michael is a kindly family man, a top army officer about to leave Denmark to assist reconstruction efforts in Afghanistan. Jannick is a surly, frequently drunk ne’er-do-well, jobless after a prison stint for a botched bank robbery. But then catastrophe intervenes to turn this paradigm of Good Brother and Bad Brother on its head: Michael’s helicopter crashes in Afghanistan and the military presumes him dead; rapidly and palpably, Jannick grows in spirit and character to fill the void his brother has left behind, much to the delight of Michael’s affable wife, Sarah (Denmark native Connie Nielsen in her first Danish role).

But Michael survived the crash: he was taken captive by Afghani rebel fighters and then rescued, and he quite literally brings the war home to Sarah and their two small daughters. Though the viewer has watched Michael’s ordeal and knows the secret rotting inside him (Sarah and Jannick share a minor guilty confidence of their own), he refuses to discuss the experience, introverting to the point of frightening implosion. He resents his daughters’ giggly silly talk, suspects his wife of philandering, and even feels affronted by the newly remodelled kitchen, a project undertaken by surrogate husband-father Jannick. Michael may have come back from the dead, but it’s Jannick who has been reborn—a happy event only made possible by his elder brother’s unspeakable torments in the battlefields.

“In our part of the world, we’re dealing with an abstract war, a war we can’t see that we’re in, which is a very strange thing,” Bier told me in an interview during the London Film Festival, not long before Bush started pulling out all the stops in Fallujah. “It’s not tangible, but it’s there, and that must be really terrifying for most people.” The typically Scandinavian cool tones and clean lines of Brothers, the muted acting, and Michael’s confusing mask of blandly handsome, white-collar presentability underscore the cognitive dissonance of enjoying serene Western comfort while nearby swaths of the globe are burning, perhaps at your government’s behest. Much as Errol Morris unleashes Philip Glass as a means of evoking “existential dread,” Bier repeatedly deploys the anxious acoustic tremblings of Gustavo Santaolalla’s “Iguazu,” already familiar from Michael Mann’s The Insider (1999) and Sally Potter’s Yes.

Brothers is a tad schematic (an Internet wag called it “the Danish Pearl Harbor,” which is partly true), but beautifully performed and bracing in its refusal to offer easy consolation. Thomsen’s performance crystallizes the abysmal loneliness—and the corrosive narcissism—of unsharable anguish: Michael is irrationally and understandably jealous of life going on without him, incensed that his season in hell hasn’t stopped the world from turning.

Brothers - Reverse Shot Kristi Mitsuda, Summer 2005

BFI | Sight & Sound | Brothers (1999) Jamie Graham, August 2000

Brothers Svet Atanasov from DVD Talk

Filmcritic.com Movie Reviews Jules Brenner

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson]

DVD Times Noel Megahey

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez]

eFilmCritic Reviews dionwr

Close-Up Film [Dave Smith]

Moviefreak [Sara Michelle Fetters]

Brothers (Brødre)  Philip Concannon from Phil on Film

Future Movies [Michelle Thomas]

Film-Forward.com [Kent Turner]

Film Threat [Pete Vonder Haar]

About.com [Marcy Dermansky]

The Stranger [Andrew Wright]

BROTHERS (Brødre) - CANADIAN EDITION DVD Walter Chaw and Bill Chambers from Film Freak Central

hoopla.nu Stuart Wilson

Brothers (Brødre) Robert Keser from Bright Lights Film Journal, May 2005 (capsule review)

Insights [Toh Hai Leong]

Shadows on the Wall [Rich Cline]

Reel Film Reviews [David Nusair]

Film Intuition Jen Johans

Variety.com [Gunnar Rehlin]

BBCi - Films Matt McNally

Brothers Time Out London

London Times [Wendy Ide]

Guardian/Observer

Brothers (Brodre) Movie Review - Brothers (Brodre) Movie Trailer ... Wesley Morris from The Boston Globe

Boston Phoenix [Peter Keough]

Austin Chronicle [Marjorie Baumgarten]

Movies | Pain of "Brothers" makes for potent drama | Seattle Times ... Moira Macdonald

San Francisco Chronicle [Ruthe Stein]

Chicago Tribune [Michael Phillips]

Chicago Sun-Times [Roger Ebert]

New York Times (registration req'd) Stephen Holden

DVDBeaver.com [Henrik Sylow]

AFTER THE WEDDING (Efter brylluppet) A- 94

Denmark Sweden Great Britain Norway (120 mi) 2006

An intimate, wonderfully complex and compelling film style that from the outset paints a dazzling portrait of the rhythms of life in India, accentuated by hand held cinéma vérité camera techniques, immersing the viewer inside the noisy claustrophobic quarters of a slum orphanage greeted by eager, wide-eyed children whose circumstances define poverty and overpopulation, yet this vibrant colorful world is expressed with a sense of openness, where the rapidity of the cuts and the ever shifting camera movements help generate a natural sense of immediacy. Mads Mikkelsen plays Jacob, the quiet Western aide worker/ teacher with a sympathetic yet expressionless face, who calmly provides a paternalistic influence over orphan boys that were rescued from living on the street as child prostitutes, one of whom is an 8-year old he has been raising as his own. Ordered by his superiors to meet with a wealthy donor in Denmark who insists on making face to face contact with him, as the orphanage is on the verge of financial collapse, Jacob grudgingly returns to the land of his self-imposed exile for the past 20 years, and the contrast is amusingly evident in the sudden change in music, facial expressions of new European characters, the luxurious wealth on display and an endless amount of space that can be seen for miles. Bier’s restrained style draws us into the heart of a man that straddles both worlds through an extension of the Strindberg/Bergman dramatic school, where plumbing the depths of emotional turmoil is key, using highly skilled ensemble acting performances in a situation reminiscent of THE CELEBRATION (1996), where a large family gathering is rife for exposing carefully kept family secrets.

Jacob’s arrival in Denmark is something of a shock, feeling brutally wasteful after experiencing such a total immersion into third world conditions, where the tour of his hotel room reveals an outrageously luxurious penthouse suite, with modern electronic gadgets all run by remotes, and an accompanying balcony that on clear days offers a view of Sweden, perhaps a humorous reference to the criminally exiled, binocular-wielding Swedish neurosurgeon (“Danish scum!”) who fondly views his homeland off in the distance from von Trier’s THE KINGDOM (1994). This obscene offering of corporate extravagance is provided by Jørgen (Rolf Lassgård), a brazenly successful and domineering millionaire, a Shakespearean physically imposing Lear-like presence whose rags-to-riches story defines him as a veritable modern day king, a corporate CEO who is used to controlling the levers of power. He interrupts Jacob’s presentation to say he’s heard enough, sarcastically calling him an “angry young man,” though apparently impressed, but has overriding time concerns as his daughter is getting married over the weekend and invites Jacob. His arrival to the wedding sets the scene for the remainder of the film, all captured in a series of carefully choreographed furtive glances, highlighted by close ups of eyes much like Bresson uses brief images of feet, as Jacob can’t take his eyes off Jørgen’s wife Helena (Sidse Babett Knudson), a younger, sensually beautiful woman who is caught staring back both at the church wedding and at the family gala as she mills through the crowd. Revelations ensue like shots of adrenaline, where Jacob soon discovers Helena is his old girl friend that he ran away from years ago causing him to live in the relative obscurity of India and he may actually be the father of the bride, their daughter Anna (Stine Fischer Christensen).

After carefully constructing Jørgen’s world, represented by the lavish festivities conducted around the huge dimensions of his immense country estate, where he is seen as a Godfather-like presence who loves to play with and spoil his children, Bier then proceeds to dismantle it piece by piece before our eyes, exposing the family secrets behind the veneer of wealth and success, unraveling the intricate world of the patriarch, his wife, his daughter, a man who is connected to them both, revealed in a series of quick emotional revelations and outbursts that are quite simply devastating, using a highly personalized, almost portraiture camera style that allows each to reflect on the sudden shift of their rapidly changing fates and the ensuing psychological discomfort that leaves an almost elegiac tone of anguish. A brilliantly executed walk through a theatrical minefield of elaborately concealed emotional time bombs just waiting to be set off, this turns out to be one of the more enjoyable films of the year. Coming out of the Danish ultra realist Dogma school of filmmaking, Bier has refined her earlier style to allow the occasional use of lighting or music to grace the screen, which adds a degree of complexity to the film by greatly expanding the breadth of the interior landscape. Written by Bier and co-writer Anders Thomas Jensen, there’s an inventive command of the medium that’s reflective in the highly original look of the film, featuring precise film composition, a wonderful crisp pace in the beguiling manner in which information is disseminated, and in the searing dramatic tone that is essential throughout. This is a thoughtful always engaging film that challenges the viewer, beautifully underscored by a warm poetic musical elegance from Johan Söderqvist.

Risk and Renewal in Danish Cinema Risk and Renewal in Danish Cinema, by David Bordwell, published in FILM #55, February 2007 (excerpt)

In this genre too the screenwriting skill of Anders Thomas Jensen has been pivotal. His melodramas are as solidly built as his comedies, and his stratagems for deflecting sentiment work very well in the fraught emotional atmosphere of "Open Hearts" and "Wilbur Wants to Kill Himself". A climactic scene in Susanne Bier's "After the Wedding" shows Jacob asking the Indian orphan boy Pramod if he wants to come to Denmark with him. Earlier Pramod had been fascinated to learn of a land where everyone is rich, but now Pramod hestitates to go there.

In an American film, Pramod would probably have accepted Jacob's offer, joining him and his daughter in Copenhagen and embarking on a better life. But Pramod declines. "I don't think so," he says. "Everything is so good here now." Bier has sharply contrasted the bare-bones poverty of the orphanage with the luxury of Danish country houses and full-service hotels, so Pramod's line carries a special poignancy. He has no conception of how good life can really be. At the same time, his refusal allows Jacob no easy compromise. He must give up the intimate relationship with the boy that came from casting off his dissolute past and working for the sake of others. In Copenhagen, administering a vast charity fund, Jacob can save all the Pramods. But he will lose the human connection that made his life in India meaningful. In melodrama, happiness exacts its costs. Here Jensen's sparsely written scene, ably played and given visual resonance by Bier's direction, creates subtle interplays of emotion without succumbing to bathos.

After the Wedding Joumane Chahine from Film Comment

There’s nothing quite as devastating as tragedy treated with sharp and precise Northern European restraint. Susanne Bier is quickly installing herself as a master in the field. Following Open Hearts (02) and Brothers (04), After the Wedding is the Danish director’s third consecutive—and clearly symbiotic—collaboration with screenwriter Anders Thomas Jensen (a Dogme favorite who penned Mifune and The King Is Alive, and devised the characters for the recent Zentropa-produced Red Road). Three powerful, emotionally charged films linked by a recurring motif: the random suddenness with which calamity can enter lives, alter them forever, and yet not necessarily destroy them.

In Open Hearts and Brothers, calamity strikes directly and very early on (a paralyzing car crash in the former, the loss of a husband in Afghanistan in the latter). In After the Wedding, the tragedy is not so brutally evident, at least not initially. It reveals itself slowly, in tiny and often mystifying ripples, through cool shades and shaky camerawork that hints at muted undercurrents. But the impact is no less poignant.

The film’s opening sequence introduces us to Jacob (Mads Mikkelsen, who also starred in Open Hearts, and more recently shed tears of blood as Le Chiffre in Casino Royale), a Danish good Samaritan who has classically renounced the distasteful comforts of the West for life as a humanitarian aid worker in India, running an orphanage in dire need of funding. A mysterious magnate, Jorgen (Rolf Lassgard), seems puzzlingly keen to help—on the peculiar condition that Jacob travel to Denmark to meet with him face to face. For reasons that remain unclear at this point, Jacob is particularly unwilling to return to his native land. But the mogul is insistent. So far, the film’s premise has all the trappings of a standard social drama, with the usual purging dose of Western self-loathing. Soon enough, however, Jacob finds himself back in Copenhagen, meeting with the exuberant yet unfathomable Jorgen, and accepting a casual invitation to attend the wedding of the tycoon’s daughter that weekend. At this juncture the film veers off in an entirely different direction.

The seemingly random wedding invitation begins to feel fraught with suspicious intent when Jacob realizes that Jorgen’s wife is his old, never quite forgotten girlfriend Helene (Sidse Babett Knudsen), and that his daughter Anna (Stine Fischer Christensen), the bride, is not actually Jorgen’s biological offspring. A bare 30 minutes into the film and the business trip that was supposed to yield a clash of values and a hefty check is suddenly steering into the familiar soap territory of troubling revelations, wedding disasters, and infernal mind games. But once again, Bier and Jensen whisk us away in an unexpectedly thought-provoking direction as the forceful Jorgen, seemingly unfazed by the surrounding simmering melodrama, makes Jacob a surprisingly generous offer. It’s an offer that Jacob, humanist and idealist though he may be, initially greets with the utmost distrust, suspecting the worst.

To divulge more would be a spoiler. However, several more expectations shall be confounded, protective veneers stripped away, and emotional outbursts contained by Bier’s impeccable quartet of actors before this reflection on human weakness, mortality, and the ties that bind comes to its powerfully understated denouement.

The theme of misleading appearances is a classic one. One that can all too easily become mere gimmick. Not in Bier’s hands. In many ways, After the Wedding almost reverses that theme, calling into question the very misleadingness of appearances, putting to the test that acquired habit that we, like Jacob, tend to have, of seeking traces of ill intent in every nook of a situation we deem too replete with good intentions. Bier uses clichés not merely to upend them—that would be too easy—but to force us to challenge those short-cut judgments and ill-conceived assumptions we too often use to gauge the world around us. She confronts us with the good and the noble when we’re too busy seeking proof of treachery, so convinced that the way to hell is paved with good intentions that we’ve almost forgotten that the way to heaven is as well.

The Village Voice [Rob Nelson]

A reformist disciple of Dogme, that earth- and camcorder-shaking movement wherein waves are broken and celebration is cause for alarm, Danish director Susanne Bier makes what you'd call emotional disaster movies. Her Open Hearts and Brothers, melodramas at once feverishly pitched and finely tuned, deploy paralysis and war, respectively, to test their characters' will to live—and their viewers' ability to suspend disbelief. Like Lars von Trier's early exercises in DV soap opera, Bier's films toy with the handheld camera, in particular with its capacity to keep Hollywood-style contrivance somewhat grounded in reality. Open Hearts (read open as a verb) practically issues an audience command: Believe that the fiancée of a man crippled in a car crash would fall in love with the husband of the woman who caused the accident! No? Would you believe it if the movie itself—blurry, pixilated, colors bleeding—looked as though it had been pulled from the wreckage?

Digital video is much sharper now than it was in 2001. But Bier has nonetheless capped her trauma trilogy with After the Wedding, which has less to do with a terrorizing event—a bad breakup, in this case—than with that event's collateral damage, namely trust. Still licking his poor heart's wounds after 20 years, Jacob (Mads Mikkelsen) works at an orphanage in Bombay and vows never to return to Copenhagen, scene of the romantic crime. Muscular, oddly handsome, funny, patient, and adoring of children, Jacob is introduced scooping rice for hordes of young Indian kids with their arms outstretched. Will we ever learn what kind of woman would dream of dumping this veritable saint?

Coincidence, the mistress of melodrama, comes calling: Jacob gets an invitation from a Danish CEO to apply for charitable funds that could get his orphanage the supplies it sorely needs, but only on condition that he fly to Copenhagen for a personal meeting. Reluctantly accepting, Jacob soon comes face to face with Helene (Sidse Babett Knudsen), his former lover, discovering at her daughter's wedding that she's now the wife of his potential benefactor, zillionaire Jorgen (Rolf Lassg). Then he learns that the daughter, 20-year-old Anna (Stine Fischer Christensen), isn't a blood relative of the businessman—that she never knew her real father. Just coincidence, is it? Even paranoids have enemies, and Jacob doesn't hesitate to consider that he's been set up for some sort of emotional blackmail, Jorgen's secret plot implying that Bier and Dogme-vet scenarist Anders Thomas Jensen aren't the only ones who get off on manipulation. Indeed, one of the many smart things about After the Wedding is how shrewdly it suggests a higher power than screenwriting.

Playing God, on one side of the camera or another, is the essence of Dogme. What happens after the wedding comprises a full three-quarters of Bier's epic, whose near-Biblical twists and turns—I wouldn't think of giving them away—are enough to fill four weepies. As before, the director dares you to deem her work absurd; here, she also forces us to acknowledge that we wouldn't blindly trust a movie's good Samaritanism any more than Jacob would believe in pennies from heaven. And no wonder: We've all been burned. Bier teases us by fluctuating Jorgen's reliability: Bulky and commanding in a way that only old money allows, Jorgen too, adores kids, but he has every creature's head stuffed and mounted on the blood-red living room wall of his country estate. And that naturally startles Jacob, whose skeptical, bruised-looking eyes (Mikkelsen wept crimson tears as Le Chiffre in Casino Royale) are the focus of many extreme close-ups. Bier has quite an eye herself: Like Douglas Sirk reborn as a digital neorealist, the director defies her talky genre by investing energy and genuine invention in almost every shot. For a filmmaker who's so attracted to psychological discomfort, Bier has a disarming affinity with the pleasure principle. In this she's further blessed to have cast the riveting Mikkelsen, who here displays the self-conscious jitter of the young Pacino.

No surprise that Bier is Hollywood bound. Both Brothers and Open Hearts are being remade, the latter by Zach Braff; Bier's English-language debut, already in the can, is a DreamWorks production with Halle Berry and Benicio Del Toro. As it does for Jacob, opportunity knocks. If this prodigiously gifted director were filming her career, the movie—call it After the Crash—would be about whether we can count on American dreamworkers not to turn her into Paul Haggis.

Family Reunion | The New York Observer Andrew Sarris

Susanne Bier’s After the Wedding, from a screenplay by Anders Thomas Jensen, based on a story by Ms. Bier and Mr. Jensen, may be the strangest and most surprising film you’ll see this year, in that its character development runs counter to the expectations aroused by its narrative sequencing and its frequently mysterious and intrigue-laden close-ups of people’s eyes in isolation from the rest of their faces. The story begins straightforwardly enough in Mumbai (formerly Bombay), India, where Jacob (Mads Mikkelsen) is busy running an orphanage for abandoned Indian children. He is especially close to 8-year-old Pramod (Neeral Muchandani), a child he has brought up from infancy and informally adopted as his own. After the brief visit to the orphanage of a Danish financier named Jørgen (Rolf Lassgård), Jacob is informed by his boss, Mrs. Shaw (Meenal Patel), that the financier has offered to donate $3 million to the orphanage, money that is desperately needed for its survival. There is one condition: Jacob must return to Denmark to complete the paperwork on the donation. It is then that we learn that Jacob hasn’t been back to Denmark in 20 years. The first mystery: Why? Jacob is reluctant to leave Mumbai, but his superior is adamant: It’s the only way the orphanage can continue to function. Before he leaves, Jacob promises the crestfallen Pramod that he will be gone for only eight days, and that he will certainly be back for the boy’s birthday.

When the action shifts to Copenhagen, we get to see much more of Jørgen, the financier, in his daily routines. He comes over as a dominant, forceful, even manipulative personality. At the moment, he is overseeing the preparations for the wedding of his daughter Anna (Stine Fischer Christensen) to one of his employees, Christian (Christian Tafdrup). Jørgen seems happily married to Helene (Sidse Babett Knudsen), and they have, in addition to Anna, two somewhat younger children, Martin (Frederick Gullits Ernst) and Morten (Kristian Gullits Ernst), whom Jørgen shamelessly spoils.

Jacob arrives late to the wedding and sits in the back. Helene turns to look at the newcomer and seems somewhat surprised at what she sees. She turns again to make sure of whom she has seen, but her face remains expressionless. The second mystery: What is their story? At the post-wedding banquet, Anna, in the manner of the recent Danish Dogme films, rises to make a speech even though she acknowledges apologetically that brides are not supposed to speak at their own weddings. She reveals that she has known for a long time that Jørgen was not her real father, but nonetheless he has been the best father any daughter could have. When Jacob and Helene exchange glances, we know the rest. But one big question remains: Why has Jørgen stage-managed this reunion? What are his intentions? What are his motives?

The answers to these questions are not long in coming, and I won’t spoil the movie for you by revealing them—suffice it to say that our opinions of the characters undergo subtle changes, particularly when it involves our ingrown prejudices regarding financiers and seeming humanitarians. The performances of Mr. Lassgård, Mr. Mikkelsen, Ms. Knudsen and Ms. Christensen head up a splendid ensemble, both in Copenhagen and Mumbai. One final hint: The heart of the narrative is much more in Denmark than India, which ends up being exploited for its more colorful production values.

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THINGS WE LOST IN THE FIRE B 87

USA Great Britain (119 mi) 2007 ‘Scope

Pretty much a tearjerker all the way through, this film relentlessly revisits the same anguished tone of grief and loss throughout, but also mixing in heavy doses of art film realism that make the film worthwhile. One of the real problems, however, is the contrived nature of the story, where everything takes place in this perfect world of upper class wealth, which has little to no relevance to most of the viewing audience. So it’s a strange mix with Susanne Bier entering the English language Hollywood world of moviemaking, adding her personal flair to the overall look of the film, which includes exceptional performances by the actors involved, including a terrific appearance from John Carroll Lynch, who was so brilliant earlier in the year as the prime suspect in ZODIAC, but we spend a good deal of time in wretched agony the likes of which we rarely see in big budget mainstream movies, but still the story itself feels too safe and too much by the numbers, an ingredient entirely missing from her other films.

First of all, there is this issue of hair, where personal identity is measured by hair length, especially in the flowing locks of Halle Berry and her two biracial children, where curls are in, the longer the better, making boys nearly indistinguishable from girls at that age. But suffice it to say, making a film that explores the love dynamic of a biracial married couple is not the norm, where husband David Duchovny is a filthy rich architect allowing them to live in a beautifully designed house that would make most magazines proud. But the story is about the emotional aftershocks following his early death, where a series of storylines are told out of time, intersecting at his funeral services. Almost as a last minute thought as preparations are being made, Berry remembers to invite a long lost friend of her husbands, Benicio del Toro, which doesn’t change the story, but changes the perspective of the film, as we see this family through the hyper-reality of a new pair of eyes. The twist is he’s a recovering heroin addict who periodically relapses, so his life is pretty much a living hell, in stark contrast to the idyllic house on the hill, allowing Berry to relieve a good deal of her pent up anxiety on his shoulders, some of which is unthinkably demeaning, but that’s par for the course in Hollywood movies, where the rich and the famous are allowed to say anything they damn well please, including treating those around them like hired help. When Berry asks del Toro to move into the vacant garage, where the children instantly take to his kind presence, in the absence of their own father, well it’s all a bit much, but that’s the story.

While Berry and her kids struggle to recover, the subject of recovery is simultaneously examined through NA meetings, where del Toro briefly meets Alison Lohman. But after one fateful relapse, when Berry runs through the alleys and the crack houses looking for him, it’s so overly romanticized to the point of being ridiculous, as this kind of woman, who has financial security to the point where she’ll never have to work, would simply send someone else to do the dirty work. But there she is, carrying him out and dragging him several blocks on her own before nursing him back to health, as he goes through various stages of withdrawal cold turkey while recovering inside this lavish multi-million dollar house, well it all feels a bit absurd. Yet, to this director’s credit, the film is layered throughout with wit and humanism, always including an open channel to the lives of children, where everyone’s lives seem to matter. Despite the star power of Halle Berry, the real star of this film is del Toro, whose unpretentious take on narcotics recovery is grounded in a believable performance, a flawed man whose persistent struggles to fight his way through becomes the thread of truth and authenticity in this film.

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

A sober-minded mess of tangled heartstrings and histrionics, Suzanne Bier's weeper throws together the recently widowed Halle Berry and junkie Benicio Del Toro, her late husband's childhood friend and pet project. Bier (After the Wedding) loves a high-toned, vaguely edgy melodrama, and the transition to working with English-speaking movie stars has hardly dulled her appetite for red-eyed emoting. There's nothing wrong with Things We Lost in the Fire, really, but there's not much right with it either; it's hard to feel that either Berry or Del Toro is risking much of anything when they're essentially repurposing performances we've seen in other movies. Berry bawls, Del Toro shambles (and a Del Toro shamble is not to be sneezed at), but there's nothing fresh enough to fulfill the movie's pretensions of raw-nerve realism. With a few short scenes as a fellow 12-stepper who tries to keep Del Toro from sliding back into addiction, Alison Lohman adds an unfussy calm that briefly gives the movie some ballast, but then it's back to pitching and yawing.

The Onion A.V. Club [Nathan Rabin]

Since winning a Best Actress Oscar for 2001's Monster's Ball, Halle Berry has specialized in high-concept idiocy like Gothika, Perfect Stranger, and most notoriously, Catwoman. So while it's refreshing to see her tackling a heavy dramatic role again in the somber new drama Things We Lost In The Fire, it's hard not to experience a distinct sense of déjà vu as she once again plays a bereft widow struggling to emerge from the long shadow of her husband's death. But where Monster's Ball went for pummeling working-class intensity, Fire opts for a more upscale form of griefsploitation. Here, Berry is gorgeous 'n' grieving instead of ragged and raw, but the Oscar-baiting emotions remain the same.

Benicio Del Toro co-stars as a recovering drug addict who moves in with Berry and her children and struggles to turn his wasted life around after the death of her husband and his best friend, David Duchovny. Together, Del Toro and Berry forge a bond rooted in grief and loneliness, but filled with tricky undercurrents. Berry isn't the only Oscar favorite repeating an acclaimed role: Del Toro's tormented lost soul seems to have wandered in from 21 Grams, another moody drama about the interconnected agonies of haunted souls. The film's persistent echoes of Monster's Ball and 21 Grams continually pull viewers out of the story and toward the leads' past triumphs.

Even more problematically, Duchovny emerges as little more than a cardboard saint, a beneficent exemplar of kindness and compassion who could definitely use some humanizing touches. Doesn't the guy at least jaywalk? At one point, Berry even gets irritated with Duchovny for being too loving and supportive. He dies a hero's death, though the film unwittingly suggests that he didn't have to die to qualify as an angel. Well-acted yet strangely inert, Fire explores the messy human emotions of grief, but it'd be a lot more resonant if the guy everyone's mourning weren't so fatally perfect, so unforgivably superhuman.

DVD Talk Brian Orndorf, also seen here: eFilmCritic [Brian Orndorf]

The marketing for "Things We Lost in the Fire" has turned the film into a hazy romantic tragedy, but the picture is nothing of the sort. "Fire" lacks eloquence addressing heartbreak and desire, preferring instead to squeeze the characters tightly to feel the pulse of their woes, and it makes for haunting cinema.

When her husband Brian (David Duchovny) dies defending an abused woman from her thug spouse, Audrey (Halle Berry) is left in shambles, unable to process the death and grieve properly with their two children. Out of desperation, she turns to Brian's best friend Jerry (Benicio Del Toro), a recently reformed drug addict, for help. Moving into Audrey's house, Jerry is confronted with Brian's legacy of good deeds and kindness, trying to be of use to his new family while fighting his urge to seek refuge from overwhelming pain in the comfort of narcotics.

Danish director Susanne Bier marks her American film debut with "Fire," and she's lost nothing in the translation. After feeling around the corners of guilt with "Open Hearts," the near-masterpiece "Brothers," and "After the Wedding," "Fire" doesn't muck around with Bier's curiosities, only giving them an audience-widening chance to grow. Her commitment to emotional authenticity is staggering, even more so when you figure she's working with high-maintenance movie stars and studio suits who automatically recoil at the idea of characters expressing themselves from the depths of their souls. In that respect, "Fire" is something of a multiplex miracle.

There's a profusion of beauty to be found in "Fire," from the thin-ice movement of the story to the way Bier keeps her actors in a state of constant uncertainty, which raises the performances of Berry and Del Toro as they figure out a way to convey the poison of personal loss without falling off melodramatic cliffs. For Berry, this restraint is a necessity, since she's terrible embodying blistering hostility. "Fire" has piercing moments of wailing catharsis, but she's kept in check by Bier, who also presents Del Toro's general itchiness in measured amounts, forcing the actor to find other inventive means to expose Jerry's anguish and newly suburbanized bewilderment.

The performances are gorgeous, exposing the raw emotional tearing of death through expressions, not dialogue, and leaving easy answers of communication behind as Audrey and Jerry battle awkwardly back and forth, abstractly processing Brian's legacy and the crater left behind by his murder. Bier loves her actors, but her preoccupation with the comfort of marriage underscores the tragedy with a more inspired level of sophistication.

At times, "Fire" is a flat-out sensory experience, with Bier tuning into the simple tokens of affection to evoke a potent sense of absence and recovery. It's little things, such as Audrey's desire to have her ears rubbed to fall asleep or tracing the lines of life in Jerry's face, that take on a greater significance, revealing a film of atypical symbiosis with the currents of desire and reassurance.

"Things We Lost in the Fire" doesn't go for the throat with moments of gut-wrenching misery. Instead, the picture is a dreamlike evocation of tentative interaction and community support, presented in a nonlinear way to nurture audience participation instead of beating the viewer in the face with a cry stick. It's an exquisite film of mammoth dramatic reach and sympathy, and it presents Susanne Bier as one of the most observant, patient filmmakers working today.

notcoming.com | Things We Lost In The Fire Tom Huddleston

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However, there is one element to "Things We Lost In the Fire" that does work spectacularly well a... Peter Sobczynski from eFilmCritic

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IN A BETTER WORLD (Hævnen) B+ 91

Denmark Sweden (113 mi) 2010 ‘Scope

This is a film not just with a moral objective, but a moral imperative, which may drive some people away in disgust with its broad, near epic sweep, finding it too obvious and overly preachy, as if you’re being lectured to. On the other hand, this is an extremely somber and reflective work that at its best is wonderfully quiet and observant, that reveals at an early age of childhood how ignorance and bullying are handed down from ill equipped parents, along with their prejudices and other narrow views. But not so fast, as the same problems occur in some of the most economically advantageous and educated households as well, especially when there are separation factors involved where children may be desperately seeking their own form of expression. While it is true that this film wraps things up a bit too neat and tidy, as there are certainly multiple possibilities of even greater horror than what is suggested, there is a wonderful poignancy underneath each of the carefully drawn characters in the film, where by the end they suddenly matter in our lives, even if we’ve found their behavior questionable throughout the film. Now there isn’t some kind of epiphany moment where somehow all is revealed, instead there is a slow, steady build up of character, where eventually they are intensely exposed, including much of what they’re carefully hiding from one another. People are rarely completely honest with one another, instead hiding bits and pieces that are fraught with an unbearable pain which is rarely if ever revealed. This under-the-surface emotional iceberg is the real pleasure of this film, as it resembles the world around us where people are carefully guarded, even within stable and long-term relationships, where there are simply things no one ever discusses, as if they are the painful secrets of our existence.

Most compelling is the relationship between two ten-year old boys, Christian, powerfully played by William Jøhnk Nielsen, and Elias (Markus Rygaard), where Christian solves the crisis of bullying with a swift act of revenge, protecting the meeker Elias who has seemingly succumbed to this endless behavior of being picked on and is forever indebted for his savior-like actions. They quickly become friends, but it’s clear Christian is the dominant party, emboldened by a sour sense of bitterness in the world around him, angry that his mother recently died of cancer, and angry at his father for being unable to stop it, feeling especially cheated after they were told her prognosis was excellent. Christian really carries the film and couldn’t be more intriguing, as he’s an especially smart kid holding his emotions in check, where there’s always an underlying sense of provocation, as if he could strike out anytime and anywhere. Despite his somewhat short stature, he stands up to the larger hoodlums in school without actually becoming one of them. Elias, on the other hand, follows him around like a lost puppy and wouldn’t dare cross his new friend. But there is also the simultaneous story of their parents, where Christian’s father Claus (Ulrich Thomsen) is loaded financially, taking him to live at his grandmother’s gargantuan estate, but remains impotent and emotionally repressed, unable to connect with his son who operates entirely on his own, cut off from the rest of his family. Elias’s father Anton (Mikael Persbrandt) works periodically as the lone physician at an African refugee camp, where lone women, their husband’s already murdered, are being savagely brutalized, their wombs sliced open in a vicious game by the military junta to reveal the sex of the unborn child. When Anton returns home to their own immense estate by the sea, his marriage is split apart, living separately from his wife Marianne (Trine Dyrholm) who has her own home by the sea, unforgiving of her husband’s previous philandering.

The real story surrounds the emotional impotence of having to stand up to bigger and stronger forces that continually threaten violence, both at the children’s level and in the world of adults, where the brutality reduces humans to shadows of their former selves. Against all parental advice, Christian strikes first, thinking the best defense is a good offense, believing no one will touch him if the first blow is convincingly strong enough. But of course, this viewpoint is shredded to bits if the follow up course of action is full annihilation, which is what we witness in gang infested neighborhoods, as kids are routinely killing other kids for the simple offense of an insulting comment. But this film isn’t social realism, and the society being depicted is the Danish upper class, one that has a distinct prejudice against foreigners and anything Swedish. But the schoolyard bullying is no different than anywhere else in the world, while the viciousness of mutilations in Africa is like no place else on earth. The film follows the path of choices made, each leading to subsequent consequences, where other choices are made, all of which lead to a sense of finality, and eventual futility, where there is no foolproof option that is guaranteed to succeed, yet the film is quite clear about how it depicts a certain option that is doomed to fail. Again, the film is searching for a moral imperative. Many of the transitional shots by Morten Søborg between sequences are quite stunning, particularly in their silence, though some may think these are pretentious artistic devices designed to reflect the typical vernacular of an art film. Actually, this view reflects the harmony of nature unspoiled by the damage of human intervention, where man’s initial impulse seems to be to destroy whatever it touches. Human violence is like no other destruction on earth, which ultimately leads to tragically bleak consequences, so by the finale, the film ends with the quiet urgency of a fervent prayer.

IN A BETTER WORLD Ken Rudolph’s Movie Site

A Swedish doctor (Mikael Persbrandt, scruffy and sensitive) working selflessly in dire, poverty stricken Africa has a family living at home in Denmark.  There his son Elias is a sensitive boy picked on by high school bullies who call him Rat Face.  Christian (a noteworthy performance by young William Johnk Nielsen) is another boy, raised in London by his recently deceased mother and returned to live with this father (Ulrich Thomson) in Denmark.  The two boys become friends...Christian, budding alpha male, taking the lead against the bullies.  This is the setup for an extraordinary tale of two boys and their respective fathers who have differing views of how to resolve the many moral dilemmas that they and their sons face in the course of this absorbing narrative.  Bier has shown in the past with such films as Brothers that she is a fine director of actors.  But here she and her writer-director husband Anders Thomas Jensen have constructed a complex, far reaching script with the broad sweep of a masterpiece.

The Village Voice [Ella Taylor]

If The King’s Speech was a comfy middlebrow choice for Best Picture of 2010, how much more depressing was the Academy’s squandering of Best Foreign Language Film on Susanne Bier’s In a Better World? Displaced tykes and bullies both macro and micro abound in this relentlessly pandering drama about a saintly Danish doctor (Mikael Persbrandt) who ministers to feuding Africans in a refugee camp while failing to notice that the suffering child (Markus Rygaard) of his broken marriage courts danger back home. Slick moralizing grows exponentially as the plot, wrapped in travelogue photography, transparently expository dialogue, and cheap thrills, drives home spurious parallels between the first and third worlds. Can’t we all get along? Bier surely means well, but the road to compassion porn is paved with noble intentions, laced with a nakedly commercial appeal that flatters moviegoers with a vision of the West as Africa’s savior from itself. Bier and screenwriter Anders Thomas Jensen began promisingly with the 2003 Dogme melodrama Open Hearts, but their collaborations have grown ever soapier, as the mawkish Brothers (2004) and the truly dire After the Wedding (2006) attest. Watch for news of a three-picture deal for Bier, a rising star of the mush that cocoons the American-indie mainstream.

Reel Film Reviews [David Nusair]

Filmmaker Susanne Bier's first Danish effort since 2006's After the Wedding, In a Better World follows two young boys - William Jøhnk Nielsen's angry, sullen Christian and Markus Rygaard's open-hearted, bullied Elias - as their friendship ultimately winds up impacting both their lives and their families' lives. In a Better World initially comes off as a solid drama that grows more and more riveting and engrossing as it progresses, as Bier does an absolutely stunning job of transforming each and every one of the film's central characters into fully-fleshed out, entirely compelling figures whose exploits one can't help but latch onto. The low-key yet fascinating atmosphere is heightened by both the uniformly stirring performances and by the sporadic inclusion of riveting stand-alone sequences; in terms of the latter, there's a sequence in which Elias' pacifist father (Mikael Persbrandt's Anton) confronts a bully that's as suspenseful and tense as it is cringe-worthy. (It's just a fantastic bit of filmmaking.) There's likewise little doubt that Bier does a superb job of ensuring that the emotional resonance of the proceedings builds steadily throughout, with the movie's powerful third act diminished very slightly by a prolonged (and faintly unnecessary) coda that goes on just a bit too long. Still, In a Better World is a dramatic masterpiece that surely stands as the crowning achievement in Bier's consistently enthralling filmography (with 2007's Things We Lost in the Fire standing as a rare misfire for the director).

Time Out New York [David Fear]

Just as chatterboxes stopped clucking about the Miramax-circa-’96 mediocrity of The King’s Speech nabbing the Best Picture Oscar, along comes another recent WTF Academy Award winner that further justifies stereotypes about voters loving the cinematic equivalent of a warm bath. The stakes may be lower in the Best Foreign Film category, but for us art-house–haunting geeks who still passionately care about such things, the fact that Susanne Bier’s Danish melodrama beat out worthy contenders like Dogtooth and Incendies was a serious letdown. Once you see the film, the temptation to blow Bronx cheers toward gold-statue committee members will be especially irresistible—though in fairness, this faux-humanistic screed would qualify as wishy-washy even if it’d lost.

The subtitled writing on the wall comes early: New kid at school Christian (Nielsen) befriends and defends bullied classmate Elias (Rygaard). Once the former starts displaying alpha-male—and vaguely psychotic—tendencies, the narrative red flags begin waving. So far, so Haneke lite; then Elias’s dad (Persbrandt), who preaches passive resistance over revenge, finds his tolerance tested when a vicious Kenyan warlord comes in for treatment at his Doctors Without Borders camp. Long before pipe bombs and parental negligence push things toward an inevitably tragic (yet somehow upbeat) conclusion, we’ve watched a complex question—is violence sometimes necessary?—filtered through both neocon and namby-pamby liberal viewpoints. While Bier doesn’t offer easy partisan answers, she still dilutes a social issue down to the level of soap-operatic background noise and back-patting platitudes. It—and we—deserve better.

DVD Resurrections [Fingers]

Finally a non-English speaking film that is deserving of the Best Foreign Language Film Oscar, this Danish allegory is a fine meditation on forgiveness and revenge, but its strength lies not simply in the timeliness and universality of its subject matter, but in its sheer treatment and observation of the material itself.

While certainly not a film that tries to enlighten or even endorse the rights, wrongs, and repercussions of human beings and their actions, In a Better World could’ve easily floundered had its sensibilities and/or motivations been rooted in religious fundamentalism. Biblical themes of this nature and magnitude can often seem preachy, and alienate audiences who are privy to an overriding agenda that may or may not be governed by church doctrine.

The film revolves around two very privileged yet troubled families. Anton is a prominent surgeon who apart from being based in his native Denmark also has a posting at a remote African refugee camp. His relationship with his wife Marianne is on the verge of ruin, and while she too is a medical practitioner, their once infallible marriage has recently been compromised by an adolescent mistake made on Anton’s part.   

Claus has recently lost his wife to cancer, and while he has the lifestyle and luxuries of a multi-national entrepreneur, he’s struggling to come to terms with the loss. On top of that, his only son, Christian, is seething with bitterness and contempt. Claus consumes himself with work, and as a result, is absent from Christian’s life. Left to his own devices, Christian’s self-pity leads him on a path to self-destruction, where he eventually meets Elias at school, Anton and Marianne’s equally pitiful son. Christian saves him from the local bully, and Elias immediately looks up to him. The event proves to be devastating for both families, because the friendship itself sets off a chain of events that will change their lives forever.

The title itself is ironic because the bulk of the narrative is set in a flourishing Denmark and inhabited by a class of people who reside in the higher echelons of mainstream society. This fundamental idea is punctuated in key juxtaposing scenes when Anton commutes to the refugee camp where he performs surgery on victims of a heinous madman who takes pleasure in mutilating pregnant women.

The stark contrast of these scenes exemplifies the film’s key supposition, that regardless of personal stature and means, we’re all
suffering in one way or another. The grim circumstances that befall Anton in Africa serve as a sobering reminder that, whether physical or spiritual in nature, we can never be prepared for the unexpected, nor can we ever be expected to deal with it perfectly and/or proficiently.

This is undoubtedly what acclaimed Danish filmmaker, Susanne Bier, is interested in, placing seemingly capable, moral human beings in unfathomable situations and watching them figure it out for themselves. Rather than putting them through the proverbial wringer and watching them come apart at the seams, she’d rather see her characters writhe and grapple with their circumstances before eventually conquering their given predicaments.

Everything here is virtually flawless. The script from multi-award winning writer Anders Thomas Jensen is deeply profound, and the performances from all involved are equally moving. The cinematography by Morton Soborg is tranquil and pure, and the score
by Johan Soderqvist is beautifully spare and serene.

From the director who gave us Brothers (the original Danish film), After the Wedding, and the severely underrated Things We Lost in the Fire, In a Better World is transcendental, spiritual, and it never bashes you over the head with preachy religious proverbs.

112. Danish director Susanne Bier’s “Hævnen” (In a Better World) (2010): The importance of parents revisited in the contemporary world scenario Jugu Abraham from Movies That Make You Think, also seen here: Movies that make you think [Jugu Abraham]

CriterionCast.com [Jamie S. Rich]

REVIEW: Oscar Winner In a Better World Needs a Tighter Focus on This One Stephanie Zacharek from Movieline

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez]

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Filmcritic.com Chris Cabin

Cinephile [Matthew Thrift]

IndieWIRE [Eric Kohn] The “Crash” Effect: How “In a Better World” Won Its Oscar

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In a Better World: movie review - CSMonitor.com Peter Rainer

Combustible Celluloid film review - In a Better World (2010 ... Jeffrey M. Anderson

My Annual "Best Foreign Language Film Oscar" Rant Jeffrey M. Anderson rants against the Academy, also here: Fan Rant: That Pesky Foreign Film Oscar

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Carpetbagger Blog: The Director of ‘In a Better World’ Larry Rohter interviews Bier from The New York Times, February 22, 2011

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LOVE IS ALL YOU NEED (Den skaldede frisør)

Denmark Sweden Italy France Germany (116 mi) 2012 ‘Scope Official site [jp]

Reel Film Reviews [David Nusair]

Love is All You Need marks a rather dramatic departure for filmmaker Susanne Bier, as the movie ultimately stands in sharp contrast to the less-than-lighthearted bent of the director's recent output (including 2010's brilliant and downbeat In a Better World). The movie, which follows several characters as they converge on an Italian villa for a wedding, has been infused with a bubbly, easygoing feel that does, at the outset, prove impossible to resist, with the familiar yet watchable atmosphere heightened by the efforts of a talented cast that includes, among others, Pierce Brosnan, Trine Dyrholm, and Paprika Steen. (It doesn't hurt, either, that the actors are able to infuse their respective characters with an irresistibly vivid and thoroughly lived-in feel.) And although Anders Thomas Jensen's screenplay is, at times, far more predictable than one might've liked (ie certain elements and revelations are telegraphed long in advance), Love is All You Need benefits substantially from the chemistry between the characters and from the inclusion of several admittedly engrossing sequences (Sebastian Jessen's Patrick delivers a heartfelt speech to his future bride). It's equally clear, however, that the movie begins to demonstrably run out of steam as it passes the one-hour mark, with the good vibes afforded by the cast virtually cancelled out by Bier's meandering sensibilities and a seriously overlong running time. There's subsequently a lack of emotional resonance that is, to put it mildly, somewhat disappointing, and it's finally impossible to label Love is All You Need as anything more than a mildly diverting yet palpably underwhelming effort from the otherwise rock-solid Bier.

Exclaim! [Robert Bell]

Departing substantially from her Oscar-winning conflict examination, In a Better World, in both style and tone, Susanne Bier's housewife-friendly follow-up, Love is All You Need, is ostensibly just a better-than-average, generic romantic comedy.

It is, however, a romantic comedy with consistent pseudo-counter-cultural themes and moderately complex characterizations, which propel it ahead of anything featuring the likes of Kate Hudson or Katherine Heigl within the current lexicon.

Mostly taking place in Italy, with a primarily Danish cast, this treatise on the dangers of keeping up appearances finds middle-aged Ida (Tryne Dyrholm) suffering a bit of an existential crisis when she catches her husband of 20-plus years porking a younger woman on their couch after learning she may be cured of cancer.

Given the gift of life, both figuratively and literally, she trots off to Italy to attend her daughter Astrid's (Molly Blixt Egelind) wedding, getting in a car accident with corporate douchebag Philip (Pierce Brosnan) along the way. The clincher: Philip is the father of the groom and the two of them have immediate chemistry.

Inevitably, the machinations of this nascent romance take the usual route towards "happily ever after," overcoming hurdles like Philip's flirtatious sister-in-law, Benedikte (Paprika Steen at her funniest), and Ida's inability to embrace her desires outside of social expectations. Throw in a secondary storyline about a potentially closeted homosexual groom and you've got dysfunctional family comedy and thematically mirrored storylines to round out the formula.

While every revelation and outcome is clear from the outset, what gives this playful, breezy diversion its charm is comedy that hits more than it misses and a fully dedicated ensemble cast that makes the most of every moment.

The romance may fall a bit flat, with the occasional misguided stab at emotional bonding between Philip and Tryne (beyond her goofy charm, it's never clear why Philip is so enamoured with her), but the overall ride is pleasant, entertaining and even a bit moving.

Film.com [David Ehrlich]

The fact that her previous film (2010’s “In a Better World”) won the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film ultimately has nothing to do with the fact that Danish director Susanne Bier has earned the benefit of the doubt. Over 20 years and across countless countries, Bier’s films have expressed a keen intelligence, borderless ambition, and an aggressive flair for high drama. While some would argue that Bier’s more self-serious work is plagued by portent and dubiously convenient plotting (her comedies, which are extremely successful in her home country, have engendered little critical attention abroad), it’s hard to deny that her even Bier’s least interesting efforts – like her lugubrious English-language debut, “Things We Lost in the Fire” – are alive with a rare urgency, as though her roving and confrontational camera were possessed by the story at hand. Cherry-picking key tenets of the Dogme 95 moment and inflating them with Technicolor emotion, Bier’s films pulse with purpose, demanding your attention even when they strain your interest.

In other words, when Susanne Bier makes a seemingly frivolous romantic comedy, you have to give it a fair shake. Even when that seemingly frivolous romantic comedy is titled “Love Is All You Need” (a result of the unfortunate but understandable decision to jettison the film’s original title, “The Bald Hairdresser”), and – at first blush – seems like a chilling combination between “Rachel Getting Married” and “Mamma Mia!,” with Bier at the helm you have no choice but to trust in the clarity of her vision and take the plunge.

Good news – the water’s fine. A warm and winsome movie that stretches the definition of a “romantic comedy” (it would be more accurate to call it a love story with laughter), “Love Is All You Need” is a refreshingly uncynical and surprisingly practical portrait of two people learning how to take life at face value and embrace the joy available to them.

As the film begins, we’re introduced to Ida (the brilliant Trine Dyrholm), a sweet but strong middle-aged woman who arrives home from her final chemotherapy treatment only to find her husband unrepentantly screwing a young blonde. To make matters worse, Ida is running late for her flight from Denmark to Italian coast, where she’ll be a guest at her daughter’s wedding. Meanwhile, across town, a grumpy and emotionally closed off business tycoon named Philip (Pierce Brosnan, who responds to the Danish dialogue in his usual Irish brogue) rejects the advances of his sexy young secretary because, well, he has nearly zero interest in other human beings. What love he does have is reserved for his son, who’s about to get married on the Italian coast. And you’ll never guess into whom Philip (literally) crashes in the airport parking lot before his flight…

Ironically, it’s during the familiar meet-cute that Bier first suggests her movie is interested in exploring deeper than what’s expected of such a fluffy premise. It’s common (or perhaps mandatory) for a rom-com couple to spar with one another before their antagonism gives way to the soul-sealing love that obviously lurks below, but Ida and Philip barely make it through five minutes of shared screen-time before they’ve taken their mutual disdain as far as it can go. They haven’t even arrived at the villa where their kids are getting married before they’ve seen right through one another, making more progress in one car ride than Katherine Heigl might in the span of 15 dresses.

By the time Ida and Philip meet up with their kids and say hi to the extended cast of characters who provide the film with its unusually rich texture (Bier regular Paprika Steen has a ton of fun as a sexed up cousin with an agenda, while distinctly nozzled “Gomorrah” star Ciro Petrone delivers an unexpectedly sweet performance as a local handyman), “Love is All You Need” has already busted the ceiling that’s usually imposed on films like this.

More to the point, there really aren’t all that many “films like this.” Sure, there’s a veritable sub-genre of movies about women “getting their groove back,” but the process by which Ida is seen reclaiming her life in the wake of her first brush with cancer is so startlingly organic and humane that it unfolds as more of a moving acceptance than a forced reawakening. This isn’t some “you go, girl!” story of a woman who emerges from crisis by realizing that she’s still got it, but rather the story of a woman who’s increasingly determined to love what she’s got left. Trine Dyrholm’s locates Ida as an understandably vulnerable person who nevertheless has no desire to be “saved.” Dyrholm’s wide eyes and delicate English threaten to confuse her for one of Lars von Trier’s holy women, but the actress is in such command of Ida’s grounded outlook that the character never feels on trial, but simply alive.

One especially telling scene finds Ida emerging fully nude from the ocean surf, her blonde wig absent from her head and the scar from her mastectomy on full display. As Bier herself observed during my conversation with her, it’s a scene that would have felt agonizingly obvious in a more heavy-handed film, but here – amidst the ridiculously sublime Italian scenery and the jovial merriment that suffuses the film like it’s the most sobering comedy Richard Curtis never made – it’s a moving reminder that Ida and the rest of these characters are responding to the wild scenarios of this madcap weekend, and not merely at their mercy. And while the lens through which we observe this scene suggests that, on a semantic level, this film might ultimately belong to Philip, it’s Ida that provides its beating heart and its gracious hope (Brosnan’s turn is excellent as well. I hesitate to suggest that the actor, who lost a spouse to cancer in real life, was especially empowered to sell the character’s catharsis because of his personal experience, but his performance proves that Brosnan still has his heart in the game, regardless of what he drew upon to deliver it).

“Love is All You Need” hardly reinvents the wheel, but that clearly wasn’t Bier’s intention. Irresistibly entertaining and beautiful to look at it, the film is pleasant at worst, and – at best – wisely defies its slapped-on American title, a warm reminder that love isn’t a solution so much as it’s a brilliant way of embracing life’s problems.

“Love Is All You Need”: Pierce Brosnan's lovely ... - Salon.com Andrew O’Hehir

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Bigelow, Kathryn

NEAR DARK

USA (94 mi) 1987

Near Dark Review. Movie Reviews - Film - Time Out London Nigel Floyd

A full-blooded vampire movie which gives the well-worn mythology a much-needed transfusion by stripping away the Gothic trappings and concentrating instead on a pack of nocturnal nomads who roam the sun-parched farmlands of the modern Midwest. Kissed by a pale, mysterious girl from out of town, it soon dawns on farmboy Caleb that Mae's love-bite has infected him with a burning desire - for blood. Subsequently snatched by Mae's vagabond pals, Caleb is gradually seduced by their exciting night-life. So, despite his reluctance to make a 'kill', Caleb is soon caught between his blood sister and his blood relatives - father and younger sister - who are in hot pursuit. Western iconography, noir-ish lighting, and visceral horror are fused with an affecting love story in this stylish 'Vampire Western', which (unlike Bigelow's rather static debut feature The Loveless) is driven forward at a scorching pace, a subtle study in the seductiveness of evil and a terrifying ride to the edge of darkness.

The Onion A.V. Club [Nathan Rabin]

A female action director who has worked in such historically masculine genres as the submarine movie, the undercover-cop thriller, the biker drama, and the science-fiction conspiracy film, Kathryn Bigelow has often been overshadowed by her ex-husband James Cameron, who co-produced her films Point Break and Strange Days, and co-scripted the latter. Bigelow's track record as a director is spotty, but in 1987 she directed the flat-out classic Near Dark, an enormously influential vampire Western newly released as a two-disc DVD set. Vampires have generally symbolized a distinctly European strain of upscale decadence, and Near Dark's key innovation was in stripping the genre of its gothic signifiers and replacing them with unmistakably American ones. Co-written by Bigelow and Eric Red, Near Dark stars Adrian Pasdar as an earnest every-cowboy who picks up vampire Jenny Wright and ends up with a neck wound in place of a goodnight kiss. Weak and confused, Pasdar is eventually adopted by Wright's undead surrogate family, which indoctrinates him into a nighttime world of blood-drinking, highway-side abductions, and eternal darkness. As Bigelow notes in the 47-minute documentary that accompanies the film, the horror movie and the Western share a common romanticism: While Near Dark is genuinely scary, it's also surprisingly lyrical, particularly in its depiction of the seemingly doomed romance between Wright and Pasdar. Bigelow makes Pasdar's consumption of Wright's blood seem as poignant and intimate as any kiss, and cinematographer Adam Greenberg seems particularly attuned to the romanticism bubbling under the bloodshed. Near Dark understands both the charm and the menace of the highway strip, and builds a scary vampire movie out of such unlikely components as country music, denim ensembles, trucks, and fleabag motels. Bigelow and Red mine the comic possibilities of redneck vampires without devolving into camp or sacrificing the film's essential scariness, most notably in a justly famous roadhouse setpiece. Bigelow deserves much of the credit for Near Dark's perfectly sustained tone, as does her well-chosen cast and Tangerine Dream's haunting electronic score. Pasdar and Wright are unexpectedly touching as lovers trying to bridge their disparate worlds, but the film belongs to Wright's vampire family—particularly Bill Paxton, who chews scenery and necks with equal vigor. A box-office disappointment upon its release and a cult favorite on video, Near Dark piles on the extras in its special-edition DVD, which includes a director's commentary, deleted scenes, and the documentary, which is most noteworthy for the elaborate backstories Paxton and vampire leader Lance Henriksen created for their characters. Near Dark's vampire-Western fusion has been co-opted by movies like From Dusk Till Dawn and John Carpenter's Vampires, but Bigelow's film has lost none of its freshness or vitality. It's the most quintessentially American vampire movie ever made.

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Near Dark - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

STRANGE DAYS B+ 91

USA (145 mi) 1995 ‘Scope

Look, I want you to know what we're talking about here. This isn't like TV only better. This is life. It's a piece of somebody's life. Pure and uncut, straight from the cerebral cortex. You're there. You're doing it, seeing it, hearing it... feeling it. —Lenny Nero (Ralph Fiennes)

It’s about the stuff you can’t have, right, the forbidden fruit, hmm? Like running into a liquor store with a .357 magnum in your hand, feeling the adrenaline pumping through your veins, huh? Or, um, you see that guy over there with the drop dead Philippino girlfriend, wouldn’t you like to be that guy for about twenty minutes, the right twenty minutes? Yeah, and I can make it happen and you won’t even tarnish your wedding ring. See I can get you what you want, I can, I can get you anything, you just have to talk to me, you have to trust me, you can trust me. Cos I’m your priest, I’m your shrink, I am the main conection to the switchboard to the soul. I’m the Magic Man, the Santa Claus of the subconscious. You say it, you even think it, you can have it. —Lenny Nero (Ralph Fiennes)

You love that red, white, and blue, but you hate that black, black, black... But a new day is coming. 2K is coming. The day of reckoning is upon us. History is, and begins again, right here, right now. —Jeriko One (Glenn Plummer)

Look, everybody needs to take a walk to the dark end of the street sometimes, it’s what we are. Now, the risks are out of line. The streets are a war zone, and sex can kill ya. So, you slip on the trodes, get what you need, almost as good as the real thing, and a lot safer. —Lenny Nero (Ralph Fiennes)

Paranoia is just reality on a finer scale. —Philo Gant (Michael Wincott)

You know one of the ways that movies are still better than playback? Cos the music comes up, there’s credits, and you always know when it’s over. IT’S OVER!! — Faith (Juliette Lewis)

You’re some piece of work, Lenny Nero. You’re just calmly backstrokin’along through the big toilet bowl and somehow you never let it touch you. I mean between working vice and your current so-called occupation you must have seen every kind of perversion. But you’re just like some Teflon man, still come out this goofball romantic. —Lornette “Mace” Mason (Angela Bassett)

Like Billy Wilder’s always popular The Apartment (1960), this is a terrific New Year’s eve movie. Set in the year 1999, STRANGE DAYS is a wild look into the near future, a cyberpunk science fiction film, a picture of the world going out of control as we approach the New Year’s Millennium of 2000, told with a kind of apocalyptic over-kill, where already the streets of Los Angeles have been reduced to rubble, a veritable police state where citizens are openly beaten on the street by police in riot gear. Written by former husband James Cameron and Jay Cocks, Bigelow’s approach is an over-the-top variation on the futuristic Blade Runner (1982), a picture of extravagance and largesse, oversaturated with kinetic energy, throbbing with a street life of filth, chaos and decay, showing a paranoid society on the verge of ruin, where law and order is all but absent, and the rules of society have been replaced by a rampant corruption. Ralph Fiennes plays Lenny Nero, sort of a Harrison Ford gone to seed, as he’s a picture of sweat and grime most of the time, as if in need of detox, but his drug of choice is called playback, a video electronic device that records directly from the cerebral cortex, maximizing the potency of the experience when played back for the viewer, creating a virtual reality which, by its extreme intensity, overshadows reality. Initially designed as a police surveillance tool, it has instead surged out of control in the rapidly developing underground black market, mostly targeting porno videos. Lenny is a former vice cop who now makes his living selling these bootleg discs, where his expertise as a fast talking salesman are uncanny, but the world he thrives in is one of sleaze and smut, “I’m the magic man, the Santa Claus of the subconscious.” His best friend is Max (Tom Sizemore), a private eye who roams in the subterranean realm, something of a moral cesspool, a guy with police connections everywhere but also seems to represent the scum of the earth. Nonetheless, he’s the kind of guy that has Lenny’s back.

While talking in a bar, a call girl friend of theirs named Iris (Brigitte Bako) arrives in a hysterical panic, afraid she is being pursued, but disappears in fright just as quickly, warning Lenny that his ex-girlfriend and still secret crush Faith (Juliette Lewis) is also in mortal danger. Iris makes a panicked getaway on the subway, pursued by two equally manic cops, Vincent D’Onofrio and William Fichtner, who show no regard for shooting directly into the line of fire of the public. When they attempt to grab her, all they get is her wig, which includes a playback headset, suggesting it was all being recorded. Lenny, meanwhile, feels compelled to visit Faith, who has flat-out dropped him, refusing to return any of his phone calls, leaving him more eager to see her. They are visited in the bar by his other friend, Lornette “Mace” Mason (Angela Bassett), a straight-laced bodyguard that sides as a bulletproof limo driver, protecting high-priced clientele. She has a long history with Lenny and disapproves of his latest habit, as if he’s making a living distributing drugs and porno, but she’s a loyal friend. In the bar, they view a socially relevant black rapper on the television, Jeriko One (Glenn Plummer), who uses the Millennium metaphor as the arrival of a coming judgment day, which is added to the mix of others who feel the world is coming to an end. What’s perhaps most strange in this atmosphere of doom is the way the entire film is one long party sequence, all celebrating the coming New Year, where confetti, house music, and party revelers are seen and heard throughout. What’s also obvious is Bigelow has a tremendous talent for building suspense, as the tension throughout is off the charts, creating a surreal and intoxicating mood and atmosphere.

When Lenny hits the upscale nightclub where Faith hangs out, she’s unreachable, surrounded by security and her new boyfriend, Philo Gant (Michael Wincott), a sleazy music industry manager whose clients included Jeriko One, mysteriously murdered overnight, meaning his monetary value has only skyrocketed. Faith ignores all his pleas to talk before going onstage and rocking the PJ Harvey song “Hardly Wait” Strange Days - Juliette Lewis "Hardly Wait" - YouTube (2:13). Lenny gets his ass kicked by bodyguards for his efforts, but sneaks back in and meets her backstage, concerned for her safety, only to be told in no uncertain terms that it’s over between them. What’s most disconcerting is receiving an anonymous disc that shows via playback a snuff recording of Iris’s death, which only sends Lenny into more of a panic, as some deranged person is obviously on the loose who enjoys the idea of sharing his demented thrills with Lenny. STRANGE DAYS is a mixture of a societal panic spreading like a contagious disease, filled with incidents of racial turmoil and police brutality, a secret police death squad, a serial killer on the loose, and Lenny’s attempts, mostly through the aid of Mace, to figure it all out and bring some sense of rational order to the surrounding chaos spinning out of control. Bassett was never in better shape in a movie, wearing a variety of form-fitting outfits while also kicking plenty of butt while aiding Lenny’s dangerous investigatory pursuits, as they meet plenty of bad guys along the way. Lenny is more than a little scuffed up, where Los Angeles is simply covered in a seedy film noir depiction of endless brutality, where life is cheap and the end of the world is near. Bassett makes a terrific femme fatale, while the usually affluent and upper crust Fiennes seems wearily overmatched through most of the film, yet the fact he’s such an odd choice only adds interest and intrigue to his dilemma. Trying to survive in this shadowy world when forces are trying to destroy you is a thrill ride adventure, leading to a bizarre finale that fuses playback with reality, where all of the forces come together in a mish mosh of pandemonium and mayhem, all of which leads to the final New Year’s countdown, brought in with a bang.

Strange Days Review. Movie Reviews - Film - Time Out London

LA, Year Zero: 30 December 1999. Riot police are on the streets. The angry, poor, disenfranchised - the blacks - are ready to tear down the walls of the city. Yet Lenny Nero fiddles while LA burns. A sleazeball in an Armani suit, Lenny's dealing illicit 'playback clips', raw human experience recorded direct from the cerebral cortex. Bigelow's spectacular millennial maelstrom has divided critics, and apparently repelled audiences. Written by James Cameron and Jay Cocks, this is tech-noir, action movie and love story rolled into one. It also pursues a sophisticated treatise on the nature of voyeurism, the psychic dangers of vicarious entertainment and cinema itself. A sequence in which Nero watches a snuff clip of rape and murder has excited accusations of exploitation and hypocrisy. It's certainly hard to stomach, but then shouldn't it be? The impeccable moral centre is to be found in Bassett's karate-chopping single mother 'Mace', who rescues Lenny from his own faithless stupor. Nero isn't irredeemable, either: Fiennes makes him a persuasively seedy knight errant. In fact, despite its own barely suppressed despair, the film exhibits markedly progressive leanings. Flawed, but often brilliant, provocative film-making.

EyeForFilm.co.uk [Stephen Carty]

As the millennium approaching in Los Angeles, ex-cop Lenny Nero (Ralph Fiennes) has fallen on hard times. Having been let go by both the LAPD and former love, Faith (Juliette Lewis), Lenny now sells memory disks which can give the user any experience that someone has recorded. However, as the New Year celebrations approach, Lenny gets his hands on a disk that could unhinge society and must rely on his two closest friends, bodyguard Mace (Angela Bassett) and private investigator Max (Tom Sizemore), to help him do the right thing.

Despite potentially appearing as a straightforward action excursion, there’s a lot going on in Strange Days. While giving us a damn good conspiracy thriller on the surface, it also takes time to render a serious character arc concerned with moving on from past woes, a commentary on technology as a new form of drug and an examination of the fragility of racial harmony. This sound a little heavy for you? Don’t worry, you get to see Juliette Lewis pretty much naked.

Additionally, with legendary filmmaker James Cameron producing and writing, Strange Days feels like one of his movies. We have the strong female figure Mace, who is more than capable of kicking ass a la Ripley from Aliens and Sarah Connor from T2. We have the reluctant male hero struggling to accept his role in saving the future, much like T2’s John Connor. We also have a Terminator-like dystopian future where the once pleasant LA has become a cesspool of decay, on the verge of destroying itself. With all this in mind (as well as the fact promotional material misleadingly labelled it as “A James Cameron Movie”) you’d be forgiven for thinking that ‘Iron’ Jim sat in the director’s chair.

In actual fact, credit belongs to his ex-wife, Kathryn Bigelow. Delivering another visceral cracker that proves cult-favourite Point Break was no celluloid flash in the pan, Bigelow delivers a neo noir that hides its hope and redemption under a throbbing veil of paranoia, tension and adrenalin. As for the very first scene – which is reminiscent of Keanu’s foot chase in the aforementioned surfing flick – it’ll have even the most knowledgeable film fans scratching their heads as to how it was filmed. You got any idea, you let us know.

However, that’s not to say Strange Days is merely eye candy and fancy camera work. Like you’d expect from a Cameron script, it oozes originality, the internal logic is so impressive it withstands examination and the characterisation remains in the foreground despite some vein-bulging set pieces. As for our ‘hero’ Lenny, Fiennes flawlessly portrays a once-good man whose bad experiences and past-love have reduced him into a sleazy “Santa of the subconscious” dealer. In supporting terms, Bassett is strong (literally) though underdeveloped, Sizemore is capable despite occasionally nibbling scenery and Michael Wincott is perfectly husky as resident ‘bad guy’ of the piece.

Strange Days is another great ‘Cameron’ movie and deserves to be more well-known that it is. A Hollywood movie with creativity, flair and bundles of originality? These are strange days indeed.

Strange Days - Philadelphia City Paper Cynthia Fuchs

Point of view from a car's backseat: You're getting talked at by a couple of guys putting stockings on their heads — you're on your way to rob a restaurant. At the scene, you spill out of the car with your gun, rush through the kitchen, grab at a woman trying to get away. Your voice, male: "Where you goin', bitch?!" Lights outside, cops. "Fuck!" You're running, upstairs. Jumping from building roof to roof, in a panic to escape. You're falling. You're going to die. You're... done. This character named Lenny (Ralph Fiennes), he yanks off his headset: "You know I hate the zap when they die," he tells his buddy Tick (Richard Edson), the weasely dealer who supplied the disk. "Ruins my whole day."

So, okay. Plug pulled. You're not watching some Cops-backwards reality-TV episode, you're watching this movie, Kathryn Bigelow's Strange Days. Jacked-in, jangly and ambitious, the film has a lot on its mind. It's terrific as spectacle (beautifully filmed and edited), not so good as narrative, but it's most compelling as something to think through after you see it. It's an imperfectly hyper-realized nightmare, the collision of at least three central storylines: the impending millennium, psychokilling and the L.A. Uprising revisited. Living in L.A. 1999, Lenny's an ex-cop street hustler, dealing in SQUID (Superconducting Quantum Interference Device) disks, which allow users to download sensory experiences recorded by someone else (someone committing, for instance, robbery or rape). While he won't deal in snuff disks, Lenny's product is strictly black market, which means his clients are rich and/or desperate, they're suits and junkies. "It's about what you can't have," he tells one anxious wiretrip-virgin. "I'm the Santa Claus of the subconscious."

Lenny's own tripping extends beyond his gnarly sense of self-importance, to his obsessive lust-love for his ex, Faith (Juliette Lewis as Mallory after Mickey), a post-punk singer now hooked up with miscreant producer Philo (typecast Michael Wincott). Bereft and ambiguously tragic, Lenny routinely goes home after a hard day's street-work to download his own memories of fucking the significantly named Faith, while the neon and noise outside his scuzzy apartment remind us that the end of the century is near. The camera plays Lenny's part: "I love your eyes, Lenny," Faith tells us. "I love the way they see."

This idea, "the way they see," becomes the film's relentless, if mostly muddled, focus, more precisely, the way that vision and responsibility (social, political, ethical) are connected. This point isn't so original — it goes directly to current concerns about tabloid culture and mass-voyeurism — and the film splits it into initially parallel plots, one about a rapist-murderer and the other, the assassination of a rap artist, Jeriko One (Glenn Plummer). Lenny's the immediate conduit for the connection of these stories: The murderer sends him disks of the experience (extending the viewer-implicating premise of Michael Powell's Peeping Tom), and someone else gives him a disk that "witnesses" Jeriko One's death.

But if Lenny's the conduit, he's only standing in as a kind of ur-viewer, standing in for "us," the white guy anti-hero who can't quite get it right, who's increasingly dependent on his guardian angel, Mace (Angela Bassett). Lenny's responsibility, his guilt, has to do with his passivity, his willingness to let things happen around him, to watch and "take" Faith in his head forever. The film sets up a continuum of indicted spectating: viewing as visceral sensation as culpability. Linking the rape-murder and the assassination in this way is an astutely political gesture. And if this link is somewhat convoluted, sometimes vexingly obvious, it is crucial, I think, for understanding what this movie does do well, which is question what it's doing as it does it.

What it doesn't do so well is hold together. Like Bigelow's Blue Steel and Point Break, Strange Days is fairly upfront about its incoherence. It's like the movie is supposing that you already know what its formula will do — that Lenny will learn about love and loyalty, the psychokiller will suffer a terrible end, the end of the century will happen — in a climactically over-the-top street-throng scene (apparently the filmmakers were able to charge L.A. citizens $10 a head to party for this mighty simu-celebration), and a corny please-don't-go-there resolution.

But in the midst of all this, the movie offers something else that doesn't typically show up in a cyberpunkish, white-folks-at-the-end-of-the-world scenario. This something else is the rap star's murder, filtered through Mace (Angela Bassett), a limo-driver-bodyguard who's also Lenny's friend. She shows up relatively late, about a third of the way into the film, but Mace's astute pragmatism (not to mention her ability to kick serious ass) reframes what you're seeing, so that the various plot strands come together in potent, troubling ways.

Mace's mix of pragmatism and romanticism (she's a working mother who struggles with her affection for deadbeat Lenny) drives the film to a complicated examination of the differences between public and private seeing. These complications evolve with regard to the disk recording of Jeriko One's murder: Lenny wants to take it to the "media," but she understands the situation very differently, from within a specific community — at one point we see her with her black neighbors, with tag-along Lenny looking especially pale and out of place. She sees that his impulse is hopelessly hopeful, that the media are necessarily complicit in social orders and surveillances, that exposing the murderers — that is, "the truth" — won't change anything.

Though the film sells her out at the end, it's hard to dispel the lingering sense that Mace is right to worry about this, that ways of seeing, by communities and individuals, are incalculably divided and divisive, that they're simultaneously personal and public, but also that falling back on essentialism ("That's my opinion, deal with it") can't address many problems of living in a world with other people. (And in this context, the trite ending makes some vague, if disappointing, sense.) This is what the film does well: It asks questions that it can't possibly resolve.

Raging Bull [Mike Lorefice]

The Onion A.V. Club [Nathan Rabin]

Pajiba [Drew Morton]

Deep Focus [Bryant Frazer]

Tucson Weekly [Zachary Woodruff]

Parallax View [Kathleen Murphy] also reviewing NEAR DARK, originally published in Film Comment Volume 31, Number 5, September/October 1995

@ Moria - The Science Fiction, Horror and Fantasy Film Review [Richard Scheib]

ReelViews [James Berardinelli]

Rob Gonsalves - eFilmCritic!

Dragan Antulov

Strange Days - QNetwork Entertainment Portal Theatrical review

The Sci-Fi Movie Page James O’Ehley

Movie House Commentary [Greg Wroblewski]

DVD Verdict [Mike Jackson]

Home Theater Info [Doug MacLean]

Film Threat [Michael Dequina]

Audio Video Revolution [Abbie Bernstein]

Infini-Tropolis Arto

Mark R. Leeper

The Spinning Image [Graeme Clark]

Movie Reviews UK Damian Cannon

Movie Ram-blings Ram Samudrala

HorrorNews.net

Epinions [Jon Turner]

Edinburgh U Film Society [Keith H. Brown]

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

Gods of Filmmaking review of Strange Days

TV Guide [Harlan Jacobson]

San Francisco Examiner [Scott Rosenberg]

San Francisco Chronicle [Edward Guthmann]

Roger Ebert's Far Flung Correspondents [Michael Mirasol]

Chicago Sun-Times [Roger Ebert]

New York Times [Janet Maslin] (registration req'd)

Strange Days Film script

Strange Days (film) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

THE HURT LOCKER A- 94

USA (131 mi) 2008

"The rush of battle is a potent and often lethal addiction, for war is a drug." —Chris Hedges, war correspondent

As the former wife of James Cameron (THE TERMINATOR, ALIENS, TITANIC), we’ll try not to hold that against her, but it’s hard not to be influenced by the maker of such monumentally huge Hollywood blockbusters, probably all were the most expensive movies ever made in their time. As the director of POINT BREAK (1991), however, one is reminded that its notoriety in film history is not as the best surfer-heist movie (Is there another one?), but for what has been voted as the all time dumbest scene in the history of cinema, ranked #1 here: Amazing Planet: 49 dumbest movie moments. However, it’s clear that whoever wrote this movie (Mark Boal) has an intimate knowledge of the subject at hand, as he’s a freelance writer who spent time in Iraq embedded with a real bomb squad that with each and every assignment was given the most dangerous, life-threatening missions.  It’s a meticulously detailed portrait of a 3-member special Explosive Ordinance Disposal (EOD) unit in Iraq in 2004 that attempts to de-activate explosives. One man is the Intelligence Officer, Sgt. Sanborn (Anthony Mackie), another covers the perimeter with his weapon, Specialist Owen Eldridge (Brian Geraghty), while the third, Sgt. Matt Thompson (Guy Pearce), attempts to dismantle the explosive device while communicating with the Intelligence officer, almost always under a hostile environment, as anyone nearby, we soon discover, could be responsible for the explosive and may have a remote to detonate it at any moment. In the tense opening scene, as Thompson can be heard breathing heavy under his miserably suffocating special suit in a country where the temperature routinely soars above 120 degrees, a man with a cell phone is identified out of the corner of his eye at the last minute, too late for Thompson, the leader of the unit who runs for his life but ends up making the ultimate sacrifice. Enter his replacement, Staff Sgt. William James (the uncommonly good Jeremy Renner), fresh from a tour in Afghanistan, one of the most unlikely of men, as he wins no popularity contests, an older, independent guy who sets aside all the guidelines which are designed to protect him and works in his own aloof way, usually at odds with his team who invariably lose contact with him, yet he’s driven to do the job right, which means staying alive.

It's a confoundingly different, but no less accurate, portrait of war that focuses on the unthinkable violence as seen through the minds of the men that are expected to carry out the most dangerous missions. Without any pop songs to amp up the mood, or other heavy handed Hollywood trappings designed to manipulate the audience, one becomes entranced with the narrow focus of the film, which follows this unit on a series of assignments, much of it near wordless or with long quiet pauses, as we soon discover James is extraordinarily good at what he does. He works with extreme calmness under duress, but the zone of his concentration is so narrow at times that he may put others at risk simply by ignoring them, which he does frequently, but he’s helpful as a soldier in ways one needs to be, offering guidance and support to those less experienced or on the verge of freaking out from all the stress. At one point, we see Eldridge intensely concentrating at a war video game, where lurking behind various structures is the enemy, where the object is to immediately recognize friend or foe, placing the brain on instant alert, a similar state of mind when in the field. He visits a doctor regularly to help him sort out these “issues,” as sometimes it’s hard to tell life from death. This film is as much about psychological interiors, as this unit constantly sweeps unknown areas that have been determined too dangerous for regular foot soldiers, so the camera becomes the visceral eye of the unit, never knowing what lies behind each door or wall or window. The audience is mesmerized by the immediacy of the action, which is continually perceived here as the unseen danger, filmed entirely in expectation mode, wondering who and where the enemy (or hidden explosive devise) may be and what will happen next. One of the more intense scenes in the movie is filmed in near stillness, where the unit gets caught under intense sniper fire and after an initial state of panic has to recompose themselves and figure a way out with military precision and skill. Another is filmed in near blackness, as they attempt a night search mission in a nearby neighborhood after a suicide bomber blast attacks the base, where after a round of shots, two men can be seen carrying Eldridge down some back alleys. In rescuing him, James shoots at all three, killing both kidnappers but also shooting Eldridge in the leg, which pisses him off to no end, reminding James that sometimes he pushes too far, calling him an adrenaline junkie, as they’re a bomb unit, so why were they doing a door to door search, which is the job of a foot soldier?

There’s two other interesting scenes of note, one where a commander recognizes James’s bomb expertise, calling him a wild man, and commends him in front of all the men, forcing him to admit that to date, he has successfully de-activated 873 bombs. This hardly fits the idea of noble and selfless combat, sometimes embraced as “the myth of war,” where we enshrine war in words of glory instead of the mindnumbing reality of death, and instead veers awfully close to a profession that embraces death first hand, as that’s an astronomical number of times for one man to tempt death. He becomes so comfortable with that feeling, with death as his constant companion, that everyone else in his life becomes meaningless, as they are completely outside his mindset during that moment of truth. Another, of course, is when his tour of duty is over and he returns home, and despite constant stories of death and bloodshed, it’s only a matter of time before he’s back over there again, as someone of this expertise is like a prisoner who’s more comfortable locked up, in a world that he’s used to, where being on the outside makes him feel uncomfortable, which is how James feels about being home. It’s like the Myth of Sisyphus, where he constantly has to push that rock up the mountainside, only to do it again and again, always having to tempt death in order to feel alive. War is hell, and here it becomes synonymous with the intensity that comes with the

meticulous precision of his profession, which may be the only thing in his life that he’s that good at, but he’s playing russian roulette. Interesting that in a movie theater, this same death wish becomes part of the viewer’s fascination, as we can’t take our eyes off this lurid war game, much like the Knight in Bergman’s THE SEVENTH SEAL (1957), a man who lives in the shadow of death that follows him around relentlessly, where one is both attracted and repulsed by a force that taunts and toys with him to eventually succumb, eventually deciding that resistance is futile, as they are forever joined in a terrible dance of death, playing musical chairs, until eventually a chair won’t be there waiting for him.

Time Out Chicago (Keith Uhlich) review [4/6]

It’s quite likely that Staff Sgt. William James (Renner)—the bomb-defusing expert at the center of the terrific Iraq War action film The Hurt Locker—was named by screenwriter Mark Boal after a certain pragmatic 19th-century philosopher. On the cleverness-to-profundity scale, that falls somewhere between calling a desert-island survivalist Locke and christening a living stuffed tiger Hobbes. But James is more than his moniker, not so much larger-than-life as eternally engaged, gruntlike, with one thing he does better than anyone else.

Renner, whose half-muscled pudginess calls to mind Fassbinder circa Fox and His Friends, gets inside James’s skin in ways that a more seasoned celebrity could not. It’s a role that might have easily have come across as one-note, especially with a story that toggles between machismo-laden home-base drama and perilously prolonged fieldwork. Yet in this actor’s hands, the character comes off with a credible working-class clarity—he’s less concerned with heroics than with doing a good job and pissing the night away.

The James-free prologue, which features the first of two star cameos, sets the stakes high. But Bigelow doesn’t mine traditional suspense so much as impart a queasy feeling of monotony. The Hurt Locker is all about repetition. Superimposed titles count down the days left in James and his squad’s rotation, though there’s little sense of movement toward an ultimate end. As the opening Chris Hedges quote (“war is a drug”) suggests, there are no accomplishments in this line of work, only an unending round of highs, lows and in-betweens.

Movie review: Soldiers battle addiction of war in 'Hurt Locker ...   Sean P. Means from The Salt Lake Tribune

Too many movies about the Iraq War are so eager to say something about the war -- and the warmongering politicians who blundered us into it -- that they say little about the people fighting it.

The riveting drama "The Hurt Locker" speaks volumes about war, and the toll war takes on the men who fight and die in uniform, precisely because it says very little about the particulars of this war.

It's Baghdad in 2004, and the members of Bravo Company, an Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) squad, are tasked with the unenviable and dangerous job of disarming roadside bombs. It's hot, sweaty, stressful work, and sometimes men are killed doing it.

When this happens to someone in Bravo Company, a new disarmament expert is assigned to the unit. He's Staff Sgt. William James (played by Jeremy Renner), who arrives in Baghdad after a stint in Afghanistan. He's a hot dog who ignores military protocol and sometimes basic safety -- which worries his squadmates, Sgt. J.T. Sanborn (Anthony Mackie) and Specialist Owen Eldridge (Brian Geraghty), who think James might get himself, or them, killed.

Screenwriter Mark Boal, a former journalist who collaborated with Paul Haggis on "In the Valley of Elah," pens an intense story about the thrill of battle and the terrible costs of that excitement. He doesn't give his characters ponderous dialogue about how the Iraq War was started or is being waged. After all, these are soldiers, men too busy trying to stay alive to worry about political questions above their pay grade.

Director Kathryn Bigelow ("Point Break") re-creates the Iraqi settings with such detail that you feel the heat rising from the desert sand and the city asphalt. She creates some heart-stopping set pieces around Bravo Company's bomb-disposal episodes, highlighting the fear and dread that surround the EOD unit's dangerous work. And she draws strong performances from the cast, particularly Renner ("28 Days Later") as a soldier dancing on the edge of death.

"The Hurt Locker" opens with a quote from war correspondent Chris Hedges: "The rush of battle is a potent and often lethal addiction, for war is a drug." The movie makes clear that James is a junkie for the adrenaline-and-testosterone speedball provided by war. But, as the audience holds its collective breath every time James cuts a wire, we realize that we're just as addicted to that rush -- even though our addiction is sending good men and women to their deaths.

Seattle PostGlobe [Sean Axmaker]

Set in the current Iraq war, after the proclamation of "Mission Accomplished" and the transformation of a battlefield army into an occupation force, "The Hurt Locker" follows the finals days in the rotation of a bomb disposal unit (the days count down with each mission) as it gets new cowboy team leader, Staff Sgt. William James (Jeremy Renner), a maverick who steps up to a bomb like a gunfighter in an old west showdown, tough and swaggering and on his own terms.

James doesn't follow the rules. Every bomb is a challenge he refuses to back down from, even when the intelligence expert on the three-man team, Sgt. Sanborn (Anthony Mackie), counsels him that he's vulnerable to snipers. James simply tosses the headset and assumes his teammates will watch his back, scanning the windows and the roofs for any potential gunman, which in a busy urban street surrounded by apartment buildings and open roofs can be myriad.

This may be the same sun-bleached Iraq of dusty dirt streets and open deserts we've seen in other Iraq war films, but it's a different kind of movie. Bigelow's handheld camerawork roams like a spotter's eyes, always surveying, always getting another look, and the cuts are shifts of perspective that both to keep you off-balance and give a sense of how vigilant they are. The digital photography is razor sharp with a clarity both hyper-real and adrenaline-charged. Bigelow shows us how they see the world out of necessity.

In one stand-out sequence, a desert stop to help a unit of private soldiers (led by guest star Ralph Fiennes) back from a bounty hunt becomes an ambush. It's the closest the film gets to a classic war movie: they become a team centered by James, who serves as spotter to Sanborn on the precision long-range rifle and gives verbal support to the less-steely Spc. Eldridge (Brian Geraghty) watching their backs.

So many war movies get the chaos of battle and the suddenness of death. Bigelow is just as interested in the stillness, the patience, the importance of waiting until you have some certainty that there is no one else out there waiting to kill you. These guys do their jobs, trust one another to do their jobs and stay vigilant, and team leader James, up now seen as just a maverick without rule, shows himself to be an authentic leader and a crack soldier.

Jeremy Renner is remarkably effective as James, a man of action in the manner of a Howard Hawks hero: he's defined by what he does and how he does it, not what he says. James is the best at what he does, and when he does it he is in control. When he's not, he's just another guy looking for his place in the world. There's no political message here, nobody questioning their mission or arguing policy. These are just men doing their jobs in an unforgiving workplace, and Bigelow, more than anything, is interested in how they do it, because the how is the difference between going home at the end of the rotation in one piece or not.

A quote by Chris Hedges opens the film: "… war is a drug." And sure, we see the rush of danger and the adrenaline high of combat, but by the end of the film the phrase takes on new, more troubling meaning. Home from his rotation, James is lost, unsettled, uncommunicative. He's been trained to kill and to survive and to do the most dangerous job on Earth – disarm bombs – and the army has not seen fit to retrain him for civilian life. Becoming the best comes at a cost and he bears the brunt of it … until he gives in to the drug once again.

Kathryn Bigelow won the 2009 Golden Space Needle Award for Best Director. I hope an Oscar is in the offing, for she fully deserves it.

'The Hurt Locker': A Near-Perfect War Film - TIME   Richard Corliss from Time magazine, September 4, 2008

The U.S. Army bomb disposal unit has three men: an intelligence officer, the specialist who covers the scene with his rifle and the staff sergeant who walks up to the device and tries to turn it off. Today there's a report of one on a Baghdad street. Mission simple to define — "Let them know that if they're gonna leave a bomb on the side of the road," the staff sergeant says, "we're gonna blow up their f---in' road" — but way harder to accomplish. As he walks toward the contaminated area wearing a heavily insulated space suit on a 130-degree day, he catches the corner-eyesight of a man about to use a cell phone. The spaceman turns and runs. Too late: BOOM! The bomb detonates and so does he. Blood seeps down his helmet visor like red rain on the wrong side of a car windshield.

This is the first scene of The Hurt Locker, which has its world premiere here at the Venice Film Festival before playing Sunday at the Toronto fest. No U.S. opening or distributor has been secured, but that should change once festival people strap themselves in for this dynamite drive through the Iraq occupation. (Make that war.) Except for a few digressive scenes — a solo sortie of personal vengeance, a conversation about what it all means — that could easily be cut from the 2 hr. 11 min. running time, The Hurt Locker is a near-perfect movie about men in war, men at work. Through sturdy imagery and violent action, it says that even Hell needs heroes.

The director, Kathryn Bigelow, has paraded her adroitness with complex stories about oddball characters in two curious subgenres: Near Dark (1987) was the all-time teenage vampire love story, Point Break (1991) the all-time surfer-heist movie. The scriptwriter, Marc Boal, is a journalist for Rolling Stone, The Village Voice and Playboy, which ran a story that Paul Haggis expanded into the sharpest of last year's Iraq-related dramas, In the Valley of Elah. These two filmmakers have pooled their complementary talents to make one of the rare war movies that's strong but not shrill, and sympathetic to guys doing an impossible job.

With the death of their boss, and 38 days left in their rotation, the two survivors — Sgt. J.T. "Bomber Mike" Sanborn (Anthony Mackie) and Specialist Owen Eldridge (Brian Geraghty) get a new guy, Staff Sgt. William James (Jeremy Renner), who lacks the dead man's leadership skills or his bluff camaraderie. James doesn't say much, just does his own thing, which is to keep little pieces of Baghdad from blowing up.

On his first mission, James releases a cloud of smoke, protecting him from sharpshooters but obliterating his comrades' view of him. (There's another company ready to cover him closer to the action.) A taxi has just edged toward the suspected device; he tells the driver to back out of the area. No movement. James walks closer, repeats the order; stillness. He puts his gun against the man's head: "Wanna back up?" The car slides into reverse. "Well, if he wasn't an insurgent," somebody says, "he sure is now." Finding a string nearly buried in the street dirt, James finds it attached to seven bombs and matter-of-factly snaps the wire for each. OK, that's done. Piece of cake, seven slices.

It's a creepy marvel to watch James in action. He has the cool aplomb, analytical acumen and attention to detail of a great athlete, or a master psychopath, maybe both. A quote from former New York Times Iraq expert Christopher Hedges that opens the film says, "War is a drug." Movies often editorialize on this theme: the man who's a misfit back home but an efficient, imaginative killing machine on the battlefield. Bigelow and Boal aren't after that. They're saying that, in a hellish peace-keeping operation like the U.S. deployment in Iraq and Afghanistan (James' previous assignment), the Army needs guys like James.

Some people have the luck or curse to do what they're supremely good at; and the exercise of that skill gives pleasure, even if the job carries the imminent risk of death. The talent that another man might have for making bombs, James has for finding and silencing them. It's not just his job, it's his vocation. Whether he's stripping a car piece by piece or cutting open a boy's stomach to pull out an IED, James has the instincts, let's say the genius, to do it. "Mission accomplished" is not a Presidential PR phrase, it's a definition of this man at work. It'd be a crime not to apply his expertise to saving lives. James is also in it for the fun. We learn that he has a wife and a baby back home, but Baghdad is where he feels most alive — performing a task that could end his life. If defusing bombs isn't a drug for James, it's a stimulant, pure caffeine, his headiest, most essential adrenaline.

A genius makes his own rules; a soldier isn't supposed to. Before examining the suspect car, James doffs his space suit; at this close range it won't offer much protection. ("If I'm gonna die, I'm gonna be comfortable.") More recklessly, he tosses his headset on the ground, so he doesn't have to hear Sanborn's pleas to get the hell out of there. Groups of men have gathered at storefronts, on the balconies and roofs of apartment houses, and James' lone-gunman bravado could jeopardize the mission. But a genius has to stay focused. There's got to be a bomb in here somewhere; ah, under the hood. Though his mates aren't crazy about his methods — Sanborn sucker-punches James in the jaw after this little escapade — they'll come to appreciate him. "Not very good with people, are you," Eldridge tells James, "but you're a good warrior."

The heart of the film is a half dozen sequences, most of them on bomb-squad detail, one long, terrific one showing the unit holed up with some Brit mercenaries (led by Ralph Fiennes, the star of Bigelow's 1995 futuristic movie Strange Days) fighting off fire from al-Qaeda-in-Iraq types out in the desert. Boal and Bigelow know that there's enough tension in the act of walking up to a bomb and trying to defuse it; they don't have to amp up the suspense with theatrics.

The appearances by some familiar faces — Fiennes, Guy Pearce, David Morse — are all too brief. But the three leads don't make you long for star power. They're fine: Mackie as the veteran who plays by the book, Geraghty as the subordinate with jumpy nerves, and especially Renner. He's had supporting roles in North Country, 28 Days Later and The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, but this is his big chance, and he seizes it. He's ordinary, pudgy-faced, quiet, and at first seems to lack the screen charisma to carry a film. That supposition vanishes in a few minutes, as Renner slowly reveals the strength, confidence and unpredictability of a young Russell Crowe. The merging of actor and character is one of the big things to love about this movie. The other is that its tone, of steely calm, takes its cue from the character it so acutely observes. It's as if James was not only the subject of the movie — he made it.

Later I may think of a better depiction of the helplessness and heroism attending the U.S. presence in the war on terrorism, but for now I'll say this one's the tops.

The Hurt Locker Amy Taubin from Film Comment, May/June 2009

Village Voice (Scott Foundas) review

SpoutBlog [Karina Longworth]

New York Magazine (David Edelstein) review

Salon (Stephanie Zacharek) review

Christian Science Monitor (Peter Rainer) review [A-]

The Valley of Elah is much, much better than The Hurt Locker zunguzungu May 17, 2009

The Hurt Locker’s Addiction to Detachment, and Ours zunguzungu March 6, 2010

Cinematical (James Rocchi) review also including an interview June 25, 2009: Interview: 'The Hurt Locker' Director Kathryn Bigelow and Screenwriter Mark Boal

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson) review

CBC.ca Arts review Katrina Onstad

PopMatters [Bill Gibron]

Slant Magazine review Fernando F. Croce

Recent History JR Jones from The Reader

The Hurt Locker Cynthia Fuchs from Pop Matters

Robert Cashill, Popdose

Twitch (Todd Brown) review

eFilmCritic.com (Peter Sobczynski) review [5/5]

The New Yorker (David Denby) review

Pajiba (Daniel Carlson) review

Beyond Hollywood review Nix

Slate (Dana Stevens) review

ReelViews (James Berardinelli) review [3.5/4]

The Hurt Locker (2009)   Eric Armstrong from The Moving Arts Film Journal

filmcritic.com (Chris Cabin) review [4/5]

Lessons of Darkness [Nick Schager]

DVD Talk - Theatrical [Jamie S. Rich]

eFilmCritic.com (Rob Gonsalves) review [5/5]

Moving Pictures magazine [Mike D'Angelo]

Film Freak Central Review [Jefferson Robbins]

Movie Shark Deblore [debbie lynn elias]

Eye for Film ("Trinity") review [4.5/5]

Screen International (Fionnuala Halligan) review

Paste Magazine review Robert Davis

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams] also: See Sam Adams' interview with The Hurt Locker director Kathryn Bigelow.

Interview: Kathryn Bigelow Interview by Jeremy Kay from Screen International, August 29, 2008

Entertainment Weekly review [A] Lisa Schwarzbaum

The Hollywood Reporter review Deborah Young at Venice

Variety (Derek Elley) review

Observer/Guardian UK [Nick James]

The Globe and Mail (Liam Lacey) review [4/4]

Boston Globe review [3.5/4] Wesley Morris

The Boston Phoenix (Peter Keough) review

War film draws veterans' ire Christian Davenport from The Washington Post, February 28, 1010

Austin Chronicle (Kimberley Jones) review [4/5]

San Francisco Chronicle (Mick LaSalle) review [4/4]

Los Angeles Times (Kenneth Turan) review

Chicago Tribune (Michael Phillips) review

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [4/4]

The New York Times (A.O. Scott) review

Bombs Away Criterion essay for the Powell-Pressburger film The Small Back Room (1949), March 10, 2010

BOOKS OF THE TIMES; A Reporter Scrutinizes War and Its Myths - The ... War Is a Force That Gives Us Meaning, by Chris Hedges (211 pages), book review by Robert Mann from The New York Times, October 22, 2002

War is a force that gives us meaning Chris Hedges, Amnesty International NOW magazine, Winter 2002, from Third World Traveler

INTERVIEW: Chris Hedges Interview by Bob Abernethy from Religion & Ethics Newsweekly, January 31, 2003

Poynter Online - Chris Hedges on War and the Press Interview by Robin Sloan from Poynter Online, March 25, 2003

War Is a Force That Gives Us Meaning - Wikipedia, the free ...

Mark Boal - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

The Hurt Locker - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

ZERO DARK THIRTY A- 93

USA (157 mi) 2012 Official site

If anyone had suggested one of the leading Oscar contenders would be a movie about the successful hunt in tracking down public enemy number one, the leader of al Qaeda, otherwise known as the “big man” or “UBL,” Osama bin Laden, many would think this had movie-of-the-week written all over it, an easy subject to exploit and turn into a forgettable piece of feel good jingoism. And yes, *that* movie was made, SEAL TEAM SIX: THE RAID ON OSAMA BIN LADEN (2012), created by a group of people that turned the raid into a work of fiction, completely contradicted by a true account that was written by ex-Navy SEAL Team 6 member Mark Bissonnette in his book No Easy Day, a first hand account off the attack and killing of Osama bin Laden. What’s interesting is that screenwriter Mark Boal and director Kathryn Bigelow were already involved in making a movie exposing the unsuccessful decade-long CIA search for bin Laden when events on the ground generated a complete rewrite after he was discovered and killed in May 2011. What follows is a meticulously designed chronological procedural, an extremely well researched piece of speculative history, based upon several meetings with the CIA and Lawrence Wright’s Pulitzer prize winning journalistic exposé, The Looming Tower: Al-Qaeda and the Road to 9/11, which describes the background for several terrorist attacks, some prior to 9/11, suggesting the subsequent investigations afterwards were largely bungled by a lack of cooperation between the FBI and the CIA, each answering to their own bureaucratic hierarchy. In a rather provocative opening, Bigelow opens her film with a black screen, hearing only the sounds of emergency 911 phone recordings where people are desperately calling for help after the World Trade Tower attacks on 9/11. Immediately afterwards, though some years later, we see the American response, a graphically brutal CIA prison interrogation that involves a continuously bound detainee subjected to beatings, sleep deprivation, sadistic humiliation, waterboarding, and other means of torture, all designed to extract information that is not forthcoming, even after the barbaric treatment.

While some, including the current CIA director Michael Morell (Acting CIA Head: Zero Dark Thirty Isn’t Realistic) have suggested the film either glorifies (Zero Dark Thirty: new torture-glorifying film wins raves | Glenn Greenwald | Comment is free | guardian.co.uk) or inaccurately depicts the use of torture, especially as it so graphically introduces the audience straightaway into the dreadful details of the war on terror, but despite refusing to spare the audience from seeing various acts of torture, or shying away from exposing our nation’s culpability in these secret interrogations, always hidden away in some secret location identified as black cells, there’s not a shred of evidence to suggest Bigelow has any ulterior motives. But that’s not stopping the U.S. Senate Intelligence Committee, headed by California’s Democratic Senator Dianne Feinstein, from launching an investigation into the CIA’s involvement with the movie (Senate investigating contact between CIA and “Zero Dark Thirty” filmmakers ), like some deep government secret was revealed, which is surely a big waste of time. If anything, Bigelow’s film is surprisingly free of political content and instead hones in on her slowly evolving narrative, which is the decade-long search for bin Laden. When these interrogation methods fail to prevent other al Qaeda terrorist acts from occurring, the CIA interrogation team comprised of Dan (Jason Clark), the chief interrogator, and newly arrived junior agent Maya (Jessica Chastain), believe they’ve failed. But since their detainees are in confinement with no access to actual news, and are already sleep deprived, they cleverly decide to blur reality by rewarding them for supposedly providing helpful information that prevented the attacks, offering food as a gesture of good faith while continuing to prod them for more specific details, suggesting their fictitious cooperation helped save lives. Overseen by CIA station chief Joseph Bradley (Kyle Chandler), we soon learn this is a different kind of war where we’re actually operating in very murky waters. Sifting through the false leads where lies often reveal more than the truth, as lies are used to protect something vitally important, Maya sits in front of multiple computer screens evaluating hundreds of similar interrogation interviews, coldly ignoring streaming footage of terrorist explosions that the audience sees, hoping to find some shred of evidence leading them back to the “big man.” What Maya quickly learns is the CIA is a male dominated culture that plants headlines, that leads the public into believing whatever the government thinks it needs to hear, where stopping bombers before they attack makes big headlines, while steadfastly matching up names with clues offers some potential degree of success down the road, but doesn’t pack the immediate punch they’re looking for.

Much of the beginning shows an aimless pattern of shifting allegiances and intelligence priorities, where as soon as Maya is onto something, her superiors are no longer paying attention, as their interest lies elsewhere. No longer focused on bin Laden, they’re instead caught up in new developments, which include taking political cover over the discovery of American atrocities in Guantánamo and Abu Ghraib, where several superiors have taken the fall. Bigelow shows an often confused picture of muddled bureaucratic disinterest, with every segment coded in military vernacular, where the audience may have a difficult time following just what’s going on, until a random televised speech by newly elected President Obama brings an end to their interrogating methods. It’s only at this moment, where Maya’s targeted focus continues to be tracking down bin Laden and killing him, cutting off the head of al Qaeda, which like a laser beam, brings the entire picture into focus through the developments of her character. Despite all the other power plays and political shenanigans, which continue under Obama, funding for her requested Pakistani surveillance details are not forthcoming, where she’s attempting to track down bin Laden’s own personal courier, his most trusted aide that connects him to his operations around the world even as he remains secluded. No one except Maya believes this is vital intelligence, as the courier is not connected to any potential terrorist act. As everyone in the picture is abandoning interest in her lead, still looking for the more glamorous headline stories, she has to literally threaten and coerce her boss, Joseph Bradley, into action, as otherwise she’d be relegated to the backrooms somewhere as a forgotten entity, an ancient relic. Actually shot in Jordan, Afghanistan, and some mobile units in Pakistan, this picks up the adrenaline-laced intensity of the film, as the operations in the food bazaars and overcrowded streets of Pakistan are so much more dangerously riveting than similar scenes in Ben Affleck’s Argo (2012), where they’re able to tap the phone of the courier using the cell tower signal, but they continuously lose him in his constant street movement, where they can’t predict his behavior, but come tantalizingly close sometimes until finally they get a photograph, which for Maya, is like an answered prayer.

When they’re able to trace the courier to a heavily fortified compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan, for Maya, this is instant paydirt, but for the rest of the intelligence community, they need more, still speculating on what it all means, using satellite imagery to determine how many people can be seen, also confirming than one man is never seen and never leaves the compound. When the CIA Director (James Gandolfini as Leon Panetta) reviews what they have, examining a replicated structure on a table, Maya can’t even sit at the main table with the men, and must take a chair in the back of the room. When the Director asks who she is, Maya answers defiantly, “I’m the motherfucker who found this place!” Later, when the President is actually considering his options, the Director and Maya have a curiously amusing conversation, as due to confidentiality, they can’t actually talk about anything that they’re working on, so they have little to say, which speaks volumes. But apparently the CIA recruited her out of high school. All of this meticulously accumulated background information reveals next to nothing about any of the significant characters in the intelligence community, which is the way it should be working in such a shadowy environment where personal lives are routinely sacrificed for obsessive detail in their work, where they are literally married to the job. At about the 2-hour mark, they’re given the go ahead to send in the Canaries, as they’re called, as they still don’t know what to expect inside the compound, all except Maya who is 100% certain bin Laden is there, but she’s the only one. Her confidence is enough for the SEALS, however, who barely bat an eye, as the depiction of this highly select military personnel is almost casual, where they’re really the last in a long line of secret operatives, where they may personify the guts and glory, but really they’re just the mop up crew. Somebody else had to figure it all out.

Shown in real time, taking a little less than the actual operation itself, the Navy SEALS put on their night vision goggles and carry out the mission, seen in a green light, where they have to use explosives to get through half a dozen heavily fortified iron doors. Inside is mayhem—men, women, and children, many screaming, several of whom are killed. For these guys, it’s just doing their jobs, painstakingly sweeping room by room, floor by floor, shooting anyone who doesn’t immediately surrender, overwhelming the enemy by superior numbers and firepower, also having to think on their feet, as those guarding the outer perimeter are perhaps most at risk, as the surrounding neighborhood gets suspicious when a helicopter goes down and crashes inside the walls of the compound, and more helicopters keep buzzing around overhead, waiting to pick up the SEALS once the mission is over. Everything is timed like clockwork, where they get in and get out in about 25 minutes. This revelatory sequence is the centerpiece of the film. Even knowing the eventual outcome, it’s loaded with tension and suspense, where dressed in their gear they resemble an astronaut mission to Mars, as it has an otherworldly quality about it, like something seen in a John Carpenter movie, yet it proceeds with caution and thoughtful rationale, every movement measured until it is done. When they return and Maya (known by the SEALS as “the girl”) identifies the body as bin Laden, it’s only then that you start to wonder who is this force behind the operation? Is it a fictitious person or is it real? Known only under the code name “Jen” in No Easy Day, Maya is based on a real and still-active agent working for the CIA, the kind of person who, if you talked to her, wouldn’t really have much of anything to say, an anomaly that’s likely never received this much exposure. Enjoy it while you can, unsparing as it is, minimalist, stripped down, and increasingly suspenseful, as it’s as close to the real thing as you’re going to find. She apparently got a cash bonus when the mission was successful and the Distinguished Intelligence Medal, but missed out on a promotion, perhaps because of an alienating email she sent out to the entire agency reminding them how they fought and obstructed her every step of the way. Her colleagues are supposedly envious of all the Hollywood attention she has received. Remember, in the male dominated intelligence community, the big honchos are the ones that are supposed to be making the headlines, not “the girl” that no one believed.

Exclaim! [Robert Bell]

When Zero Dark Thirty (the cinematic depiction of the decade-long manhunt for Osama Bin Laden, following the 2001 terrorist attacks) opens, CIA Interrogator Dan (Jason Clarke) is acclimating the wilful and determined Maya (Jessica Chastain) to the harsh realities of torture. Waterboarding, beating and humiliating the Al Qaeda suspect, he puffs out his chest and asserts, "I will break you."Maya is visibly disturbed by the process but asserts, when confronted with a plea by the suspect, "You have the power to save yourself by telling the truth." It's a mantra she reiterates with suspects throughout the film, realizing the futility of alpha-male posturing and aggression as confessional instigators.

She's aware that the male ego can be manipulated with flattery and a sense of control, no matter how tenuous and transparent that control might be. This is why her later exploitation of the tortured suspect — using information about a terrorist attack he'd be unaware of from his 24/7 cage — helps open up the door to a theory that suggests the key to finding Bin Laden is in tracking his most trusted courier, Abu Ahmed al Kuwaiti.

As usual, Bigelow's treatise on gender roles is masked by an impressively honed visceral component, dropping character-defining conversation in favour of reactions, exposition and propulsive filmmaking. Maya's relentless pursuit of the courier and her countless clashes with egocentric male authority figures suit Bigelow's career-long assertions to a tee. This is captured poignantly in a scene where Maya is trying to convince her scientifically driven male counterparts of her intuition, stating, "I know how much certainty freaks you guys out."

While the men involved in the case bark orders and concern themselves with seating arrangements at tables and petty, time-consuming arguments, Maya pushes her agenda through, focused only on the endgame amidst the grating political posturing.

But the great thing about Zero Dark Thirty is that these gender divides aren't quite so overt in the moment. The investigation and endless series of setbacks and roadblocks drive the story forward, as do the unexpected and wholly intense terrorist attacks and assassination attempts that pop up throughout. There's an engrossing feeling of being in-the-moment and sharing in Maya's manhunt that generates a sense of immediacy, culminating in the expertly choreographed, and inevitable, compound raid.

Moreover, Bigelow is careful not to reduce her gender role deconstruction to glib assertions about who is better. While the men act as impediments for the majority of the film, they also tend to know when to step back from a situation to preserve their well-being.

The women, both Maya and her CIA ally Jessica (Jennifer Ehle) — to whom she introduces herself by one-upping her mentally in true passive-aggressive fashion — are flawed in their trust and focused determination, leaving them each to confront the realities of their assertions when they realize that being wrong about something could result in the unnecessary elimination of a human life.

It's these subtleties of character and motivation — most of which are detailed through reactions and facial responses rather than words — that add a cerebral dimension and emotional element to the already stellar thriller component.

Those keen on embracing the muscular direction and unpredictable, energized component can do so, while others, more interested in mental stimulation, can assess what it means to tackle male competition and ideological clashing with intuition, compassion and subdued cognitive superiority.

Boxoffice Magazine [James Rocchi]

The decade-long manhunt for Osama Bin Laden races by in a 159-minute adrenaline-fueled chase in Kathryn Bigelow's Zero Dark Thirty, which unfolds with certainty and smart decisions on both sides of the camera. It's a rarity, a truly entertaining film that never condescends to its audience or cheapens history and truth. Zero Dark Thirty lacks the existentialist peril and high drama of Bigleow's previous, Oscar-winning The Hurt Locker, but replaces those showy-but-strong elements with both tension and truth in the pursuit of drama, fiction lightly draped over fact. Despite a star-free (and talent-rich) ensemble, its box office can count on curiosity, awards-season buzz and the word-of-mouth in support of its excellent and unsentimental approach.

Zero Dark Thirty opens to the sounds of 9/11, but the script—based on both the research of journalist-turned-screenwriter Mark Boal and other reporting—really begins at a overseas U.S. facility in 2003, where a CIA field man (Jason Clarke) gives newer hire Maya (Jessica Chastain) a quick tutorial in the nature and necessity of waterboarding. It's upsetting for both Maya and us (and Bigelow doesn't cut away to spare us the sight of this torture), but when the man being interrogated asks Maya for understanding and help, she simply says, coldly "You can help yourself ... by being truthful." And then Maya, and us, are plunged into the pursuit of Osama Bin Laden, the leader of Al-Qaeda, with all of the false starts and blind alleys and red herrings you would expect in the hunt for the most wanted man in the world. But Maya stays on target.

The procedural nature of Zero Dark Thirty is fleet and fascinating. Watching the film, you learn everything from how Navy SEALS open a locked door to, ironically, how the high secrecy of Bin Laden's house in Abbotabad, Pakistan is what gave it away. You don't get a lot of explanation—no one ever says any dead exposition or rehashes Wikipedia entries about the film's torrent of names and places, people and organizations—and it's nice to enjoy an American film that assumes you have intelligence and relies on it. Many early critics and Awards-watchers are already bemoaning Bigelow and Boal's just-the-facts approach as a drawback, wondering why the film refuses to incorporate the character's "backstories" or "home lives." For those voices of disapproval, let it be noted that your local cable operator can help you find The Lifetime Channel, whose style of storytelling may be more your taste.

Bigelow's films have always been about people at work: team dynamics driven by dynamic individuals, triumphs achieved through effort, failures brought about by not knowing what you're doing or why. Chastain's Maya never gets to give a big speech about being a woman in intelligence, but she mostly doesn't have to, and the film makes smart points in brief moments. Bigelow is also not afraid of darkness, or silence, or stillness; the assault on the compound, even though we know how it turned out, still plays out with the tension of held breath and pin-drop quiet in the theater.

Boal's work turns reality into fiction, protecting sources while unveiling secrets, and it serves the plot that runs between the scenes and the scenes that make the film, with notes and nuances that feel right. Much like bomb disposal in The Hurt Locker, Zero Dark Thirty is about intelligence as a job—one done by people, and one where people can make mistakes—and that like all jobs, intelligence involves co-workers you don't like, late hours, petty turf grabs and ass-covering lies, just with deadly consequences. The superb camerawork is by Greig Fraser, with Dylan Tichenor and William Goldenberg's editing propelling the story and focusing your attention but never forcing either. Stark and tough and smart, Zero Dark Thirty is a masterwork from a master filmmaker, a truly exceptional work that combines the questions and qualms so often found in the grey areas of the real world with the kind of storytelling and art so rarely found in the shared darkness of the movie theater.

The A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

Before Zero Dark Thirty had so much as a title—and even once it was made, but before many had seen it—both sides of the political spectrum ignited with speculation over how The Hurt Locker director Kathryn Bigelow and writer Mark Boal would frame the hunt for Osama bin Laden. On the right, some were concerned that its original release date, before the 2012 presidential election, would boost President Obama, blowing up like a Hurt Locker IED in the face of anyone who questioned his foreign-policy credentials. And in the weeks leading up to opening day, the left has gone full Drudge Siren—or the lefty equivalent of Drudge Siren, anyway—over reports that the film depicts torture as an essential in finding bin Laden, thus justifying a morally repellent tactic. Both cases testify to the potency of popular entertainment in general and a bin Laden movie in particular: Zero Dark Thirty stands to become the dominant narrative about this important historical event, no matter its distortions, composites, or other slippery feints of storytelling. In that, it wields a dangerous power. 

So how can a movie about the bin Laden killing thread such a thin needle? The answer is: It can’t. And it hasn’t, based on some reactions pegging it as a torture apologia, a CIA hagiography, or a little of both columns. Others have pointed out that in the film, not a single useful piece of information is gleaned from torture, and it’s more concerned with the reality of torture than its efficacy. The latter case is far more convincing, but the fact that two people can watch the same movie and come to opposite conclusions speaks well of Bigelow and Boal’s thrilling procedural, which has a journalistic quality that still allows for some nuance and ambiguity, where the fog of war can cloud up the scene. It’s impossible for a film like Zero Dark Thirty to be entirely apolitical—and presenting it as a piece of just-the-facts reportage makes it, if anything, more suspicious—but the Rorschach blot Bigelow and Boal have made out of this loaded story speaks well of their methods. A rough triangulation of opinion columns puts them right on the money. 

Zero Dark Thirty opens with a blank screen and a recording of a real 911 call on September 11, 2001 from a frantic woman trapped in one of the Twin Towers. Though it feels exploitative to goose the audience’s emotions with the cries of the doomed, Bigelow want to charge the film with a specific kind of energy—a sense that getting the man responsible for 9/11 is imperative, not just as an act of justice, but as an act of revenge. So when she cuts immediately to two years later, when CIA officers are waterboarding a detainee at some Pakistani black site, it’s not what the torture yields that’s ultimately important, but the suggestion that the lust for revenge led the country to a very dark place. The film permanently resides in these shadows, and the ultimate dispatching of bin Laden offers nary a sliver of light. 

The torture scenes are only a small part of Zero Dark Thirty, but they set the stakes for the film’s hero, played fiercely by Jessica Chastain, who reacts to her first day on the job with revulsion over her colleague’s brutal techniques and a resolve to keep moving forward. The bulk of the film details Chastain’s relentless, decade-long search for bin Laden as it bumps up against cold trails and dead ends, with only fitful support from the CIA and other bureaucrats who dismiss him as marginalized (or dead) and seek targets elsewhere. Any progress owes more to the patient detective work of surveillance and information-gathering than “enhanced interrogation,” and it eventually brings Chastain and her team to the trusted courier who will lead them to bin Laden’s compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan. 

With Chastain’s single-minded obsession as the through-line, Zero Dark Thirty takes the reliable form of procedurals like All The President’s Men and Zodiac, staying doggedly on the investigative path while keeping the political and cultural aspects of the case at arm’s length. It’s about a professional doing her job with integrity and grit, and it would be extraordinarily absorbing if Chastain were merely hunting down the world’s most delicious omelet, much less bin Laden. As with The Hurt Locker, Bigelow and Boal approach people doing dangerous jobs with a respect that veers uncomfortably close to reverence, but they’re meticulous, process-oriented filmmakers, and their quest for verity isn’t just a pose. They offer up a document for fact-checkers. 

Zero Dark Thirty escalates mercilessly in tension as the net tightens, ending with the raid on Abbottabad, a sequence so masterfully staged that it sets off a chill of recognition. But the tone here is no different than the tone of the torture scenes toward the beginning of the film: Getting bin Laden isn’t the cathartic triumph at the end of a hard road, but an absolute horrorshow, treated without the faintest squeak of rah-rah triumphalism. The one piece of affirmative dialogue (“Geronimo”) arrives as matter-of-factly as “Let’s roll” in Paul Greengrass’ excellent United 93, blessedly free of any impulse to underline heroic action. There’s no question Zero Dark Thirty honors the competence and sacrifice of people involved in this operation, but within responsible limits, i.e. without Maverick and Iceman trading bear hugs on the aircraft carrier. 

The final shot confirms it: Zero Dark Thirty isn’t meant as a stirring tribute to the men and women responsible for taking down bin Laden, though their bravery and persistence is duly respected. It’s a film about revenge and its immense costs, different from a common vigilante story because of the target, not the arc. The events of 9/11 call for a response, but from the torture scenes in the beginning to the raid on Abbottabad a decade later, Zero Dark Thirty takes the audience down a grim, terrifying path that isn’t relieved by the death of the elusive man who killed 3,000 Americans. Some demons cannot be exorcised.

The Hollywood Reporter [Todd McCarthy]

Kathryn Bigelow's and Mark Boal's "Hurt Locker" follow-up tells the story of the hunt for Osama bin Laden and stars Jessica Chastain and Jason Clarke.

Whether you call it well-informed speculative history, docudrama re-creation or very stripped-down suspense filmmaking, Zero Dark Thirty matches form and content to pretty terrific ends. A long-arc account of the search for Osama bin Laden seen from the perspective of an almost insanely focused female CIA officer who never gives up the hunt until the prey ends up in a body bag, Kathryn Bigelow's and Mark Boal's heavily researched successor to Oscar winner The Hurt Locker will be tough for some viewers to take, not only for its early scenes of torture, including waterboarding, but due to its denial of conventional emotionalism and non-gung ho approach to cathartic revenge-taking. Films touching on 9/11, such as United 93, World Trade Center and Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, have proved commercially toxic, and while this one has a “happy” ending, its rigorous, unsparing approach will inspire genuine enthusiasm among the serious, hardcore film crowd more than with the wider public.

Even though it runs more than 2 1/2 hours, Zero Dark Thirty is so pared to essentials that even politics are eliminated; there's essentially no Bush or Cheney, no Iraq War, no Obama announcing the success of the May 2, 2011, raid on bin Laden's in-plain-sight Pakistani compound. Similarly absent is any personal life for the single-minded heroine; when it's suggested at one point that she might want to have a fling, she colorfully replies that she's not a girl who does that sort of thing. The film does question whether she gives up some of her humanity to so selflessly dedicate herself to this sole professional aim but seems to answer that, for some, this is what represents the essence of life; everything else is preparation and waiting.

Its military-jargon title referring to a state of darkness as well as to the time of 12:30 a.m., Zero Dark Thirty opens with 90 seconds or so of black screen accompanied by a soundtrack collage of emergency phone calls from people trapped in the Twin Towers; no need for the familiar visuals here. Cut to two years later, when a captured nephew of Osama bin Laden undergoes a prolonged series of brutal CIA interrogations that involve beatings, waterboarding, being bound by a dog collar and ropes and getting locked in a small wooden box. It's not the most inviting way to usher a viewer into a movie.

Then again, the hunt for bin Laden was no picnic either; it was an enormously frustrating endeavor that untold amounts of money, manpower and strategic thinking couldn't bring to a successful close for nearly a decade. The man who had engineered the deaths of some 4,000 people became a phantom, protected by forbidding geography, loyal followers and an already legendary aura.

For a while, as the film hopscotches through the years, Boal's script appears to be structured journalistically around a series of greatest terrorist hits, so to speak: We witness the deadly outrages of a 2004 attack in Saudi Arabia, the 2005 bus and tube bombing in London, the 2008 attack on the Karachi Marriott and, the following year, a shocking breach at a secured CIA base in Afghanistan.

Connecting the dots, however, is the dogged presence of Maya (Jessica Chastain), a young, flame-haired CIA officer who barely flinches when she first witnesses torture, is described as “a killer” by a colleague and, after a close call, allows that, “I believe I was spared so I could finish the job.” Boal, who dug as deeply into the classified aspects of the case as possible but seems to have been more committed to protecting the identities of those involved than even some participants have been, has said that there really is a “Maya,” though details have been fudged and altered to prevent identification.

Given no backstory, links to the world outside the CIA or any interest in small talk or other subjects, Maya occasionally has a drink to unwind but otherwise seems entirely incapable of shutting down her laser-like focus of her obsession. She becomes tolerably friendly with a gregarious, chatty female colleague (the ever-wonderful Jennifer Ehle) but most of the time is the only female in the room; she knows when to hold her tongue, and her frustrations are legion, but she also finds her moments to assert herself and speak out to superiors when she suspects her contributions are being ignored, due either to her rank or because she's a woman.

Much as she did with the equally tightly wound protagonist of The Hurt Locker, Bigelow sends Maya through a minefield, this time consisting of bureaucratic trip-wires as well as potentially fatal traps. The director also successfully creates a double-clad environment that is both eerie and threatening, that of the supposedly safe and protected enclaves of the CIA that exist within the larger context of the Muslim world. From very early on, Maya seizes on the idea that the way to eventually track down bin Laden is to identify and follow his couriers, as they will inevitably one day reveal where the Al-Qaeda leader is hiding.

As we know, she's right, but it takes years for the tactic to pay off. Even once she and her cohorts track down the long-elusive Abu Ahmad, following his vehicle through the chaotic streets of Rawalpindi is a nightmare. But after a succession of road blocks, setbacks and dead ends, Maya finally convinces herself that bin Laden is holed up in the house in Abbottabad, whereupon her convictions ascend the ladder of command to the point where the CIA director (James Gandolfini) braces himself to enter the Oval Office and recommend a stealth raid to the president.

Bigelow and Boal play a long game, moving from the brutal opening through impressively detailed but not always compelling vignettes of the CIA at work to interludes in which Maya's ferocious dedication begins to possibly pay dividends and finally to the climactic 40 minutes, which lay out with extraordinary detail and precision the almost improbably successful operation that begins at Area 51 in Nevada, where we first see the amazing stealth helicopters ideally designed for such a mission, and ends with Maya identifying the body that's brought back.

In between is an exceptionally riveting sequence done with no sense of rah-rah patriotic fervor but, rather, tremendous appreciation for the nervy way top professionals carry off a very risky job of work; Howard Hawks would have been impressed. Slipping low through mountain passes in darkness from Afghanistan to Pakistan with rotor noise muffled by special equipment, the two choppers drop off their Navy SEALs, one then crashes in the yard but, remarkably, the noise seems not to arouse any locals just yet.

The men, all wearing helmets that bizarrely feature four night vision lenses protruding from the front, proceed into the sealed-up house, breaking down doors and exploding locks as they go. Instead of rushing the place, as per usual cinematic practice, they move slowly and cautiously, room by room, killing the messenger, among others, and encountering several women and many children as they go. The tall man remains elusive, but there are still more doors to open. Still, with each minute, the danger of exposure and failure increases -- locals from the neighborhood are beginning to head toward the house -- and they still haven't found their prize. Until, finally, they do.

Because of the black-and-green, video-like quality of the night vision imagery, these momentous events possess the pictorial quality of low-budget Blair Witch/Paranormal Activity thrillers, which merely contributes further to their weirdness. And because of the deliberate pace at which the men make their way through the house, an unsettling airlessness sets in, a feeling of being suspended in time that's unlike any equivalent climactic action sequence that comes to mind.

But quite apart from its historical significance, at least the scene is here to provide a welcome catharsis, as at one time would not have been the case. The filmmakers initially embarked on this project before the bin Laden raid took place, which obviously would have resulted in an entirely different sort of film, dramatically and philosophically; without a resolution, it could hardly have helped from being an existential tale of quite substantial dimensions.

As it has emerged instead, Zero Dark Thirty could well be the most impressive film Bigelow has made, as well as possibly her most personal, as one keenly feels the drive of the filmmaker channeled through the intensity of Maya's character. The film's power steadily and relentlessly builds over its long course, to a point that is terrifically imposing and unshakable.

Chastain carries the film in a way she's never been asked to do before. Denied the opportunity to provide psychological and emotional details for Maya, she nonetheless creates a character that proves indelible and deeply felt. The entire cast works in a realistic vein to fine effect.

Similarly, all the technical contributions are put at the service of full verisimilitude. Locations in Jordan and India fill in beautifully for Afghanistan, Pakistan and elsewhere.

Village Voice [Scott Foundas]

New York Magazine [David Edelstein]

California Literary [Julia Rhodes]

'Zero Dark Thirty': Hunting Down Osama Bin ... - The Atlantic Wire Richard Lawson

In 'Zero Dark Thirty,' Zealotry in Pursuit of Zealots - WSJ.com Joer Morgenstern

In Review Online [Kenji Fujishima]

indieWIRE [Eric Kohn]

Movie review: 'Zero Dark Thirty' personifies realism over romanticism ... Donald Shanahan from Examiner

Slant Magazine [John Semley]

Time [Richard Corliss]

The New Yorker [David Denby]

Film Freak Central Review [Angelo Muredda]

Slate [Dana Stevens]

Movieline [Alison Willmore]

Filmleaf [Chris Knipp]

White City Cinema [Michael Smith]

Film.com [Stephanie Zacharek]

Zero Dark Thirty Review: Burn for Burn, Wound for Wound - Pajiba Daniel Carlson from Pajiba

User reviews from imdb Author: Danusha_Goska Save Send Delete (dgoska@yahoo.com)

World Socialist Web Site [Bill Van Auken]

Filmmaker Kathryn Bigelow offered access to US military death squad David Walsh from World Socialist Web Site, May 25, 2012

"Zero Dark Thirty" goes feminist Irin Carmon from Salon, February 1, 2013

Mark Boal: Government Inquiry Into 'Zero Dark Thirty' 'Crosses a Line' Benjamin Bell from ABC News, January 27, 2013

In Defense of 'Zero Dark Thirty' Michael Moore, January 25, 2013

Zero Dark Thirty: why it came off the rails J. Hoberman from The Guardian, January 18, 2013

Can the torture scenes in Zero Dark Thirty be defended? Michael Miner from The Chicago Reader, January 18, 2013

A Response to Kathryn Bigelow's Latest Statement on Zero Dark Thirty and Torture Jonathan Kim from The Huffington Post, January 17, 2013

Kathryn Bigelow defends 'Zero Dark Thirty' torture scenes - latimes ... Steven Zeitchik from The LA Times, January 16, 2013

ZDT Director Defends Film's Use of Torture Abby Ohleiser from Slate, January 16, 2013

Kathryn Bigelow addresses 'Zero Dark Thirty' torture criticism .. Kathryn Bigelow from The LA Times, January 15, 2013

John Brennan’s ‘Zero Dark Thirty’ Problem Z. Byron Wolf from ABC News, January 8, 2013

Senate investigating contact between CIA and “Zero Dark Thirty” filmmakers Prachi Gupta from Salon, January 3, 2013

The complicated relationship between “Zero Dark Thirty” and the CIA Prachi Gupta from Salon, January 9, 2013

CONGRESSIONAL TORTURE: EXAMINING THE CONTROVERSY OF “ZERO DARK THIRTY” Rick Kisonak from Film Threat, January 8, 2013

Acting CIA Head: Zero Dark Thirty Isn’t Realistic Daniel Politi from Slate, December 23, 2012

Acting CIA chief blasts “Zero Dark Thirty” David Daley from Salon, December 23, 2012

Pentagon, CIA likely approved “Zero Dark Thirty” torture scenes David Sirota from Salon, December 20, 2012

Does Zero Dark Thirty Advocate Torture? - Slate Magazine Emily Bazelon from Slate, December 11, 2012

A Guide to the 'Zero Dark Thirty' Torture Debate ... - The Atlantic Wire David Wagner from The Atlantic Wire, December 10, 2012

The CIA Agent Who Found Bin Laden Is Having ... - The Atlantic Wir Adam Clark Estes from The Atlantic Wire, December 10, 2012

'Zero Dark Thirty': Strong Women, Ambiguous Ethics Drive Bigelow's Oscar Pic Jen Yamato from Movieline, November 27, 2012

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Hunting Osama bin Laden in Kathryn Bigelow's 'Zero Dark Thirty ... Cynthia Fuchs from Pop Matters

The QNetwork [James Kendrick] Theatrical release

Zero Dark Thirty : DVD Talk Review of the Theatrical Jeff Nelson, Theatrical release

FILM REVIEW: Zero Dark Thirty - The Buzz - CBC Eli Glasner

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Zero Dark Thirty (2012) - Reelviews Movie Reviews James Berardinelli

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ZERO DARK THIRTY | Films In Review Col. John B. Alexander – U.S. Army (retired)

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Kathryn Bigelow: under fire Emma Brockes interview from The Guardian, January 11, 2013

Zero Dark Thirty: Jason Clarke confesses Hermione Hoby interviews the actor from The Guardian, January 18, 2013

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Variety [Peter Debruge]

Cath Clarke - Time Out

Hollywood won't decide the US election Mark Lawson from The Guardian, August 29, 2012

Zero Dark Thirty: new torture-glorifying film wins raves | Glenn Greenwald | Comment is free | guardian.co.uk Glenn Greenwald from The Guardian, December 10, 2012

Zero Dark Thirty: CIA hagiography, pernicious propaganda Glenn Greenwald from The Guardian, December 14, 2012

Zero Dark Thirty is not pro-torture, say film-makers Ben Child from The Guardian, December 12, 2012

Zero Dark Thirty's torture problem is ours as much as the film-makers' Tom Shone from The Guardian, December 12, 2012

Why the CIA isn't so proud of 'Jen', the operative who tracked down Osama The Guardian, December 12, 2012

John McCain criticises Zero Dark Thirty's depiction of torture Xan Brooks from The Guardian, December 20, 2012

The truth about Zero Dark Thirty: this torture fantasy degrades us all Michael Wolff from The Guardian, December 24, 2012

Did Zero Dark Thirty have secret links to CIA? US Senate vows to find out Xan Brooks from The Guardian, January 3, 2013

A letter to Kathryn Bigelow on Zero Dark Thirty's apology for tortu Naomi Wolf from The Guardian, January 4, 2013

Debating Zero Dark Thirty and John Brennan Glenn Greenwald from The Guardian, January 8, 2013

Kathryn Bigelow and Mark Boal respond to Zero Dark Thirty torture row Ben Child from The Guardian, January 8, 2013

Zero Dark Thirty premiere sparks anti-torture protest Ben Child from The Guardian, January 9, 2013

Academy member calls for Oscars boycott of Zero Dark Thirty Ben Child from The Guardian, January 14, 2013

In ‘Zero Dark Thirty,’ she’s the hero; in real life, CIA agent’s career is more complicated Greg Miller from The Washington Post, December 10, 2012

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'Zero Dark Thirty' review: The controversial film is ... - Pioneer Press Chris Hewitt

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Kathryn Bigelow addresses 'Zero Dark Thirty' torture criticism Kathryn Bigelow from The LA Times, January 15, 2013

LA Times - 'Zero Dark Thirty': Why the fabrication? Terry McDermott from The LA Times, December 23, 2012

"Zero Dark Thirty" tracks Osama bin Laden's takedown: movie review Kenneth Turan from The LA Times, December 18, 2012

Zero Dark Thirty movie review by Chicago Tribune's Michael Phillips

Chicago Sun-Times [Roger Ebert]

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Hollywood Makes Case for 'Zero Dark Thirty' - The New York Times Michael Cieply from The New York Times, January 19, 2013

The Looming Tower: Al-Qaeda and The Road to 9/11

Billops, Camille and James Hatch

FINDING CHRISTA

USA (55 mi) 1991

Chicago Reader (Jonathan Rosenbaum) capsule review

Directed by Camille Billops and James Hatch, this moving and highly personal 1991 film, which shared the prize for best documentary at Sundance, charts the reconciliation of Billops with her grown daughter Christa, whom Billops put up for adoption four years after she was born. The complex reverberations that this has in the entire family are explored in some depth; this film is one of the rare ones in which the issues of life and those of art and representation become inseparable.

User comments from imdb Author: filmtim-0 from Los Angeles, CA

This was the most abstract documentary I think I have ever seen. While it may seem very real at first, with those few *WEIRD* artistic inserts by mother/filmmaker Camille Billops. You should make sure that you know that it is almost entirely re-enacted material. The movie was made ten years after they met up, so keep that in mind, and don't take anything at face value. (Notice the *WRITER* credit! That just doesn't belong in documentary)

Black autobiographical documentary Jim Lane from Jump Cut, March 1996

The New York Times (Vincent Canby) review

Binder, Mike

THE UPSIDE OF ANGER B+ 90

USA (121 mi) 2004

The look of the film immediately reminds one of THE VIRGIN SUICIDES, in this case a mom and her four lovely daughters living in the forested suburbs of Detroit, while the narrative voiceover style reminds one of AMERICAN HISTORY X, as the entire story is framed around one high school student’s school project, at times we seem to be in the middle of TERMS OF ENDEARMENT or Little Women, and near the end, there’s a wacky reminder of the dark comedy of MAGNOLIA. So style-wise, we’ve seen it all before, but despite its sappy, over-orchestrated music and irritating predictability, the film works anyway because the characters are entirely believable, bolstered by a combination of quirky humor and well-written witty dialogue to go along with large jolts of bittersweet reality. The entire cast is superb, led by a suddenly unleashed, off-kilter performance by Joan Allen, as if her acid tongue was suddenly liberated from a lifetime of introverted repression, who early on is described by everyone who knows her as a happy mother, but all that changes the day her husband runs off to Sweden with his secretary without leaving so much as a word, leaving the mom so pissed off that she goes on an indefinite drunk, joined improbably by an all-too relaxed neighbor Kevin Costner, an ex-Detroit Tiger baseball player who appears on a local talk radio show, but refuses to talk about baseball. The two of them form a showcased nucleus of drunken dysfunction around which more improbable happenings occur, such as a surrealist daydream where Joan Allen causes a guest’s head to explode for annoyingly slurping his soup at the dinner table, while the four entirely self-sufficient daughters look at their mother a bit aghast and petrified, waiting for this embarrassing public spectacle to end and for their mother to come to her senses. Two high school girls, Evan Rachel Wood, angst teen writer-narrator and Keri Russell, a neurotic dance student with an eating disorder, along with Erika Christensen, an on-the-make recent high school grad looking for a job, disenchanted with the idea of attending college, and the girl-gone-right college student Alicia Witt, all spend much of their time joking and bickering with one another around the dinner table, living room, or back yard while at the same time just trying to get on with their lives. Interesting that a film about five independent women is written by a guy, and also that he wrote a rather uncomplimentary part for himself. The film attempts to knock us askew by veering into completely new territory at the end, but it’s the strength of the characters that holds our attention throughout.

The Onion A.V. Club Scott Tobias

There are no plastic bags floating around transcendently, but The Upside Of Anger, a dark suburban comedy leavened by the promise of arty redemption, might as well be called Son Of American Beauty. All the familiar signposts are in place: The deadpan voiceover issues ironic commentary, tense conversations dissolve into mirthless laughing fits, middle-aged adults regress into adolescent boozing and sex, and their grown children, seething with resentment, seek their own wayward avenues to happiness. Clearly, the cul-de-sacs of upper-middle-class America have not gotten any less troubled in recent years. But writer-director Mike Binder has a trump card in Joan Allen, whose performance as a jilted housewife who takes to the bottle recalls Elizabeth Taylor in Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf?, but with the brittle reserve that's become Allen's stock in trade.

Still reeling from the sudden departure of her husband, whom she suspects ran off with his Swedish secretary, Allen sinks into depression and subsists on a steady diet of vodka tonics, much to the consternation of her four beautiful, self-sufficient daughters. Allen's ingratiating neighbor Kevin Costner, a grizzled ex-baseball hero who's also drowning himself in suds, prods her into being his drinking buddy, and their tenuous friendship grows more intimate. Meanwhile, Allen's daughters are all off doing something to deepen her rage: Erika Christensen skips college to intern with the skirt-chasing producer of Costner's local radio show, Keri Russell favors ballet over more practical pursuits, Alicia Witt keeps her collegiate romance a secret, and the youngest, Evan Rachel Wood, aggressively courts a sweet boy whom she hopes will be her first love. As her situation deteriorates, Allen loosens her tongue and stings everyone with a withering honesty that her once-sweet self could never have mustered.

So long as the tone stays mean and unpredictable, The Upside Of Anger has a coarse edge that's rare for mainstream cinema, helped along by the offbeat rapport between Allen and Costner, whose wonderfully loose-limbed performance stays within his limited range. But when Binder tries to attach some thematic import to the proceedings—the explanation of that awful title is a particular eye-roller—there's not much substance to support it. The individual adventures of Allen's daughters amount to little more than garden-variety domestic crises, and her "Hell hath no fury" wrath isn't quite worthy of Medea. The film's outsized ambitions are deceptive: Everything here is less than meets the eye.

Film Journal International (Shirley Sealy)

We've all heard the old adage that hell has no fury like a woman scorned. But not until now have we had a Joan Allen to show us exactly what kind of hell a scorned woman is capable of unleashing. Wow. For nearly the full two hours of The Upside of Anger, Allen rages, fumes, cries, laughs, tosses back vodka and tosses off sharply pointed verbal and physical barbs at everyone around her. And what fun she is!

Yes, The Upside of Anger is essentially a comedy-a family comedy about an upscale, all-adult family-and despite Allen's major tour de force in the central role, it is also a fine piece of ensemble acting. Allen plays Terry Wolfmeyer, a suburban housewife and the mother of four teenage daughters, who wakes up one morning to find that her husband has walked out-leaving her, his family, his job, everything. She has concluded, with precious little evidence, that he's run off to Sweden with his Swedish secretary.

At first, Terry's anger is paralyzing; she spends her days in a nightgown, drinking vodka-and-tonic and watching mindless TV shows. She lets in a neighbor, Denny Davies (Kevin Costner), only when he promises to just sit quietly with her and drink his beer. All of her daughters seem to accept their father's absence with remarkable calm: Hadley (Alicia Witt) goes back to college; Emily (Keri Russell) pursues her ballet studies; Andy (Erika Christensen) announces she's not going to enroll in college but will instead find a job; and Popeye (Evan Rachel Wood), the youngest, develops her first crush on a boy. The girls also seem to do all the cooking and run the household while their mother remains in psychological dishabille.

The void that was left in their father's absence is soon filled by Denny, the semi-sleazy but well-off neighbor-a former baseball star turned radio deejay-who's had his eye on Terry for some time. Denny is nothing like the sports jocks Costner has played before. Okay, maybe those other guys were sexy, but not as sexy as this. Knowing the woman he loves has been deeply hurt by the man in her life-and, as a consequence, has become a ball-buster-he is warm, kind, understanding and, above all, patient with Terry. Up to a point. Costner's character is also surprisingly vulnerable-when he realizes he not only wants Terry, he wants to be a father to her daughters, helping them with their everyday problems, sharing their small and large joys.

It's quite amazing, really, that this decidedly female film fantasy was written by a man, the director Mike Binder, who also has a pivotal role in the film as Shep, the producer of Denny's radio show. Shep is a somewhat unattractive and totally self-deluded chauvinist pig, who, at Denny's instigation, hires Terry's daughter Andy, by far the most voluptuous of the four sisters, as his assistant. Andy and Shep are soon an item, much to her mother's horror. Terry finally gets a chance to take down Shep-literally-at a family wedding, which is one of the funniest scenes in a movie that's chock-a-block with funny scenes and refreshingly witty dialogue and, not least, some strikingly honest emotional truths.

One can easily forgive the serious structural flaw in Binder's script (a flaw which may bother some viewers from the film's very beginning), because the rest of it is so damned good. He's particularly expert at exploring a variety of relationships-between mother and daughters, between eager teenagers and jaded mature couples-with insight and sympathy toward each. It's not an exaggeration to say that the performances by Allen and Costner are spectacular, and their chemistry is palpable. While they provide most of the romantic and dramatic electricity in The Upside of Anger, the movie is, as already noted, a credit to every actor in it. And, of course, most of the credit goes to writer-director Binder-for his bravery, if nothing else. How many directors would dare ask their leading lady to slug them-on camera-and be prepared to take the consequences?

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REIGN OVER ME C 74

USA (124 mi) 2007

Another mousy role from Adam Sandler, who’s cornered the market on overly shy guys who represent the broken down syndrome in America, as the characters he plays represent the world gone wrong in some tragic way, which of course, oversimplifies whatever the affliction may be. In this film, he doubles with the economically and emotionally secure middle class black guy, Don Cheadle, Sandler’s old room mate from college, who recognizes him on the street one day and sees the transformation from a former dental associate into the look of a homeless guy on the street, headphones covering both ears, basically blocking out the rest of the world. When Cheadle confronts him, Sandler can’t even remember who he is. Stuck in an empty, emotionless marriage with an overbearing Jada Pinkett Smith, who gives him no breathing room, Sandler welcomes the opportunity to spend out with one of the guys, even if this man has turned into a basket case and is subject to random moments of unexpected violence.

What works in this film are the free spirited moments when Sandler blurts out something completely inappropriate, which has an air of freshness to it, as everything else in this film is saddled in stereotypes and predictability. No other characters are developed, and there’s little rhyme or reason why these two should ever spend even a moment together, as it’s obvious they weren’t such good friends to begin with. But the film turns into a road movie where the two can “hang” together before Sandler freaks out over some inexplicable comment. The problem is that the film indulges Sandler’s sorry state of feeling sorry for himself, actually linking his grief with losing his family in the 9/11 tragedy, suggesting his affliction, his deteriorated mental state, has something in common with other 9/11 widowers, basically inventing a mental illness to justify his behavior, then panders to the audience’s sympathies with the music of Bruce Springfield blaring on the soundtrack.

This I’m-trapped-inside-and-I-can’t-get-out syndrome rings false, as does most of the storyline which allows Sandler to be living off of inherited money from his family’s tragedy, creating the impression victims from this tragedy don’t have to work for a living, that they can sit around on their asses, play video games, pound the drums, watch old movies, and ride a scooter around a city for the rest of their lives, as Sandler does here. He basically does what he wants and disregards the rest, having to be force fed by strangers any opportunity to get better, against his will, where the film actually suggests his family’s suffocating love turns out to be the enemy, as it’s a constant reminder of what he’s lost, very similar to Cheadle’s state of affairs. Add to this a woman patient on the loose who can’t help her inclination to help other wounded souls, who just wants to be needed, turned here into a cathartic Mary Magdalene, like some kind of reality show psychic makeover, offering instant gratification, the very thing that will “not” solve the world’s problems, but may instead be the cause of them.

Austin Chronicle [Marjorie Baumgarten]

“Only love can bring the rain,” go the lyrics to the Who’s dramatic rock anthem, “Love, Reign O’er Me” from Quadrophenia. Writer/director Binder (The Upside of Anger) appears to have fashioned a whole film to echo the song’s expansive sentiments and sonic grandeur (though the song is performed in the film by Pearl Jam rather than the Who). But it’s relevant to Binder’s lead character Charlie Fineman (Sandler), who, in contrast with his surname, is anything but fine. Having lost his wife and children on 9/11, he quit his job as a dentist and now – several years after 9/11 – wanders the streets of Manhattan on an electric scooter with ear-encasing headphones clamped to his head to block out – what? The past? The future? He only brims with life when discussing arcane music references, playing the video game Colossus on his wide-screen TV, or during a Mel Brooks marathon at the cinema. But then he runs across Alan Johnson (Cheadle), his old roommate from dental school, who takes it upon himself to try to resuscitate his friend, and in the process, also winds up reviving his own life, which has been growing stale. (Pinkett Smith is cast in the thankless role of his nagging wife.) Despite being a story about life in New York post-9/11, the film does not dwell on the tragedy. Binder is more interested in piercing “the mind of the married man” (to employ the title of his career-making HBO series). Again adopting a dramatic persona, Sandler shows his desire to do more than be a Happy Gilmore for the rest of his career. His work here is decent, though hardly revelatory, but his game is raised several notches by Cheadle’s masterful presence. Cheadle takes what could have been a role as a mere foil and creates a rich portrait of a vaguely discontented married man. Yet the drama sputters once it reaches a contrived and melodramatic climax that feels undernourished and artificial – both less than and more than one had hoped for. Reign Over Me is disjointed and needlessly sentimental, though its whole often compensates for its sketchy parts.

Slant Magazine [Nick Schager]

When not riding around Manhattan on a scooter, cocooned by the iTunes that drown out the outside world, ratty-haired, mumble-mouthed Charlie Fineman (Adam Sandler) sits on his couch playing the PS2 hit Shadow of the Colossus. Charlie, it turns out, is trapped in the shadow of his own personal/national colossus: 9/11, when he lost his wife and three daughters aboard one of the planes bound for the World Trade Center. Reign Over Me charts this damaged soul's gradual emergence from a post-traumatic stress disorder haze through his relationship with Alan Johnson (Don Cheadle), an old college roommate and dentist whose constricting family life has left him with his own nagging form of dissatisfaction. It's a path that writer-director Mike Binder treats with a mixture of gentle sensitivity, awkward humor, and tired clichés, a combination that prevents his film from ever fully achieving tonal or narrative stability, but—surprisingly enough—doesn't keep it from tackling issues of tragic loss, survivor's guilt, and psychological defense mechanisms with disarming sincerity.

Charlie's coping mechanism is to suppress (to the point of erasure) any family memories, a self-inflicted negation that the unexpectedly genuine Sandler ably portrays, the comedian reconfiguring his trademark man-child goofiness, as well as the fury that underscores said persona, into a portrait of destructive internalization. Though his performance has slightly more melodramatic showiness than his similar turn in Paul Thomas Anderson's Punch-Drunk Love, Sandler only stumbles significantly when he too vigorously stresses his comedic affectations (schlumpy body language, slurred speech); otherwise, he's the most convincing element of this often mishmashed and formulaic tale. Binder nonetheless begins by focusing on Alan, whose unhappiness with his boring, safe marriage to Janeane (Jada Pinkett Smith) is meant to dovetail with Charlie's malaise. However, the fact that Alan's life is generally perfect—his biggest problem being that female patients have a tendency to throw themselves at him in the office—sabotages this schematic parallel, which is so lopsided that it throws the film's equilibrium off-kilter (and not, unfortunately, in a manner meant to cleverly mirror Charlie's and New York's post-9/11 disarray).

Cheadle is charming but because Alan's discontent seems petty when compared to Charlie's crisis, his ensuing jealousy over the widower's "freedom" feels phony. Such a sentiment also pervades a sitcom-ish sexual harassment subplot involving Saffron Burrows graciously offering her oral services to the good dentist, and intensifies during third-act courtroom shenanigans in which Charlie's in-laws (Robert Klein and Melinda Dillon) and Donald Sutherland's judge take turns trying to out-cartoon each other. Reign Over Me's slapdash latter half carelessly ignores Alan's personal problems and totally dispatches with the dull Janeane. Even so, Binder manages to prop up his story's sloppiest, sappiest moments by allowing Charlie to bluntly and effectively articulate his misery (and his means of handling it). It's a saving grace that helps moderately buoy this bruised-and-battered portrait of inconsolable grief, and one that, to the film's lasting credit, is matched by a final display of faith not in feel-good recovery but, rather, in the less cheery, more realistic belief that some losses are so cataclysmic, it's next to impossible to ever truly emerge from the resultant rubble.

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Biniez, Adrián

GIGANTE (Giant) B+ 90

Uruguay Argentina Germany Spain (84 mi) 2009

Opening humorously with giant titles so big they engulf the screen, growing smaller until the audience can read it, the subject of this near deadpan film is personal obsession, and how closely falling in love resembles this otherwise unattractive trait. Shot in beautiful downtown Montevideo in Uruguay, the filmmaker follows a single individual throughout this entire film, very much like the character, Jara (Horacio Camandule), an oversized, mid 30’s man who everyone calls “big guy,” whose job is watching surveillance footage on the night shift inside a closed-in room in a vast supermarket where all he really has to do is watch the cleaning crew for petty theft, as there are no customers in the store. But Jara grows fascinated by the image onscreen of one of the cleaning ladies, where he zooms in for a close up and becomes infatuated, following her on her rounds almost exclusively after that. Since this is what he does, he ends up following her after work as well until his entire life is consumed with whatever she’s doing, where even as he keeps a safe distance away, she’s never out of his thoughts as he follows her to the beach, ambling down the street as she chats with street vendors or does her regular shopping, takes a karate class or rides the bus home. Perhaps at its most absurd, when his young nephew comes over to play video games, he brings him along as they spend the day following her, the young nephew growing more agitated with restless boredom as they mindlessly sit and wait for her as she spends time in an Internet café. What’s fascinating about this film is the way the story is presented, as there’s very little dialogue, one of the main characters is only seen and never heard, leaving the audience a giant hulk of a man to watch throughout the film, and he’s as sheepish as a puppy dog.

While in a normal sense, stalking is obnoxious and offensive, oftentimes used as a way of controlling a victim by smothering them with one’s presence. But here Jara never reveals himself, so the object of his fascination never gets suspicious or feels threatened in any way. Mostly he just sits around laying in front of the TV and sleeps, where he’s no harm to anyone, or he follows his regular routine at work which must be endlessly dull, so his boredom gives rise to occasional hilarious setups and the absurdist manner in which Jara behaves, as he can’t bear to keep her out of his sight. He starts spending more time working out, listening to decibel defying metal music, wearing one of only two T-shirts throughout, one says Biohazard and another says Motörhead, ultimately following her into a movie theater where he searches each theater for her, surprised that she picks the violent sci-fi flick called The Mutants, which features really cheesy dialogue, much of which resembles Tsai Ming-liang and his absurdist set ups from GOODBYE DRAGON INN (2003). If she spills something at work that might be grounds for dismissal, he guards her from the manager’s path, offering himself as a diversion. At one point he breaks into a locked office containing the personnel files to find out who she is, where after creating a minor disaster of knocking the file cabinets over, he does learn her name – Julia (Leonor Svarcas). But when Julia and a younger co-worker scamper to private quarters outside camera range, in desperation, Jara turns on the sprinkler system, eventually suspended for getting caught outside his designated work area. Undaunted and undeterred, Jara follows her on a date, meeting the guy afterwards, supposedly accidentally, in order to learn all he can about his mystery woman, becoming very protective of her, so when a cab driver yells a vulgar sexual taunt at her, Jara pummels him as he is sitting in the front seat of his cab. The film has a good-natured feel throughout, as Jara is really just a big lug with a big heart, but he’s too shy to show it. Biniez does an excellent job establishing rhythm and pace, as there are plenty of slowly developing visual gags to hold our interest, but he balances humor with the pathos of his predicament, working a dead end job, living an empty life, where he finally finds something to shake him out of his doldrums, but it’s so hard to take that first step.

GIGANTE Facets Multi Media

Jara is a shy and lonely 35-year-old security guard at a supermarket on the outskirts of Montevideo. He works the night shift, monitoring the surveillance cameras of the entire building, but one night he discovers Julia, a 25-year-old cleaning woman, through one of the cameras and is immediately attracted to her. Night after night, he watches her on the cameras while she works and begins to follow her after work: to the cinema, the beach and even to a date with another man. Jara's life becomes a series of routines and rituals around Julia, but eventually he finds himself at a crossroad and must decide whether to give up his obsession or confront it. Gigante is the award winning, directorial debut feature of Adrián Biniez, who effortlessly lures you into Jara's world as he walks the boundary between falling in love and obsession.

NewCity Chicago   Ray Pride

Another stalker story, no, not about you or your neighbor, or a Hollywood meet-rude, but a small, scruffy minimalist comedy from Uruguay, which also won in the 2009 Chicago International Film Festival’s New Director’s competition. In writer-director Adrián Biniez’s debut feature, he follows Jara (Horacio Camandule), a shy, portly supermarket security guard who works overnight in a Montevideo suburb as he discovers dorky 25-year-old cleaning woman Julia (Leonor Svarcas) and begins to spy on her and then follow her. While classical Hollywood comedies often deal with similar plot devices, in front of a bank of monitors, there’s an instant queasiness. Yet Biniez is astute enough to realize the story he’s telling in his deadpan comedy; as he puts it, “This film is not about the beginning of a relationship, but about what precedes it. A stage where what he knows about her is little more than an image: a big question mark he wishes to decipher.” Camandule’s portrayal of sheer boredom is memorable, too. Biniez acted with Svarcas in “Whiskey” (2004). 84m.

User reviews from imdb Author: Kashmirgrey from United States

Set in Montevideo, Uruguay, Gigante carefully unravels the story of Jara, a heavy metal-loving, lionhearted security guard who works the graveyard shift at a grocery store. As he fights the boredom and monotony of a job monitoring the store via surveillance cameras, he begins to fall for a janitor named Julia. Too shy to approach her, Jara dotes over her from afar following her to and fro around town. When he begins to gain the courage to make contact, competition rolls in.

I knew nothing about Gigante when I began to watch it other than what the short plot summary on IMDb.com describes. The tempo of the film is a bit slower, but steady and the unknowing of what lies around each corner snagged me in and held my attention through-out. It was easy to relate to Jara, a very likable character, and the agony of his obsession for Julia and one cannot help but develop a fondness for her as Jara becomes more and more familiar with her.

Gigante isn't for everyone, but if you have ever become enamored with someone, but lacked the self confidence to act on it, I think you will appreciate this film.

Film-Forward.com Kevin Filipski

The nominal hero of Gigante—the introverted, exceptionally large late-night supermarket security guard Jara—is treated by writer-director Adrián Biniez with compassion, which lessens the initial “ick” factor of the man’s obsession. The object of Jara’s fixation is Julia, a young woman who cleans the supermarket after it closes. At first, Jara only sees her on the close-circuit security cameras, watching as she mops floors. Jara never drools or slobbers or makes untoward overtures; he is content with just watching her, essentially spying—he chuckles to himself when she inadvertently knocks over a display of paper towels and silently watches as she and another male employee flirt with each other. He never reacts like one of those crazy loners we’ve seen before. Instead, he simply falls in love, an emotion he hasn’t experienced before.

Gigante works because Biniez depicts Jara without condescension. His straightforward technique and offhand insights are coupled with a persuasive performance by Horacio Camandule that keeps viewers on Jara’s side, even when he begins tailing Julia outside of work, even going so far as to sit a few tables from her and her blind date at a local restaurant.

Biniez also displays the indispensible humor of Jara’s situation in an extended sequence after Jara, who trails Julia’s date after she goes home in a taxi, intervenes when the poor guy is about to get mugged. The men bond for awhile. They sit together at the same restaurant, and Jara very discreetly extracts pertinent information about Julia, including her preference for heavy-metal music. When the man excuses himself to go to the bathroom, Jara gets up and leaves; he doesn’t feel threatened by him any more. Jara—whom we’ve seen wearing heavy-metal T-shirts earlier—now becomes fixated with Julia’s liking the same music he likes, and he starts blasting hard rock while showering and working out, obviously thinking of her.

Gigante is very low-key—it never insists we love (or loathe) Jara. But Biniez slightly missteps with an open-ended, semi-happy ending, a two-minute long take of Jara and Julia finally meeting at her usual spot on the beach. But Biniez is also smart enough not to provide too many details, as his short, 85-minute film has recounted the prelude to a possible relationship.

Alongside Camandule’s commanding work is the equally strong acting of Leonor Svarcas as Maria, whom we see almost exclusively through Jara’s eyes—for the first half of the movie she’s mainly shown on the small black-and-white security monitors—but Svarcas fashions a sympathetic character out of those small fragments, and we also understand Jara’s fascination.

That Biniez never tips his hand might seem frustrating at first, as Jara never succumbs to the clichéd “loner” mentality that might have ruined this perceptive character study. Indeed, the movie’s biggest false note comes when Jara loses his cool at the store and knocks down everything in his path. Otherwise, Gigante is, like its perfectly ordinary hero, a gentle surprise.

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Bird, Brad

THE INCREDIBLES B 86

USA (115 mi) 2004 ‘Scope

Borrowing from several previous genres, like LILO AND STICH, where a family’s stability is wrecked by society’s inability to comprehend just what it is that keeps a family that looks different together, as looks are woefully deceiving, oh, and a little devilish Elvis-loving alien from outer space makes things even more difficult, or STAR WARS, particularly the flying through forests and canyons at breakneck speed, here chased by flying discs, or the music from MISSION IMPOSSIBLE, and most recently SPIDER MAN 2, imitating the evil, multi-armed iron octopus, this film borrows liberally and with apparent relish, not to mention one of the characters is a super fashion designer based on an exaggerated version of Academy Award icon Edith Head And while the scenes in the first half hour at home are sometimes hilarious and inventive, where we see a family of super heroes that have been forced into retirement, obtained secret identities, and are attempting to blend into “normal” society after being forced to hang up their costumes and stop saving the world after the cost from personal injury lawsuits has nearly bankrupted the government, the rest of the film doesn’t fare nearly as well. Once the story moves to the action adventure world of a small, Pacific island, it gets lost in a network of fast action entertainment, featuring thrills and spills and supposed mayhem, but it’s not nearly as funny, and overall, hasn’t got much to say. And I was a bit appalled at the thrill the child superheroes exhibited by blowing away the bad guys, without a hint of remorse, which is followed by mom and dad coming in for another team kill, and the whole family celebrating together as an act of family love. No film that I can recall, live action or animated, features children killing so nonchalantly. I thought what separated superheroes from normal people was that they weren’t allowed to kill people with their super powers. That’s what made it so difficult and all. Well, no one worried about that in this film. However, at home, their super powers in check, that’s a whole different story. While the characters are clever, especially seeing Mr. Incredible at work or this giant of a man squeezed into his miniscule car, and the voice of Holly Hunter as Elastigirl is superb, I found the fun-loving, irreverent kids, suppressed by years of being told by adults what they can’t do, much more interesting when they finally get a chance to let it go and be free than the trials and tribulations of the more predictable adults. The recently released TEAM AMERICA has a longer lasting and much stronger grasp of subversive, irreverent humor. This film never gets to where it wants to be, a dark satire on the perils of conformity in American society. The film looks awesome, however, on Blu-ray.

The Nation (Stuart Klawans)

Students of animation history have been suggesting that Bird and Pixar have developed the first truly engaging human cartoon characters. I cannot comment on the technical side of 3D computer animation; but, setting aside my longstanding affection for Elmer Fudd, I will agree that cartoon people have rarely been so much fun.

The reason, according to Bird, is that the Parrs' strange talents are rooted in normal family traits. Fathers are supposed to be strong, so Bob can bench-press a freight engine. Mothers are always being pulled ten ways at once, so Helen is elastic. Young Violet can become invisible, as teenage girls sometimes want to do, and Dash is just a wonderfully energetic little boy, ratcheted up to 200 mph.

Bird's biggest achievement in The Incredibles is to have inflated family stereotypes to parade-balloon size. His failing is that, in so doing, he also confirmed these stereotypes, and worse. Helen mouths one or two semi-feminist wisecracks but readily gives up her career for a house and kids; women are like that. Bob's buddy Frozone, the main nonwhite character in the movie, can instantly create ice; black people are cool. The superheroes are in hiding because greedy trial lawyers sued them into retirement; and, while concealed, they chafe at their confinement, like Ayn Rand railing against enforced mediocrity.

The family is the foundation of our society. Freedom is on the march.

The Incredibles Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

[MILD SPOLIERS] Certainly the most grown-up of the Pixar films, though not necessarily the best. Unlike Toy Story it doesn't really work on two levels; rather it functions as an adult midlife crisis drama for the first half and then bursts out of its civvies into superhero garb, becoming an amalgam of Spy Kids and Superman II. The complex characterization of the first part, with the supers struggling to deal with the straight world, was a lot more fun to me, actually. The world-saving plot was fine but rote, with little for the viewer to do but marvel at the detailed computer-generated landscapes. That's something, but so much of the rest of the film was about getting you to forget it's a cartoon. Still, I shouldn't carp. There's a bunch of wonderful stuff in here (Bob Parr at the office, the shrinking adolescent Violet, the "16mm" opening sequence, everything with Samuel L. Jackson's Frozone, "no capes," blow-drying the books). But ultimately I was troubled by the mixed-message of the film. So yeah, the world is mediocre and we should embrace greatness rather than demanding conformity. I'm with you so far. Then, we have Syndrome (whose very name, obviously, connotes our culture's labeling of shortcomings as a handicap for society to accommodate), a smart kid with no "natural" powers. He wants to kill the supers, and so he's the villain. Okay. But his master plan is to sell his gadgets so "everyone can be super, and so, nobody will be," dum-dum-DUMMMM. Nothing is made of the fact that, in that scheme, presumably only the rich will be super, so I assume the problem is equality itself. Sure, total equality of abilities will never be achieved, without asking those with special gifts to suppress them. (Cf. Kurt Vonnegut's "Harrison Burgeron.") But if greater equality can be achieved by raising the standard for everyone, rather than lowering it for some, then I don't see the problem. Oh, yeah. That's because I'm a freakin' Marxist.

The Village Voice [Jessica Winter]

Where have you gone, Mr. Incredible? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you—your brains, brawn, and sonorous vox so indispensible in crisis, your close-set eyes and protracted jaw so reminiscent of a certain Massachusetts senator. A superhero firmly in the Captain America mold, the I-man once rescued kittens from the very trees he felled to block the escape routes of machine-gunning baddies. But then he plucked a suicide jumper from the sky and found himself served with a wrongful-non-death suit—the first in a rash of gratuitous litigation by dissatisfied civilians, eventually driving Mr. Incredible and his beleaguered associate fantastics into the Superhero Protection Program. Fifteen years later, he's some schmo in a cubicle named Bob Parr, a downsized drone with a supersized waistline shuffling insurance claim forms, hunched and disgruntled in a fluorescent-lit office hell.

Bigger, longer, and louder a product than we've come to expect from the Pixar computer animation studio, The Incredibles is a hectic pastiche, folding in the studious spoofery of Mystery Men, the family solidarity espoused by the Spy Kids franchise, and the overarching theme of the X-Men films: a troubled assimilation into a suspicious society that's decidedly below-Parr. Bob's wife, Helen, formerly Elastigirl (the moniker is one of several homages to the DC Comics trove), applies her bubblegum flexibility to full-time momdom, raising force-field magician Violet and speed demon Dash to conceal their genetic birthrights from the world at large, where the official line reads all too clear: "It's time for them to join us or go away." In their cultivated suburban anonymity, the Parrs do both—until Bob accepts a secret mission from an enigmatic hottie who invites him out to her volcanic island to discuss disabling the Omnidroid, a renegade piece of destructive machinery.

The Omnidroid could be the sociopathic prototype of the 50-foot title character in Brad Bird's first feature, The Iron Giant (1999), a lovely Cold War parable wherein the director displayed a similar meticulous affection for bygone mid-century artifacts: The Incredibles pores over yellowed clippings and crackling, sepia-toned newsreel footage of Mr. Incredible's exploits. Bird originally intended the new film to be, like Iron Giant, an old-school cel animation, which might have envisioned the material better—everything here, from foliage to human skin, appears crafted from the same chunk of cold, gleaming titanium.

The Incredibles brims with sly comic-book connoisseurship, as when Mr. Incredible's prolix nemesis Syndrome complains, "You've got me monologuing!" or when it presents a swift montage on the occupational hazards of caped crusading (the flapping fabric can snag on a missile, get sucked into a plane engine, etc.). Unfortunately, the delicious snatches of reflexive wit function as mere intermissions between the distended action sequences and Michael Bay–style megatonnage, which have earned Pixar its first ever PG rating. At the preview screening, a little boy burst into tears a few ammo rounds into an early auto chase, and the five-year-old to my left spent most of two hours cowering in her dad's lap. Pixar has never tiptoed around the young 'uns' fears and anxieties (see the nighttime terrors of Monsters, Inc. or the family-slaughter overture of Finding Nemo), but The Incredibles announces the studio's arrival in the vast yet overcrowded Hollywood lot of eardrum-bashing, metal-crunching action sludge. Given that its next film is called Cars, it seems it's opted for long-term parking.

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RATATOUILLE

USA (111 mi) 2007 ‘Scope co-director: Jan Pinkava

Seattle Post-Intelligencer [Sean Axmaker]

"I'm a rat, which makes life hard," confesses our hero, Remy (voiced by Patton Oswalt), in the dynamic new animated film from writer/director Brad Bird ("The Iron Giant" and "The Incredibles") and Pixar Studios.

That's an understatement. Where his family is content to raid trash cans and scarf down anything that isn't laced with poison, Remy is a budding gourmand with a highly developed sense of smell and a passion to explore the world of taste and flavor.

Through various plot machinations, Remy ends up in the kitchen of a once revered Paris restaurant and becomes a secret chef in partnership with a bumbling kitchen boy (Lou Romano), whom he "operates" like a life-size marionette. Cooking becomes a comic dance, full of elastic slapstick and dynamic physical humor, but also grace and joy.

There are the expected clashes with the little Napoleon of a head chef (Ian Holm) and a food critic (Peter O'Toole, in his most arrogant and withering voice) who marches into the restaurant like death himself, but the path to a happy ending is decidedly unconventional and surprising.

In an industry where most animated feature scripts are whipped up from the same handful of recipes at best, and compiled from a buffet line of generic entrees at worst, Bird crafts each story as a unique dish.

At 110 minutes, "Ratatouille" is long for an animated feature and too demanding for very young children, but it's also filled with delights. Bird builds marvelous friendships and spreads the dignity around with a marvelous inclusiveness, and he celebrates success as doing what you enjoy and enjoying what you do.

Like the French peasant stew for which it is named, "Ratatouille" isn't a fancy dish, but it's hearty and tasty, created from fresh ingredients and cooked up with unexpected flavors and dashes of spice, and it leaves a satisfying and inspiring warmth when it's done.

The Village Voice [Scott Foundas]

Brad Bird has spent most of his career making "cartoons"—a cinematic form that is afforded about as much serious artistic credibility as the slasher movie—but he deserves to be considered one of the most inspired storytellers at work in American movies. With Ratatouille, he takes the raw ingredients of an anthropomorphic-animal kiddie matinee and whips them into a heady brew about nothing less than the principles of artistic creation.

None of that should come as much surprise to anyone who saw Bird's two previous features: The Incredibles, with its art-deco fever dream of a superhero family hiding out in suburbia, and The Iron Giant, whose titular robot turned out to be considerably more humane than the government agents hot on his trail. Like the Iron Giant, Ratatouille's rodent hero is a non-human unwilling to accept the role assigned to him by society.

When we first meet young Remy (Patton Oswalt), his olfactory gifts have reduced him to serving as "poison sniffer" for his garbage-foraging colony. But Remy dreams of becoming a fine French chef, and gets his chance when he lands on the doorstep of Gusteau's,a once-grand flagship restaurant now reduced to a glorified tourist attraction. Remy's arrival coincides with that of Linguini (Lou Romano), a bumbling kid whose cooking proves unfit even for rodent consumption. But with a little help from a certain four-legged intruder—voila! From trash heap to magnifique!

As has been widely reported, the Pixar-produced Ratatouille was begun by another director and taken over by Bird well into the development process. Yet the film is unmistakably Bird's own, not least in its focus on the disparity between art and commerce, greatness and mediocrity. But the most provocative gesture is surely its vivid exultation of haute cuisine. It's a slow-food movie for a fast-food nation, distributed by a company known for its McDonald's marketing tie-ins.

Fret not, parents: Bird hasn't made one of those hipster family films that sails over the heads of its intended audience. Ratatouille is as much a feast for the senses as it is food for thought.

The Onion A.V. Club [Tasha Robinson]

Toward the end of Ratatouille, Pixar's latest animated romp, writer-director Brad Bird mounts such a cogent, feeling, pained deconstruction of professional criticism that viewers might almost suspect he's had problems with persnickety critics in the past. But how is that possible, when everything he touches is wonderful? The writer-director behind The Iron Giant and The Incredibles (the former a critically beloved, poorly marketed underperformer, the latter a critically beloved smash) and an animation consultant on the likes of King Of The Hill and The Simpsons, Bird has a rare cinematic gift: the ability to stage slam-bang action sequences without neglecting the rich emotional resonance that makes for a great story. Ratatouille never hits the heights of The Incredibles, if only because it's operating on a much smaller and less mythic, culturally resonant stage, but it's solid enough to prove that Bird hasn't let success, critical or otherwise, go to his head.

Patton Oswalt stars as the voice of Remy, a little gray French rat with a sensitive nose and a picky palate; while his family is scarfing down half-rotten trash, he's dreamily following the dictates of the late world-renowned chef Auguste Gusteau, who famously proclaimed, "Anyone can cook." Remy's obsessions nearly get him killed when he ventures into a Paris kitchen, but before long, he and a hapless cooking-impaired nebbish (Lou Romano) team up to wow Paris' foodies. In spite of a number of zippy complications involving a glowering, cadaverous food critic (Peter O'Toole), a snappish love interest (Janeane Garofalo), and a villainous little restaurateur who's prostituting Gusteau's name on products like "microwavable chop-socky pockets," Ratatouille is narratively thinner than Bird's previous films. But he fills in the gaps with gawp-inducing setpieces that move at firework speeds, as the tiny Remy dashes to avoid human-sized hazards, or the rest of the cast works through calamity and chaos.

As always, Pixar (Toy Story, Finding Nemo, The Incredibles, etc.) leads the growing pack of CGI studios on sheer quality; the visual attention to tiny details is almost distractingly opulent, from the cuts and nicks on the chefs' hands to the way Remy's tiny chest flutters when he's panicked. And Bird aptly nails Pixar's heady house blend of pathos, action, quirk, and sheer good humor. Bird and his co-writers leave room for quiet moments and gentle morals, but for the most part, they send visual gags and verbal punchlines tearing past at an enjoyably demanding speed, whipping up the film's energy at every turn. That makes it a little frothier than Bird's other films, but it's delectable nonetheless.

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Bissonnette, Sophie

A WIVE’S TALE (Une Histoire de Femmes)

Canada (73 mi) 1980 co-directors: Martin Duckworth and Joyce Rock

Une Histoire De Femmes/ A Wives' Tale Women Unite During Strike, by Barbara Halpern Martineau from Jump Cut

Wives' Tale interview by Peter Steven, Barbara Halpern Martineau, and Chuck Kleinhans from Jump Cut

Bize, Matías

IN BED (En la Cama) B+ 91

Chile Germany (85 mi) 2005

A film made with a minimum of finances by a young director, shot in two and a half weeks in a motel room with two cameras focusing all their attention on two characters, a man and a woman who meet to have sex. Apparently, Chile is overrun with a huge couples motel industry, and this story explores how fast a relationship can develop operating under the prerequisite sex guidelines, which leaves only a limited few hours time frame. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting much from this film, thinking it might play on the John and Yoko bed marathon theme, but it took itself much more seriously. Spending over a year in readings and rehearsals, this more closely resembles the absurdist existential plays of Samuel Beckett, as the two characters repeatedly say they are about to leave, but then neither of them moves an inch, so it operates under the parameters of they can’t go and they can’t stay.

Blanca Lewin and Gonzalo Valenzuela are Daniela and Bruno, two beautiful looking people who are both butt naked in the opening scenes, which more closely resembles soft porn than film. But when they take a break, they’re interested in asking personal information of one another, which may seem like fun at first, but when they start getting more serious, they immediately get defensive and conclude this is just a motel fuck, I barely even know this person, it’s time to leave. But a strange curiosity sets in as a little more personal information is revealed, creating dramatic layers of human consciousness. They both begin to expose more of themselves to this complete stranger than they, or we, could ever have imagined, and after some fun in the tub, followed by another round of sex, they’re compelled to keep going. Leaving little to chance, much of this is precisely choreographed, beautifully filmed in tight spaces, only occasionally resorting to mildly abstract imagery, featuring original music by Diego Fontecilla. There are beautiful still moments, or wordless silences, but their attention to one another is natural and exceptionally well acted. As the story develops and we get a clearer picture of their unfolding lives outside the motel room, an unusual depth of sadness sets in when we realize this may be the last time they ever see one another, which only precipitates even more profound melancholy. This is an attention grabber, and in more ways than one, a simple, yet exquisitely developed film.

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez]

There's a scene in Matías Bize's live-action Calvin Klein advert In Bed during which Bruno (Gonzalo Valenzuela) lays out for Daniela (Blanca Lewis) his aesthetic theory of film, dividing his favorite movies into three categories. I no longer remember the rationale he uses to separate Paul Thomas Anderson's Magnolia from Pedro Almodóvar's Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!, but I do remember the Spanish title he uses for Naked Gun: ¿Donde esta la policía? (Where Are the Police?), instead of the more sensible La Pistola Desnuda. This is only one way American films arrive abroad a little lost in translation. More perplexing than a screwy title change, the entirety of In Bed suggests a mash-up of Before Sunrise and Tape run through Altavista's unreliable Babel Fish Translation service—you can't shake the feeling that there's something not quite right about how it looks and sounds. Except for the two or three scenes that take place In the Bathroom, the film mostly pans out on a motel bed. Bruno and Daniela land there after a party we only hear about during one of the conversations they have after one of their sex sessions. Like Michael Winterbottom's 9 Songs, In Bed is a great porn but a piss-poor drama. The sex here is diced not with musical performances but with painstakingly-scripted chitter chatter (topics include: vintage cartoons, Reiki massages, and movie pitches) that similarly works to schematize a movie that aims for some level of naturalism. By the time of the film's condom-breaking scene, you're meant to want the couple to graduate beyond their potentially one-night stand—instead, you marvel at how quickly screenwriter Julio Rojas runs out of words for his characters. When Bruno describes in expert detail how his millions of sperm might be swimming inside Daniela, you half expect him to start talking about how X and Y chromosomes determine the sex of a baby. We're also ostensibly meant not to notice how the film is running on empty because all of sudden the frame slips into split-screen, at which point Bize's possible Chelsea Girls shout-out simply calls attention to the director's scarcely flesh-clinging use of cinematic language. You may ask, "¿Donde esta Andy Warhol?"

Black, Noel

PRETTY POISON A- 94

USA (89 mi) 1968

You do have quite a capacity for loving. —Dennis Pitt (Anthony Perkins)

Another film that tanked at the box office, though this is a laceratingly dark comedy, shot by a first time director, adding many familiar 60’s themes and effects, such as a psychologically shifting narrative, an effective use of flashbacks or spontaneous brain fissures where one has fractured images going off in one’s head, accentuated by the use of dissonant music, and an examination of seemingly innocent reflections that results in a deeply dark interior disturbance. Also, the generation gap was a prominent theme of the era, not to mention the aftereffects of Cold War espionage tales, used to excellent effect here in a fascinating study of near Altmanesque, small town Americana gone to seed, given a Hitchcockian twist that even the master himself would take delight in seeing, as this is a clever variation on his macabre and genre defining themes. Adapted from Stephen Geller’s novel She Let Him Continue by screenwriter Lorenzo Semple Jr, who was a script consultant on the Batman television series (1966 – 68) before going on to write Alan J. Pakula’s weirdly modernistic PARALLAX VIEW (1974), one of the best paranoid conspiracy theory thrillers of the 70’s, right alongside KLUTE (1971), SOYLENT GREEN (1973), THE CONVERSATION (1974), CHINATOWN (1974), ALL THE PRESIDENT’S MEN (1976), and again co-writer of THREE DAYS OF THE CONDOR (1976), creating a uniquely subversive vision of 1960’s America, filled with paranoid delusions about conspiracy theories, largely fueled by the shocking speculations about the Kennedy assassination and the CIA’s connection to the Cuban Bay of Pigs invasion, where according to the Church Committee Assassination plots and schemes: Castro in the crosshairs - CNN, there were “at least eight plots involving the CIA to assassinate Castro from 1960 to 1965.” Casting Anthony Perkins as a mentally unstable young man with a troubled past is a highly provocative choice, as it intentionally plays upon his PSYCHO (1960) persona, right along with his nervous tics and rambling monologues, where it’s easy to suspect him of nefarious acts. Perkins as Dennis Pitt inflames the perception upon his release from a long stay at a mental hospital, making a joke about interplanetary space travel, where he’s harshly reminded that out in the real world, “It's got no place at all for fantasies.”

Made a year after THE GRADUATE (1967), a scathing satire on the American Dream, Pitt’s future expectations, in contrast, could hardly be less open-ended, as so little is expected of him because he has a criminal record, convicted of arson at 15, which resulted in the death of his aunt. So from the outset, Pitt already has two strikes against him. Cast opposite Perkins is the All American girl, Tuesday Weld as Sue Ann, one of the more original roles in American cinema, where Weld emphatically embraces the challenge, though she was quoted in an interview with movie critic Rex Reed afterwards thinking this was her “worst performance,” as she hated working with the director, but she enjoyed a lifelong friendship with Perkins, working together again in PLAY IT AS IT LAYS (1972), where her scathing performance was nominated for a Golden Globe. Weld’s previous credits include the infamous ROCK, ROCK, ROCK! (1956), SEX KITTENS GO TO COLLEGE (1960), and LORD LOVE A DUCK (1966). She joins what film critic Molly Haskell calls the “Lolita cult” of the 60’s, likely based upon Sue Lyon’s child nymphet performance in Kubrick’s LOLITA (1962), Yvette Mimieux’s titillating exploration of teen love in the coming-of-age comedy WHERE THE BOYS ARE (1960), Mia Farrow’s short-haired Allison MacKenzie role on the trashy TV soap opera Peyton Place (1964 – 69), not to mention Weld’s own tabloid history of dating older men as a teenager, including actor John Ireland and even Elvis. Drop dead gorgeous and a member of her high school marching band, Sue Ann is the personification of all that’s good about youth, with all her dreams and idealizations intact, driving a powder blue 1965 Sunbeam Alpine convertible [seen here: http://www.ritzsite.nl/Tiger/1965_Sunbeam_Alpine_Mk_IV.jpg, a red one was driven by Elizabeth Taylor in BUTTERFIELD 8 (1960)], uncorrupted by a cynical world, though like many overly constrained teenage girls, she wants not only to look and act older, but to be the center of attention, to be a part of a world she has yet to explore. Yet in her drive to get what she wants, she may surprise a few people, as she does Dennis Pitt. Initially amused by his invented secret agent persona in order to attract her attention, he’s blindsided by her fierce need to let no one stand in her way, to eliminate all obstacles which prevent her from getting what she wants, shifting halfway through the film from the manipulated to the manipulator, luring Dennis into her own deceiptful web of intrigue and disaster.

Certainly some of this may remind viewers of Terrence Malick’s BADLANDS (1973), but Sue Ann is a far different creature than the more benign Sissy Spacek, instead taking on the male characteristics of the Martin Sheen role, someone who acts impulsively, seemingly for no reason, leaving behind a litter of dead bodies in their wake, never stopping for a second to consider what they’ve done. Dennis Pitt provides the lead role and instigates the action with his wild-eyed, made up games of espionage and undercover operations, all designed to bring them closer together, but for Sue Ann, that’s not enough and she wants more, continually doing the inexplicable, making sure the game they’re playing shifts just enough to carry out her own master plan, where she literally becomes the explosive force of the film. All set in the small town world of Great Barrington, Massachusetts where everything looks in its proper place, this has the disturbing under-the-surface fury of deep-seeded malice, a predecessor to David Lynch’s nightmarish BLUE VELVET (1986), with the world slowly closing in on the unsuspecting Dennis like a noose around his neck, where the creeping paranoia is visible and real, a man who originally thinks he’s painstaking thought of all the meticulous details necessary until Sue Ann adds a few tricks of her own, seemingly improvising on the fly, always compounding the outcome, placing ever greater pressure on Dennis to sustain his balance, where at every passing moment he feels like he’s about to crumble and fall. Interestingly, the sailor photograph seen in Sue Ann’s bedroom near the end is a picture of the director, which initiates a series of doubts and questions in his mind, seeing his future inevitably altered by the actions of a child, causing him to marvel incredulously, “I notice, you do have quite a capacity for loving.” Providing a performance of great depth, Tuesday Weld is sensational in a role of seeming superficiality, stealing every scene she’s in, masquerading as the high school sweetheart while she’s really the Lady Macbeth, femme fatale in a film noir world with blood on her hands. Initially entitled BITCHES BE CRAZY, this joins the motherlode of horror-tinged, comic and darkly disturbing psychological thrillers, where Sue Ann offshoots would have to include overweight jealous wonder Shirley Stoler in The Honeymoon Killers (1969), Nicole Kidman’s ruthless ambition in Gus van Sant’s TO DIE FOR (1995), and perhaps even Reese Witherspoon’s perky, not to be denied, Type A over-achiever in Alexander Payne’s Election (1999).

Pretty Poison | Chicago Reader Jonathan Rosenbaum

Noel Black's odd, creepy thriller came out of nowhere in 1968 and almost dropped out of sight shortly thereafter, though it's built a small but solidly deserved cult reputation in the years since. Anthony Perkins is a nice young man who once liked to set fires and was incarcerated as a result; Tuesday Weld is the squeaky-clean cheerleader who understands and then some. With Beverly Garland and Dick O'Neill.

Pretty Poison - Time Out Worldwide

Ever since this corrosive tale of insidious madness and deceptive innocence in Small Town USA, buffs have sought out Noel Black's other work (mainly for TV), vainly hoping to find something as good. The film is blithely written by Lorenzo Semple Jr, who suddenly proved at a stroke that he was worthy of more than the script consultant's job on Batman. And the performances are great. Perkins' role, as a dedicated fantasist employed at a chemical factory, treads on Psycho ground without ever causing the usual feelings of déjà vu; but Tuesday Weld is the film's linch-pin, brilliantly playing a girl whose drum-majorette demeanour hides the most amazing emotions. In a word, recommended.

Pauline Kael

An unobtrusive little psychological thriller, subtle and very smart. Anthony Perkins gives what may be his most sensitively conceived performance; he's a character who develops from a quirky, sneaky, funny boy into a decent, sympathetic man. He toys with fantasies but knows they're fantasies. Tuesday Weld plays a small-town girl, crazy for excitement, who accepts his fantasies in a matter-of-fact way and proceeds to act on them. Lorenzo Semple, Jr., wrote a beauty of a script (based on Stephen Geller's novel She Let Him Continue); the horror in the movie isn't just in the revelation of what the pretty young girl is capable of--it's in your awareness that the man's future is being destroyed. Directed by Noel Black. With John Randolph and Beverly Garland. Shot on location in Western Massachusetts; the river that is carrying poisonous red dye is the once "mighty" Housatonic. 20th Century-Fox.

Exclaim.ca [Travis Mackenzie Hoover]

Despite a glowing notice from Pauline Kael, this movie flopped abjectly in its 1968 release and disappeared into cult legend. And no wonder: this is the kind of perverse gem that eludes broader audiences while playing straight to the crazy kids who obsessively keep the faith. Anthony Perkins plays Dennis, a young man about to be released from the mental hospital despite a plethora of unresolved issues. He lands a job at a small-town chemical plant and promptly gets bored, a problem he ameliorates by seducing the teenaged Sue Ann (Tuesday Weld) with wild stories about being a government agent. At first, we fear for the girl, who’s clearly being led down the primrose path into illegal activity, until we discover that she’s the all-American bad girl who makes Dennis look like a piker. The film is initially stiff, with Dennis coming off as too smooth and self-assured despite Perkins’ nailing of the part, but once the switch is thrown it’s a grabber all the way. Weld is uncanny in her rendering of her "wholesome” sociopath and while it wouldn’t be cricket to tell of her misdeeds, rest assured that she never betrays her true colours until the very end. Though the technique is a little too polished for such a desperate narrative, the film goes as far as one could before the American Renaissance arrived with its formal daring, and is guaranteed not to bore you once you get sucked into its downward spiral. With its casual approach to mental illness and cruelty, it’s remarkably current — with very few changes it could pass for a movie released yesterday if not for the fact that it’s handled by people with intelligence and wit.

That Girl is Poison: Tuesday Weld, Not So Innocent ... - Village Voice Nick Pinkerton

The promising first feature of director Noel Black's long, uneven career, Pretty Poison opened unpromisingly enough in 1968 New York, played without press-preview fanfare at the Riverside Theatre at 96th and Broadway, and then disappeared with barely a ripple—an indignity that Film Forum's week-long revival moves to redress.

Pretty Poison begins with Dennis Pitt (Anthony Perkins), castigated by his parole officer as a chronic escapist, released from a long stay at a mental institution. Dennis looks thirtyish. His crime was committed as a boy; a boy he essentially remains. When we next catch up with Dennis, working at a chemical plant in a small Western Massachusetts town that churns out the same Technicolor toxins of Red Desert, he's entranced by the vision of a 17-year-old, Sue Ann Stepanek (Tuesday Weld), carrying the state flag for her high school marching band. Swooping in with the pretense of his being an undercover CIA agent on a top-secret mission and baiting Sue Ann with promise of intrigue and excitement, it seems obvious that, given Dennis's tenuous grasp of reality, he won't be out of jail for long. The surprise at the center of Pretty Poison is how he gets back there.

Seemingly hooked on his spy-games story, Sue Ann goes along with Dennis. Cracking nonsense jokes ("I foolishly performed an abortion on a peach tree," he quips to his factory foreman) and loping across town with a tireless, long-legged sprint, his behavior is just odd enough to pass as mysterious. Dennis strings Sue Ann along with illicit substances (plying her with a hit of acid before he deflowers her) and illicit missions (a sabotage break-in at the factory), but though he invents the rules of the role-play, Sue Ann is a startlingly quick study. "Let's do something exciting," she gasps, still fresh with the comedown—and letdown—of their first night together. The same frightful enthusiasm is visible later when she piggyback-straddles the body of an unconscious factory security guard while Dennis blanches and gags, blowing his secret-agent-man cover and ability to call the shots.

Tuesday, née Susan Ker Weld, got her first taste of fame in 1959 at age sweet 16 on the CBS teen sitcom The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis, in which she played dreamy, creamy Thalia Menninger, the obscure object of desire pined after by Dobie in spite of the fact that she was avaricious and callow and all a-jitter on Coca-Cola and puberty. Weld was beautiful, blond, sun-kissed with freckles, and could round out a pair of hot pants, but her milk-fed beauty came alongside a lip-gnashing delivery that betrayed a head buzzing with distractions, her voice sometimes antsy and tremulous, other times tripping over itself in an impetuous rush, an alarm of dangerous possibilities. Like Weld's best parts of the period—the flirtatious high schooler with a will to power in George Axelrod's screwy SoCal satire Lord Love a Duck (1966); the moonshiner's daughter whose guileless, in-the-moment passion undoes small-town Southern sheriff Gregory Peck in I Walk the Line (1970)—Sue Ann is a role that drew on Weld's particular ambivalence, the appearance of invincible all-American health alongside deeper agitation.

Even a pat, movie-of-the-week wrap-up can't diminish Pretty Poison's central performances. Dear friends in life, Perkins and Weld were simply able to tune in to each other's frequencies, here as in the dangerous symbiosis of their 1972 collaboration, Play It as It Lays. Like any good study in couple's psychopathology, a familiar relationship is visible here, but in a parodic, mutated form. In clear stages, Pretty Poison details the gradual inversion of Dennis and Sue Ann's power dynamic—a transference of roles between the apparent exploiter and deceiver and the apparently exploited and deceived. Self-possessed Sue Ann takes the driver's seat and winds up dropping Dennis off at her convenience, like a distracted mother ("Hasta luego, nut!"), while he is left stammering his story to a pair of detectives from the Kafka Agency. Locked away all those years, Dennis doesn't realize that innocence isn't what it used to be, so it's he who winds up losing what is left of his own boyish trust. The measure of the movie's cynicism: It doesn't deal in predators and prey—only in predators of different species.

Articles David Sterritt from Turner Classic Movies, also seen here: Read TCM's article on Pretty Poison

seduction and ruin Innocence, Seduction, Ruin in PANDORA'S BOX and PRETTY POISON, by Julia Lesage, from The Film Center of the Art Institute, 1979

DVD Times Anthony Nield

DVD Talk [Stuart Galbraith IV]

PRETTY POISON - Big House Film Society Roger Westcombe

Slant Magazine [Bill Weber]

The Onion A.V. Club [Nathan Rabin]

Dave's Blog About Movies and Such [Dave Enkosky]

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

EyeForFilm.co.uk Gator MacReady

TV Guide

Variety

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

Black, Shane

KISS KISS BANG BANG

USA (103 mi) 2005

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang Lee Marshall in Cannes from Screendaily

A hugely entertaining mix of film noir, comic buddy movie and metacinematic  romp, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang marks the directing debut of one-time wunderkind scripter Shane Black (Lethal Weapon, The Long Kiss Goodnight), who has been off the radar for the best part of a decade. From the most stylish opening credits since Catch Me If You Can, through to the closing voice-over comment “We hope you stay for the credits... and if you want to know about the Best Boy, he’s somebody’s nephew”, this one has sophisticated, urban and cineliterate written all over it (narrator-hero Harry Lockhart even apologises to Mid-Western  audiences at one point for all the swearing in the film).

A triumph of savvy tone and ironic attitude, it works best when it is in comic mode – which is most of the time. Without the barrage of smart one-liners and situation gags, the convoluted murder mystery plot would hardly stand up. Luckily, it rarely needs to. It’s only very occasionally in the romantic subplot, when the film tries to be smart-ass and sentimental at the same time, that the balance doesn’t quite work. But when in doubt, Black opts for smart-ass: and it’s the right decision.

The film is tentatively scheduled for domestic release in the third quarter of this year; it should play strongly on both coasts, and perform well on DVD. Black is an action specialist, and the car chases and shoot-outs are surprisingly real for what is basically a spoof. Val Kilmer’s fine comic turn as a tough, unclichéd gay private eye – a career best performance – should also generate strong word of mouth. The only question mark for Warner will be how well Kiss Kiss Bang Bang’s sardonic comedy comes over in non-Anglophone markets; witty voice-over films (Fight Club, The Opposite of Sex) can be ruined by insensitive dubbing or subtitling; or they can simply miss a territory’s funny bone.

With more twists and turns than a bowl of schizophrenic spaghetti, the plot centres on washed-up  small-time thief Harry Lockhart, played by the versatile Robert Downey Jr as a sympathetic loser in whom bad luck and bad judgement go hand in hand. In the film’s hilarious opening scene, Harry breaks into an audition room while on the run from the cops and suddenly finds his “old school” method acting has won him a ticket to L.A. for a screen test. Here he meets private eye Perry van Shrike (Val Kilmer), otherwise known as “Gay Perry”, who is given the job of preparing Harry for his role as a private dick by offering him some real-life work experience.  Soon enough, Harry meets up with his old high school confidante and unrequited love object, Harmony Faith Lane (Syriana’s Michelle Monaghan), who is obssessed with pulp crime hero Jonny Gossamer. The obvious Downey-Monaghan age difference will distract those who get distracted by these things; others will take it on board as part of Kiss Kiss Bang Bang’s nonchalant strut.

Harmony’s attempts to unravel the fate of her missing kid sister intersect with the murder mystery that Perry and Harry are trying to solve. One of this year’s next big things, Monaghan will also be seen alongside Charlize Theron and Sissy Spacek in another Warner project, Kiwi director Niki Caro’s upcoming sexual harrassment drama, provisionally titled Class Action. On the evidence of Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, the former TV star can certainly hold down a comic-romantic lead, and the mixture of fatale and spoof in her performance suggest that she could stray with equal ease into David Lynch or Woody Allen territory.

The Los Angeles of the film is neither LAPD mean streets territory nor the futuristic downtown  of Collateral, but a garish, utterly artificial world whose determination to party hard has outlived the party. Its original colour pallette is bright and washed out at the same time; DoP Barret desaturated much of the footage in post to get this brash but raw look. John Ottman’s score hits just the right note,  coming on like an ironic take on the 1970s hip-cat crime genre. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang deals with serious issues as well: brioken dreams, the inhumanity of the Hollywood star machine, even – in a rather superficial way – child abuse. But in the end it’s the brilliance of the spoof that carries the day: the quickfire badinage, the sly film references (“I saw the last Lord of the Rings, I’m not going to have the movie end about seventeen times”) and the impression that all concerned were enjoying themselves immensely.

BFI | Sight & Sound | Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (2005) John Wrathall, December 2005

BFI | Sight & Sound | Kiss Kiss Bang Bang Edward Lawrenson, November 2005

THE NICE GUYS B- 81

USA (116 mi) 2016 ‘Scope

With a tribute to Isaac Hayes and the long intro of the musical theme from SHAFT (1971), the film opens in a soulful groove of Norman Whitfield’s incredible musical arrangement of Papa Was A Rolling Stone (UNCUT) - The Temptations - HQ (12:04), one of the more recognizable intros, featuring the kind of extended psychedelic arrangement that takes you back to a distinctive place and time, that existed in a brief window of time before it was extinguished. What follows is an introductory prologue that sets the scene of pure lunacy, a kind of adolescent porn fantasy that springs to life when a kid in his pajamas steals his dad’s porn magazine and eagerly examines the merchandise before a car comes tumbling down a hill straight through the house before coming to a stop nearby. The kid checks out the accident scene where a well-endowed, completely naked porn star named Misty Mountains (Murielle Telio) is laying on the hood of the car, who is, in fact, the exact same centerfold he was just examining. Covering her with his pajama top, she murmurs a weird expression just before she dies, “How do you like my car, big boy?” Set in a pastel, candy-colored universe of Los Angeles in 1977, the film is a comic spoof, a throwback to the noirish detective stories driven by pulp fiction writers, though in this case, two unlikely private eyes team up on a case of common interest, though they loathe each other, with both teetering on the edge of sleaze and moral depravity themselves, where they’re actually a couple of numbskulls that find themselves using screwball comedy dialogue while searching for the elusive bad guys through the stench of regular smog alerts, professional hit men, and layers of entrenched corruption at the Justice Department. Basically a showcase for the acting skills of Russell Crowe and Ryan Gosling, both wearing Hawaiian or paisley shirts with leisure suits, we witness the hard edge of a somewhat overweight Crowe as Jackson Healy, who narrates his opening scene, where his specialty as a heavy is roughing people up for a living, sending a message of warning that they should stay away from certain individuals unless they wish to receive another house call. Paralleling his introduction, Gosling as the goofy, mentally challenged Holland March agrees to take the case of an elderly woman reporting a missing husband, who hasn’t been seen since the funeral, though an urn with his name attached is sitting on the mantle.

Shortly after the car accident, March is approached by Mrs. Glenn (Lois Smith), the nearly blind aunt of the recently deceased Misty Mountains, who insists she saw her niece several days after her reported death alongside her friend Amelia (Margaret Qualley), but they vanished before she could pursue them. Skeptical of her claim, though curious about her sidekick, March agrees to take the case, though he’s pretty sure he can verify a dead body. Simultaneously, a young girl (Amelia) is seen chatting with Healy, claiming some guy has been getting too close to her, and before you know it, Healy arrives on the front door of March, giving him the standard treatment before grabbing one of his arms and instructing him, “When you talk to your doctor, tell him you have a spiral fracture of the left radius.” Later that evening, a couple of mob guys, Blue Face (Beau Knapp) and his older partner Keith David, are lying in wait for Healy, with the duo also looking for Amelia, turning into a raucous skirmish of heavy blows before Healy finds a hidden shotgun and sends them fleeing. Finding himself back at March’s front door, March, now wearing a cast, is not exactly happy to see him, where his precocious thirteen year old daughter Holly (Angourie Rice) acknowledges, “Isn’t that the guy that beat you up, Dad?” Making amends at a local diner, they try to figure out their situation of finding Amelia before the mob does, where Holly reveals her personal misgivings about her father’s working methods, as he routinely swindles his clients out of extra days, claiming he’s onto something even as he has nothing to show for it. Both these guys are scumbags of the lowest order, yet their appeal is their humorous back and forth banter, where they’re fuck ups even when they try to do good, yet Holly, bright and intelligent, is easily the best thing in the film, actually showing them up throughout the film, and turns out to be the voice of conscious for both of them, continually sticking her nose in their business, despite her Dad pushing her out of the way. What they discover is Amelia was working with Misty Mountains on an experimental porn film called How Do You Like My Car, Big Boy? The filmmaker named Dean, along with Misty, both turn up dead, with Dean mysteriously dying in a house fire, while the producer, Sid Shattack, is having a glamorous Hollywood party where all interested forces converge.

Decorated in costume glitter with all manner of Hollywood weirdos and perverts, they fit right in, weaving in and out of the opulence of the party, with March taking full advantage of the free drinks, pretty much getting plastered, literally stumbling upon the dead body of Shattack while Holly is the one that actually discovers Amelia, but falls into the hands of the killers as well, who are also there trying to kill Amelia while acknowledging a hit man named John-Boy (Matt Bomer) has been hired to eliminate any and all witnesses. It gets a bit convoluted and ridiculous at the same time, including murders and miraculous escapes, especially when a sharply dressed black woman Tally (Yaya DaCosta) arrives on the scene and our tag team of private eyes are suddenly directed into the offices of a high ranking official in the Justice Department, none other than Kim Basinger as Judith Kutner, Amelia’s mother, (remember Basinger worked so well together with Russell Crowe in his 1997 breakout movie, LA CONFIDENTIAL), who claims her daughter is so delusional and paranoid that she thinks her own mother is out to kill her, asking for their help in returning her back home safely, as otherwise she’s falling into the hands of the Las Vegas mob as they attempt to expand their pornography ring into Los Angeles. It only grows more ludicrous, where there are shootouts at an airport hotel and a miraculous discovery of Amelia, who reveals to them that it’s the film they’re after, as it exposes all the precious little secrets about a corporate exposé involving the Detroit auto industry, air pollution, and their collusion to suppress the supposed effectiveness of a bogus catalytic converter that regulates exhaust emissions. In disbelief, March inquires, “So let me get this straight: You made a porn movie in which the point was the plot?” With Detroit behind all the evil machinations, where better to promote their product than the high rollers and corporate executives attending the Los Angeles Auto Show? With the porn and auto industries blending into one, with dueling party sequences along with slogans like “What’s good for Detroit is good for America,” a manic hit man on the loose, and a mafia-like conspiracy theory suppressing the truth, it’s only fitting that everyone’s trying to get their hands on that little porn film which will expose the truth. As preposterous as it sounds, it all leads to a giant shoot ‘em up sequence, where a decent comedy is infiltrated by excessive violence that feels obligatory and necessary for an American audience, where it remains contrived and cartoonish throughout, like something that exists only in the movies, bearing little resemblance to reality, yet has become so commonly accepted in the movie world where we’ve simply gotten used to vulgar, overglossed Hollywood fabrications, the bigger the better (Trump, anyone?), where most have grown numb to it after a while, but the point remains it’s completely unnecessary in a movie like this that is so character driven, as the heightened levels of humor are the real story, but somehow the intimacy gets lost in the hyperbolic exaggerations.

Movie Review: The Nice Guys Duncan Hoag from The Wire

There is no doubt audiences will enjoy “The Nice Guys”, set in Los Angeles in the mid-70s, takes on an off-color yet charming brand of humor, with the dramatic appeal of Russell Crowe and the comedic appeal of Ryan Gosling featuring heavily in the film. As co-stars, the two would seem like an unlikely pairing. Crowe is most known for his dramatic, non-comedic roles in movies like “Gladiator”, while Gosling, is known primarily for his starring roles in romantic comedies.

All in all, it’s not the pairing you would at all expect. Yet, the chemistry Crowe and Gosling share in “The Nice Guys” makes the film as whole that much better. In it, Gosling plays a sleazy, private detective who crosses paths with Crowe, a private enforcer. Through several twists of fate, the two are embroiled in a search for a missing girl who happens to be the daughter of a high-ranking official in the Dept. of Justice. 

The film’s most impressive achievement is its cross-generational approach – the mid-70s setting of the film will appeal to older audience, while the over-the-top, fresh humor will draw younger audiences. Visually, the film does a fine job depicting the pathos of L.A. in the 70s, a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah that Gosling and Crowe’s characters are forced to navigate. With all that thrown into the mix, hilarity will surely ensue.

The film’s only major foible is that it has trouble transitioning between dramatic and comedic scenes, which can be confusing for an audience member, because one is never sure if a scene is a dramatic attempt at furthering the plot, or just the lead-up to another punchline. Still, if you’re looking for a laugh, this is a great film to add to your list of summer blockbusters.

'The Nice Guys': Cannes Review | Reviews | Screen Jonathan Romney

The last time he directed, action screenwriter extraordinaire Shane Black hit paydirt – 2013’s Iron Man 3 scored both commercially (with a worldwide gross of over $1.2bn) and artistically, a superhero movie with a genuine auteur stamp. Black’s previous directing venture, however, didn’t set the world on fire: comedy thriller Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (2005), starring Robert Downey Jr three years before his Tony Stark role made him a box-office deity. Black should do better with spoofy neo-noir exercise The Nice Guys, if only because of the cast-iron pairing of Russell Crowe and Ryan Gosling. Even so, this affable retro number lacks the zing of both aforementioned films, and it’s left to the leads – aided by terrific young find Angourie Rice – to keep the film afloat with self-mocking charm.

Set in 1977 Los Angeles, The Nice Guys is a mismatched-buddy comedy thriller – Black’s natural home territory, as the writer of Lethal Weapon. Crowe, weatherbeaten and bloated in a blue leather jacket, plays bruiser Jack Healy, paid to terrify men who prey on young girls. Gosling, touting the period’s archetypal porn ‘tache – and sometimes trying a little too hard for goofball effect - is Holland March, alcoholic widowed PI and father to 13-year-old Holly (Rice), a worldly-wise, intrepid lass who comes to play comic foil and unshakeable moral conscience to the two men.

Healy first introduces himself to March by beating him to a pulp, but they’re soon working together on a case involving an elusive young woman named Amelia (Margaret Qualley) and a dead porn star – whose demise, in the opening sequence, makes an explosive flourish that the rest of the film never quite matches.

The title use of a classic disco-era font - shades of Boogie Nights - tells you exactly what sort of period lark this is. The glory era of LA’s adult film industry provides a racy background that the film seems a little shy to make the most of: there’s an extended party routine at a porn mogul’s mansion, but it’s more notable for Richard Bridgland’s opulently over-the-top design than for any louche shenanigans.

Despite hints of hard-boiled cynicism, the film is essentially sweet-natured. Crowe plays Jack as a lunkish, short-fuse doofus, straight man to Gosling’s hapless March, who’s forever taking ludicrous booze-fuelled pratfalls (the old school gags about his drinking habit quickly outstay their welcome).

There’s a distinctly self-referential film-buff dimension at work, but it’s nowhere near as charming as in Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang. The Nice Guys harks back to the 70s golden age of revisionist detective thrillers, but the result feels too knowingly déja vu, rather than bringing a truly fresh angle.

On the mystery front, the plot never feels satisfyingly complex or surprising: we can guess exactly where things are headed the moment a glacially inexpressive Kim Basinger rolls into view as a woman of power. But while their one-liners could be a lot sharper, Crowe and Gosling more than get by on stumblebum amiability. Plus there’s classy support, including an all-guns-blazing Beau Knapp as a giggling heavy, while Rice brings character and verve to her ingénue role. And, though the wham-bam sequences sometimes feel a touch messy, aficionados of that once plentiful action staple, flying glass, won’t feel short-changed. Still, while the ending sets up a sequel, you ultimately feel that once is nice enough.

PopMatters [Cynthia Fuchs]

“Are you a bad person?” Professional bully Jackson Healy (Russell Crowe) looks directly at 13-year-old Holly (Angourie Rice) when she asks this question, night sky dark behind him. She’s worried that he’s killed a man, as she knows Healy’s been working with her dad, the less than honest private detective Holland March (Ryan Gosling) on a case involving violent men with large weapons. Healy gives her the answer he knows she wants.

Partway through The Nice Guys, you know that Healy, an on-the-wagon, utterly cynical and deftly brutal alcoholic, is lying about the murder. You’re also hoping, sort of, that Holly, wise, clever, and charismatic, will eventually help to redeem him, per the formula of this buddy-cop piece. As worn out as the formula may be, it’s hard to resist once it’s in motion. And it is in motion, relentlessly and propulsively, from frame one. 

Set in 1977 Los Angeles, opens with a sensational boy’s fantasy. A kid in pajamas (Ty Simpkins) sneaks his dad’s porn mag out from under his parents’ bed, then makes his way down the hallway, transfixed by the centerfold. Before you can say “E.T.”, his life is changed forever by a blast, specifically, a car slamming off a not so distant mountain road into his house. The kid makes his way to the wreck, whereupon he discovers the victim, on her back so that her breasts, bare and gigantic, reveal that she is the very centerfold he’d been leering at in his dad’s magazine. As he puts his pajama top over her chest and she dies, Misty Mountains (Murielle Telio) speaks: “How do you like my car, big boy?”

The kid can’t know it, but this is a clue, the sort of clue that tends to pop up in movies by Shane Black, the one-time kid wonder (he wrote the script for Lethal Weapon at just 25), which is to say, it’s meaningful but also obscure, delivered ostentatiously. While its place in a puzzle of sex and money and corruption will be figured out later, for now, the boy’s charm and the porn star’s abject beauty establish a balance that will define the film, between salacious and sweet, violent and tender.

That balance is not precisely embodied by the guys at its center, Healy and March, even if they do suggest its parameters. For one thing, they teeter between nice and less than nice, and for another, they have to make their way through lots of cluttered plotting en route to the bonding that is their fate. They meet as guys tend to meet in such scenarios, by competing over a case.

Both are looking for a pretty girl in a yellow dress named Amelia (Margaret Qualley): she hired Healy to scare off some scary guys, then she disappeared, and March was hired by someone to find her. Complications and misunderstandings follow anon, the speed of unfolding plot points—and patter—as much a part of the Shane Black formula as the loud cars, the gunplay, and the sentimental saxophone.

In the midst of the men’s business, Holly is at once predictable and refreshing, providing requisite moral judgment, helpful insights into the case, and a few plot contrivances initiated by her showing up at places where she might become, oh, for instance, a hostage risk. As much as the guys think they can get hold of the chaos raging around them, Holly’s responses to their shenanigans remind them, and you too, that they are responsible, or maybe only that they can be. This, of course, is the predominant lesson offered in boy-bonding movies, from John Ford to Judd Apatow, in the sense that growing up and learning to share also means doing the right things because they’re right, not because they might turn a profit.

Such lessons-learning is hard, of course, and The Nice Guys, emphasizing both the simultaneous irony and sincerity of its title, makes full use of Holly in the process. Adorable in her ‘70s stylings, her proto-tweeny high-waisted jeans and perfectly juvenile overalls, she’s precocious and instructive but not irritating. Alternately patient with and horrified by her father, Holly makes clear that you’re right to be appalled even if you laugh at his awkward phrasing, ridiculous assumptions, and embarrassing drunkenness. As she repeatedly sorts out situations—who’s to be trusted, who’s not—you find yourself taking her view more often than you do the two men who accompany her.

It’s in this arrangement that The Nice Guys is not wholly a throwback movie. Certainly, it is that, in speedy pace and sometimes nonsensical plot. But if Holly can’t help pull together pieces that make no sense, she might remind you that these pieces belong to another era, that revisiting that era might warrant rethinking, of that era and our own. She gets, without saying as much, that bad and good are relative ideas, and that forgiveness is a daily act.

For her, sex isn’t frightening or sleazy, language is a useful and creative means of communication, and bad behavior can be pointed out for what it is. “Mr. Healy,” she declares late in the film, knowing full well that he’s lied to her before, “If you kill this man, I will never speak to you again.” If this guy can think again, so too can the rest of us, filmmakers and film watchers alike.

Deep Focus: The Nice Guys - Film Comment Michael Sragow, May 19, 2016

When he was winning praise for roles like the drug-addicted inner-city middle-school teacher in Half Nelson (06), Ryan Gosling told me in an interview that his favorite movie at age 13 was East of Eden. So I asked him if that meant he was a James Dean fan. He said: “As I get older, I’m just as much a Gene Wilder fan, or Buster Keaton or Bill Murray or Klaus Kinski or Abbott and Costello. They all get me somewhere; they all do it differently.” Co-starring with Russell Crowe in the schizoid, rickety new action comedy Nice Guys, Gosling gets to pull off bits that would fit each of those performers except Kinski.

As Holland March, a widowed L.A. private eye with a 13-year-old daughter, Holly (Angourie Rice), Gosling creates a malleable slapstick persona as a man who behaves like an alcoholic even when he isn’t drinking and retains a current of slyness and subterfuge even when he wants to play things straight. He’s so resigned to a life of sleaze and failure that he slips on psychic banana peels. When he takes genuine pratfalls, they’re unexpected and inspired because they emerge from his inner clown. The movie’s high point is a three-stage gag that starts with Gosling falling off a wall, continues with him plummeting down a hill and landing next to a corpse, and concludes with him trying to call for help while paralyzed with shock and fear. In that scene, he’s like Wilder, Keaton, Murray, and Lou Costello rolled into one.

The movie is set in 1977, the same year as Boogie Nights, and in one of the film’s better sour laughs about boys and girls growing up with escalating sexual awareness (and scant understanding of romance or erotica), a bike-riding youngster contends that he’s properly equipped for porno stardom (in the manner of Dirk Diggler). The SoCal media buzzes with smog alerts and reports about killer bees, while Gosling’s March complains—to the audience—about a seismic shift in his income since no-fault divorce wreaked havoc with a P.I.’s cash flow. The movie uses anything for immediate effect, including voiceover narration. Stylistically, it’s promiscuous.

March is ready to make money off any lonely, grief-addled spouse who wants him to find a missing mate, though he or she may be resting comfortably in an urn on the mantle. He still spouts off about a detective’s code, no matter how carelessly he exploits his clients. Then one of March’s aging customers contends that she’s seen her niece—a Cavalier centerfold and starlet named Misty Mountains (Murielle Telio)—after she’s been killed in a car crash. March does enough real gumshoeing to learn that the key to this mystery is Amelia Kuttner (Margaret Qualley), an anti-pollution activist who has performed in an “experimental” film herself. Amelia won’t be cornered or questioned: she knows that men (March and others) are following her, and she hires Crowe’s Jackson Healy to scare them off. Healy teaches a learning-annex course on his hard-guy brand of self-defense, but mostly works as a thug for hire. (He lacks an investigator’s license). After one exhilarating episode a year ago, when he saved a diner-full of customers from a crazed gunman, he resolved, no matter what the pay, to assault only sleazebags, like deadbeat husbands and dads and pot-dealing men who exploit young girls. Does March qualify?

Not really, but their close encounter of the bone-breaking kind (forgive me, but it is 1977) paves the way for a true partnership. Healy hires March to locate Amelia when she goes missing even from him, and Rice’s chipper young Holly, the movie’s moral center of gravity, approves of this new team. She sees Healy as a potential anchor and force for seriousness in her father’s wayward life. As the quest for Amelia catches them all up in a web of conspiracy that reaches to the top of the porn business, the state government, and the auto industry, these two relatively “nice guys” find that their opposite personalities mesh, or at least mesh enough, like a windbreaker zipper that stops an inch from the neck.

The director, Shane Black, who co-wrote the script with Anthony Bagarozzi, wants to whip up farcical black magic from the friction between Gosling’s loopiness as March and Crowe’s fierce directness as Healy. And Crowe, though at his heftiest, is stunningly confident as a throwback to a time when movie thugs looked like heavyweight wrestlers. It’s funny that Healy thinks thugs have a code, too: it comes down to getting a job done without making it personal. But Black fails to sustain their interplay. The director promises to create a comic world in which one man drifts into the vapors while the other keeps his oak-like legs planted to the ground. That’s the secret behind the scene in which March falls so marvelously off a wall. It occurs at a porn producer’s wild party, where the slick-less Healy relentlessly stalks Amelia while the semi-slick March gets soused and tries to mingle, even with the mermaids in a pool. After that sequence, Black shifts awkwardly between them, with a herky-jerky rhythm—emphasis on the jerky. So, for example, a realistic driving scene abruptly turns into a dream sequence and just as crudely whips back again. It’s blunt, not hilarious, like playing bumper-cars with reality. And though the director tries to give each man equal time, his clumsiness ends up reinforcing Healy’s smash-mouth approach. This movie makes you feel like a cartoon cat being slapped around by a mouse.

Provocative characters like Amelia’s mother, Judith (Kim Basinger), who heads California’s Department of Justice, augur that they’ll kick the film to a higher level, but it never gets there. Kuttner leads her state’s campaign against Detroit automakers for stalling on installing catalytic converters. Your brain swims with possibilities of putting it all together—porno, pollution, the car industry, the justice system—then drowns in the hyped-up crashing and bashing.

Nice Guys fails artistically but may thrive commercially on the brutal disconnect between its higher ambitions and the chases and beatings that power its antic melodrama. It’s a spectacularly consistent cock-up. Black repeatedly blows his chances even for razzle-dazzle choreography. A showdown at a car show should become a virtuoso climax, but Black and company send a film can packed with evidence careening across ceilings and floors, like a savagely flipped pinball, until the scene literally goes up in flames. And the movie with it.

Black created a vastly more successful private-eye pastiche 11 years ago, with Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. It took place entirely within a movie-movie universe that included Robert Downey Jr. as a bad thief mistaken for a Method Actor, Val Kilmer as a homosexual P.I. so upfront that he’s called “Gay Perry,” and chapter titles taken from Raymond Chandler. In Nice Guys, Black isn’t up to maintaining a closer relationship to the reality of 1977, when pop culture was DayGlo-colored and buoyant, though the environment was poisoned and the social fabric was tearing apart at the gas line and the voting booth. (California’s Proposition 13, the first salvo in a nationwide “taxpayer revolt,” was just a year away.)

The superb cinematographer, Philippe Rousselot (Hope and Glory, Henry & June) creates a lush, decadent, and sometimes decaying ambiance, especially during the porn producer’s bash in a modernist estate that looks like an alien space vehicle and twinkles from afar with crimson and emerald lights, like a naughty Christmas tree.

The scene looks marvelous but it makes you feel queasy when March’s daughter, a would-be Nancy Drew, noses around the party looking for Amelia. Angourie Rice has such a crisp youthful presence that she can often revive your spirits in the dankest, ugliest circumstance. Not here. March insists on proper diction, so when Holly tells him there’s “whores and stuff” at the party, he instructs her never to say “and stuff.” It’s supposed to get a huge laugh when Holly later instructs a porn star, “Don’t say ‘they were doing anal, and stuff,’ just say ‘They were doing anal.’” Nice Guys isn’t witty or elegant enough to satirize vulgarity. At one point Healy quips that Misty’s aunt “has actual Coke bottles for glasses. You paint a mustache on a Volkswagen, she says, ‘Boy, that Omar Sharif sure runs fast.”

Even seen through Coke-bottle glasses, The Nice Guys is no Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, much less The Big Sleep. It’s stuck with too many awkward mash-ups, and stuff.

The Nice Guys review: Shane Black falls short of his first ... - The Verge Tasha Robinson

Movie Review: The Naughty Pleasures of Shane Black's 'Nice Guys ... Christopher Orr from The Atlantic

Review: Shane Blacks The Nice Guys is a raw, rough, rowdy ... - HitFix Drew McWeeny

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The Nice Guys: 'You take these tarnished angels and then you let ... The Nice Guys: ‘You take these tarnished angels and then you let them loose,’ Kevin EG Perry interviews Shane Black and Russell Crowe from The Guardian, May 28, 2016

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The Nice Guys - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Blair, Wayne

THE SAPPHIRES B 88

Australia (103 mi) 2012 Official site

This may be the feel good movie of the year, inspired by real events, a reenactment of the lives of four Koori Aboriginal singers in Australia, based on a 2005 stage play written by Tony Briggs, the son of one of the original singers, Laurel Robinson, along with her sister Lois Peeler, and two cousins, Beverly Briggs and Naomi Mayers. The director Wayne Blair and cinematographer Warwick Thornton, who directed the uncompromisingly bleak Samson and Delilah (2009), are both of Aboriginal descent, as is much of the cast, set in the late 60’s, an era when the State was still raiding Aboriginal villages to remove light-skinned children and raise them in a white world, an era known as “The Lost Generation.” In the film they are all sisters coming from the Yorta Yorta community in Victoria, the oldest Gail (Deborah Mailman, the only member of the original cast), Cynthia (Miranda Tapsell), Julie (Jessica Mauboy), and Kay (Shari Sebbens), who was stolen by the government and raised as white in Melbourne. The film actually opens with John Fogerty and Creedence Clearwater’s “Run Through the Jungle” Creedence Clearwater Revival: Run Through The Jungle - YouTube (3:07), which includes the actual sound of a Viet Cong rocket at the opening, a prelude of what’s to come. The two oldest sisters are seen holding their own in an otherwise all-white talent contest singing Merle Haggard’s “Today I Started Loving You Again” Merle Haggard - Today I Started Lovin You Again - YouTube, where if truth be told, they are the only act that can carry a tune, which certainly catches the attention of the young, barely sober talent scout, Dave (Chris O’Dowd), who attempts to offer them a complement afterwards but gets shot down by a fierce independent streak from Gail, wanting no favors from some white Irishman who wants to take them out of country & western and introduce them to soul music. Cynthia has seen an ad looking for talent to entertain the American GI’s in Vietnam, and with that, Dave weasels his way into becoming their manager, where the real talent is the next younger singer Julie, but her mother thinks she’s too young. One of the other elders recalls when the four sisters all sang together, and if their audition was in Melbourne, they should look up their lost sister Kay. With that, the journey begins.

While Dave is infatuated with Otis Redding, the girls are hesitant, preferring Charlie Pride, but after a few quick lessons on soul inspiration give Motown a whirl in their audition, Smokey Robinson & the Miracles “Who’s Lovin’ You” The Sapphires (2012) Audition [HD] - Chris O'Dowd, Deborah Mailman YouTube (2:14). In no time, they’re whisked off to Saigon, not really sure yet of their own identity, but they’re immediately pushed onstage, sink or swim, to a room full of mostly raucous black GI’s, performing Linda Lyndell’s “What a Man” THE SAPPHIRES - clip: What a man! YouTube (2:20). As they make their way through Vietnam, they only get stronger and more confident, where their costumes and dance routines grow more sophisticated, becoming an Aboriginal version of the Supremes. Like a road movie, each of the girls is affected by the journey, where Gail has to give way being the lead singer to Julie, but she still bosses everyone around, where Dave calls her the Mama Bear, always looking after her cubs. The film doesn’t duck much of the anger and resentment of the late 60’s, including the Martin Luther King assassination, which left many American cities in flames afterwards, and much of the film was shot in Vietnam, a racial conglomeration where the girls are treated like rock stars, yet the film’s greatest asset is the humorous interplay between the sisters, who continually needle each another, but also belt one another on occasion, and seethe to the racial strife that surrounds them. While the lip-synched performances are often slightly askew, the songs are a revelation, as the girls immerse themselves in soul classics, singing to perfection the uplifting gospel sounds of Mavis Staples and the Staples Singers, The Staple Singers - I'll Take You There [Full Length Version] YouTube (4:37). Jessica Mauboy as Julie was a former Australian Idol runner-up, actually winning the part over Casey Donovan, the youngest Idol winner ever at the age of 16, who held the role the longest in the play, and Julie’s insertion to lead singer changes the entire dynamic of the group, as her style is more pleadingly soulful, though the film is careful to also insert a few chilling renditions of Yorta Yorta songs as well.

At first the viewers might think their immediate success was without casualty or incident, as the initial focus is upon their instant rise to success, but in Vietnam the war was never far away, actually finding them on occasion, where Laurel Robinson recalls they often slept onstage, “It was so scary—one night a bomb went off, the bed fell down and the place shook.” And while there are jolting moments where they are literally caught up in firefights, the film never loses sight of the interplay between characters, where the well-written dialogue is completely believable. Dave’s all too humane role takes on a certain prominence, where these girls literally resurrect his life, much like he does for them. Perhaps because he’s always forced to fight his way through the big sister protecting her flock, whose acid tongue continually sets him straight, they develop a special closeness, where the chemistry between Dowd and Mailman is magical, beautifully expressed in the reading of a letter once they get separated by an incoming hail of bullets. The drama of the film is nicely balanced by both internal and external forces, as each of the sisters develop challenging relationships, where the immersion into a war zone leads to plenty of anxious and restless moments, but parallels Dave’s immersion into the black and Aboriginal culture, where this kind of inquisitive social exploration is a reflection of the late 60’s, an era not only of Civil Rights and social justice in America, but in Australia it’s when Aboriginals were first given the historic right to vote. Largely joyful and uplifting, the film has a rousing power of its own through music and performance, where we learn three original members of the group now work at the Aboriginal Medical Service where Naomi Mayers has been the chief executive for 30 years, and Lois Peeler was Australia’s first Aboriginal model and is now executive director of a secondary education facility for young Aboriginal women.

Exclaim! [Peter Marrack]

The Sapphires sing a deadly version of Otis Redding's "That's How Strong My Love Is." In fact, the whole movie is deadly, to steal the expression right out of actress Deborah Mailman's mouth.

First a popular stage play by the same name, and now a possible Oscar contender, Wayne Blair's debut feature (based on the script by playwright Tony Briggs, who is the son of one of the original Sapphires) follows the journey of four Aboriginal girls who leave their mission in Australia to entertain U.S. soldiers during the Vietnam War.

A cross between Dreamgirls (just because that's what everyone says) and, oh, what the hell, 8 Mile, The Sapphires is a sure hit on U.S. soil – if it's good enough for Harvey Weinstein, then it's usually good enough for America.

The Sapphires opens on a traditional Aboriginal mission in Australia during the '60s. Sisters Gail (Deborah Mailman), Julie (Jessica Mauboy, the former Australian Idol runner-up), Cynthia (Miranda Tapsell) and cousin Kaye (Shari Sebbens) sing a lovely version of a song about Moses. Parents clap their hands, looking up in wonder at their beautiful daughters.

Then (as we learn later), disaster strikes. White men, as per usual, barge in, in their black hats and black Oldsmobiles (or whatever the Australian equivalent is), looking to snatch up the palest of the children to raise in a white home and teach white ways. In other words, they're looking to gradually wean the Aboriginal out of the Aboriginals. They end up abducting Kaye, much to Gail's dismay, who, as the eldest, feels responsible for her cubs.

But fortunately for the girls, as well as the audience, the Sapphires do receive their due time in the sun. After getting tossed out of a local saloon for being black, the three sisters, minus cousin Kaye, are "discovered" by drunkard ex-cruise ship entertainer Dave (Chris O'Dowd), who, upon running out of petrol, realizes the girls are his one-way ticket to fortune.

There's a moment near the end of the film, after the girls have toured all around Vietnam performing, when the Sapphires get to do a show at one of the bigger venues. The show occurs at the climax of the film, when, quite naturally, we expect the belting, tear-jerking performance of a lifetime from starlet Julie.

However, in Blair's film (and Briggs's story), that's hardly how the cookie crumbles. Instead of sticking with powerhouse Julie as lead singer, the girls elect mama bear Gail, who has the weakest voice of them all, to lead the song. Why? Simply to reinstate natural order – something the girls lost a long time ago.

SBS Film [Fiona Williams]

Sunshiny effervescence dominates Wayne Blair's '60s-set parable of self-determination, The Sapphires – a real-life tale of a group of soul sisters (and their cousin) who sang their way from an outback mission to an entertainment tour of duty during the Vietnam War. 

In opening scenes, the lively trio of Gail (Deborah Mailman), Diana (Jessica Mauboy) and Cynthia (Miranda Tapsell) are in a flap about getting to the upcoming pub talent quest. A quick musical interlude with their mum (Kylie Belling) highlights their natural harmonies, before the girls' rendition of Merle Haggard's 'Today I Started Loving You Again' blows the tone-deaf opposition out of the water.  When the bigoted judges fix the prize against them, they storm out, along with boozy Irish talent quest host (Chris O'Dowd), who has an ear for raw talent.

Directly outside the pub, ambitious Julie produces a classified ad calling for wartime entertainers and, in a matter of minutes, persuasive charmer Dave secures the girls both an interstate audition, and the approval of their strict parents. It's one of several 'just go with it' moments of implausible plot shorthand in The Sapphires, as Blair races through the foundational aspects of the girls' career timeline. 

In Melbourne, they call on an estranged cousin, Kay (Shari Sebbens), their erstwhile singing partner until she was forcibly removed from the mission and subsequently raised white. Kay gets the shock of her life when her long-lost koori cousins rock up in the middle of a hoity toity Tupperware party, but her family ties win out, and she signs on to complete the ensemble.

In grooming the girls for stardom, Dave weans them off their beloved Country and switches them on to the bloodbeat of Soul (with a very funny precis of fundamental difference between the genres), and in very short order, they've gotten the nod for a tour of duty and have landed in Saigon.

Their rendition of Linda Lyndell's 'What A Man' gets a bar of G.I.s on their feet in their first gig in Saigon, and the rapturous response to diva Diana's phenomenal voice solidifies The Sapphires' place on the tour. 

From the seedy bars of Saigon, their booker whisks them on a tour through real combat zones, to escalating audience sizes and proportionate degrees of risk. It's no spoiler to say that on the course of the trip, some of The Sapphires find love, and all of them find 'themselves'.

Along the way, direct parallels are drawn between black America's civil rights battles of the '60s, and indigenous Australia's ongoing struggle for R-E-S-P-E-C-T, culminating in a performance on the day of Martin Luther King's murder, after singing a Yorta Yorta harmony down the phone line to mum.

Blair cites The Colour Purple as inspiration for the stylised warmth emanating from the girls' home, in a clear break from traditionally bleak depictions of mission life. The sun-drenched tranquility of their family home underscores the girls' core sense of belonging - and how... As depicted in The Sapphires, the Cummeragunja Mission could well be the happiest place on earth.

Cinematography by Warwick Thornton is upbeat; it's saturated brights all the way, and production designer Melinda Doring clearly had a ball with the colour-popping period retro. Full marks to the sound team, led by supervisor Andrew Plain and music producer Bry Jones (of The Rockmelons fame), for maximising the impact of songs from the Motown, Stax and Atlantic Records catalogues.

The screenplay is by Tony Briggs, son of one of the original Sapphires, Beverly Briggs, in collaboration with Goalpost Pictures' Keith Thompson (Clubland). It's an adaptation of Briggs' own stage play, in which Mailman and Blair both appeared. (Blair also has a brief cameo in his film.) At times The Sapphires wears its theatrical origins on its sleeve, with many scenes building to a crescendo of imaginary applause.

The film works best in the musical numbers and off stage, when focussed on the group dynamic. As the most experienced member of the cast, it falls to Mailman's Gail as the 'Mumma bear', to experience the biggest arc, which she does ably.

Where it falters is with several scenes that end too abruptly, and with flat bits that rely on O'Dowd's lackadaisical charm to propel them to a punchline. The aggressively upbeat tone doesn't gel with the gear-changes that draw upon the wider political and social upheaval of the period.

The Sapphires got a 10-minute ovation when it premiered out of competition in a prestigious Saturday slot here in Cannes, and word through the grapevine (where else?) has been building on it, ever since The Weinstein Company picked it up for North American release.

" 'Aboriginal Dreamgirls'. Who's not gonna love thaaat?," I overheard an American-accented festival goer exclaim into his mobile phone on the way into the theatre, before the film had even spooled. "C'mon!" 

I sat through the end credits, and so missed my chance to see how that gent would answer his own question. I would contend that a more accurate pithy appraisal is 'The Commitments-meets-Dreamgirls, with a dash of Good Morning Vietnam'. Its unbridled enthusiasm is sure to register with audiences when it opens the Melbourne International Film Festival on August 2 before going into general release the week after. There's much to love, lots to like... and enough roof-lifting musical numbers to make up for the dodgy bits.

Of all the actors in The Sapphires, Mauboy is certain to fare the best; the music numbers are built around her powerhouse pipes, and it'll help the film's international marketability that the singer's own Idol origins echo those of Dreamgirl Jennifer Hudson.

How Aboriginal 'Supremes' beat racism Vanessa Thorpe from The Observer, October 6, 2012

When Tony Briggs was a boy, his mother told him stories he did not know whether he should believe. In 1960s Australia, could an Aboriginal woman like her really have become a singing sensation and entertained the troops in Vietnam?

It was an improbable, glamorous tale and it captivated Briggs, who was later to become a performer and writer. Now, more than three decades on, he has brought the story of the unlikely showbusiness career enjoyed by his mother and his aunts to the big screen.

The Sapphires, already a box-office hit in Australia, tells of the rise of a singing group in the face of racial prejudice. Showing at a gala night at the London film festival on 15 October, it will be released in Britain next month.

"I said to the women [the band members], 'we have to take a lot of artistic licence, but the core of this story for me is about the strength of character of the individuals and the women in my family, my aunties and cousins and who I'd grown up with'," Briggs has said. "They love the idea I've taken the essence of their experience of who they are. It is based on a true story and true events. And I've been the one responsible for pulling their stories together."

Briggs, who is known to British television audiences for his former role of Pete Baxter in the Australian soap opera Neighbours, first wrote his mother's story in 2004 and it became a successful stage musical.

The show recounted how his mother, Laurel Robinson, and her sister and cousins – Lois Peeler, Beverly Briggs and Naomi Mayers – had started out by entertaining friends in the indigenous Yorta Yorta community near the Murray river in Victoria. The girls peppered their singing concerts with comic sketches and wore costumes sewn by their mothers. Cheap tap dancing shoes were made by hammering pennies into the soles of their shoes.

Learning how to harmonise as they sang to crowds from the back of a truck, the band began to appear singing soul numbers semi-professionally – although they were often introduced as Tahitian or American to make them more acceptable to white audiences. In the late 1960s they were spotted and booked to go on tour in Vietnam. Briggs's mother and her sister agreed, but the other Sapphires decided not to go, in protest against the war.

The film's director, Wayne Blair, learned of the Sapphires, Australia's answer to the Supremes, when he was cast in a role in Briggs's stage show. "The Sapphires are four black twentysomething women who for one brief period of time have an opportunity to transcend the circumstances they're born into and reach their full potential," said Blair, who is also of Aboriginal descent. "In Australia in 1968, the racial divide was significant. My own Nana died in 1966 … she died in her own country classed as an outsider."

The film reflects contemporary anger with the Vietnam war and portrays the racism the singers encountered. Australian singing star Jessica Mauboy plays the group's lead singer, while their manager is played by the Irish actor Chris O'Dowd, best known in Britain for the sitcom The IT Crowd and most recently for his performance as the romantic interest in the Hollywood comedy Bridesmaids.

The Sapphires was premiered in Cannes this summer, where it was bought up by producer Harvey Weinstein. It now looks likely to follow in the flamboyant footsteps of quirky Australian feelgood hits such as Strictly Ballroom and Muriel's Wedding.

The three original members of the group now work at the Aboriginal Medical Service, in the Sydney suburb of Redfern, where Mayers has been chief executive for 30 years. Peeler became Australia's first Aboriginal model and is now executive director of a secondary education facility for young Aboriginal women.

Cannes Review: 'The Sapphires' Is An ... - Film School Rejects Simon Gallagher at Cannes

Urban Cinefile (Australia) [Louise Keller + Andrew L. Urban]

The Sapphires | Review | Screen Mark Adams

The Reel Bits [Richard Gray]

moviereview [Colin Fraser]

hoopla.nu - The Sapphires Stuart Wilson

CineVue [John Bleasdale]

thetfs.ca [Kristal Cooper]

Variety [Guy Lodge]

Cannes 2012: The Sapphires – review | Film | guardian.co.uk Henry Barnes

The Sapphires (film) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Stolen Generations - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Blake, Simon

STILL C 70

Great Britain (96 mi) 2014

This is another misguided revenge-gone-wrong saga, something of a holdover from the Charles Bronson vigilante justice movies from DEATH WISH (1974), but updated into a gritty, modern era, gang-infested North London atmosphere instead. While the look is intentionally dark and dreary, much of it seeped in blackness, where color is literally drained from the screen, this film immerses itself in wretched miserablism with a touch of added torture porn, where the painfully trite dialogue written by the director is cliché’d and overly predictable, exploring more of the surface reality than what lies underneath. Irish actor Aiden Gillen plays Tom Carver, a professional photographer specializing in street portraits of kids whose life is spiraling out of control at the moment, still reeling from the death of his own teenage son a year ago, who by chance bumps into a teenage street thug on the street, which escalates into a series of ever more brutal gang-related reprisals, turning this into a mind-numbing saga of neverending revenge. While meeting with his ex-wife Rachel (Amanda Mealing) to visit the grave of their son, a regular occurrence in their lives, she describes him as “You’re an accident waiting to happen.” No one knows how he got himself into this hapless situation or why he insists upon living in a cheap dive of an apartment in the heart of gang territory, but it’s clear that Carver’s way out of this self-imposed prison is to drink his way out of this pitiful state. Of course the more alcohol he insists upon drinking only makes him a more pathetic figure, no matter where he exists, but unfortunately the majority of this picture is immersed in Carver’s non-stop drinking. Other than Eugene O’Neill and a few other great playwrights, lead characters that drown their sorrows in alcohol are often a cheap substitute for realism in the movies, as here it adds absolutely nothing, but instead feels fake, like the audience is cheated out of a real performance by using a conventional device used on television. This actually undermines the entire film, where what might otherwise be tragic becomes self-indulgent and pathetic when seen through the eyes of a masochistic fool that insists upon heaping more misery into his already wretched existence, a guy who apparently lives by the creed misery loves company.

A low-budget film shot for less than half a million dollars, most of the action takes place in the cramped and claustrophobic confines of Carver’s apartment, where the audience is subject to long, drawn out, alcohol-fueled conversations between Carver and his ex-wife or Carver and his current girlfriend Christina (Elodie Yung) that only grow testy and irritable, usually ending with someone storming out the door in anger. These are not subtle scenes, but are instead full-throttle flashes of rage and resentment where passions rise in wretched excess, often playing the blame game, where the residue of past sins resurfaces in spectacular fashion. This personal more interior drama happening within the framework of a larger overall social drama is continuously in play, where the question becomes what influence each one has on the other. The weakest link of the entire picture is the constant presence of Carver’s supposed best friend Ed (Jonathan Slinger), a slimy character with a seedy side to him, as he’s a freelance journalist always on the lookout for a headline grabbing story. When gangs begin terrorizing Carver’s home, singling him out for street harassment, Ed goes on all-night stake outs trying to photograph the perpetrators in action and in this way identify who they are. Throughout the film we rarely see them, but only hear about their menacing presence, where there is power in remaining anonymous and unknown, as neighborhood fears only increase when people feel isolated and alone. Another developing theme throughout is a budding friendship between a young kid Jimmy (Joseph Duffy) that he photographs who’s brother was killed by the gangs, where he tries to offer encouragement and understanding, claiming he’s well aware of death and the feeling of loss, but the kid is sucked into the terrifying world of poverty, gangs and survival, toyed with and eventually targeted, where the hooligans want to teach him a lesson for befriending Carver. This coincides with gang targets of Christina, who is attacked in the alleyways just outside the front door, where she is shamed, humiliated, and ultimately defeated, leaving Carver to fume on his own.

Enraged by the gang’s actions, Carver’s life disintegrates before our eyes, as Christina’s departure seems to have sent him over the edge, where his thoughts turn to vengeance, where Ed acts as his trusted Iago-like confidant that always seems to encourage the idea of direct confrontation, though from his perspective it may be little more than a good story. Once Ed discovers the identity of the young kid, he’s a young street punk named Carl, British rapper Sonny Green (Sonny Green | The biography of Sonny Green) in his film debut, who is kidnapped, handcuffed, and dropped into Carver’s hands for his own brand of street justice. The idea of taking matters into one’s own hands and wreaking vengeance is never a good idea, in fact it’s a rather preposterous piece of theatrics that borders on the ridiculous. One doesn’t play God with other people’s lives, no matter how contemptuous they may be, and one should never allow oneself to get placed in that position. To be that distrustful of an existing legal system of police, courts, and law and order only feeds into the chaos and street anarchy mentality that the gangs want, because in that game they can rule by fear. Carver is just as psychologically unhinged and obsessed as Charles Bronson, where both think they’re doing society a favor by ridding the streets of these vile creatures, but like rats, there’s plenty more where they came from, and vigilantism doesn’t make a dent in the crime rate. What finally unfolds is a theater of two individuals, one drunk and psychotically deranged, while the other is a psychopath in his own right, but he’s still just a juvenile kid. While the adults unashamedly overact throughout, which grows irritating after awhile, the teenagers themselves are excellent, seemingly more natural, especially Green in this final sequence, where he more than holds his own onscreen, shaming Carver, who is wracked with guilt about his own shortcomings, seeing the world in black and white moral absolutes, where there is no in between, but Carl reminds him how much he neglected his own son while he was alive, where he didn’t even know him, where this haymaker hits Carver square on the jaw and comes as the final payback, suggesting there is a connection between indifferent parenting and gang culture, blurring the lines between innocence and evil, where in the end the boy he’s inflicting his wrath upon may as well be his own lost son.

British Council Film: Still

Set in North London, Still is a gritty and atmospheric thriller about the violent disintegration of a man and father. Tom Carver is a man stumbling blindly towards a crossroads in his life, thrown out of focus by the death of his teenage son a year earlier. He becomes involved in a feud with a teenage gang after a seemingly harmless collision with a young kid. This feud becomes gradually more horrifying as Carver’s life starts to unravel until a disturbing climax.

Which movies to see—and which to skip—at the 50th Chicago International Film Festival JR Jones from The Reader

Still The devilish Aiden Gillen—a familiar face in the UK, but best known here for recurring roles on HBO's The Wire and Game of Thrones—gives a sensitive performance as a low-rent photographer in North London still grieving over the hit-and-run death of his teenage son a year earlier. His glancing friendship with a schoolboy whose brother has just been killed in a gang altercation invites mounting harassment from the young punks who committed the crime, yet the photographer's feelings for his dead son inhibit him from taking action against the boys. This debut feature from writer-director Simon Blake shows great promise, though it's rather an odd bird, veering between intelligent, insightful chamber drama and Death Wish histrionics (the climax is especially overheated). Amanda Mealing contributes a fine performance as the hero's estranged wife; her scenes with Gillen are the movie's high point.

CIFF 2014: Six Films to Remember Indie Outlook

“You’re an accident waiting to happen,” replies Rachel (Amanda Mealing) to her ex-husband, Carver (Aiden Gillen, a.k.a. “Littlefinger” on “Game of Thrones”), in writer/director Simon Blake’s gritty, surprisingly poignant thriller. Her observation encapsulates the entire trajectory of the film, as Carver’s life disintegrates after burying his son, a victim of a supposed hit-and-run. Gillen’s magnetic presence compensates for his character’s irredeemable nature. He neglected his son when he was alive, and is now paying the price, so to speak. When a local street gang, led by young punk Carl (rapper Sonny Green in a remarkable feature debut), start terrorizing Carver, his thoughts turn to vengeance, leading to a powerful climax drenched in poetic irony. Blake draws connections between gang culture and indifferent parenting without becoming preachy, allowing provocative themes to emerge organically through the story itself. As part of the festival’s New Directors competition, the film does sport some typical rookie flaws—the overabundance of close-ups being one of them—but the cast is uniformly strong across the board and Blake gives each of his major players a stellar showcase. Editor’s Note: In his Q&A, Blake praised Green, likening him to both a Caravaggio painting and the kid from “Deliverance.”

Still Review [CIFF 2014] - We Got This Covered Robert Kojder

First time directing – alongside writing – isn’t an easy process, and usually results with a watchable average film that feels more like a directorial experimental process. Take arguably the world’s hottest director right now, Christopher Nolan; if you go watch Following and then continue watching his filmography chronologically, you will begin to notice an evolution of sorts with his shot composition, personable style, narrative structure, and directing in general. The point being is that a director’s first outing is usually their weakest production because it’s typically the beginning of their career. That same logic applies to everything really; this review is probably leagues better than the first one I wrote.

Still does not feel like a film created by a first-time director though, it’s the complete opposite. Director Simon Blake has filled this movie with multiple unique shots – scenes filmed from outside a halfway closed-door, dirty noir-inspired looks at urban North London, etc – framed around a story that, while it is a slow burn, builds to an unforgettably tragic climax. In other words, Still gives the impression that it was directed by a veteran of the industry.

Of course, you can’t tell a compelling story without gripping performances. so thankfully Simon Blake is also exceptional at getting mesmerizing turns from his actors. Game Of Thrones star Aidan Gillen plays Tom Carver, a divorced photographer still recovering from the gang-related death of his son that took place a year ago. There’s a saying that goes “Time heals all wounds,” but that isn’t entirely true here, as Carver still visits his son’s grave regularly with his ex-wife Rachel (Amanda Mealing)

As Still progresses, it’s clear that Carver is on the verge of having a breakdown and is simply strolling through life waiting for a catalyst to send his repressed anger over the edge. That catalyst comes in the form of a group of hooligans that are highly likely to be connected to the murder of his very own son, killing yet another child. Over time Carver befriends the brother of the newly deceased child, and begins to have more chance interactions with the London-based street gang. Naturally, the encounters become more serious and dangerous, sending Carver to a dark place both mentally and physically.

What makes Still really pop and feel alive – aside from the phenomenal directing by Simon Blake – are the performances from the two leads, Aidan Gillen and Amanda Mealing. Gillen is a ticking time bomb on the verge of exploding, while Mealing excellently portrays the concerned ex-wife character. Some of their scenes together toward the latter half of the film are completely riveting and intense, but most importantly, the characters feel real. These aren’t characters half the time, they are real people reacting to a horrifying life-changing incident in a manner that most of society would react. To say more on the kinds of activities Carver entertains himself with while not spending time at his son’s grave would be spoiling some great scenes, so let’s just say as the movie goes on he is presented as more and more of a wreck, just begging for revenge.

Still spends almost over half of its 97 minute running time building Carver’s character, adding a couple more layers to the tragic personification every 15 minutes or so, which ultimately leads to a film that is a slow burn but one that also packs an emphatic resonating final act. If Still rushed its portrayal of the characters, the film’s final scenes simply wouldn’t be anywhere near as enthralling as they are. It is a bit of a catch 22 though, because there are times during the first half of Still where it truly doesn’t feel like much is happening, and that you’re anxiously waiting for what you know is going to happen, to go down. Like I said though, the following half of the film more than makes up for the slow pacing of the first half. The ending will certainly sit in the mind of audiences for quite a while as well.

The atmosphere of Still is also nailed, depicting North London with an unsettling and gritty vibe. Whether Carver is walking the streets by day to pick up flowers for his son’s burial residence or chasing the mentally corrupt youngsters through back alleys in the night, there is a staggering amount of detail in the background that further brings the film alive. Once again, a lot of that is due to the fact that Simon Blake is pretty damn creative behind the camera, and with this being the only movie under his belt, he puts a sizeable portion of other directors out there to shame.

At the core of it all, Still is about one man’s insatiable thirst for revenge inevitably getting the best of him, filled with captivating performances from Aidan Gillen and Amanda Mealing, and surprisingly sublimely directed by a first-timer named Simon Blake. It may be a predictably tragic tale, but the humanity and lifelike execution of the story are enough to set the film apart from similar experiences.

Shooting begins on Still with Aidan Gillen - Screen Daily

Blanc, Christophe

A BIG GIRL LIKE YOU (Une grande fille comme to) – made for TV                 C 72

France Germany  (90 mi)  2003 co-director: Mercedes Cecchetto

The film has a nice gritty style, good use of music and off-screen sound, but ultimately, this story of a rebellious, out of control, 16-year-old teenage girl (Mercedes Cecchetto) with a woman's body, but not much for brains, merits little attention.  All the adults are predictably rule oriented, leaving her no choice, story wise, but to break those rules, leaving her on the street and alone where her choices are few and far between, leading her to the world of porn and petty crime.  All along, set up by her brash, back-talking attitude, elevating self-centeredness to the ultimate achievement in life, she is so unlikable that I felt as if we, the viewer, were simply waiting for her comeuppance.  Rather than a story about a 16 year old surviving on her wits, this one has no wits to use, so the film feels dull and completely unimaginative.  In one dream sequence, I wasn't even aware it was a dream until she describes it as a dream in a subsequent phone call.  The director’s first film, AN OUTSIDE WOMAN, featured a married woman having a nervous breakdown, which was moving, provocative, quirky, and extremely well acted.  What's unusual here is that this looks like a fairly talented filmmaker, so it's unclear why he would choose such uninvolving subject material. Another film that critics would likely find to be filled with a "shattering emotional honesty." 

Blank, Les

Bio

Les Blank is a prize-winning independent filmmaker, best known for a series of poetic films that led Time Magazine critic Jay Cocks to write, "I can't believe that anyone interested in movies or America...could watch Blank's work without feeling they'd been granted a casual, soft-spoken revelation." John Rockwell, writing in The New York Times, adds, "Blank is a documentarian of folk cultures who transforms anthropology into art." And Vincent Canby, also in The Times, declared that Blank "is a master of movies about the American idiom... one of our most original filmmakers."

Born in 1935 in Tampa, Florida, Les Blank attended Tulane University in New Orleans, where he received a B.A. in English literature and an M.F.A. in theatre. In 1967, after two years in the Ph.D. film program at the University of Southern California, and five years of freelancing in Los Angeles, he began his first independent films, on Texas blues singer Lightnin' Hopkins (The Blues Accordin' to Lightnin' Hopkins ) and the newly forming sub-culture known as flower children, ( God Respects Us When We Work, But Loves Us When We Dance. ) To finance these and other of his own films, he continued to make industrial and promotional films for such organizations as Holly Farms Poultry, Archway Cookies and the National Wildlife Federation until 1972.

Blank's first independent films began a series of intimate glimpses into the lives and music of passionate people who live at the periphery of American society-- a series that grew to include rural Louisiana French musicians and cooks (Yum,Yum, Yum!; J'aiEte Au Bal-- I Went to the Dance ; Dry Wood; Hot Pepper ; Spend It All; and Marc and Ann); Mexican-Americans (Chulas Fronteras; Del Mero Corazon); New Orleans music and Mardi Gras (Always For Pleasure); chef Alice Waters and other San Francisco Bay Area garlic fanatics (Garlic Is As Good As Ten Mothers); German filmmaker Werner Herzog (Burden Of Dreams; Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe) and the very unique and inspiring multi-faceted Artiste, Gerald Gaxiola (The Maestro: King of the Cowboy Artists); Appalachian fiddlers (Sprout Wings and Fly); Polish-American polka dancers (In Heaven There Is No Beer?); rock musicians (Huey Lewis and the News: Be-FORE!; RyCooder and the Moula Banda Rhythm Aces; and A Poem Is a Naked Person, on Leon Russell); Serbian-American music and religion (Ziveli!: Medicine for the Heart); Hawaiian music and family traditions (Puamana); Afro-Cuban drumming and religious tradition (Sworn to the Drum); more East Texas bluesmen (A Well Spent Life), featuring Mance Lipscomb, and Cigarette Blues with Sonny Rhodes; American tourists in Europe (Innocents Abroad) and even gap-toothed women (Gap-Toothed Women.

Major retrospectives of Les Blank's films have been mounted in Los Angeles at FILMEX in 1977; the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis in 1978 and 1984; New York's Museum of Modern Art in 1979; the National Film Theatre, London, 1982; Cineteca Nacional, Mexico City, 1984; the Cinematheque Francais, Paris, 1986; the Independent Film Week, Augsburg,Germany, 1990 and the Leipzig Film Festival, 1995 and the Sofia Music Film Festival, Bulgaria, 1998. Feature articles on Blank have appeared in American Film, Film Quarterly, Take One, The New York Times, The Los Angeles Times, Image Magazine, Mother Jones, The Village Voice, Rolling Stone, Premiere, Downbeat and Video Review. In 1984 Blank co-edited the Burden of Dreams book, which included journals written during the making of Burden of Dreams by him, sound recordist-editor Maureen Gosling and Werner Herzog, plus an article by legendary journalist Michael Goodwin. In 1986, National Public Radio aired a half-hour special on Les Blank's work and in 1991 CNN aired a special on him worldwide.

Among Blank's numerous awards are the British Academy Award for Best Feature Documentary, 1982, (Burden of Dreams); the Golden Gate Award "Best of Festival", San Francisco Film Festival, 1982 (Burden of Dreams); Grand Prize, Melbourne Film Festival,1985 (In Heaven There Is No Beer?); Special Jury Award U.S. (Sundance) Film Festival, 1985 (In Heaven There Is No Beer?); Grand Award, Houston Film Festival, 1983 (Burden of Dreams); Golden Hugo, Chicago Film Festival, 1969 (The Blues Accordin' To Lightnin' Hopkins); Blue Ribbon, American Film and Video Festival (Dry Wood, Hot Pepper, Always For Pleasure, Garlic Is As Good As Ten Mothers, Burden of Dreams, Gap-Toothed Women, The Best of Blank, J'ai Ete Au Bal, Yum,Yum,Yum! and Marc and Ann.) "Best of Festival", Sinking Creek (Nashville) 1996 (The Maestro: King of the Cowboy Artists).

In 1990, Les Blank received the American Film Institute's Maya Deren Award for outstanding lifetime achievement as an independent filmmaker.

In 1989-1990 Blank was the distinguished filmmaker-in-residence at San Diego State University and in 1991, adjunct assistant professor in film at the University of California, Berkeley.

He was also the Louis B. Mayer filmmaker-in-residence at Dartmouth College and a directing fellow at the Sundance Institute in Utah (both in 1984).

His work has been supported by The National Endowment For the Arts, The American Film Institute, The National Endowment For the Humanities, The Ford Foundation, The Guggenheim Foundation, PBS and the BBC.

Between 1973 and 1994 Blank toured extensively with the sponsorship of the United States Information Agency, screening his films and discussing them with audiences throughout Latin America, China, England, Spain, Germany, Italy, the former Yugoslavia, Bulgaria and Egypt.

In 1993 Garlic Is As Good As Good Mothers, and in 2004 Chulas Fronteras were selected by the U.S. Library Of Congress for inclusion in The National Film Registry. Les joins Fred Wiseman and the Maysles brothers as the only documentatians to be honored with two films on the list.

Burden of Dreams director Les Blank Tony Russell from The Guardian, April 12, 2013

The film-maker Les Blank, who has died aged 77, explored the margins of America's music, capturing and framing idioms such as Louisiana Cajun and zydeco, the norteño music of the Texas-Mexico border, blues, polka, and Appalachian old-time music. He was also fascinated by traditions of eating and cookery, and when screening his film Garlic Is As Good As Ten Mothers (1980) he sometimes created what he called "smellovision" by cooking garlicky dishes in the auditorium.

Blank made more than 40 films, including Burden of Dreams (1982), about the shooting of Werner Herzog's Fitzcarraldo. While few of his documentaries were known to a wide public, many were admired by other directors. In 2007, he received the Edward MacDowell medal, an annual award for achievement in the arts, only twice before given to film directors, and never to a documentary maker. One of the panel, the director Taylor Hackford, called Blank a national treasure.

Uninterested in conventional linear histories and their well-worn patchwork of archive footage and talking heads, Blank preferred to make intimate, rounded portraits. His role was that of the quiet guy in a corner who melts into the shadows. His favourite subjects were people who lived on cultural frontiers: the Texas songster Mance Lipscomb (A Well Spent Life, 1971), the zydeco accordionist Clifton Chenier (Hot Pepper, 1973), the old-time fiddler and banjoist Tommy Jarrell from the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina (Sprout Wings and Fly, 1983). Many of his film projects were made in collaboration with Chris Strachwitz, founder of the roots-music label Arhoolie Records and co-founder with Blank of Brazos Films, their interests coalescing in superb studies of Tex-Mex music (Chulas Fronteras, 1976, and Del Mero Corazon, 1979) and the Cajun culture of the South Louisiana bayou country (J'ai Été au Bal, 1989). "He had a wonderful, extraordinary eye," says Strachwitz. "His aesthetic was to just sit calmly back and watch people do what they do."

Born in Tampa, Florida, Blank studied English at Tulane University in New Orleans, a city whose vibrancy he celebrated in Always for Pleasure (1978). He thought of becoming a writer, but while at graduate school in Berkeley saw Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal and decided, "This is what I want to do. I want to be working around people that do this kind of work." After film school he made a number of educational and industrial movies before taking on his first musical subject, the jazz trumpeter Dizzy Gillespie, in 1965. Two years later he created his own production company, Flower Films.

The Blues Accordin' to Lightnin' Hopkins (1968) introduced his name not only to lovers of American vernacular music but also to fellow film-makers and other cinéastes struck by his ability to film what one of them called "stuff that nobody else gets – he really gets close to the people, and you actually feel how they live". Steve Dollar, writing in the Wall Street Journal in 2011, said Blank "may be one of America's greatest journalists working without a laptop".

His longtime sound recordist and editor Maureen Gosling describes his films as "celebrations – looking at the way people survive in their lives above and beyond the struggles. [Many] of his films are about people that are poor, marginal or struggling, but there's something else going on there … the other human qualities that make life worth living, the music and the food that help these groups and cultures survive".

Blank's last movie, co-directed with Gina Leibrecht, was All in This Tea (2007), about an American tea importer. As well as receiving many prizes over the years for individual films, Blank was honoured by the American Film Institute with its Maya Deren award for his achievement as an independent filmmaker. In January 2013 the city of Berkeley honoured him with a Les Blank Day.

Blank was married and divorced three times. He is survived by his sons, Harrod and Beau, his daughter, Ferris, and three grandchildren.

• Leslie Harrod Blank, film-maker, born 27 November 1935; died 7 April 2013

American Scenes Dennis Toth from Film Notes from the CMA, July 19, 2008

Flower Films: The Films of Les Blank films by Les Blank and others that offer intimate and inspiring glimpses into the lives of people who live at the periphery of society

Criterion collects the joyful, humane documentaries of Les ... Mike D’Angelo on Criterion release from The Onion A.V. Club

Les Blank, American Hero - The New Yorker Robert Sullivan, April 11, 2013

Les Blank and Werner Herzog: strange dreams and sole food Ronald Bergan from The Guardian, April 12, 2013

Deaths of Cinema | Blank Slate: Remembering Les Blank Max Goldberg from Cinema Scope, June 2013

Les Blank: Another Cup Jonathan Marlow interviews Blank from GreenCine

THE BLUES ACCORDING TO LIGHTNIN’ HOPKINS

USA (31 mi) 1969

User comments from imdb Author clark-7 from Alabama, United States

This is a great documentary which captures the life of legendary Blues singer/guitarist Sam "Lightnin" Hopkins. It starts out depicting Hopkins as a young boy when he first decides to become a musician and then goes on to show Lightnin' as an adult performing the blues. Hopkins is followed back to his home town of Centerville, Texas where he performs at a large outdoor Barbeque. It gives you a very personal and true feeling of who Lightnin' Hopkins really was and what his music stood for.

This film is truly a valuable piece of blues history and was captured brilliantly by the director/producer. A true classic!

Notes on the making of The Blues Accordin' to Lightnin' Hopkins, by Les Blank

The Blues Accordin' to Lightnin' Hopkins Les Blank website

A WELL SPENT LIFE

USA (44 mi) 1971 co-director: Skip Gerson

A Well Spent Life Les Blank website

Many people consider Texas bluesman Mance Lipscomb to be the greatest blues guitarist and songster of all time. This glowing portrait of the legendary musician (also life-long husband and sharecropper) is among Blank's special masterworks. Instead of growing bitter, tough times made Lipscomb sweet.

User comments from imdb Author: Jozo Zovko from Venice,CA.USA

I felt quite lucky after seeing this film for the first time. It is filled with the `good stuff' that is present in all great art, and has made its mark on my life. Les Blank, at his very best, has made a beautiful film with this documentary about Mance Lipscomb.

In a very quiet and intimate fashion, the film gets to the real heart of a good man and the great music he made throughout his life. Blank delicately films the goings on in Lipscomb's life and in the world around him. Obviously, the film is full of great music that any lovers of old folk music would enjoy. This is a very good film that is worth much more than the price/time it takes to watch it.

Review by Robert Christgau and Carola Dibbell

For almost 20 years, Les Blank has scoured modern America for the remnants of a simpler, happier, richer life. A life that usually centers around such indigenous music as blues, zydeco and norteño. His lyric documentaries honor the origins and settings that beget such music in what has evolved into a personal visual language: skies and rivers and roads and fields and pastures; tools and wildflowers; well-worked hands and well-earned faces; and, above all, food--the festive, greasy, smoking, aromatic indelicacies of America's regional cuisines. His work is a national treasure and is worth a look almost without exception.

In   A Well Spent Life all of Blank's visual and philosophical trademarks combine with a protagonist who can make a case for them: then 75-year-old Mance Lipscomb, lifelong husband and farmer and recently rediscovered singer and guitarist. Two odd tales of marriage, one involving 50 years of separate dinners and another a lost leg--add a twist to Lipscomb's praise of domestic tranquility without making it seem false, and his seamed face adds its own ripple to the placid pastoral surface. We're glimpsing the inside of a man, not the outside of a symbol.

by David Dalton Dylan watches A Well Spent Life

DELUSION OF THE FURY: A RITUAL OF DREAM AND DELUSION

USA (75 mi) 1971

Delusion back in all its fury By John Goodman North Shore News

"When I've had my tincture, I kind of like Stockhausen and Harry Parch (sic). It's way out stuff but really quite groovy." -- David Bowie, National Post, Feb. 26.

In last weekend's National Post a 53-year-old David Bowie "interviewed" himself as a 23-year-old.

At one point, discussing his record collection, the younger Bowie mentions he likes to listen to the music of Harry Partch (19011974) while enjoying a tincture of cannabis from Notting Hill Gate.

Partch, an American iconoclast from the same anti-mould as Charles Ives and Conlon Nancarrow, created his own musical world based on a 43-tone to the octave scale which was to be played on invented instruments.

His crowning achievement, Delusion of the Fury (A Ritual of Dream and Delusion) was released in a two-record set by Columbia Masterworks in 1969 and was probably the Partch we would have found playing on Bowie's turntable. The proto-Ziggy would certainly have been drawn into the Noh-like drama presented by Partch and his ensemble of musicians.

Coincidentally, the long out-of-print disc has just been re-released on the innova label out of Minnesota. (innova Recordings, 332 Minnesota Street #E-145 St. Paul, MN 55101 USA, e-mail: <innova@composersforum.org>). The new CD completes innova's 15-year project to release the entire recorded output of Partch.

In Delusion of the Fury's ritual/theatre Partch recreates two tales, one based on classical Japanese Noh, the second working from an Ethiopian folk tale. The other-world material is performed on his hand-built orchestra of sculpted instruments.

The innova series on Partch includes videos and a 528-page limited-edition scrapbook documenting his unconventional life.

SPEND IT ALL

USA (41 mi) 1972

User comments from imdb Author: pjbrubak from United States

Independent filmmaker-cum-cultural anthropologist Les Blank has made his career out of documenting marginalized regional American subcultures. In Spend It All, he focuses his lens on Southwest Louisiana, specifically the Cajuns, a fun-loving people descended from French colonists in Canada, then known as Acadia. The film sets up the history of these people in the beginning, following an exuberant montage set to vital Cajun music. Music figures prominently into the lives of these men and is part and parcel of the philosophy behind the Cajun lifestyle: Work hard, earn your money and then spend it all having fun. The film does contain a notorious scene that is worth the price of admission. An excruciatingly self-reliant Cajun uses a pair of pliers to actually extract one of his teeth, that had, in his words, "been hurting [him] for a few days now." The scene sums up what it means to be rural and self-reliant. German filmmaker Werner Herzog was so taken by the rawness of this moment that he copied it for his 1977 film Stroszek, set largely in rural America. Blank and Herzog were close, and the documentarian gets a special thank you in the credits for Stroszek. The accents in Spend It All are sometimes impenetrable, but always fascinating and the near-constant fiddle and accordion music on the soundtrack turns an ostensibly "educational" film into a rollicking good time. Blank's movies are succinct and this is no exception. Spend It All does not overstay its welcome at 42 minutes, mainly because of the intimacy that the filmmaker achieves with his colorful and worthy subjects. Fans of this film should check out Sprout Wings and Fly and Dry Wood to complete their initiation into the world of Cajun and rural folk music.

HOT PEPPER

USA (54 mi) 1973

Hot Pepper Les Blank website

Thrilling musical portrait of Zydeco King Clifton Chenier, who combines the pulsating rhythms of Cajun dance music and black R&B with African overtones, belting out his irresistible music in the sweaty juke joints of South Louisiana.

A POEM IS A NAKED PERSON

USA (72 mi) 1974

A Poem Is A Naked Person Les Blank website

Les Blank made A Poem Is A Naked Person during 1972-74, while living at the Leon Russell/Shelter records recording studio compound on Grand Lake Of The Cherokees in NE Oklahoma. While the film has had few public showings as, apparantly, Mr. Russell is not keen on sharing it with his public. According to Les's contract, He is legally able to show his own 16mm print if personally presenting it and a non-profit organization is sponsoring the showing. There are presently no such screenings in the works.

It is feature-length, with appearances by Willy Nelson, George Jones and some amazing characters in Oklahoma, where much of it was shot. At least two major critics have declared it the best film ever made on Rock and Roll.

CHULAS FRONTERAS

USA (58 mi) 1976

Chulas Fronteras Les Blank website

A complex, insightful look at the Chicano experience as mirrored in the lives and music of the most acclaimed Norteño musicians of the Texas-Mexican border, including Flaco Jimenez and Lydia Mendoza. (Selected by The Library of Congress, to be added to the National Film Registry list of now 400 motion pictures, to be preserved in perpetuity.)

Review by Robert Christgau and Carola Dibbell

For almost 20 years, Les Blank has scoured modern America for the remnants of a simpler, happier, richer life. A life that usually centers around such indigenous music as blues, zydeco and norteño. His lyric documentaries honor the origins and settings that beget such music in what has evolved into a personal visual language: skies and rivers and roads and fields and pastures; tools and wildflowers; well-worked hands and well-earned faces; and, above all, food--the festive, greasy, smoking, aromatic indelicacies of America's regional cuisines. His work is a national treasure and is worth a look almost without exception.

Best of all of these programs is Del Mero Corazon, apparently constructed from Chulas Fronteras outtakes, in which Blank acknowledges, for once, the contradictions of contemporary simplicity. Associative yet acutely shaped, this is a movie in which the cantina way of life is at once celebrated and found wanting. Here homes are broken up, and not just by migrant work--sometimes even by the music itself. There's more ugliness and sexuality than innocence and nobility of the faces, and the gorgeous two-dimensionality of the hot pastel backgrounds urbanizes Blank's tone. A yearning lovesong belted over a UFW mural at the finale has more political power than all the slogans in Chulas Fronteras.

Blank's work is so warm, human-scale and casual that it's ideal for home viewing, especially as an opener for one of those mouth-watering meals he always makes you crave.

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Few films express a more profound understanding of that link than Les Blank's Chulas Fronteras, Del Mero Corazón and J'ai été au Bal, all just released to DVD by roots-music label Arhoolie. Chulas Fronteras and Del Mero Corazón, appropriately released on a single disc, were filmed simultaneously in the late 1970s, and focus on the conjunto and norteño music birthed on the Texas/Mexico border. Based around the trill of a button accordion and the thrum of a 12-string guitar, the music of Chulas Fronteras flows out with little introduction; Blank provides context visually, juxtaposing music with people dancing, cooking, living their lives. Without following along in the DVD booklet, you'd never know that the film often bridges the gap between one artist and another by having one perform a song written by the next, but perhaps the connection is felt even if it's not understood. Del Mero Corazón repeats the process, but with the love songs that were left out of the earlier film. The music in Chulas Fronteras has to rank among the most joyful-sounding I've ever heard, up there with the exuberance of klezmer, though oddly it's in the tales of racial injustice and the hardness of border life that it most comes alive; Del Mero Corazón's love songs are melancholy, subdued affairs by comparison. (It's more powerful when the two combine in Flaco Jiménez's ÒUn Mojado Sin Licensia,Ó the story of a man who's prevented from marrying by his inability to get a driver's license.) Featuring legends like Lydia Mendoza and Narciso Martínez (both seen to even greater advantage in the half-hour of deleted scenes), Chulas Fronteras is the perfect introduction for the uninitiated, next step for the curious, or treasure chest for the aficionado.

ALWAYS FOR PLEASURE

USA (58 mi) 1978

Always For Pleasure Les Blank website

An intense insider's portrait of New Orleans' street celebrations and unique cultural gumbo: Second-line parades, Mardi Gras, Jazz Fest. Features live music from Professor Longhair, the Wild Tchoupitoulas, the Neville Brothers and more. This glorious, soul-satisfying film is among Blank's special masterworks.

User comments from imdb Author: tiffydoodles from United Kingdom

You will be completely transported through time & space, back to La Belle Nouvelle Orleans circa the 70's. The banging beat of Mardis Gras plays in the background as happy faces second line down the street. This documentary shows New Orleans the way it REALLY WAS!!!! Learn all about The Mardis Gras Indians with Big Chief Landry & The Wild Chopitulous, and how not to burn read beans by Irma Thomas. Beautifully shot & completely honest, this film is the most accurate portrayal of a once thriving, unique, beautiful, bewitching city & its carefree jubilant inhabitants. Watch, you'll have a cry too! Hopefully historians have this film in their archives as evidence to the magic that was, and hopefully one day will be again - New Orleans!

Video Librarian magazine (link lost)

New Orleans. Sin City. Where unabashed hedonism is not a concept, but a way of life. The joys of food, the rhythms of music, and the celebration of sensuality find their supreme expression in the Mardi Gras festival. It's a time when people can have their carpe diem, and eat it too. As always, the characters that Blank uncovers are jewels in the rough: "Kid" Thomas Valentine, who tells people he's a hundred years old--and they believe him; or "Blue Lu" Barker, who got lost during a parade once, and now observes from the safety of her domicile. The first half of the film focuses on a jazz funeral, which composer Allen Touissaint explains is a long-standing tradition. The second half looks at a black community's celebration of Mardi Gras: working class blacks don Native Indian garb, and pow-wow down. Each year the hand-sewn garments are taken apart, and reassembled the following year at "great personal expense." These are people who take their fun seriously. Always for Pleasure is a boisterous tour of one of the most famous parties in town (New Orleans, or any other). Recommended.

WERNER HERZOG EATS HIS SHOE

USA (22 mi) 1980

Read the New York Times Review » Vincent Canby from the New York Times, November 11, 1981 (excerpt)

''Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe'' features Mr. Herzog on the stage of a theater at the University of California at Berkeley as he chats with the audience and manfully consumes his shoe, which has been stewing for some hours in a broth that includes duck fat, onions, garlic, chili, Tabasco, rosemary and salt. The occasion is Mr. Herzog's keeping his vow to eat his shoe when and if his student Errol Morris ever completed his long-talked about film ''Gates of Heaven.''

Mr. Herzog talks eloquently of Mr. Morris's film, which is about a pet cemetery, and eloquently about eating and cooking in general. ''I am convinced,'' he says in the solemn manner of someone who appreciates the humor in a solemnly ridiculous situation, ''that cooking is the only alternative to film making.'' Pause. ''Perhaps also walking on foot.'' When asked if the act isn't a foolish stunt, he answers, still solemnly, ''Film makers are clowns.''

City Pages - Movies - Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe Eric Henderson

If the mark of a successful movie trailer is the extent to which it excites you to find out what it's shilling for, then one could reasonably argue that this 20-minute short is one of the greatest, weirdest trailers ever made. (Certainly it's one of the least pedestrian.) Essentially Les Blank's chronicle of German director Werner Herzog's performance art-like PR stunt in support of his friend Errol Morris's Gates of Heaven, "Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe" (1980) isn't simply a goon-show look at the famed bad boy pulling another of his infamous stunts. (Suffice it to say the film's titular footwear isn't a metaphor; rather, it's garnished with garlic and roughly a quart of Tabasco sauce.) The film is also a portrait of a genuine cultural warrior, a director who waxes surprisingly eloquent on the need for burgeoning auteurs to cut themselves off from their dependency on financial backing. (He also decries the moral bankruptcy of modern advertisers' cheap "images.") Lurking beneath the spectacle of a world-class artist downing bite-sized chunks of distressed cowhide is a clarion call for uncompromising creativity--backed by a little showmanship, of course. (Blank would go on to make Burden of Dreams, a behind-the-scenes look at Herzog during what was perhaps his most out-of-control project: Fitzcarraldo.)

User comments from imdb Author: manwatchesmovies from Tampa, FL

There may be better directors than German New Wave auteur Werner Herzog, but if viewed entirely in terms of how interesting they are personally, Herzog stands above all. His tales of working with deranged German actor Klaus Kinski are the stuff of legend: from filming deep in the jungle using real natives to pushing a ship over a waterfall for Fitzcarraldo to apparently earnestly plotting to kill his star. Or, more recently he saved Joaquin Phoenix from a car crash and then disappeared before he could be thanked. His personality even transfers over remarkably in this short film directed by Les Blank.

We learn that Herzog apparently was friends with Errol Morris. While Morris was still a struggling young filmmaker, Herzog had made a bet with him that if he ever got his film made, the former would eat his shoe. Well, in 1979 he finally does make a film, Gates of Heaven, and Herzog comes to live up to his promise. The film chronicles Herzog as he garnishes, cooks, and eats one of the shoes with some salt and garlic on stage during the film's premiere. This all happens and Herzog still has time to say things like how we must declare holy war on what we see every day on television, talk shows and Bonanza; and how it requires some self-degradation in order to be a director, all in 17 minutes.

So for a short film it works quite well at capturing his essence. It's also up on YouTube to watch for free and in its entirety. This is a good thing, as it is not even available on Netflix. So if you have 20 minutes to spare, it's well worth watching.

A wild walk with Werner By Michael Atkinson the Age, January 18, 2003

Back in the heady days of the 1970s, Werner Herzog - along with Rainer Werner Fassbinder and Wim Wenders - dominated the German New Wave. Now, it seems, he has fallen on hard times.

As quickly as he became an estimable figure with Aguirre, Wrath of God, The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser, Fata Morgana, Stroszek and Nosferatu the Vampyre, Herzog vanished from the front line in the 1980s.

The reasons his stock fell so rapidly were clear: his risk taking, his financial carelessness, his decidedly uncommercial sensibility, his disregard for kinetic narratives. All these were exemplified by his 1982 film Fitzcarraldo. For all the scorn heaped upon it, the film came in on budget and even made money. But it was too late: Herzog had assassinated his own reputation - not by failing but by gambling everything on fate and elevating himself above the industry machine.

After Orson Welles, Herzog was another martyr for cinema as a medium for artists rather than mere entertainers. Herzog never actually vanished, of course; nor did he muck around in Hollywood like Wenders or clog his arteries with melodrama like Fassbinder. After he failed to secure international distribution for 1988's Cobra Verde and botched the job of making a mountain-climbing melodrama (Scream of Stone), he abandoned fiction to make documentaries full-time.

Documentaries are often thought of as the profitless products of obsession and righteousness, seen by virtually nobody. Thus, a well-known director resorting to low-budget non-fiction film would seem to be acting in desperation. But Herzog had always made documentaries, and all his films are windows on an essential reality.

Whether stranding himself and his crew in the jungle, using mentally unstable actors (including Bruno S and Klaus Kinski), venturing into trailer-park America or finding bizarrely symbolic wildlife, he has always sought to film the extreme edge of the world. Often depicted as a megalomaniac, he was merely obedient to the wonders around him.

His non-fiction films are a fulfilment of his aesthetic, not a betrayal of it. His documentaries have been distributed worldwide; of his 11 films since 1988, Herdsman of the Sun (1989), Echoes From a Somber Empire (1990), Lessons in Darkness (1992), Little Dieter Needs to Fly (1997) and My Best Fiend (1999) have all been widely shown. These films might be the purest Herzog, freeing him from the restrictions of plot and preconception, and allowing him to gaze dumbfounded at existence.

There are several things the initiate must understand about Herzog. One: he is at heart a truth seeker - factual truth, historical truth, experiential truth, and emotional truth. Of course, the more astonishing and unearthly the truth is, the better. But where most documentary makers are motivated by political ideals or an urge to inform, Herzog's only agenda is to make you look.

His documentaries are boldly personal, meandering, unpolished, intensely subjective, as if he has more faith in simply chronicling his experience of things than he does in his ability to capture the sight itself - whether it's Kuwaiti oil fires, African tribal rites, or the rush of Olympic skiing.

Two: his films, particularly his non-fiction, form a body of work that is vastly greater than the sum of its parts. Once you're conscious of Herzog's awe-struck sensibility and love of irony, every foot of film has its significance. His documentaries fashion an ever-growing record of humankind's tracks on this planet, much of it never filmed before. When, in Echoes from a Somber Empire, Herzog's camera surveys the gone-to-seed torture chambers, body freezers and a rusting private zoo where, the keeper tells us, African despot Bokassa fed his enemies to the crocodiles ... well, what can you say? It's Werner's World.

Three: there is little difference between the fiction and non-fiction works - Herzog has always worked on the desperate edge of semi-professionalism, preferring a plunge into the unknown in which the lunatic lyricism of nature can overwhelm planned storymaking and become pure image.

From the uncut scene in Signs of Life (1968), in which a soldier hypnotises a chicken with a single chalk line on the ground, to the climactic image in Echoes from a Somber Empire of the elderly chimpanzee intently smoking a cigarette, Herzog has found the grace of naturally metaphoric phenomena more than any film maker.

The documentaries, like all of Herzog's movies, are best taken all at a time, as pages from an extraordinary diary. Together, they may represent the most ambitious, revelatory and apocalyptic statement of vision any film maker has ever made. But it is far from being widely recognised for what it is.

Herzog is the most Cassandra-like of auteurs, never quite convincing the world that his totemic visions, his vast metaphoric images, his exploration of how landscape understands life, and vice versa, can invest our lives with weight and meaning. Now, 33 years after his feature debut, Herzog seems likely to be appreciated only after he's dead.

"Our civilisation doesn't have adequate images," Herzog was once fond of saying, notably in Les Blank's short film Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe. "Without adequate images, we will die out like dinosaurs."

It's a truth that only Herzog is pursuing.

Burden of Dreams: In Dreams Begin Responsibilities Criterion essay by Paul Arthur

Burden of Dreams (1982) - The Criterion Collection

Film as Art Danél Griffin

not coming to a theater near you (Rumsey Taylor) review

DVD Verdict [Bill Gibron] - Burden of Dreams

DVD Savant [Glenn Erickson] - Burden of Dreams

digitallyOBSESSED! [Rich Rosell] - Burden of Dreams

DVD Talk [Ian Jane] - Burden of Dreams

DVDBeaver [Gary W. Tooze] - Burden of Dreams

GARLIC IS AS GOOD AS TEN MOTHERS

USA (51 mi) 1980

Garlic Is As Good As Ten Mothers Les Blank website

A zesty paean of praise to the greater glories of garlic. This lip-smacking foray into the history, consumption, cultivation and culinary/curative powers of the stinking rose features chef Alice Waters of Chez Panisse, and a flavorful musical soundtrack.

The SF Chronicle called this paean to garlic "a joyous, nose-tweaking, ear-tingling, mouth-watering tribute to a Life Force." Nothing less than a hymn to the stinking rose of the kitchen, this lovingly photographed documentary is an odyssey of garlic feasts alternated with uniquely individual interviews of garlic afficionados. Not only does the film promote garlic as our first line of defense against all forms of blandness; it also titillates the taste buds with shots of garlic dishes sizzling in their pans. Les Blank shows again that he knows how to have a good time and share it on film - especially if it involves food!

At the end of 2004 'Garlic' was one of 25 films, selected by The Library Of Congress, to be added to the National Film Registry list of now 400 motion pictures, to be preserved in perpetuity. Other films in this group include Ben Hur, Jail House Rock and Duck And Cover. Les'Chulas Fronteras was selected previously for The National Film Registry. (Only two other documentarians, Frederick Wiseman and Albert Maysles, have as many non-fiction films represented in the registry.)

User comments from imdb Author: hapuna from Seattle, WA

This is a very good movie about garlic with shots from the Gilroy Garlic Festival and lots of good information about cooking with garlic from some of the best cooks in the SF Bay Area. I view this as a comprehensive guide to garlic provided in a very entertaining fashion. Wish I could find it on DVD!! Information by folks like Alice Water of Chez Panisse in Berkeley showing how to use garlic for cooking a nice pig dish are amazing and make you want to sit down and eat it right there. Other information on uses of garlic that you would never think of such as real garlic salt, for squid recipes, sausages and of course warding off vampires. There are ways to handle garlic for cooking and how to peel it easily as well as how to chop, mince etc for best effect. Highly recommended.

Video Librarian magazine (link lost)

This video ode to that most odious of earth's garden delights, allium sativum--better known as garlic, is an exhaustive examination of the history, culinary uses, curative powers, and cultivation of the "Stinking Rose." Les Blank's gastronomically trained eye captures a luscious assortment of goodies from the kitchens of Alice Waters' Chez Panisse and Flint's Bar-B-Que in Berkeley. Viewers will also visit the Gilroy Garlic Festival, where they'll witness everything from the crowning of the Garlic Queen to the selling of Pet Garlics; bounce on their couches to the foot- stomping music of the Louisiana Playboys; and learn some interesting facts to boot (garlic is the second most-consumed spice; it's 4,000 years old; Eleanor Roosevelt ate three cloves dipped in chocolate every day). In short, it's a lot of fun. Highly recommended. (Also available in a shorter 30 min. version, which won an EFLA Blue Ribbon Award.)

The New York Times (Vincent Canby) review

LES BLANK, known mainly for his films about regional music and musicians, continues to discover America in three delightful short films that open today at the Film Forum - ''Garlic Is Good as 10 Mothers'' (51 minutes), a cinematic song in praise of the glories of garlic; ''Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe'' (20 minutes), in which the noted West German film maker (''Aguirre, the Wrath of God'' and ''Stroszek,'' among others), eats his shoe, lovingly cooked beforehand, and ''Stoney Knows How'' (30 minutes), a portrait of Leonard St. Clair, nicknamed Stoney, a paraplegic dwarf, a carnival sword-swallower as a child and best known as a tattoo artist.

Mr. Blank produced, directed and photographed the first two films and photographed ''Stoney,'' which was produced and directed by Alan Govenar and Bruce Lane.

''Garlic Is Good'' is so good - and funny - that it doesn't even offend someone who takes a dim view of baked whole garlic and who doesn't exactly long to munch chocolate-covered garlic cloves. This is a collage of interviews with people who preach garlic-evangelism. They include flamenco singers, beauty-contest queens, mothers, cooks, farmers, restaurateurs and just plain aficionados, who are promoting garlic not only as a seasoning but also as a food, a medicine and a way of life.

It tells you a lot more about garlic than you may ever have wanted to know and, in the manner of someone who knows The Truth, it has little patience with people who don't hold the same opinions. One fellow, who is introduced as ''the head garlic head,'' tells of one lost (nongarlic-loving) soul, ''a real vampire,'' who specialized in 13th-century Chinese cooking and could eat nothing but boiled rice flavored with the dew collected from wild - not domestic - roses.

Mr. Blank may not be convinced that garlic would keep Dracula at bay. However, he seems to believe that garlic lovers have some closer connection to life in general than those of us who turn up (or off) our noses at the mere thought of a meal composed entirely of garlic dishes, from soup through dessert. This all-garlic meal is the chief attraction at Chez Panisse, a restaurant in Berkeley, Calif., at its annual garlic-day festival, July 14, a date celebrated elsewhere for other reasons, though often with lots of garlic.

BURDEN OF DREAMS

USA (94 mi) 1982

Burden of Dreams Les Blank website

An extraordinary feature-length documentary about the messianic German director Werner Herzog struggling against desperate odds in the Amazon basin to make his epic feature, Fitzcarraldo. Burden of Dreams was honored with a British Academy Award for Best Documentary of 1982, and many critics consider it Blank's most awesome film.

Chicago Reader (capsule) Dave Kehr

Les Blank's 1982 documentary on the making of Werner Herzog's Fitzcarraldo. The film suggests Herzog's own documentaries about visionaries--The Great Ecstasy of the Sculptor Steiner, La Soufriere--as Blank steps back to coolly observe Herzog's grand, demented attempts to haul a steamship up an impossibly steep river bank. But Blank's approach is less mystical than Herzog's, and in the film's more ironic, matter-of-fact moments, the German director can be seen busily manufacturing his own myth. The film is at once funny and, in its depiction of the scant differences between art and megalomania, somewhat frightening. 95 min.

Video Librarian magazine (link lost)

A number of critics believe that Les Blank's documentary on the making of Werner Herzog's Fitzcarraldo is better than Herzog's film itself. We agree. Blank's mesmerizing film follows the incredible problems Herzog suffered in trying to bring Fitzcarraldo to the screen. Herzog's story of a misguided dreamer who wants to bring opera to the Amazonian jungle seemed doomed from its inception. Originally set to star Jason Robards and box-office guarantor Mick Jagger, half the film was in the can when Robards contracted dysentery and left the project. After waiting three months, Jagger had to leave to meet other obligations. Negotiations with the local Indians were never-ending, sites were abandoned, injuries were sustained, delays due to weather were routine--and through it all, as we watch Herzog's face literally grow haggard as the years begin to add up, we too begin to wonder about the price of dreams. The focal point comes when Herzog tries to move a three-story steamer over a narrow isthmus of land separating two rivers. The South American engineer he hires designs a system that will haul the ship up a twenty degree incline--but Herzog insists on a forty degree incline at the risk of the natives. A disturbing, provocative film. Highly recommended.

Burden of Dreams Derek Malcolm from the Guardian, January 13, 2000

Films about film-making are usually deeply self-conscious, and sometimes deceiving. But there is one at least that succeeds in surpassing the movie whose making it describes. Les Blank's Burden of Dreams admittedly had it easier than most. The movie it examined was Werner Herzog's Fitzcarraldo, made on location deep in the rainforests of South America and a monument to Herzog's almost masochistic desire to do the impossible impossibly well.

Fitzcarraldo is the true story of the attempt by an arguably mad Irishman called Fitzgerald to build an opera house in the Amazon. He had initially planned to build a railroad across the continent, starting off with his profits from an ice factory he had built; this new plan was even more audacious.

Klaus Kinski, the conquistador of Aguirre, Wrath of God, played this excessive character when Jason Robards went down with amoebic dysentery, and the casting could scarcely have been bettered. Kinski's behaviour would have taxed a saint. On a wider front, almost everything that could go wrong with the production did. The film had to be moved some 1,200 miles when a border war broke out between the local Indians, and even at the new venue the tribesmen felt provoked enough to become alarmingly hostile.

Plane crashes, disease, rain and mud disturbed Herzog's efforts to achieve his tour de force in the film - getting a team of natives to pull an old steamship up a steep hillside using only block and tackle.

All this was meat and drink to Blank, a well-known ethnographic documentarist. But he doesn't take the mickey. He just records the scene, including Kinski's tempers, the Indians' suspicious and often threatening behaviour and Herzog's descent into near-hysteria.

Blank's film includes the only available record of some of the unused scenes with Robards and Mick Jagger, who left for a concert tour after all the delays, doubtless with some relief. It also shows the actual mechanisms by which Herzog hoped to move the old ship halfway up a mountain. A giant bulldozer augments the block-and-pulley but proves unequal to the task as the Brazilian engineer in charge of the operation storms off, complaining that it is virtually certain that lives will be lost.

This is warts-and-all stuff, made with sympathy but determined to show us as much of the truth as possible. Part of that truth is that Herzog seemed to identify with Fitzgerald (called Fitzcarraldo by the natives), and certainly his plan to make a film in such a place was almost as crazy as the Irishman's opera house daydream.

Fitzcarraldo, though full of notable sequences, doesn't entirely work; Blank's film, however, does. You don't have to have seen Fitzcarraldo to appreciate it. As Time Out said at the time, it takes on a crazy life of its own.

Burden of Dreams: In Dreams Begin Responsibilities Criterion essay by Paul Arthur

Burden of Dreams (1982) - The Criterion Collection also including WERNER HERZOG EAST HIS SHOE

not coming to a theater near you (Rumsey Taylor) review

Turner Classic Movies dvd review Jeremy Arnold

CultureCartel.com (John Nesbit) review [4/5]

review Raymond Durgnat from Wellington Film Society

Film Threat, Hollywood's Indie Voice dvd review [5/5] Daulton Dickey

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

A wild walk with Werner By Michael Atkinson The Age

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson]

DVD Verdict (Bill Gibron) dvd review [Criterion Collection] also including WERNER HERZOG EAST HIS SHOE

DVD Savant [Glenn Erickson] - Burden of Dreams also including WERNER HERZOG EAST HIS SHOE

digitallyOBSESSED! [Rich Rosell] - Burden of Dreams also including WERNER HERZOG EAST HIS SHOE

DVD Talk (Ian Jane) dvd review [4/5] [Criterion Collection] also including WERNER HERZOG EAST HIS SHOE

filmcritic.com (Christopher Null) review [3.5/5]

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [4/4]

DVDBeaver [Gary W. Tooze] - Burden of Dreams

SPROUT WINGS AND FLY

USA (30 mi) 1984 co-directors: Cece Conway and Alice Gerrard

Chicago Reader (Ted Shen) capsule review

Tommy Jarrell, a legendary bluegrass fiddler from the Blue Ridge region of North Carolina, is the subject of this loose, appreciative documentary (1983, 30 min.) by Les Blank (Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe), Cece Conway, and Alice Gerrard. Jarrell delivers folksy homilies and family anecdotes with the same ease he brings to fiddling and banjo picking, and Blank has a fine feel for the tradition and lore of bluegrass. Two companion shorts by Blank, My Old Fiddle: A Visit With Tommy Jarrell in the Blue Ridge (1994, 17 min.) and Julie: Old Time Tales of the Blue Ridge (1991, 11 min.), about Jarrell's harmonica-playing sister, pay further homage.

User comments from imdb Author: Scott (sh58943@appstate.edu) from Greensboro, N.C

I love this film. When I watched it, I simply couldn't believe that bluegrass was that enjoyable. This film, set in the North Carolina Appalachians, honors the fiddle playing an 82-year-old Tommy Jarrel and the time honored tradition of whiskey and folk music. Filled to the brim with stories, small towns, good friends, and did any one say bluegrass? "Sprout Wings and Fly" is a reminisce of heritage that stretches living memory back to the Civil War. But these aren't from the minds of the immobile. These people are full of energy, enough to start dancing at the drop of a tune and who won't stop until the last one's done. Of course a little drinking can't hurt to keep the music going too; and if you listen carefully, you'll even learn the true secret behind good alcohol. This film covers everything that is good and right with these people. They have a vigor for life and a lineage that forms the roots of America's culture. With music, family, and some drink to keep things kicking, what more could you want?

IN HEAVEN THERE IS NO BEER

USA (51 mi) 1984

Movie Review - - DOCUMENTARIES ON POLKA AND BLUEGRASS - NYTimes.com Janet Maslin from the New York Times, May 23, 1984

ONE of the many happy participants in Les Blank's ''In Heaven There Is No Beer?'' observes, at the end of the film, that he would prefer polka music to remain well outside the mainstream of American popular culture. That way, the music and its enthusiasts could retain the joyful, un-self-conscious vitality that is captured so beautifully here.

''In Heaven There Is No Beer?'' opens today at the Film Forum, on a double bill with another of Mr. Blank's wonderfully jubilant documentaries about music, ''Sprout Wings and Fly.'' As versatile an ethno-musicologist as Mr. Blank clearly is (he has also made films about Lightnin' Hopkins, Dizzy Gillespie and Cajun and Tex-Mex music, among other subjects), his approach to his material involves at least as much warmth as scholarship. The music, as depicted here, becomes a natural, unfiltered reflection of people's lives and values, as well as something that fills them with delight.

''In Heaven There Is No Beer?'' is enough to win converts to polka, that's for sure. Mr. Blank visits a number of intensive polka sessions (one of them an 11-day marathon) and observes the wildly enthusiastic participants. A few wear traditional polka garb, but a lot more dance in anything from double-knit polyester suits to bikinis, and all seem to be having a fabulous time. And if loving polka music means bucking convention, so much the better: one young woman says she wishes she could go to school with a huge radio blasting polka tunes, so that others could share the fun.

Mr. Blank's playfulness here matches that of the participants. To illustrate a song called ''Someone Stole a Kizska,'' he films his editor, Maureen Gosling, as she re-enacts the sausage theft of the lyrics; then he even shows Polish sausage being made, while the music tootles on. Mr. Blank also examines the dancers' Polish patriotism and their polka regalia, concluding that they may find a close and authentic sense of community through this form of folk art.

GAP-TOOTHED WOMEN

USA (31 mi) 1987

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

Les Blank's "Gap-Toothed Women" is an admirable film that all but reviews itself. It is a documentary about women who have only one thing in common: a gap between their front teeth. Blank, one of America's most prolific and unfailingly interesting documentarians, apparently shot this film on the way to, and from, other projects, whenever he found a woman with a gap between her teeth.

What does it mean to be a gap-toothed woman? To one of the women in this film, the gap was a great embarrassment for her mother. To another, the model and actress Lauren Hutton, it was a quality admired by some and shunned by others. Some directors frankly admired the gap, but others made her wear a false middle tooth. Most of the subjects agreed that, on balance, they would rather have a gap than not.

The women in the film include U.S. Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O'Connor, the owner and operator of an 18-wheel rig, a woman who is being treated for cancer and another woman who speaks mystically about the special wisdom that comes with having a gap.

As we witness the parade of women, and gaps, a peculiar process takes place. At first, we see only the gaps. Toward the end, we see only the women.

RY COODER AND THE MOULA BANDA RHYTHM ACES: LET’S HAVE A BALL

USA (90 mi) 1988

Ry Cooder and the Moula Banda Rhythm Aces Les Blank website

Ry Cooder And The Moula Banda Rhythm Aces is a feature-length concert film, shot in 16 mm with three cameras in Santa Cruz, Ca. at the Catalyst in 1987 or '88, featuring musicians gathered for a brief tour at the time, including Flaco Jimenez, Jim Keltner and Van Dyke Parks. It was made for broadcast in Europe and Asia, but for reasons unknown to the film maker, Mr. Cooder prefers that the film not be shown in North America.

User reviews from imdb Author: RondoHatton from Whitechapel after dark

This is such a great show, I would even pay list price for it, but I guess Ry Cooder doesn't want this distributed any closer to the US than New Zealand or Iran. It's really a shame, because it's a great show, & Ry has a strong lineup backing him, including El Rey de Accordion, Flaco Jimenez, Bobby King & Terry Evans, Jim Keltner, VanDyke Parks, and Jorge Calderon. Maybe The Catalyst should release a collection of videos of performances, since so many great national & international performers have played there over the years. I really can't understand why Ry refuses to allow this to be released, since the only people who would buy this would be those of us who have helped build his career & supported him for 30-plus years

Ry Cooder - Let's Have A Ball Complete - YouTube (90:21)

J'AI ÉTÉ AU BAL / I WENT TO THE DANCE B+ 91

aka: French Dance Tonight (abridged version shown on PBS American Experience)

USA (84 mi) 1989 co-director: Chris Strachwitz

Perhaps the definitive film on Cajun and zydeco music from Southern Louisiana, co-directed by Chris Strachwitz, the founder of Arhoolie Records who was awarded a National Heritage Fellowship in 2000, Blank provides an insider perspective that both outlines and interprets the history of Cajun and Creole music. Featuring vintage photographs and recordings as well as recollections of musicians from within the culture itself, including commentary from Marc Savoy of Eunice, Louisiana, a highly regarded accordion player, and Michael Doucet, a fiddler, singer, songwriter and musical historian who founded the Cajun band BeauSoleil from Lafayette, Louisiana, also awarded a National Heritage Fellowship in 2005, the film is a tribute to the cultural roots and a joyous celebration of the music. The film has no real beginning or end, is no frills, where nothing is the least bit showy or pretentious, but simply records musicians and singers as they sit on a milk crate in someone’s backyard and perform songs, usually with a fiddle or an accordion, while all around them barnyard animals are roaming about, like chickens, roosters, sheep, cows, ducks, horses and cats while laundry can be seen hanging on a line. The Acadians (aka Cajuns) are French descendents from Nova Scotia, where nearly 12,000 were exiled from Canada by the British in the 1750’s when they were suspected of aiding the French, due to their language similarities, traveling great distances when they migrated to Louisiana, which was a French colony at the time, bringing with them Celtic traditions that soon mixed with Indians, free people of color and the Louisiana Creole people, who were predominately influenced by the West Indies and Africa, providing the original roots of Cajun culture in southwest Louisiana.

While the fiddle seems to have been the instrument of choice in Cajun music, the accordion was introduced into early sound recordings of the 1920’s, where Joe Falcon, a white accordion player recorded the first Cajun song in 1928, Allons à Lafayette, (heard here: Lafayette) before touring across Texas and southern Louisiana with his wife Cléoma ("Joe Falcon & Cleoma Breaux from an invaluable Cajun MP3 website playing vintage 78 recordings), while Creole musician Amédé Ardoin, a sharecropper at a nearby farm, was known for his high-pitched vocals and considerable dexterity on the instrument, becoming a frequent performer at dances, playing mostly for white audiences. Ardoin met Dennis McGee, a white fiddler from Eunice, forming one of the first biracial duos, making their first recording together December 9, 1929 in New Orleans (Amédé Ardoin & Dennis McGee: Blues du Basile) while often performing at house parties, driven in a horse-drawn carriage provided by the plantation owners. After falling out of favor from the mid 30’s to 1950, accordian music was rejuvenated in the late 1940’s by returning war veterans, where traditional music was influenced by rhythm and blues, where the Creole black offshoot of Zydeco music was born, a blues and dance music featuring the accordion along with the percussive sound of metal spoons on a corrugated tin rub board, where the foremost practitioner was Clifton Chenier, known as the King of the Zydeco, with his brother Cleveland on spoons (six in each hand).

Blank was born in Tampa, Florida but studied English at Tulane University in New Orleans, going to graduate school in writing at Berkeley in California, but returned to Tulane for a masters in playwriting. But after seeing Bergman’s THE SEVENTH SEAL (1957), Blank discovered a love for making films, making a number of educational and industrial movies after completing film school at USC. According to an interview with Mary Tutwiler from The Ind, March 23, 2010, Les Blank screening at AcA - IND Media - theIND.com:

I used to work summers on a sea-going tug boat in the Gulf, between Tampa, my home, and Texas and Mobile and New Orleans and on one trip, I got off in New Orleans and saw the sights and a friend of mine from school lived here and we saw the French Quarter and I was living in an all boy’s prep school at the time and I thought this was a pretty interesting place. I came to school here after high school. I wanted to play football. It wasn’t the best place for academics...but that’s how I got here.

When I was at Tulane, those were the days when Cajuns were under the carpet somewhere, you didn’t talk about them much, they were kind of a mythical creature who lived back in the bayous. On the radio in New Orleans, there was a radio commercial for Tichenor’s Antiseptic, the chords and the music were Cajun sounding, it was sort of dissonant sounding but to my mind a pleasing, catching kind of music. On the football team, there were a couple of Cajuns and I noticed they were quite different from everybody else and I enjoyed their outlook and their humor and their kind of crazy sensibilities. And they told me about these dance halls out in the woods and I thought this would be interesting, so my girlfriend and I drove over there, and I attended one of these functions down a dirt road in an old barn type building made out of old wood and the floor was jam-packed with people dancing around in a circle and sweating and the beer was really cold and they were doing the two-step and everybody was in perfect sync with one another and every time they hit their feet down on the floor, the whole floor would cave in and bounce back up. They didn’t speak much English at all. I was studying French, I could get by, I could get my beer ordered and I had a lot of fun. It made a deep impression on me. I wanted to come back and do something later.

I was in Houston, doing an industrial film for a Gulfport tube company that makes oil pipes. To entertain myself, I went to a Cajun dance I saw advertised in the Houston paper. Again, it was the same kind of people doing the same kind of dancing. I made friends with the leader of the musical group and he invited me and my girlfriend over to his house for chicken gumbo. He cooked a delicious chicken gumbo. I was very moved by his deep affection for his food as well as his music. I wanted to experience more of that. So later, when I saw Dewey Balfa in Chicago, I introduced myself, he invited me backstage and he shared some of his moonshine with me, and he said, “Come on down to Louisiana and I’ll help you make a film.” Down there, I met Marc Savoy and he was very helpful as well. Paul Tate and Revon Reed also were most helpful. Revon Reed let me live in his garage apartment in Mamou.

The way to identify French dancehalls in the early days was find a roadhouse off on a dirt road someplace that had all the side windows wide open during the daytime hours, as that was a sign it would be open for business later that night. Near the door would be an area sectioned off for the men, along with buckets of cold beer, while sand would be liberally applied to the dance floor. During the Depression, when farmers were doing backbreaking work in the fields, earning little more than $1.50 all day, Cajun musicians discovered that for a few hours work they could earn $2.50. Inspired by Ann Allen Savoy’s book Cajun Music: a Reflection of a People, 1984, Blank is an unseen force behind the camera, where the power of the film are the musicians playing music onscreen while also offering reflections on their early experiences. Dennis McGee remembers playing with Amédé Ardoin, who is to zydeco music what Robert Johnson is to the blues, and Buddy Bolden is to jazz, all three dying under mysterious circumstances, while Mark Savoy comes from a family in Eunice that designs chairs and furniture and holds a chemical engineering degree, but he became a legendary accordion maker while also playing the accordion in a Cajun family band that includes his singing and guitar-playing wife Ann, the author of the book. Stepping on an accordion while hanging from a tree, Savoy displays the durability of the instrument that at least partially accounts for its long-lasting influence, as they never break, while offering a lesson on how exactly (in five levels) Cajun accordion is played. According to Savoy, it was performers like fiddler Dewey Balfa playing at the Newport Folk Festival in 1964 that triggered the modern era Cajun revival.

The film is loaded with Cajun and zydeco performers like Queen Ida, Canray Fontenot, D.L. Menard and Nathan Abshire, along with the irrepressible zydeco music of Clifton Chenier, who used to show up at Fitzgerald’s, a roadhouse bar and dancehall in Berwyn (just outside Chicago) every 4^th of July week, whose recollection of songs was unparalleled, like the Duke Ellington of zydeco, as he’d play Little Richard in English right alongside those French Louisiana two-steps. Queen Ida talks about the Cajun belt in southern Louisiana and Texas as if it is foreign territory cut off from the rest of the world, an unexplored part of America that was simply left alone and went largely undetected by outsiders for centuries, yet the rich diversity of their lives is filled with a healthy mix of French, Caribbean, Indian, and cowboy cultures, where they survived the Depression by understanding how to live off the land, where hunting is a mainstay of their survival as well as their diet, where Cajun food is all the rage today. Blank takes his camera away from the Bourbon Street tourist attractions and shows us life in the small tucked-away towns that are little more than a main street, an old filling station with old stores and bars with peeling paint on the walls. Never calling attention to itself, the film is a time capsule into another era, where what’s so heartfelt about all this music is how close to poverty the performers remain, as these are all people that never made a lot of money, that worked hard all their lives, many who survived the Depression by working in the oil refineries where nothing came easy. All their songs are about loneliness, heartbreak or hard times, women that left them or were no good, drunken revelations, misbehaving, or death, a reaction to living rough lives, yet the sheer energy is so deliriously invigorating, covering the full dramatic spectrum in every song. These are artists that love and appreciate what life has offered them, that sing with a spirit of joy, where their jubilant exhilaration offers some of the best of the human experience.

Les Blank Films | J'ai Été Au Bal / I Went to the Dance (1989) Les Blank website

The definitive film on the history of the toe-tapping, foot-stomping music of French Southwest Louisiana. Includes many Cajun and Zydeco greats, featuring Michael Doucet and Beausoleil, Clifton Chenier, Marc and Ann Savoy, D.L. Menard, and many others.

MFW review: Les Blank's Louisiana music doc J'ai ete au ... Music Documentary Monday

Deploying his usual blend of the scholarly and the cinematic, doc auteur Les Blank chronicles the music of Francophone Louisiana with enthusiasm, affection, and a folklorist’s respect for the deeply rooted traditions and cross-cultural currents that have guided its evolution: Cajun and Creole, fiddle and accordion, weekend dance and juke-joint bash. From the lovelorn plaints of French-Canadian transplants through the impossibly infectious rave-ups of zydeco geniuses Clifton Chenier and Queen Ida to rocked-up later practitioners like Rockin’ Sidney and Wayne Toups, J’ai été au bal covers all the bases but never feels rushed or routine, taking time to explore the legacy of pioneers like Joe Falcon and Amede Ardoin or sit a spell with musician/historian Marc Savoy for a joyfully informative exegesis of squeezebox technique.

User Reviews from imdb Author: Scott (sh58943@appstate.edu) from Greensboro, N.C

What I love about Les Blank is his obsessive nature to cover all the aspects of his subject. While at a seminar with Les, I heard him comment that in making this movie, he wanted to make the definitive Cajun/Zydeco music movie. He accomplished everything he hoped for. The movie starts with the acknowledgment that Cajun and Creole is not one defined group of people. The collection of people known as Cajun began when the Acadians moved out of Canada and found home in the deep south among free slaves and other Europeans. The roots of Cajun and Zydeco music is Gaelic, with heavy drones, usually played on stringed and reeded instruments. Today's Cajun/Zydeco music has witnessed many changes since its beginning, conforming to the popular trends of American pop music, country music, and even rock and roll. The introduction of the accordion was another major change to the Cajun/Zydeco sound. Alongside the change in sound was featured the change in the music's stars. Many of the genre's major artists are featured in this documentary, including but not limited to Mark and Anne Savoy and the Savoy Family Band, Lawrence Ardoin And His French Zydeco Band, Clifton Chenier The King of Zydeco, Michael Doucet, and Joe Falcon. And, even during the aftermath of a devastating segregation war between blacks and whites in the United States, Les Blank was able to capture both the black and white perspective of Cajun/Zydeco music with interviews from both sides of the dividing line. Fortunately today, that line has been heavily blurred and racial tensions have been lifted. After watching this film, I was enlightened to the rich cultural heritage of Cajun and Zydeco music. It was like watching a text book of information on a big screen.

Special thanks to Les Blank, Cece Conway, and the Open Apperture Short Film Festival for hosting the Les Blank retrospective seminar on the campus of Appalachian State University.

J'ai Ete Au Bal: ABC Clio VRGL - UC Berkeley Library DJ Palladino

For most of his life, Les Blank has used his mind and heart in the pursuit of filming what seem to be the sidebars of the American story. Once these unlikely subjects, such as Tex-Mex culture, gap-toothed women, and the vibrant life of Louisiana, pass through Blank's camera to be displayed on a screen, they are more likely to suggest what is universal in all human cultures. How we eat, how we dress, or how we express ourselves in music and dance.

This seamless, visually thrilling documentary is the masterpiece for which many earlier Blank films seem now to be sketches, although it by no means diminishes his earlier work. And it's all here, everything you wanted to know about Cajun, Creole, and Zydeco music, with ample examples from the musicians. Such legends as Joe Falcon, Dennis McGee, and Amede Ardoin are displayed alongside contemporary greats like Queen Ida, Beausoleil, and Wayne Toups and all kinds of artists in between. The production traverses the history of this regional music without ever seeming pedantic and it points out how the Cajun scene was threatened with assimilation into a homogenized America, but has rebounded with a great contemporary vitality. Queen Ida speaks of the Cajun belt in Louisiana and Texas as another country seemingly cut off from the rest of America. But by the end of the tape you realize that this rich stew of French, Caribbean, and cowboy cultures is America in one of its more vivid recipes - our spiciest melting-pot. You even get a lesson on how exactly (in five levels) Cajun accordion is played.

Les Blank is a human camera. His cinematography never calls attention to itself; it tells its story perfectly. You see a real Louisiana, not one gussied up for tourists. At the same time, Blank makes the old stores, bars, and paint-peeling walls seem part of the story. The shots of musicians and the sound quality of their performances are moving - you feel like dancing. Though the movie seems a trifle long to me, the editing effects are sometimes startling. (The ripples in the musical washboard rhyme with the waves following a canoe in the next scene.) This highly recommended video is a must for libraries with an interest in great music, American culture, or entertainment. That is, all of us.

LES BLANK - THIS LONG CENTURY

I became interested in Cajuns in the late 50s when I was a student in New Orleans and wandered Westward, deep into Bayou and prairie country, discovering a dance hall deep in the woods where no one spoke English and the waiters wore revolvers. The dancing was hot and the beer icy cold. Fifteen years later, I met musician Dewey Balfa and his brothers at the folk festival at University of Chicago and shared Louisiana moonshine with them in their dressing room. I said I really liked their music and would like to do a film with them. They invited me down and I went.

Once there, I met Marc Savoy, who is at the core of Spend It All and ended up in three other films of mine on Cajuns and Creoles of SW Louisiana. Now, nearly 40 years later, Mark and I are performing / presenting in the Ozarks at an annual film festival there in 2010. Most of the band will be his wife and children.

Elsewhere D.L. Menard aka the Cajun Hank Williams spices up J’ai Ete Au Bal with his songs and manufactures handmade rocking chairs. D.L. actually met Hank Williams and asked him how long he takes to write a song. Hank replied “about 20-30 minutes.” Astounded, D.L. sat down to write a song, and in 20 minutes came up with his big hit Through the Back Door.

Les Blank was born in Tampa, Florida. His first independent films comprised a series of intimate glimpses into the lives and music of passionate people living at the periphery of American society — a series that grew to include rural Louisiana’s French musicians and cooks. Since then, major retrospectives of Les Blank’s films have been mounted at the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis, Cinematheque Francais in Paris and as part of a major retrospective of his work at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, among others. In 1990 Les Blank received the American Film Institute’s Maya Deren Award for outstanding lifetime achievement as an independent filmmaker. In 2005 Criterion released a special edition of Les Blank’s extraordinary documentary BURDEN OF DREAMS — a unique look into the massively chaotic production of Werner Herzog’s epic FITZCARRALDO. The Criterion release includes the self-explanatory 20-minute short WERNER HERZOG EATS HIS SHOE.

J'AI ETE AU BAL—I Went to Dance - Maureen Gosling

“The combination of Strachwitz’s scholarship and Blank’s ever-keen appreciation of regional color and style make J’AI ETE AU BAL a model of its type, a must-see for lovers of roots and traditional music, and an eye-opener for anyone curious about American culture...Witty insightful narration...remarkable archival footage, creatively compiled and edited by Blank’s longtime collaborator Maureen Gosling...manages to capture all the eccentricity, authenticity and electricity that keep Cajun and Zydeco alive and kicking. Despite the abundance of material covered, never once does this fine film resemble a collection of clips and curios for the converted. Strachwitz’s rich research and Blank’s endearingly personal style keep J’AI ETE AU BAL alive and vital, just as Doucet and Rockin’ Doopsie and other Louisiana masters of Cajun and Zydeco do for the music they so love. See this movie and share their passion.”—Terry Lawson, Dayton Daily News

REVIEW OF THE NEW DVD:

"A better in-depth, comprehensive examination of Louisiana's French music and culture doesn't exist—anywhere." — Dan Willging, Off Beat Magazine

"...J'AI ETE AU BAL: ROOTS OF CAJUN AND ZYDECO offers the closest look at the rich musical tradition of French-speaking south Louisiana that most of us will ever have.

"Working with ethnomusicologist Chris Strachwitz, filmmaker Les Blank delved deep into the heartlands of Cajun and zydeco music, interviewing musicians, filming performances and digging up forgotten history. This kind of project sometimes threatens to be a pedantic bore, but the editing by Blank's longtime collaborator, Maureen Gosling, puts sparkle and snap into the film, which moves along like a rousing two-step.

"It covers famous musicians like Clifton Chenier, Boozoo Chavis and Michael Doucet of Beausoleil while giving more obscure, but equally influential players like D. L. Menard, Bois Sec, Iry LeJeune and Amede Ardoin their due. The cameras enter the skirling country dance halls, visit with the musicians in their living rooms and best of all, catch them playing and reminiscing in informal outdoor settings with friends.

"The marvelous sequences with Bois Sec and Dennis McGee, both old but very lively men at the time of the film was made, are alone worth the price of admission. But the footage of Clifton Chenier in concert will revive many a wonderful memory of those fortunate enough to enjoy the late 'King of Zydeco' in his element." —Ben Windham, The Tuscaloosa News

J'ai Été au Bal (I Went to the Dance) - JStor Ethnomusicology, Winter, 1993 (pdf format)

J'ai Ete Au Bal Soundtrack CD Album - CD Universe

Time Well Spent: Les Blank | Film Comment Justin Stewart, including an interview, April 8, 2013

Les Blank screening at AcA - IND Media - theIND.com Mary Tutwiler interview from The Ind, March 23, 2010

The Art of Filmmaking: Les Blank | Keyframe - Explore the ... Jonathan Marlow interview from Fandor, 2007

Film review: J'ai Ete Au Bal (I Went to the Dance) | Deseret ... Chris Hicks from Deseret News

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Movie Review - J ai ete au bal - Review/Film; <br> Music ... Vincent Canby from The New York Times

Les Blank, Filmmaker of America's Periphery, Dies at 77 The New York Times, April 7, 2013

Maureen Gosling - Jed Riffe Films + Electronic Media

ROOTS OF RHYTHM – made for TV

USA (150 mi) 1990 directors: Howard Dratch and Gene Rosow cinematographer: Les Blanc

Roots of Rhythm Les Blank website

Host Harry Belafonte traces the fiery history of Latin Music, from tribal celebrations in the jungles of Africa to Cuba's wild carnivals and the dance floors of New York's hottest nightspots. Features Gloria Estefan, Dizzy Gillespie, Tito Puente, Celia Cruz, King Sunny Ade, Isaac Oviedo, Ruben Blades.

DVD Savant Review Glenn Erickson

This 2-and-a-half hour PBS docu provides what even many devotees of Latin American music don't have - a good overview of where it came from.  Harry Belafonte hosts and narrates a dizzying three-part analysis of cultural and musical sources for modern Latin rock, offering short history lessons and visiting still-vibrant Cuban neighborhoods, where traditional roots still flourish.   Old 78rpm records are heard for some near-lost recordings, while important trends, from the 20's decade-long prohibition party in Havana, to the rise of Cuban-American music in the 80's, are fully covered.

The charm of The Roots of Rhythm is that you're watching something educational and you don't even know it.  Belafonte, a man who must share Dick Clark's secret of eternal good looks, is obviously excited about the topic and his enthusiasm is infectious.  When he is shown visiting Cuba and watching street performers, it's true interest in his face, and not just a photo op.   The Cuban history that is told, of balladeers being censored under the 1930's Machado rule, becomes very real when today's surviving Havana balladeers sing the same kinds of songs.  The feeling imparted is that when Cuba does open up to the U.S., all this culture will be in danger of being wiped out, or worse, co-opted by American commercialism.

The contributions of Spanish flamenco and African tribal rhythms are heard instead of simply being cited, with the result that we get a feel for the development of the Latin sound.  In the final third of the show, the threads established in the first two come home, as we see the various influences of the Latin movement in our movies, including but not limited to flashy pop icons like Carmen Miranda.   Even Latin-rhythm'ed cartoon characters are shown in an animated sequence.  Top talent, like Gloria Estefan, is interviewed in depth, as are some creators and innovators whose contributions were never acknowledged.  Naturally the huge subject can't be fully explored in just 150 minutes but what's here isn't superficial.  For the most part, it plays like one very long, very vibrant music video.

Docurama's DVD release of The Roots of Rhythm is a coup for music fans, especially considering that licensing all the diverse music clips must have been a nightmare.  The three episodes can be accessed one at time or all at once, and are indexed with six chapter stops each.  The extras section in the menu disappointingly contains only credits for the film, the DVD and Docurama.  Yet, even in plainwrap the show a musical bargain.  Color and especially sound are very good; just be prepared for the usual range of quality in the aged film clips and older video sources.

YUM YUM YUM! A TASTE OF CAJUN AND CREOLE COOKING

USA (90 mi) 1990

User comments from imdb Author: Scott (sh58943@appstate.edu) from Greensboro, N.C

Yum, Yum, Yum! seems to have been made as a supplementary piece to "J'ai été au bal," Les Blank's film about the Cajun singing duo Marc and Ann Savoy. Though "J'ai été au bal" adequately covers the musical aspect of Marc and Ann's lives, it only touches briefly on their private life and the food they cook, a topic Les Blank loves to cover. What is so unique about Les Blank's films is his ability to embed himself into the mindset of his subjects. In the beginning of Yum, Yum, Yum, we are placed in the back woods of Louisianna with Marc and friends as they begin a fish stew. The questions posed by Les and company are never intrusive, never really asking personal questions, but the answers he receives to questions such as "have you ever used a cookbook" give them more personality than any sit-down interview could possibly do. Lying just below the movie's definite subject of Cajun cooking is the desire of Marc and Ann to see their culture and heritage represented fairly throughout the rest of the country and the world. All too often Cajun people and Cajun cooking have been given a bad name simply because it has been misunderstood. This movie serves as a visual plea for solidarity among the United States and the world for the Cajun people. It's refreshing to see in this movie the kind of survivalist traditions of catching, growing, cleaning, and cooking one's own food that seems to have been all but lost with today's consumerism. This movie shows how even after hundreds of years of living off the land and the ease of pre-packaged foods dangled in front of their eyes, these people still choose to do things the way their parents and their parent's parents did it. This is a great film by America's greatest documentarian.

INNOCENTS ABROAD

USA France Great Britain Germany Belgium (84 mi) 1991 co-director: Miel Van Hoogenbemt

User comments from imdb Author: raezelmr (raezelmr@aol.com) from New York, New York

Whereas Hollywood and the Independent film market have spent the last few years churning out films that painstakingly stage "spontaneous" interaction between the members of regional communities, this documentary follows the average American on a whirlwind tour of Europe, observing with great sensitivity and humor, how the "beast" (as portrayed in mockumentaries) reacts to new situations. Blank takes care to show a rounded perspective of this type of trip, complete with observations from European tour guides, chefs, vendors and others who are used to hosting these groups. Where films like Drop Dead Gorgeous try to play on the "backwards/backwoods" Midwestern communities, Blank is not sympathetic or mocking, he simply stands back and lets the characters speak for themselves. Any comedy or human interest lover would enjoy this film.

THE MAESTRO: KING OF THE COWBOY ARTISTS

USA (54 mi) 1994

The Maestro: King of the Cowboy Artists Les Blank website

What happens when a dedicated husband and father quits his job, adopts the persona of a Western-Movie Singing Cowboy, takes on the entire art establishment (including Christo and Andy Warhol), and refuses to accept money for his art ? Meet Gerry Gaxiola, AKA The Maestro, an ex-wage slave who gave up everything to make art for art's sake. The Maestro's story could inspire a whole new generation of Van Goghs.

San Francisco Chronicle [Edward Guthmann]

Some men hunger for a life of their own: unchained from the drag of a 9-to-5, free to indulge their whims and fantasies. The Maestro, bless his ageless heart, just gets up and does it.

A self-styled cowboy artist, musician, philosopher and entertainer, the Maestro -- aka Gerald Gaxiola -- is an Albany resident who hasn't worked a day job in 26 years and refuses to sell his art.

Partial to rhinestone-encrusted cowboy suits, long flashy Cadillacs and boots that carry his Maestro insignia, the Maestro follows his own drumbeat, approaching the world with guileless, childlike glow, and living by this motto: ``Art is a religion, not a business.''

DOCUMENTARY SUBJECT

The Maestro is the subject of a terrific new film by Bay Area documentary maker Les Blank. A wacky, loving portrait of an American original, ``The Maestro: The King of the Cowboy Artists'' played this week at the Kabuki as part of the San Francisco International Film Festival, and shows today at the UC Theater in Berkeley.

Tonight, in between the 7:30 and 9:30 screenings, the Maestro, 59, will perform a stage show of songs, folklore and audience- participation rope tricks. He calls it ``Maestro Days Revisited'' -- a revival of the down-homey, annual shindig he hosted at Albany High School from 1977 to 1990.

The Maestro's already hung a life-size cardboard likeness of himself over the UC's marquee, and built his own stage in the huge, 1,300-seat theater. He admits to feeling nervous about filling the house: ``Be there or be nowhere,'' he says. ``That's where it's gonna be at.''

Shot over 10 years, ``The Maestro'' captures Gaxiola at work and play (in his case, they're the same): creating a series of 72 Van Gogh-inspired paintings; designing a pair of chaps with the hand-stitched faces of cowboy movie stars; blasting away at Christo's umbrellas with red paint bullets; designing a series of ceramic Cadillacs; playing poker with his buddies, ``The Bunkhouse Boys.''

``I'm moving into uncharted waters,'' the Maestro says during an interview in the backyard clubhouse he built. ``I have no agenda. I'm just doing and responding to life as it comes along.''

The Maestro legend starts in San Luis Obispo, where Gaxiola, a seventh-generation Californian, was born in 1936. Abandoned by his father, a roue and a gambler, and reared by a mother who wore sequined dresses and dreamed about the movies, the Maestro married his childhood sweetheart, Alice, at 19, and in 1957 moved to the Bay Area. Their daughter, Monica, is 24.

In 1969, after earning a living as an aircraft mechanic, a hardware salesman and a printer, the Maestro broke down in tears one day, overwhelmed by his discontent with the work world.

``My life just had a big hole in it,'' he says in the film. Then and there, he bid adios to his job, enrolled at the California College and Arts and Crafts, and never looked back.

``I haven't drawn a paycheck since,'' he says proudly, drawing on a Lone Star beer. Recently, when the Maestro received a royalty check for $4.59 -- one of his songs was used in ``Wild Wheels,'' a film by Blank's son, Harrod -- the Maestro didn't bother to cash it. It's pinned to the wall of his tiny music room.

During his first years of freedom, the Maestro and Alice lived on savings and the proceeds from selling two cars. Later, the Maestro inherited some family money, and Alice took a part-time job.

IGNORED BY ART WORLD

Despite the joy and freedom that his lifestyle affords, the Maestro is frustrated by the art world's refusal to take him seriously. Because he won't take money for his work -- which is very good -- he's ignored by gallery owners and museum curators.

``I've got 25 years' worth of paintings here,'' the Maestro says. ``It's not like I make pizzas or sell insurance on the side. I risked everything to be an artist . . . I'm not like this naive folk artist who doesn't know what art is.''

In the Maestro's mind, there's a metaphor for his relationship with the art monolith. ``That's Madrid to me,'' he says. ``And I'm a bullfighter. I've defined bullfighting, and I'm out here fighting.''

At the Kabuki screening of ``The Maestro,'' film producer Tom Luddy toasted Blank's films, and indirectly praised the Maestro. The films aren't just celebrations of artists, Luddy said, but ``tonics for one's soul. (Blank) helps teach us how we should live our lives.''

Those same words apply to the Maestro: a self-made man whose life is a model of an earnest, optimistic self-reliance. The King of the Cowboy Artists says it best in the movie: ``I'm living a fantasy. This little boy's dream came true.''

The Maestro Writes

the Maestro's New Web pages

SWORN TO THE DRUM: A TRIBUTE TO FRANCISCO AGUABELLO

USA (35 mi) 1995

Sworn to the Drum: A Tribute to Francisco Aguabella Les Blank website

When you think of Latin percussion, think of Francisco Aguabella. Perhaps the finest Afro-Cuban master percussionist still living, he has become synonymous with his instrument -- one of the highest compliments a musician can receive. Indeed, what Carlos Santana is to the guitar, Aguabella is to the conga drum.

Carlos Santana reveres him. Bill Graham honored him. Katharine Dunham wouldn't let him go home to Cuba for 5 years. Dizzy Gillespie, Frank Sinatra and Peggy Lee swear by him. He's a master of Bata (the sacred Santeria drumming tradition), Abaqua and Yeza, and secular Afro-Cuban jazz and salsa styles. Discover this enigmatic Cuban drummer, a virtual Rosetta stone of African culture, who has been highly influential in the growth of Latin jazz, pop and fusion in the U.S.

The conguero's long career dates back to the '50s, and though he never has been afforded rockstar status, he has recorded with some stellar musicians, including Frank Sinatra, Cal Tjader, Hugh Masekela, Dizzy Gillespie, Tito Puente, and Weather Report -- as well as both Carlos and Jorge Santana (Aguabella and Jorge were members of the '70s Latin fusion group Malo, best known for their hit "Suavecito").

Born in Matanzas, Cuba, Francisco Aguabella is a master of the Yoruba-derived bata drums and rumba form as well as contemporary traditions including Cuban son, salsa, and Latin jazz. Though he has released only a half dozen albums, his work is best measured by his contribution to the Afro-Cuban sounds and the growth of Latin jazz. "He is one of the strongholds of our music and has always kept the commitment to our Cuban rhythm, that's very important, " says Cuban jazz player Israel "Cachao" Lopez.

Aguabella has received a National Heritage Award from the National Endowment for the Arts and is the subject of a documentary film by Les Blank, Sworn to the Drum. He is also featured in a new documentary, "Aguabella," currently in production.

Francisco Aguabella's passion and fire on the conga drums are absolutely contagious and not to be missed.

ALL IN THIS TEA

USA (70 mi) 2007 co-director: Gina Leibrecht

The Village Voice [Aaron Hillis]

As vital as Fitzcarraldo may be, Les Blank's Burden of Dreams—his 1982 fly-on-the-tree chronicle of Werner Herzog's tumultuous jungle production—may be the more riveting film, and is certainly the keystone work in the California documentarian's near half-century canon. Here partnered with filmmaker-editor Gina Leibrecht, Blank's first feature in over a decade (and his first to take advantage of the portability of DV) visually recalls Burden in a couple ways. His subject is again compulsive: The film follows the eccentric path of affable tea importer David Lee Hoffman, a well-traveled leaf obsessive who frequently visits the dewy corners of China in order to deal directly with the farmers (rather than the mass-producing factory execs); his pristine white suit, straw hat, and unpopular dreams of fair trade and organic composting seem remarkably Kinski-esque. Secondly, Herzog himself turns up for an in-home tasting, then volunteers the film's title. Although the word "tea" gets mighty repetitive, and Blank obviously can't share the experience when Hoffman and other oolong-heads wax profoundly about how their green buds smell and taste (at times coming across like stoners marveling over High Times centerfolds), the film's quick-and-dirty vérité yields some delightful caught moments, steeped in historical footnotes that only enhance.

Commentary Track [Helen Geib]

All in This Tea is an enjoyable documentary about David Hoffman, a man who is passionate about a good cup of tea. Not many people love a beverage so much that they will make frequent, long, and uncomfortable trips to the back reaches of its Far Eastern source country to buy direct from the farmers.  

Hoffman’s decades-long love affair with fine teas has made him an expert on the tea plant and its cultivation, harvesting, and processing. His personal buying trips to China’s tea growing regions grew into a successful tea import business. The camera follows him as he canvasses Chinese markets and tea farms in search of the best teas, and as he navigates the minefield of Chinese bureaucracy and entrenched business interests in his Sisyphean efforts to buy locally and ship internationally.  

The trio of Hoffman, tea, and China is the focus of the film, but we also visit with him at his California home (and organic farm), tea shop, and tea stall at an Asian fair in Berkeley. As if swept along by the infectious tide of Hoffman’s enthusiasm, the film periodically cuts to interviews with other tea enthusiasts. The interviewees teach about the pleasures of drinking tea, its cultural significance, the history of its cultivation and sale, the different varietals, tea’s health benefits, and many other interesting tidbits about this quite fascinating plant and its attendant brews and rituals. 

This is a single-camera, barebones production; most of the film’s budget looks to have been spent on travel costs. That is not to say that it is not well made. Documentarian Les Blank is an experienced filmmaker (with a number of movies about food to his credit) and the film is skillfully constructed and edited. It is to say that the film’s interest lies almost entirely with its subjects: David Hoffman; tea; and, more broadly, the love of good food. 

As a tea lover (albeit one who is more than content to mail order her fine quality loose teas; thank you, good food movement), I was predisposed to like this film. Non-enthusiasts should find it very nearly as interesting as I did. It’s fun to listen to knowledgeable people talk about their passion, whatever the subject. Hoffman is a quirky guy with colorful anecdotes and reminiscences. The history of British 19^th century industrial espionage to break the Chinese monopoly on tea production was so incredible in its details that I might not have credited it if I had learned the story from a less reputable source. The buying trip to China offers the pleasures of a travelogue in the scenes of bustling city markets, remote rural tea farms, and expert hands making tea. 

Cinematical [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

Film Monthly (Kendall Williams) review

Reel.com review [3.5/4] Pam Grady

Newsblaze [Prairie Miller]

Time Out New York (Mark Holcomb) review [4/6]

San Francisco Chronicle [David Wiegand]

New York Times (registration req'd) Nathan Lee

Blankenbaker, Betsy

SOMETHING TO CHEER ABOUT C 70

USA (64 mi) 2002

Hidy hidy hidy aay, Hidy hidy hidy oh

Part of the Martin Luther King traveling series, a selection of films chosen because they represent a piece of black history, this brief documentary, running just over 60 minutes, recalls the early 1950’s in Indiana when segregation was the law of the land, where blacks were allowed to order food from cafeterias, but had to pack it up and leave as they were not allowed to be seated alongside whites. Rest room facilities were for whites only, which made traveling long distances an enduring hardship. In Indianapolis, supposedly under pressure from the Ku Klux Klan, they built a segregated all-black high school in the 1920’s named after the first American to die during the Revolutionary War, a runaway slave named Crispus Attucks, and in the early 1950’s the school hired a now legendary basketball coach, Ray Crowe, who in 1955 lead his team to the first all-black State championship in American history, a team that included eventual professional NBA all-star icon Oscar Robertson, among the greatest to ever play the game. The team won back to back titles, losing only one game over the course of two seasons. Crowe instilled a tradition of winning that went beyond the basketball court, making sure his kids had food or clothes, that they attended class and graduated, a no nonsense disciplinarian and taskmaster who instilled moral values and provided them with a strong father figure who they continued to revere later in life.

While the historical precedence is interesting, so is the fact that the year before, the team that beat them was a small all-white farm school depicted in the film Hoosiers (1986), a team that effectively utilized slowdown and stalling tactics to counter their speed and fast break style. But this is barely alluded to in the film, which presents a one-sided, largely uncontested view of events. As there is so little surviving archival footage, much is assembled in a scrapbook style, blowing up old photographs that have obviously been torn along with newspaper clippings, while several former players and the coach recall incidents that occurred as we scan a series of still photographs. Their recollections are more personal, focused on the inequities of the era, where they were not allowed to protest the racist actions of referees, all of whom were white, who allowed white players with the ball to drive around the defense, actually stepping with both feet out of bounds on their way to the basket. The coach would not allow them to protest, and benched them when they did, even Robertson on occasion, instead encouraging them to win by wide margins so the whistle didn’t interfere with winning. Even after winning the championship, they were not allowed to celebrate downtown, as had been the tradition, instead their victory parade remained confined to black neighborhoods only. Even 50 years later, these wounds feel very much alive.

Perhaps the high point of the film is when the former cheerleaders and several players remember their victory song, known as the “Crazy Song,” a jazzy Cab Calloway-style R & B number that the fans sang only after victory was assured, giving them a little something to cheer about. The black community came out in droves to support this team, where up to 10,000 people filled the Butler Field House for every game, yet they weren’t allowed to sit in the dining area, which was exclusive to whites only. In victory and in the course of time, the Jim Crow rules were slowly repealed, but in an ironic twist, integration changed the school’s direction, and not necessarily for the better. When it was all black, they had the highest number of decorated and honored teachers in the state, while the kids are all seen wearing suits in the class photos, giving an indication that school was a place of reverence alongside the church at that time. However, none of these observations are really scrutinized. Even Oscar Robertson, one of the producers of the film and certainly one of the greatest to ever play the game, barely contributes anything, has little to say, and is noticeably absent when the team is honored years later at an Indiana Pacers basketball game. While this is enjoyable material, it’s only an average film, repeatedly frustrating the audience by what’s left out of the film, which feels haphazardly put together without any real organizational or editing sense, and with so little footage of the games, there’s zero tension established from the actual sporting events themselves, where over the years it was hard to tell what players were playing with whom, as few made any reference to the contributions or spectacular feats of one Oscar Robertson, where it’s left to Detroit Piston star and former Indiana college player Isiah Thomas to recall Robertson’s stature in the history of basketball. The music utilized in the film is inspirational gospel, which certainly overdramatizes the mediocre quality of the scant material shown onscreen that barely touches the surface outside the world of basketball of what it was like to grow up in that era.

Slant Magazine [Nick Schager]

Despite its uplifting, historically significant story, Something to Cheer About isn't, unfortunately, what its title proclaims. Betsy Blankenbaker's documentary about Indianapolis's Crispus Attucks high school basketball team—which, in 1954, became the country's first all-black squad to win a state championship—is a reverential yet frustratingly skimpy nonfiction record, its wealth of anecdotes and archival photos and film footage weakened by an unwillingness to delve deeply into its subject. Interviews with team members, including future NBA hall-of-famer Oscar Robertson (who also produces), convey the racial discrimination faced by African-Americans under Jim Crow, as well as celebrate coach Ray Crowe for his tireless efforts to mentor his student athletes on and off the court. Indiana basketball legend Isiah Thomas recounts Robertson's quote "You play as you live," a principle the film makes clear was passed down by Crowe, whose innovative coaching style (fast breaks, an early version of the triangle offense) was matched by a genuine, dedicated interest in his kids' education and (often difficult) family circumstances. Something to Cheer About convincingly argues in favor of Crowe's modest greatness, but comes up short in the context department, offering only cursory background on both Crispus Attucks—which was established, apparently with the help of the KKK, as a segregated school for blacks—and, aside from Robertson and his older brother, on the various players. As a result of this thin framework, a sense of the team's impact on the urban community (and basketball at large) is somewhat diluted. And because the hoops program enjoyed almost immediate success once Crowe was hired as head coach, the film suffers from the lack of a clear and compelling narrative. Nonetheless, Blankenbaker's film astutely identifies the paradoxical humor in white schools clamoring to compete against the very people they so vigorously sought to isolate, even if it fails to recognize the related, stinging irony of an African-American named Crowe thriving in the segregationist era.

Los Angeles Times (Sam Adams)

In the documentary "Something to Cheer About," former players at Indianapolis' all-black Crispus Attucks high school recall having to step aside when white folks walked toward them on a busy sidewalk. But on the court, especially under the leadership of coach Ray Crowe, they made room for no one.

In 1955, Attucks became the first all-black team to win a state championship, a feat repeated for the next two years. Indiana Pacer Isaiah Thomas praises the "inventive and free-thinking" coaches of the era, while Sen. Richard Lugar calls Crowe's style, relying on frequent passing and fluid play, "a breakthrough in Indiana basketball."

The former Attucks players who line up for Betsy Blankenbaker's camera have a simpler explanation: Crowe taught them to win. Previous coaches were mainly concerned that the players comported themselves like gentlemen, no mean feat in a segregated era when the team had to travel long distances to find enough schools that would play them to make up a full season.

Crowe, who narrator Willie Merriweather says wanted the game to make the boys rather than the other way around, coached his players in life as well as basketball. Merriweather, later All-American at Purdue, says he would have dropped out of high school if not for Crowe's paternal influence. But he also expected them to win games, which they did with astonishing and often unbroken regularity.

The most famous Attucks alumnus was Oscar Robertson, who went on to become a 12-time NBA All-Star during seasons with the Cincinnati Royals and Milwaukee Bucks. Thomas calls him "a great thinker of the game," but his fellow players recall him first as a scrawny kid who was allowed to join their pickup games only because he owned his own basketball. Robertson later grew to 6 feet 5, but the nickname "Big O" started out as a joke.

The players' memories amply document the inequities of segregation, recalling a time when they could sell 10,000 tickets to a game at Butler University's field house (having long since outgrown their own facilities) but were still not allowed to eat in the school's cafeteria. Attucks player Bill Hampton describes the prevalence of corrupt officiating, which effectively added the invariably white referees to the other team's roster. "You looked at it like you're playing [against] seven guys, and they're playing [against] five," he says.

But the movie could have had much greater resonance were it not focused so monolithically on basketball. One wonders what life was like at Attucks High, or how the players' success on the court affected their lives off it. Blankenbaker treats her subjects with respect, but always from a distance. The movie never gets under their skin or develops an emotional narrative to go with its historical recitation. It's full of abrupt leaps and blunt conclusions, redundancies and omissions (among them the fact that Attucks, after winning another title in 1959, never returned to the Final Four). "Something to Cheer About" is the outline of a great story, but it never fills in the gaps.

articles, photos, film clips and the original version of “The Crazy Song” from the Indianapolis Star: http://www2.indystar.com/special/attucks/

Blatty, William Peter

THE NINTH CONFIGURATION

aka: Twinkle Twinkle, Killer Kane

USA (118 mi) 1979

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

A film’s first line of dialogue is often its most revealing. The Ninth Configuration begins with crazed astronaut Cutshaw (Scott Wilson) being dragged away from rocket after an aborted countdown: “There’s nothing up there!” he yelps – and what follows is, indeed, one of the most enjoyably dunderheaded movies ever committed to celluloid. After writing The Exorcist – a crude (but effective and massively successful) potboiler of a novel turned in 1973 by William Friedkin into a crude (but effective and massively successful) potboiler of a movie – Blatty was suddenly rich, famous, and taken seriously in some quarters as a thinker. Many people embraced the phenomenon of The Exorcist so avidly they couldn’t accept the film as ‘merely’ slam-bang entertainment: they divined layers of theological, sociological, psychological and philosophical depth that said more about their own needs and desires than about Blatty and Friedkin’s intentions.

Neither got involved in John Boorman’s universally-reviled The Exorcist II : The Heretic (1977, subsequently airbrushed out of Boorman’s CV), their swollen egos demanding that they move on to more grandiose projects. For Friedkin, this meant the universally-reviled Sorcerer (1977) - for Blatty, the overblown Ninth Configuration, based on his 1966 novel Twinkle Twinkle, Killer Kane (the film’s alternative title). Though made in 1979, it was only very briefly released in the US a year later – but nevertheless nabbed Blatty a Golden Globe for Best Screenplay.

Has there ever been a more unworthy winner of a major film award? The other Globe nominees were: The Elephant Man, Raging Bull, The Stunt Man and Ordinary People. Original-Screenplay Oscar winner Melvin and Howard didn’t even make the final five, and neither did Gloria, Coal Miner’s Daughter, American Gigolo, The Empire Strikes Back, Dressed To Kill, Le Dernier Metro, The Shining, The Long Good Friday or The Long Riders - any one of which would have been more worthy of the award than Blatty’s sophomoric mish-mash of quarter-baked ideas.

That said, whatever Blatty’s shortcomings as a writer, Ninth Configuration (and also his only subsequent picture, 1990’s underrated Exorcist III ) shows ability on the directing front. The film begins with a strikingly original opening sequence: aerial shots of a mist-shrouded, very Germanic castle accompanied by the radically contrasting strains of Barry Devorzon’s lyrical, very American lament ‘San Antone.’ This unsettling mismatch of image and sound brilliantly sets the mood, and is followed by an equally memorable title sequence: Cutshaw’s rocket on its launch-pad is dwarfed by a wildly oversized moon rising up out of the night horizon.

But then Blatty (awkwardly) cuts to the astronaut’s ravings, and the film takes a sudden downhill descent. Cutshaw is one of the inmates at a remote psychiatric institute in northern California - the castle from the opening shots, supposedly transferred from Germany brick-by-brick on the orders of an eccentric millionaire in an act of expensive folly reminiscent of The Ninth Configuration itself (filmed at Burg Elz on the Mosel river and indoors in Budapest studios). The institute, mainly populated by Vietnam veterans who ‘flipped out’, is a stereotypical cinema ‘loony bin’, full of picturesque ‘crazies’ rambling away to their heart’s content and littering the soundtrack with non-sequitur asides (“Rudolph Valentino hated cabbage”).

The arrival of crack army psychiatrist Vincent Kane (Stacy Keach) is a welcome change of pace for both inmates and audience – in stark contrast to the frantic shenanigans unspooling all around him, Kane is an eerily still and calm counterpoint. Physically imposing, but almost whispering his lines and clearly haunted by his own traumas, Kane is a fascinating enigma – to which we’re provided with brief clues in the form of tantalising ‘Nam flashbacks. The men discover that Kane’s brother was the notoriously psychotic G.I. Vincent ‘Killer’ Kane - but there’s much more to the story than even they suspect…

The Ninth Configuration is an uneven mess, loaded down with pseudo-philosophical dialogue that even the chatterboxes of Waking Life would dismiss as sophomoric (the title refers to the colossally improbable arrangement of protein atoms necessary for organisms to exist on Earth, and thus supposedly evidence of God.) Straining desperately for profundity, Blatty’s tone veers awkwardly from comedy (including moments of cack-handed slapstick) to The Keep-style horror (a large photo of Bela Lugosi’s Dracula dominates one room), with often painful results. The actors are indulged with what resembles a series of over-extended audition pieces: Cutshaw’s especially annoying ‘routines’ come off like a cross between Monty Python and a very bad student revue. Blatty’s treatment of Robert Loggia, who dresses up in a silly astronaut costume at one stage, is especially embarrassing. If the aim is to disorient, to create a nightmarish sense of dislocation, then Blatty succeeds all too well.

Despite all that’s wrong with The Ninth Configuration, however, it is worth sticking with. Because in the final reel Blatty tears himself away from his theories and games to deliver a delirious sequence of low-brow ultra-violence. It’s just like in The Exorcist when, after what seems like hours of windy theological debate, ace boxer Father Karras realises the only way of forcing the demon to leave Regan’s body is to beat the shit out of her. Here, Kane rides to the rescue when Cutshaw finds himself stuck in a local roadhouse full of loutish bikers – and the psychologist is sufficiently goaded by the boorish thugs to sheds his saintly exterior. It’s a truly volcanic performance – ominously dormant for so long, then suddenly cataclysmic in its intensity.

Kane’s kill-crazy rampage is worthy of Takashi Miike at his best - see the ‘tire-iron’ massacre in Deadly Outlaw. But this is, above all, a sensational, truly volcanic performance from the underrated, scarily convincing Keach, making a rare appearance without his moustache to show off the hare-lip scar which hints at Kane’s divided personality. He’s so perfect in the role that it’s hard to believe he was a last-minute replacement for Nicol Williamson – Wilson was also an eleventh-hour stand-in, Michael Moriarty having been fired after only an hour on set (according to Tom Atkins). This roadhouse sequence is sufficiently effective to even compensate for the bathetic scenes that follow, in which Blatty reverts to his previous trite form: Cutshaw, redeemed by Kane’s actions and thus rather unconvincingly ‘cured,’ unfortunately survives to deliver a windily preposterous final line.

Blaustein Muñoz, Susana

SUSANA

Argentina 1980

Susana Claudia Gorbman from Jump Cut

SUSANA is a cinematic self-portrait, from which one can glean the following information. Susana Blaustein comes from Mendosa, Argentina, where her father is a pediatrician and her mother a dentist. Her married sister lives in Sweden; her younger brother and sister Graciela in Mendosa. She left home, lived in Jerusalem for awhile, and now in her twenties, she lives in San Francisco. Graciela has visited her and tried to change Susana, whose lesbianism has been the focus of pain and frustration in relations with her family. Susana takes pictures and has made this film. The "story” is told through voice-over narration, family photos, a variety of old film footage, the director/subject's own photographic work, and filmed interviews of her sister, two former lovers, and herself.

The film begins with a brief series of photographic self-portraits. The first face smiles attractively; the second looks less assertive. In the third, an as-if-candid grimace appears, and the fourth makes Susana's face downright grotesque. This series of photographic portraits provides the kickoff for the cinematic one. Each successive interview will be framed and posed like a separate photo; but also like photos, their juxtaposition causes us to make connections beyond their borders. The photos also prepare a nice structural resonance at the end, where we see another set of photos of Susana — this time posed with another woman in each.

Virtually everyone interviewed talks about Susana in terms of images, or photography in particular. Her partner relates her childhood interest in painting. One ex-lover recounts how Susana defined stages of their relationship by creating or destroying photographic images of her. Another lover describes Susana as not accepting herself but rather having “to be a picture of someone." Graciela holds up to the camera one of her sister's more compelling photographs. It shows Susana sitting at one end of a table set for two, underneath which we see (in a superimposition) the rest of her family. "Whom is she waiting for?" asks Graciela, and we along with her, as though understanding the photograph will yield the key to the whole Susana mystery.

SUSANA's fetishization of photographic/cinematographic representation makes for an interesting thematic cement to bond its diverse voices and images. One also senses here a Godardian honesty — through reflexivity. We can approach understanding through a series of representations, but "the truth" will always elude us because of the selective and distortive nature of representation itself. Better, then, to acknowledge consciously the "lie" of the medium.

That inaugural progression from sweet to dour in the opening photos, though, remains to be explained. It leads us to suppose that in her uncompromising search for honesty about herself, the filmmaker saw behind a smiling appearance a glum, humorless essence. It's frankly not a pleasant picture to watch. Perhaps its tone arises from an effort to offer a counterpoint to the heroic genre of films about lesbianism. And although it is indeed naive to argue the necessity of "positive images" in every lesbian film, SUSANA causes us to question the political value, at least, of a film showing a lesbian who seems resolutely depressed and which does not provide further insight to make this a situation worth looking at. (We learn nothing, for example, of the cultural specificity of being a lesbian and a Latina. Perhaps her middle-class background hinders her from seeing herself as Latina, which in this country is so often a question of class as well as one of race or ethnicity.) Thus we're led to ask what inspired this film and for what audience it is conceived. The viewer might find SUSANA valid as a personal diary, a sketch of a life at a particular stage, documenting the difficulties and sadness raised within her family over her sexuality and her move away from home. Since she dedicates the film to Graciela, it can be seen as a present given to her sister so that the latter will accept the person behind it too. But its personal, political, and aesthetic dimensions seem at odds. Shown to the public, it runs the danger of being taken as an extended pout, unenlightening for anyone not directly involved.

It seems appropriate to comment on the filmmaker/protagonist as romantic hero. She is the doomed/damned artist, pursuing a quest (for what? stability? peace? identity?). The characteristics of literary romanticism are all there: the quest; "sincerity”; the lone individual at odds with roots, society, and family; the highly personal, confessional, self-indulgent tone and structure; even elements of (geographical) exoticism. We might even suggest that her photographic self-portraits serve as doppelgangers. The doubling theme is further compounded in the final series of photos of Susana paired with various lovers. The final shot, of course, shows a live-action Susana posing with a photograph of herself, implying that she and her double-image will continue to engage in mutual pursuit. Susana has chosen the role of romantic hero, then — but how ill-fitting this role seems for a woman.

Susana does smile. One smile appears in the very first still photograph — a smile that within two shots becomes a grimace and which will not be recuperated. One exception: later we see home movies of Susana with a Russian boyfriend with whom she once kept company in a vain effort to disprove her homosexuality to herself. The two of them are seen crossing a sunny street. Blaustein has slowed down the footage and reversed the motion, presumably as the filmmaker's symbolic annihilation/reversal of her heterosexual "regression." What remains in my memory, however, is the healthy smile on Susana's face as the reverse motion paradoxically makes the couple look as if they're dancing. It's ironic that in an effort to have us accept Susana as she is, SUSANA offers us no joy in the present and works to evoke nostalgic pleasure in connection with a heterosexual past.

Ultimately SUSANA is a taking of control. Blaustein, arranger and manipulator of images, makes a film to explain her present world. As arranger, of course, she has the last word, and she exercises this prerogative throughout. Emblematic of this tendency is the final scene in which Susana and Graciela converse and come to an understanding .bout their differences. Graciela, on the left, faces the camera. We may cavil at what she says (she still feels Susana has to “change”). But visually speaking she is defenseless, and we actually tend to root for her as the underdog. Susana, on the other hand, walks into the frame at right and sits in profile. During the dialogue she lights up a cigarette with ceremony and aplomb. She's buoy with the microphone and the cigarette. She gets further advantage from her attire, using the popular lesbian iconography of a dyke-vogue sport cap. Finally she exercises power here as a filmmaker. She ends the interview by walking out of the shot, leaving the camera running on her sister, who remains seated, vulnerable in her inactivity and exposure.

Is this fair? Does Blaustein know how much of herself she reveals in creating this discrepancy between the film's manifest and latent messages and values? How much does our perception of this film — any film — depend on our perception of its intent, its maker's ethos, its social purpose, its cultural-historical context? Such framing questions make SUSANA an intriguing film (with qualifications) with regard to the problematics of feminist criticism.

Alternative Cinema in the 80s Chuck Kleinhans from Jump Cut

Blier, Bertrand

MON HOMME B 87

France (95 mi) 1996

An off-beat adolescent male sex fantasy featuring the pretty-to-look-at, punkish, dominant and submissive sex kitten Marie, played by Anouk Grinberg, wearing lots of kinky sexual outfits, opening the film in a black bustier as a prostitute with a heart of gold, soliciting from a Paris shopping center, proclaiming she was born with a talent and is happy with her chosen profession. “They say screwing me drives a man wild, I like money, I like men, I like selling dreams.” She goes through a series of happy encounters with various men until she meets a bum sleeping in the garbage and invites him upstairs, offering him food and sex, asking if he’ll be her “good” pimp. She offers to give him all her money, which he willingly takes, and begins spending it on a manicurist-turned-prostitute named Tangerine, Valeria Bruni-Tedeschi, spending all of his money on her until he gets arrested. Apparently it’s against the law in France to be a pimp, not a prostitute, leading Marie to find a new man, which, of course leads her right back to where she started. All of this is underscored by the music of Barry White contrasted against the serene religious music of Gorecki, suggesting sex as an obsession is a religious experience.

Blitz, Jeffrey

SPELLBOUND B+ 90

USA (97 mi) 2002

This film shows some unique insight in following only 8 kids, all with different backgrounds, from among 9 million contestants across America where 14 is apparently the cut-off age, all vying for a spot from local and regional spelling contests where only 249 make the final cut in the 1999 National Spelling Bee. What’s interesting is seeing kids enjoy themselves as kids, but also how their parents see them, prod them, push them, and all too often speak for them, as parents are prone to do, along with teachers and other interested family members who are part of these kid’s lives. Opening with short segments that introduce the audience to each of the kids, all are compelling subjects. None are obsessively overbearing, none live on a pedestal, in fact most are shy and insecure with few friends because they’re very bright, and as one of the kids from a small town in the Midwest puts it, coming from a class of only 40 students, "There are a couple of smart kids in my class. But not many." We watch their parents question them with words, each with their own style, while others play computer word games or simply jot words and their meanings into notebooks. One girl had no other resource except to study the dictionary. The filmmaker does such a good job picking kids who are so different from one another, who are funny and all have an incredible amount of appeal, All are likeable, but it’s fascinating to get so close to these kids that we feel like we know them in such a short period of time.

By the time they reach the finals in Washington DC, one is near jawstruck at the difficulty of some of the words and how effortlessly the filmmaker captures the very real tension in the room. No one gets through easily, as it’s apparent educated guessing accounts for much of the skill, and these kids display an amazing level of skill. When they are onstage in front of a camera and microphone, the degree of difficulty is displayed in grimaces and facial signs, talking to themselves, writing on their fingers, excrutiating body movements and every degree of discomfort, but 250 is reduced to 150, which is reduced to 100 at the end of the first day. Nearly all of our 8 get through, but by Day 2, the words get accumulatively more difficult. After 2 more highly competitive morning rounds, the final 30 or so achieve the status of being televised live on ESPN for the finals every year. Something like half of our targeted kids made it into the final ten.

Some have been their before and have an advantage simply from experience, but we have no braggarts in the bunch. One of the best spellers continually lowers the expecations of her family and friends, constantly reminding them that there’s really little chance of actually winning, yet this kid comes so close that it’s impossible they’ll ever forget it. As the competition narrows, it’s a wonder these kids can spell any of these words correctly that sound like ancient language hieroglyphics. The entire film has an upbeat mood to it enhanced by a bubbly musical score by Daniel Hulsizer. Shot entirely on video, most by the director himself, the closeness of the camera brings out nothing but warmth and raw unedited emotion, where the pleasure is simply being in the company of such bright kids who are such a constant source of unending delight.

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young] who amusingly wrote two reviews (both spelled differently)

In theory, this video-shot documentary on the 1999 ‘Scripps-Howard National Spelling Bee’ - a newspaper-sponsored contest for American children – sounds like material better suited to the small screen. In practice, it exceeds all expectations to become one of the most engaging, entertaining and viscerally thrilling cinematic experience of the year.

The Spelling Bee finals in Washington D.C. feature the top 249 regional winners out of an initial entry of over 9,000,000, and the later rounds are televised live on ESPN – this may at first seem an odd choice for a sports network, but it soon makes complete sense: among its many other subjects and achievements Spellbound is a superior sports movie, in which we follow a handful of participants through their training and then watch them square off in the heat of battle.

Director Blitz presents us with eight very different kids from wildly varying geographical and social backgrounds, and several of them don’t quite conform to the stereotype of the bespectacled over-achieving bookworm. These brief portraits are conventional enough in style, but full of detail and humour: when the action moves to Washington, however, Spellbound really kicks into gear. Though still often hilarious, the film becomes almost unbearably tense as ‘our’ candidates are gradually eliminated until, in the very last round, only one remains.

Blitz combines the competitive thrill of top-level sports with the voyeuristic delights of knockout reality-TV shows like Big Brother, Pop Idol and The Weakest Link – but Spellbound is much more than ‘just’ an all-stops-out crowdpleaser. This is a portrait of America as land of opportunity (and/or exploitation), a film about remarkable individuals and the towns, families and teachers who helped make them what they are. Wittily shot and edited, its only noticeable flaw is the occasional overuse of Daniel Hulsizer’s acoustic-guitar score. But this is an easily forgivable lapse in such a compelling, irresistible and, yes, spellbinding piece of work.

VideoVista Emma French

Spellbound's director Jeff Blitz displays great sensitivity to his material and allows an intimate glimpse into the lives of eight very different children and teenagers preparing for the 1999 American national spelling bee, without ever appearing intrusive or exploitative. Whilst some of the parents, particularly Neil's psychopathically pushy father and April's frightening mother, with a penchant for bad puns on the word 'bee', are not cast in a flattering light, even the strangest children have their charms and vulnerability brought to the fore.    

The clever use of music throughout the documentary is one of many elements that make it feel more like a feature film. The music used insistently recalls the soundtrack to American Beauty, and this documentary, exhibiting all the pre-millennial quirks and pathos of American society, could form a factual companion piece to Sam Mendes' take on suburban American obsessions and social interactions.    

It is very rare to find a documentary that makes you want to watch it again the moment it finishes, but the strength of the personalities and stories makes an instant revisit appealing. This is a wonderful release to own and come back to, and amongst numerous other awards and nominations, it was rightly Oscar-nominated in the category of Best Documentary Feature 2003.    

The DVD has a range of appropriate and engaging special features, which together make up a far better package than many much more high profile DVD releases. These include a trailer, deleted scenes which introduce us to three spellers who missed out on appearing in the main feature, an educational guide, a spelling game and a hangman game. There is a revealing audio commentary by the filmmakers, but it can only, rather oddly, be played over the main feature film, which is distracting and frustrating. Much better, however, is an epilogue section that indicates what happened to each speller after the film ended. There is no better way to bring home how much this film teaches you to care about each of its 'characters'.

Salon.com [Stephanie Zacharek]

Being an instinctively good speller is one of those things that stands you in good stead for life. And yet there's something mousy and insignificant about it as a skill -- knowing how to spell weird words is not like being good at, say, bread making or water-skiing or oil painting. The upside is that in written communication, you're not likely to embarrass yourself by making ridiculous mistakes, such as not putting the right number of R's in "embarrass." But that's not the same as wowing 'em by pulling a perfectly formed chocolate cake from the oven. As a good speller, at best you're likely to be praised for your attention to detail. And at worst -- well, nobody is going to notice at all.

Jeff Blitz's indescribably pleasurable documentary "Spellbound," which traces the fate of eight contestants in the 1999 National Spelling Bee (a competition for grammar-school students held each year in Washington), is a tribute not just to the young people nationwide who actually make it to the bee, but to good spellers everywhere. ("Spellbound" opens this week at Film Forum in New York before, let us hope, making its way to a theater near you.) There's just no way to glamorize spelling, yet Blitz recognizes the pedestrian beauty of it. The eight kids he chose to profile -- kids from different parts of the country, with varied social and economic backgrounds -- are all extremely intelligent. And yet, being kids and operating well outside the world of grown-up thought (or at least what passes for it these days), they barely know what intelligence is.

When Ashley, a young African-American girl from Washington, D.C., describes her status as a loner, she doesn't come right out and say that she spends a lot of time by herself. She tells us she doesn't go outside much -- the girls "just stand around talking about things," and the boys are usually obsessed with playing basketball. "I don't have any peers, or if I do, I rarely see them," she announces with flat acceptance of the situation, unaware that her syntax has a vaguely formal elegance, like a line from Dickens.

None of the kids in "Spellbound" are awkward misfits or serious eggheads, at least not in any spectacular way. But we see how each one is just a little bit outside the world of his or her peers, and not just because most of them are working hard, studying for the big bee. Ted, a polite, quiet, strapping kid from a small town in Missouri, notes, "There are a couple of smart kids in my class. But not many." There's not a shred of egotism in the statement -- Ted is simply stating what he sees as a fact, attaching neither pluses nor minuses to it. But the comment makes us understand immediately how hard it must be for Ted to find people he can talk to.

Blitz doesn't go out of his way to ferret out evidence that these kids are in any way unhappy or troubled, because there doesn't seem to be any -- for the most part, they seem solid and well-adjusted. But he's still keyed in to the essential loneliness that many kids -- spelling-bee champs or not -- feel at this age. His openness to what these kids are going through fills out the corners of the movie; it's unwaveringly humanistic, in addition to being funny and suspenseful.

And how can you not laugh when, in the Florida hometown of Nupur -- the charming, well-spoken and well-balanced daughter of Indian immigrant parents -- the local Hooters spells out "Congradulations Nupur" on its roadside sign? Even more significant, Blitz captures the intensity of the bee itself, showing how it frazzles the nerves of even the most well-prepared spellers as, one by one, their colleagues and competitors drop away.

Blitz also shows us how these kids relate to their parents, some of whom design drill-sergeant strategies to help their children do well in the bee and some of whom simply enjoy helping out by reading off the words in the kids' practice books. We meet Angela, from Texas, the daughter of Mexican immigrants who never learned to speak English; for them, and for Angela herself, the mere fact that she has made it to the national bee represents complete fulfillment of all the promise they came to America for. That's a marked contrast to what the bee means to Emily, of New Haven, Conn., a girl who takes riding lessons and at one point considers inviting her au pair to accompany her to the national competition.

Blitz makes a sharp contrast between the two girls' different worlds, but he doesn't do them the disservice of assigning false weight or virtue to one world or the other. Emily's parents don't need Emily to do well in the bee. But you can see that they're excited that she has the opportunity to compete; they can't help being proud of her. The comfortable beauty of their home doesn't automatically make them villains, even though it's obvious that a girl like Angela could benefit enormously from winning the national bee (the prizes include scholarship money), while Emily will do just fine without it. "Spellbound" is a straightforward picture, but not a simplistic one. Blitz made it on a relatively small budget, doing his own camerawork, and the movie's co-producer, Sean Welch, did the sound (after getting a crash course from one of Blitz's friends). But what Blitz and Welch don't have in money they make up for a hundredfold with good intuition, zeroing in on just the right details -- funny ones, telling ones and some that are extraordinarily moving. Most of the kids who strike out in the bee have a sturdily cheerful attitude about it, at least in front of the camera. But one of them, and I will not reveal who, is so disappointed -- and possibly simply embarrassed at having mangled her word -- that she averts her face from the camera and crumples into her mother's arms. Blitz doesn't push the moment; his camerawork is direct and intimate without being intrusive. But he does make us feel the significance of what's happening. We don't pity this young girl (what we've seen of her earlier doesn't allow for that), but it's impossible not to feel how piercing her disappointment is.

Blitz may be exhilarated by the concept of the bee (which, incidentally, is televised on ESPN each June, an enthusiastic, if not wholly realistic, suggestion that etymology can be just as thrilling as NASCAR racing). But he's not oblivious to the stress it causes the children in the heat of competition. Even the ones who derive some enjoyment out of the event seem a little relieved when they strike out, some of them skipping a little or waving cheerfully as they strut off the stage -- they know that at last the pressure is off.

I can relate at least somewhat to their anxiety: After winning my school bee in eighth grade, I went on to the regional bee in my area. But I never made it anywhere near the National Bee, striking out on my first word in the regional competition, "hyperbole" (which, as a colleague of mine pointed out, is an ironic word for a future critic to have missed, but there you go). I was relieved to be done with the whole thing: The eighth-grade version of the person I would eventually become thought that spelling bees were decidedly uncool (though, as I recall, none of my classmates ever teased me about it -- in fact, they were pleased and excited for me).

But I did walk away with a Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary, bound in brown leatherette with my name spelled on the front in gold, which long ago began to fall apart but which I still use almost daily. I'm grateful to have it by my side right now to locate words like "hellebore" (a genus of herbs of the buttercup family), "terrene" (an adjective meaning mundane or earthly), "logorrhea" (excessive and often incoherent talkiness or wordiness) and "kirtle" (a tunic or coat worn by men in the Middle Ages), all words that stumped me as I watched "Spellbound."

Reverse Shot Saul Austerlitz

Slate [David Edelstein]

DVD Times [Daniel Stephens]

stylusmagazine.com (Liz Clayton)

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Jon Danziger)

Nitrate Online [Elias Savada]

Reel.com DVD review [Bonnie Fazio]

DVD Verdict Bryan Byun

filmcritic.com Nicholas Schager

culturevulture.net, Choices for the Cognoscenti Arthur Lazere

Old School Reviews [John Nesbit] also seen here: CultureCartel.com (John Nesbit)

Reverse Shot Nicholas Repsher

Movie Views [Ryan Cracknell]

Culture Wars [Munira Mirza]

CineScene [Howard Schumann]

Kamera.co.uk Paul Clarke

PopMatters Jocelyn Szczepaniak-Gillece

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

The Village Voice [Ed Park]

eFilmCritic.com (David Cornelius)

d+kaz . intelligent movie reviews [Daniel Kasman]

Film Freak Central review [Travis Hoover]

DVD Talk (John Sinnott)

James Berardinelli's ReelViews

Slant Magazine Chuck Rudolph

EyeForFilm.co.uk Angus Wolfe Murray

The National Spelling Bee website

Guardian/Observer

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Boston Globe Ty Burr

Chicago Tribune [Mark Caro]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

New York Times (registration req'd) A.O. Scott

Boccia, Tanio (aka: Amerigo Anton)

ATLAS AGAINST THE CZAR (Maciste alla corte dello zar)

Italy (91 mi) 1964 ‘Scope

Fantastic Movie Musings and Ramblings (Dave Sindelar)

Nicolas the Czar is a mean ol' tyrant who oppresses his subjects, but not if our three-named hero Atlas/Samson/Maciste has anything to say about it!

Some thoughts on ATLAS AGAINST THE CZAR.

1) The Italian title of this movie roughly translates into MACISTE IN THE COURT OF THE CZAR. Given the other two titles are ATLAS AGAINST THE CZAR and SAMSON VS. THE GIANT KING, I can only be grateful to a resource like IMDB that helps me keep these movies straight.

2) And while we're on the subject, where does our hero get off having three names? I think he's trying to monopolize the market. It's not really fair, not while Clint Eastwood has to play a man with no name and America has to sing about "A Horse with No Name". He may be a loinclothed hero, but I really think Samson/Atlas/Maciste might find it in his heart to share some of his names with those less fortunate, don't you?

3) And to further compound matters, he can't even remember his name when he appears, despite the fact that the opening titles tell us that he is "Atlas, who is now named Machiste". If you have three names, you should be able to remember at least one of them.

4) Note to proofreaders - there's no "H' in Maciste.

5) I've speculated in the past on Maciste's strange knack for appearing in widely divergent time zones. Filmmakers didn't flinch when they had him appear in thirteenth century China (in HERCULES AGAINST THE BARBARIANS, (and don't get me started on this fourth name) or in seventeenth century Scotland (in THE WITCH'S CURSE), but having him appear in nineteenth century Russia must have given them pause; they spend the first third of the movie setting up a scenario for having him appear in this time period, which involves suspended animation. They never do figure out why it is he speaks Russian like a native, though.

7) So how do nineteenth-century archaelogists revive Maciste out of his slumber? They rub oil on his chest. Now you know why these big sword-and-sandal heroes look so slick.

8) Of course, once he's revived, it's the usual sword-and-sandal shenanigans. Maciste lifts up big rocks and throws them, etc. etc. One item of note; Maciste is dressed in a loincloth while the rest of the cast is dressed in Russian garbs, such as long coats and furs. Either one member of the cast was freezing during the shooting of this movie, or the rest of the cast was sweating bullets.

9) The biggest surprises in this movie come near the end. Instead of the main villain dying in a last bit of treachery, he lives so that Maciste can turn him over to his former subjects so they can punish him. And when the time comes for him to leave the woman he's found so that he can help people in other lands, he changes his mind and takes her with him. These breaks from sword-and-sandal tradition would be interesting if the rest of the movie wasn't so hackneyed.

10) There are no evil queens in this movie.

Atlas Against the Czar Chris Fujiwara

Bodanzky, Jorge

IRACEMA (Iracema – Uma Transa Amazônica)

Brazil Germany France (91 mi) 1976 co-director: Orlando Senna

User Reviews from imdb Author: jcasanovas from Spain

This is an exceptional film that portrays the direction set by the military dictatorship in Brazil. The acting, filming and the screen play are excellent. Any person interested in Brazil should see it. The subject is the Trans-Amazonic road, an ecological disaster built in the 1970s by the military dictatorship in Brazil, to settle people opposing it and landless peasants. The film denounces and portrays a reality that after three decades proves to be very precise. It is a film that helps to think about the consequences of crude authoritarian rule over a poor and defenseless people. The title and the story, Iracema, draws from a 19th century novel about a girl presented as the emblem of Brazil as a nation.

User Reviews from imdb Author: Only4Fun81 from Los Angeles

The film was adopted from the 19th century novel of the same name that was written during the height of the Brazilian Romantic period. The word Iracema is an anagram for the word `America.' Accordingly, the character Iracema represents the continent of America but as the word comes from the Tupi Indian language, she shows that to be Brazilian is to be a mix of both American and Indian culture.

The full title of the film, `Iracema, uma transa amazônica,' is a clever play on words meant to give it a double meaning. The Portuguese translates into English as `an Amazonian affair' when in English the title sounds like `Trans-Amazonian' to intentionally evoke thoughts on the highly controversial Trans-Amazonian highway. The pun in the title is appropriate because while the film chronicles the many affairs of a prostitute in the Amazon, it also discusses the varied opinions of Brazilians about the state of the Amazon at that time considering the heavy industry that was pouring in.

The story follows the downward spiral of a teenage girl who comes from the interior of the Amazon to the large industrial city of Belem to become a prostitute. Even though the film was produced during the most oppressive years of a military regime under strict censorship guidelines, the anti-progress views break through. The significance of her profession of choice reflects the opinion of many Brazilians that the country began prostituting itself to foreign interests by allowing them to come into the Amazon to strip the country of its natural wonderland in the name of progress and economic gain. Iracema is meant to be an allegorical character representing the Amazon and its downward spiral from virginal and healthy to used, corrupted and decaying. That is the path that the character Iracema travels in the film.

User Reviews from imdb Author: Claudio Carvalho from Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

In the 70's, the fifteen years old whore Iracema (Edna de Cássia) meets the truck driver Sebastião, a.k.a. "Tião Brazil Grande" (Paulo César Peréio), and travels with him along the Amazon Forest through Transamazônica, the longest Brazilian highway recently built by the military government to bring development to the area settling landless peasants. When Tião drops her on the road, Iracema is submitted to the most decadent types of prostitution to survive.

"Iracema – Uma Transa Amazônica" is an amazing film that discloses the truth about the development of Amazonas, reason why the censorship of the dictatorship has not allowed its exhibition in the movie theaters for many years. In the 70's, the Brazilian military dictatorship opened the longest Brazilian highway though the Amazon forest and the official speech was that this road would bring development to the area settling landless peasants. However, what this movie denounces is the beginning of the announced ecological disaster through the uncontrolled burning of the forest and illegal extraction of wood; slave work; infantile prostitution; corruption. The screenplay and the shootings uses the improvisations of the gifted actor Paulo César Peréio, who interacts with the locals, blending reality with fiction in a very different genre, a sort of "fictional documentary" (later called docudrama). The story is so realistic that it seems that the amateurish Edna de Cássia is really a young prostitute, abused along the shootings. But the director and crew claim that she was really acting. The title is a great joke, playing with words in Portuguese: "Iracema" is a famous 1865 tragic romance of José de Alencar, actually an anagram of the word "America", and tells the story of the Indian Iracema that falls in love for the Caucasian Portuguese Martim. "Transamazônica" is the name of the road, meaning "Trans" + "Amazonas" (Amazon); however, the title is "Transa" (meaning shag) + "Amazonas" (Amazon). My vote is nine.

Brazil Film Update Julianne Burton from Jump Cut, also reviewed here: Pesaro film festival

"IRACEMA can be described as an interpretative or fictional documentary. In it, a small cast of non-professional (with one exception) actors improvise the action against a background of real people in real situations, filmed in direct cinema style."

"Iracema, a 15-year-old Amazonian of pure Indian blood, deserts her family's boat and subsistence existence for the glittering baubles of Belem on festival day. She is picked up by Tiao Brasil Grande, who takes her with him on a run to haul virgin timber from the interior … On the return trip he dumps her at a raunchy all-night bar. (There) she is taken advantage of, deceived, abused. Her most violent abduction, significantly, is at the hands of a group of soldiers. The film refrains from voyeurism and titillation by focusing on the prelude and the results rather than on the actual experience of her degradation. Interconnected sequences of stripping and burning entire forests, of highway construction, of selling indentured workers wholesale, put Iracema's (an anagram of America) experience in a larger perspective without belaboring the point."

"As the film ends, Tiao Brasil Grande runs into Iracema once again. He fails to recognize her, poorly dressed now, missing a tooth, and in the company of derelict and drunken prostitutes. He rejects her approach and then refuses her request for five cruceros. In the last shot, his new red truck vanishes down the dirt road, leaving Iracema behind, broke and stranded. "Filho de puta" (son of a whore), she yells after him, her only revenge a self-deprecating insult."

"The parallels between the colony and metropolis relation and that of the dominant male and dependent female are well taken. Tiao moves on once Iracema has been exhausted, just as the neo-colonialists freely abandon exploited territory for the virgin region further on. Tiao is always in the driver's seat; he calls the shots and Iracema goes along for the ride, convinced that she is finally going somewhere when in fact she is only being taken to her own destruction." 

Bodrov, Sergei

PRISONER OF THE MOUNTAINS

Russia Kazakhstan (98 mi) 1996

Prisoner of the Mountains Mike D’Angelo

If it's a well-told tale about contemporary political strife you seek, why not turn to Leo Tolstoy? What, just because he's been dead for almost a century? That little setback didn't stop Russian filmmaker Sergei Bodrov from using Count Leo's children's story, Prisoner of the Caucausus, as the basis for his Chechnya-set Prisoner of the Mountains; the result is more timeless than timely, more a fable than a report from the front, and all the more captivating for its universality. It's early yet, of course, but so far, this is the best commercial release of 1997.

Right about here is where I should begin explaining what's so all-fired terrific about the film, but in that respect Prisoner of the Mountains presents me, as critic, with something of a conundrum: there's nothing very unique or groundbreaking or provocative about it. It is, simply put, a tale exceptionally well-told; once that's been said, and "see this if it comes near your town or prepare for my wrath" appended, there really isn't much more to blather on about. The story is almost laughably trite: two Russian soldiers -- one a cynical, arrogant officer; the other a raw, frightened recruit -- are captured by the enemy and used as a bargaining tool by one of the village elders, whose son is being held captive by the Russian forces. The deal quickly falls apart, and the two men, polar opposites in almost every respect, chained together by their ankles, are left with nothing to do but plot an unlikely escape or await an ugly death. Anyone want to guess whether or not the defiant ones gradually come to respect and admire one another? It sounds unpromisingly predictable and familiar, I know, and the truth is that it is predictable and familiar -- but only in its broad strokes. The details are another matter entirely; there are small, quiet revelations and unexpected pleasures buried in virtually every scene.

Let me give you an example of what I mean -- one that won't spoil anything for you. About halfway through the film, the two prisoners are hanging out at a party (no, really), and their host, a large, boisterous fellow, "suggests" that the younger one fight the local boxing champion -- a guy who looks as though he could take out Dolph Lundgren, Mr T. and Carl Weathers simultaneously without even curling his fingers into fists. (Who was the nemesis in Rocky V? [Don't send me the answer, I don't actually care.]) We see him demolish another Chechen contender in about fifteen seconds flat, and then it's our timid, puny hero's turn. Okay, I thought to myself, there are two ways that this could go: (1) our guy somehow manages to win, or at least remain conscious and prove himself worthy of their (and our) respect -- maybe he's more powerful than he appears, or uses his wits to overcome his opponent's superior brawn; or (2) our guy gets clobbered in a scene too painful to watch. The first solution seemed a cop-out, the second unnecessarily sadistic, and I was delighted to find that I was flat-out wrong: there's a third , hilarious alternative, the nature of which I'll let you discover for yourself. This is a brief, fairly insignificant scene, and has little to do with the narrative or with our protagonists' psyches, but it's representative of the ways in which Prisoner of the Mountains subtly and persuasively confounds our expectations. Just when you think you've pegged it, it lurches quietly in another direction.

If I haven't mentioned the actors yet (and I haven't), it's only because they're so casually remarkable that they recede into their roles, so that one instinctively thinks of the characters and the performers as a single unit. The two leads are played by Oleg Menshikov, whom I'd seen previously in Nikita Mikhalkov's Burnt by the Sun, and Sergei Bodrov Jr., the director's son, who was a new face to me; both of them are as Just Right as the baby bear's bed and chair and porridge. (I have a bit of a Goldilocks complex as a filmgoer, constantly seeking the middle ground: "This movie is too abstruse." "This movie is too vapid.") I would guess, though I may be mistaken, that most of the supporting roles were performed by non-professionals; at any rate, they all seemed perfectly natural and relaxed, and contributed a great deal to the film's sense of easy authenticity. There isn't a false moment to be found, in fact -- even a fanciful diversion in the final reel works beautifully, so perfectly understated is it -- and for that achievement alone I heartily recommend it to you. I wish that I could think of something more exciting to impart, a "hook" that would provide a clear incentive for you to spend your time and money on this subtitled, straightforward recitation of a yarn from 150 years ago, but what I'm essentially saying is: Trust me.

For someone who claimed there wasn't much else to blather on about, I didn't do a half-bad job of not shutting up, did I? You'd think I was being paid by the word (or paid at all, for that matter).

Boetticher, Bud

All-Movie Guide

A college athlete, Oscar Boetticher Jr. became a matador in Mexico in the mid 1930s. He entered the Hollywood film industry as a technical advisor on the 1941 version of Blood and Sand and then became an assistant director. Boetticher made his directing debut in 1944, and after helming a series of low-budget films, made the semi-autobiographical The Bullfighter and the Lady in 1951. He signed the film as Budd Boetticher, the name he would work under for the rest of his career. Boetticher showed real ability directing actioners and crime films, but his greatest impact was with a series of westerns starring Randolph Scott, most of which were produced by Harry Joe Brown and scripted by future director Burt Kennedy. These films, such as The Tall T and Ride Lonesome, are distinguished by their tight pacing, strong casts, and sly strains of humor. Boetticher spent most of the 1960s trying to raise money for a documentary of Mexican bullfighter Carlos Arruza. Before the shooting was completed, Arruza and most of Boetticher's crew were killed in an automobile accident. His film Arruza was completed in 1968 but not released until 1971, the same year as Boetticher's last western, A Time for Dying.

Film Reference Scott Simmon

Budd Boetticher will be remembered as a director of Westerns, although his bullfight films have their fervent admirers, as does his Scarface-variant, The Rise and Fall of Legs Diamond. Since Boetticher's Westerns are so variable in quality, it is tempting to overcredit Burt Kennedy, the scriptwriter for all of the finest. But Kennedy's own efforts as director (Return of the Seven, Hannie Caulder, The War Wagon, etc.) are tediously paced dramas or failed comedies. Clearly the Boetticher/Kennedy team clicked to make Westerns significantly superior to what either could create on their own. Indeed, The Tall T, Seven Men from Now, and (on a slightly lower level) Ride Lonesome look now like the finest work in the genre during the 1950s, less pretentious and more tightly controlled than even those of Anthony Mann or John Ford.

Jim Kitses's still-essential Horizons West rightly locates Boetticher's significant Westerns in the "Ranown" cycle (a production company name taken from producer Harry Joe Brown and his partner Randolph Scott). But the non-Kennedy entries in the cycle have, despite Scott's key presence, only passing interest. One might have attributed the black comedy in the series to Kennedy without the burlesque Buchanan Rides Alone, which wanders into an episodic narrative opposite to the taut, unified action of the others; Decision at Sundown is notable only for its remarkably bitter finale and a morally pointless showdown, as if it were a cynic's answer to High Noon. The Tall T's narrative is typical of the best Boetticher/Kennedy: it moves from a humanizing comedy so rare in the genre into a harsh and convincing savagery. Boetticher's villains are relentlessly cruel, yet morally shaded. In The Tall T, he toys with the redeemable qualities of Richard Boone, while deftly characterizing the other two (Henry Silva asks, "I've never shot me a woman, have I Frank?"). Equally memorable are Lee Marvin (in Seven Men from Now) and Lee Van Cleef (Ride Lonesome).

Randolph Scott is the third essential collaborator in the cycle. He is generally presented by Boetticher as a loner not by principle or habit but by an obscure terror in his past (often a wife murdered). Thus, he's not an asexual cowpoke so much as one who, temporarily at least, is beyond fears and yearnings. There's a Pinteresque sexual confrontation in Seven Men from Now among Scott, a pioneer couple, and an insinuating Lee Marvin when the four are confined in a wagon. And, indeed, the typical Boetticher landscape—smooth, rounded, and yet impassible boulders—match Scott's deceptively complex character as much as the majestic Monument Valley towers match Wayne in Ford's Westerns, or the harsh cliffs match James Stewart in Mann's.

Clearly the Westerns of the sixties and seventies owe more to Boetticher than Ford. Even such very minor works as Horizons West, The Wings of the Hawk, and The Man from the Alamo have the tensions of Spaghetti Westerns (without the iciness), as well as the Peckinpah fantasy of American expertise combining with Mexican peasant vitality. If Peckinpah and Leone are the masters of the post-"classic" Western, then it's worth noting how The Wings of the Hawk anticipates The Wild Bunch, and how Once upon a Time in the West opens like Seven Men from Now and closes like Ride Lonesome. Boetticher's films are the final great achievement of the traditional Western, before the explosion of the genre.

TCMDB profile from Turner Classic Movies

Budd Boetticher Michael Grost from Classic Films and Television

Budd Boetticher John Flaus from Senses of Cinema

Budd Boetticher and the Westerns of Ranown Bruce Hodsdon from Senses of Cinema

Senses of Cinema Article (2006) Ride Lonesome: The Career of Budd Boetticher, by Sean Axmaker

LA Weekly Article (2000) Man of the West, by David Chute from LA Weekly, August 3, 2000

Wise Guys roundtable discussion with André de Toth, Budd Boetticher and Jules Dassin by Patrick Francis from LA Weekly, April 24, 2002

Boston Phoenix Article (2005) Figures in a landscape: Budd Boetticher’s American myths, by Chris Fujiwara, December 2 – 8, 2005

New York Times Holiday DVD’s, Charles Taylor and Stephanie Zacharek, October 31, 2008

Boetticher, Budd They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

GreenCine Article: Interviews 1988/1992 Budd Boetticher, Last of the Old Hollywood Two-Fisted Directors, by Sean Axmaker, December 16, 2005

Guardian Unlimited Obituary obituary by Sheila Whitaker from the Guardian, December 3, 2001

Ride Lonesome - The Bullfighting Budd Boetticher obituary by Sean Axmaker from Nitrate Online, December 14, 2001

SEVEN MEN FROM NOW

USA (78 mi) 1956

Time Out Geoff Andrew

Neither as bleak nor as concise as the greatest collaborations between Scott and Boetticher (The Tall T, Ride Lonesome, Comanche Station), their first outing together nevertheless remains a terrific B Western. Scott is beautifully assured as Ben Stride, vengefully hunting down the men who killed his wife during a robbery, while Larch and (most especially) Marvin are memorable as the outlaws he encounters out in the desert, keen to get their hands on a gold shipment secretly being carried by a couple from back east. Burt Kennedy's script is characteristically terse and witty, William Clothier's camerawork sharp and direct, and Boetticher's direction a model of inventive economy.

Chicago Reader (Fred Camper)

Praised by the pioneering French critic Andre Bazin as "one of the most intelligent westerns I know but also the least intellectual," this 1956 feature by the underrated Budd Boetticher stresses action over dialogue while constructing a subtle moral allegory. Randolph Scott plays an ex-sheriff trailing the seven men who murdered his wife in a robbery; along the way he picks up a bumbling couple en route to California and an outlaw (Lee Marvin, whose appealing swagger contrasts with Scott's laconic certitude). Boetticher uses the landscape not as a metaphor for wildness but as a starkly neutral ground on which his characters play out their shifting positions, which suggests that each individual is responsible for his or her own choices. The taut opening is stunning: the protagonist strides into a tightly framed patch of ground from behind the camera, initiating his attempts to both traverse and dominate space, and the ensuing gunfire offscreen accompanies images of the horses he'll take from the men he's killing, a beautiful elision that emphasizes destiny over violence. This recently restored 35-millimeter print has mostly excellent color. 78 min.

Slant Magazine [Fernando F. Croce]

Budd Boetticher is the kind of director one likes to discover and recommend to fellow cinephiles with immense pleasure. A contemporary of such studio mavericks as Sam Fuller and Don Siegel, he hit his stride in the late 1950s (just in time for deserved Cahiers du Cinéma recognition) with a string of Westerns that, if still less famous than the epic sagebrush sagas of John Ford and Anthony Mann, nevertheless resonate with a fascinating, deeply felt worldview. Known as "Ranown" after the names of cowboy-star Randolph Scott and producer Harry Joe Brown, Boetticher's collaborators in this cycle, the films are modest in tone and intimate in scope, yet the unassuming surface always belies the director's obsessions (in no small amount derived from a fixation with bullfighting) with rituals, machismo, irony, and life in a world one step away from desolation. Though often written by Burt Kennedy, Boetticher's Westerns abound in personal motifs that grow richer from film to film, so that, by 1959 and Ride Lonesome, the thematic concentration and crystallization could rival Ford's in The Searchers. Rigorously laconic, the characters channel feeling into gesture, so that a sock to the jaw, the tipping of a table, or an aborted kiss can point to compressed emotion, or a shift of the soul. It's no accident that transcendence-crazy Paul Schrader has vigorously championed Boetticher—his films are about scarcely less than finding grace.

Seven Men from Now is the first and, in many ways, the purest of the "Ranown" Westerns, and the template for the ensuing films. Scott is an ex-sheriff introduced killing two outlaws in a cave—members, it is later revealed, of a gang who held up a stagecoach and stole a Wells Fargo strongbox full of gold, murdering his wife in the process. Guilt and vengeance simmer equally within Scott, so off he goes into the arid, stripped-down desert to finish his quest; he meets a married couple (Gail Russell, Walter Reed) on their way to California, as well as rascally Lee Marvin, whom he twice locked away. While Ford envisions the frontier in a constant flux between civilization and wilderness, Boetticher sees nature as the natural extension of the matador's arena, where the characters' dilemmas become "floating poker games," to use Andrew Sarris's term, staged in a void, far from the eyes of the town. In that sense, Boetticher's works are far closer to the similarly underappreciated chamber Westerns of Monte Hellman, where the endless spaces of the West show an unmistakable tinge of Beckett as men ride in absurdist circles, looking for serenity. Like Hellman (or Clint Eastwood, another fan), Boetticher is aware of the conventions of the genre—that, for instance, Scott and Russell will fall for each other sooner or later, or that Scott and Marvin will have a showdown.

The effect is not one of (pre) post-modern nudging, but a questioning of the conventions through the director's humanizing gaze. Marvin is the designated villain, yet given charm, humor, and life by Marvin, who, maybe not coincidentally, can resemble a younger version of Scott; the sense of loss that comes with his inevitable death is a testament to Boetticher's ability to give a feeling of rounded people with just a few strokes. (Another example: An old-timer, given barely one scene, emerges as a full portrait via an empty whisky bottle rolling out from under his door and the line, "Injuns don't bother with me. I ain't worth too awful much.") Characters grow in Seven Men from Now; Reed, tagged "half a man" by Marvin, is allowed a moment of self-recognition and salvation, while Russell shifts from object of desire to a feeling woman holding her own with the cowboys while realizing the power of withheld emotion. (Her "love scene" with Scott, with Russell sprawled in the couple's wagon and Scott lying underneath it to escape the rain, climaxes with each gently blowing the flames in their lanterns, as gracefully evocative a moment of longing as anything between Charu and Amal in Charulata.) The ambush at the rocks is a model of compact, not-a-frame-wasted filmmaking, yet the focus remains on character above all, particularly Scott, whose stolid purity, with roots in silent cinema (André Bazin perceptively linked him to William S. Heart), is juxtaposed with the flawed humanity surrounding him. The connection bridges not only hero and villain, but, like the rest of Boetticher's deceptively simple picture, the innocence of a genre's past with the growing ambiguity of modern times.

Sense of Cinema - DVD review [Sean Axmaker]

Turner Classic Movies [Jeremy Arnold]

DVD Times Eamonn McCusker

Film Freak Central Review [Travis Mackenzie Hoover]

Milk Plus: A Discussion of Film

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray]

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Nate Meyers)

filmcritic.com Chris Cabin

PopMatters Roger Holland

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson]

Epinions [Stephen O. Murray]

Turner Classic Movies Paul Sherman on the DVD

DVD Talk [Stuart Galbraith IV]

DVD Verdict [Ryan Keefer]

CineScene.com (Chris Dashiell)

FilmFanatic.org

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams] also reviewing COMANCHE STATION

New York Times (registration req'd) Elvis Mitchell

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

THE TALL T

USA (78 mi) 1957

Channel 4 Film

A chamber western for nine players in three movements: introduction, development, resolution. The musical analogy holds, since Kennedy's screenplay introduces players/themes until in a second coda only the hero (Scott) and the woman (O'Sullivan) are left. Set against harsh terrain, the story of three outlaws who inadvertently take a hostage and pay a heavy price is a morality tale related with characteristic Boetticher muscularity, raising issues of loyalty, friendship, loneliness, greed and duplicity within a mesmerizing 70 minutes. The central characters, Patrick (good) and the gang leader (evil), are opposite sides of the same coin - both in search of peace.

Time Out Tom Milne

Admirably scripted by Burt Kennedy from a story by Elmore Leonard, this is the best and bleakest of the Boetticher/Scott Westerns. A marvellous mechanism is set in motion by the stagecoach hold-up at the beginning where a solid citizen cravenly bargains for his life by suggesting that his wife be held for ransom. Boone's bluffly amiable villain promptly guns him down in contempt, but fulfils his elective role by taking up the suggestion. Thereafter, conceptions of justice and social justification are slyly questioned as Boone is hounded by Scott, bodies pile up, and the two men, gradually emerging as opposite sides of the same coin, face the inevitable showdown that neither of them wants but which society demands. Wonderful, with a full roster of fine performances.

Images Movie Journal Craig J. Fischer

The plot of The Tall T (1957) is as clear and pure as a mountain stream. While in town on an errand, affable rancher Pat Brennan (Randolph Scott) loses his horse in an unwise bet and resigns himself to a long walk back to his remote homestead. While hiking on the trail, Pat is picked up by a stage driven by his old friend Rintoon (Arthur Hunnicutt, doing a dad-blasted fine Walter Brennan impersonation). Inside the stage are Willard and Doretta Mims (John Hubbard and Maureen O'Sullivan), newlyweds who have hired Rintoon to transport them on the first leg of their honeymoon. The stage travels to a rest stop, where it is ambushed by three bandits, Frank (Richard Boone), Billy Jack (Skip Homeier), and Chink (Henry Silva), who believe they are robbing the regularly-scheduled stage for its bank money. The bandits shoot Rintoon dead and take Pat, Willard, and Doretta hostage. Doretta is led into the station to make dinner for the bandits; while she is gone, Willard cravenly tells head bandit Frank that he attacked the wrong stage but that his wife is the daughter of a millionaire copper baron more than capable of paying a fat ransom for her safe return. The rest of the film plays out like an elaborate chess match, with Willard negotiating for his own safety, the bandits negotiating for the ransom, and Pat and Doretta waiting for a chance to escape.

Within this simple narrative structure, Boetticher and screenwriter Burt Kennedy (himself a veteran writer and director of Westerns) explore one central theme: the differences that can exist between a human being's public persona and his/ her hidden thoughts and desires. Willard dresses like an Eastern gentleman and professes his love for Doretta, yet beneath this facade he's a wastrel who married Doretta for her money and betrays her family to save his own skin. Doretta, too, puts up a front: she behaves like a good daughter and meek wife, until she sees Willard murdered by Chink. In a later conversation with Pat, she reveals that she knew all along why Willard married her:

Pat: "Did you love him?"

Doretta: "I married him."

Pat: "That's not what I asked. Did you love him?"

Doretta: "Yes! Yes, I did."

Pat: "Mrs. Mims, you're a liar. You didn't love him, and never for one minute though he loved you. That's true, isn't it?"

Doretta: [pause] "Do you know what it's like to be alone in a camp full of roughneck miners, and a father who holds a quiet hatred for you because you're not the son he's always wanted? Yes, I married Willard Mims because I couldn't stand being alone anymore. I know all the time he didn't love me, but I didn't care. I thought I'd make him love me...by the time that he asked me to marry him, I'd told myself inside for so long that I believed it was me he cared for and not the money."

The scene ends with Pat condemning Doretta for her self-pity, before taking her into his arms, advising her that "sometimes you got to walk up and take what you want," and kissing her. Because she is honest with Pat, she won't have to worry about being lonely ever again.

Like Doretta, the bandits have trouble reconciling what they do with who they are. Billy Jack, the youngest of the thieves, tries to act as macho as his compadres, but he is visibly disturbed when he realizes that Chink is more sexually experienced that he is. (Pat exploits Billy's virginal insecurity, and traps him by using Doretta as sexual bait.) And gangleader Frank, a casual sadist who cackles maniacally when Doretta burns her hand on a coffee pot and when Pat bumps his head on a low awning, is a bundle of contradictions. He calls Doretta "one of the plainest females" he's even seen, but later he brings her food and gently covers her up with a blanket as she sleeps. Beneath his brutal exterior, Frank has delusions of being a respectable man. He keeps Pat alive just so he can chat about his dreams of giving up the outlaw life and buying his own ranch:

Frank: "I'm gonna have me a place someday. I thought about it, I thought about it a lot. A man should have somethin' of his own, somethin' to belong to, to be proud of."

Pat: "And you think you'll get it this way?"

Frank: "Sometimes you don't have a choice."

Pat: "Don't you?"

As should be clear from the above interactions with Doretta and Frank, Pat is the single person in The Tall T whose public self is congruent with his private nature. The most striking aspect of Scott's performance as Pat is his infectious, bright smile. In the film's first twenty minutes, Pat grins so much (at stationmaster Hank, at Rintoon, even at his previous employer Tenvoorde) that we quickly realize that he is a man fully in love with his life and his friends. After he's taken captive by Frank's gang, Pat has less reason to smile, but his integrity oozes out of his pores as regularly as the sweat stains that periodically surface on the back of his yellow shirt. Frank briefly contemplates letting Pat go, but he quickly realizes that it's "dumb even talkin' about it" because Pat's innate goodness will lead him to warn the stage or play hero. This is not to say that Pat is a perfect, stoic hero. He admits that he's scared to both Frank and Doretta, bbut in The Tall T's world of lies and masks, Pat is a man who has chosen both to do good and be good, a man who walks up and takes what he wants without ambiguity or deception. He is as clear and pure as a mountain stream.

Film Freak Central Travis Mackenzie Hoover

eFilmCritic Reviews Jay Seaver

CineScene.com (Chris Dashiell)

The Spinning Image (Graeme Clark)

RIDE LONESOME

USA (73 mi) 1959 ’Scope

Chicago Reader (Dave Kehr)

Budd Boetticher stretched the format of his Randolph Scott westerns into CinemaScope with this 1959 entry in the cycle, and in some respects the narrative seems drawn out as well: there is hardly any pretense of action or suspense as the characters move, almost aimlessly, through an open landscape, testing each other's strengths and weaknesses through conversations that become psychological chess games. Scott, as usual, is looking for the man who murdered his wife; his companions are two wisecracking outlaws (James Coburn and Pernell Roberts) and a woman whose husband has been killed by Indians (Karen Steele). With James Best and Lee Van Cleef. 73 min.

Time Out Tom Milne

One of the best of the Boetticher/Scott Westerns, bleaker but not too distant in mood from the autumnal resignation of Peckinpah's Ride the High Country, as Scott's ageing lawman lets time catch up with him and foregoes (even as he achieves) the vengeance he had planned on the man who hanged his wife so long ago that the killer, taxed with it, says 'I 'most forgot'. It's deviously structured as an odyssey of cross-purposes in which Scott captures a young gunman (Best) and proceeds to take him in, ostensibly for the bounty on his head. Actually, Scott hopes to lure Best's brother (Van Cleef), the man who killed his wife, into a rescue bid; two outlaw buddies (Roberts and Coburn) tag along, biding their time, desperate to collect the amnesty that goes with Best's capture; the presence of a pretty widow (Steele) stokes a measure of sexual rivalry; and there are Indians about. Beautifully scripted by Burt Kennedy, with excellent performances all round as the characters evolve through subtly shifting loyalties and ambitions, it's a small masterpiece.

Images Movie Journal Gary Johnson

As the 1960s arrived, Western filmmakers increasingly turned to mammoth-sized, all-star epics. In 1960, John Sturges made The Magnificent Seven (138 minutes), Anthony Mann made Cimarron (147 minutes), and John Wayne made The Alamo (192 minutes). And in 1962, Henry Hathaway, John Ford, and George Marshall created a Western-epic-to-end-all-Western-epics, How the West Was Won--filmed in the super-widescreen format Cinerama. However, during this time, director Budd Boetticher continued making short, unassuming Westerns, just as he did in the '50s. His Comanche Station, released in 1960, was just 73 minutes long.

Boetticher had discovered a fruitful partnership with actor Randolph Scott, screenwriter Burt Kennedy, and producer Harry Joe Brown. Together they produced a series of modest-but-magnificent Westerns starting with Seven Men From Now in 1956 and continuing through Comanche Station in 1960. (Brown did not produce Seven Men From Now.) The best films in the series are the ones scripted by Burt Kennedy; indeed, these films--Seven Men From Now, The Tall T, Ride Lonesome, and Comanche Station--are among the best Westerns ever made. Critic Robin Wood respected these films for their "unassuming" tone: "The genre is always respected: we never feel a self-conscious straining after 'significance,' or any sense that the artists feel superior to their raw material and are bent on transforming it." Meanwhile, French critic Andre Bazin was impressed with how Boetticher "made remarkable use of the landscape, and the varying textures of the soil and rocks." Writing about Seven Men From Now, Bazin said, "it is indeed the most intelligent Western I know, while being at the same time the least intellectual, the most subtle and least aestheticizing, the simplest and finest example of the form."

Ride Lonesome (1959) is one of Boetticher's finest Westerns. It focuses on a bounty hunter named Ben Brigade (Randolph Scott). In the film's first few minutes, he captures a no-good drifter named Billy John (James Best) who shot a man from behind and left him for dead on the streets of Santa Cruz.

"I don't know how much they're paying you to bring me in, but it ain't enough. Not near enough," sneers Billy John.

"I'd hunt you [for] free," says Brigade.

This exchange establishes the movie's moral tone. Brigade is a man of few words and great moral character. Billy John says once his brother Frank hears what has happened Frank will come to rescue him. So in the movie's initial moments, the script seems to give us a conventional race-to-the-jail story. Can Brigade get Billy John to the Santa Cruz jail before Frank catches up with him? But Burt Kennedy's script (created in collaboration with Boetticher, who is uncredited as co-writer) has a surprise in wait: Brigade actually wants Frank to catch them, for it's Frank that Brigade really wants. Billy John becomes the bait. In lieu of urgency in getting Billy John to Santa Cruz, Boetticher builds tension around the arrival of Frank--much like the arrival of Frank Miller on the noon train in High Noon.

While Ben Brigade is ostensibly the hero, Kennedy adds Sam Boone (Pernell Roberts of Bonanza fame) as a charismatic and opportunistic foil. He and his companion, Whit (James Coburn), show up as two-bit outlaws who are tired of being wanted men. They are aware that amnesty will be offered to any wanted men who bring in Billy John. So when they see Billy John in Ben Brigade's custody, they see their future--and they aren't above murder in order to realize their plans. Boone, in particular, has visions of settling down on a small ranch.

"Man gets halfway, he oughta have somethin' of his own," says Boone, "something to belong to, be proud of."

"They say that," says the typically laconic Brigade.

"I got me a place. Gonna run beef, work the ground, be able to walk down the street like anybody. All I need is Billy."

"I set out to take him to Santa Cruz. I full intend to do it."

"Well, I just wanted you to know how it was. Way I look at it, ain't near as hard for a man if he knows why he's gonna die."

Boone and Whit stick close to Brigade and even work together with him when Indians threaten, but Boone's plans are always clear: "There's only one man between me and starting life over," he says. This creates a strong sense of tension as Brigade, Boone, Whit, and Mrs. Lane (Karen Steele, as a woman they encounter at a stagecoach station) must rely upon each other in order to survive--but knowing fully well that if they survive the Indians--and if Brigade survives Frank's arrival--Boone and Whit will attempt to kill Brigade.

As in all other Kennedy-Boetticher scripts, a villain becomes a central character. In Seven Men From Now, Lee Marvin played this role. In Tall T, Richard Boone. And in Comanche Station, Claude Akins. Ride Lonesome is somewhat surprising because the true villain, Frank, doesn't actually show up until the movie is almost over. So the script offers Sam Boone (Pernell Roberts) as an alternative. Lee Marvin's character is semi-psychotic in Seven Men From Now. He's truly evil. As a result, the characterization is somewhat simplistic (and thus Seven Men from Now is possibly the least satisfying of the Boetticher-Kennedy Westerns). Richard Boone in Tall T represents a more carefully considered version of this same character. He plays a sadist who cackles in delight when Randolph Scott picks up a hot coffee pot and burns himself. But he's also intelligent. He sees Scott as another version of himself, if he'd taken another road in this life. Their discussions form the basis of the movie. By necessity, Ride Lonesome splits this character in two. Lee Van Cleef plays the outlaw Frank, who comes to rescue his no-good brother Billy John, while Pernell Roberts plays the outlaw who questions the road he once took in life and now looks to change his ways. While Brigade's laconic nature makes him difficult to know and understand, the villains steal the spotlight. In Horizons West, Jim Kitses says about the typical Boetticher villain, "We understand him in a way we cannot the hero--and the films stand finally as celebrations of this character who attempts to create action in a way that Scott cannot."

Interestingly, in Ride Lonesome, Van Cleef's villain isn't simply an evil gunslinger; Frank's face is marked by the frustration of being called by Brigade to atone for a crime he committed many years ago--the murder of Brigade's wife. Frank is older and wiser now, but Brigade is on a revenge mission, regardless of the years or miles involved.

About his own situation, Sam Boone says, "There are some things a man just can't ride around." These same words function as the mantra of Kennedy and Boetticher's scripts. Life is filled with obstacles, and while some of these obstacles can be simply avoided by taking different paths, some obstacles must be confronted head-on. As a result, Kennedy and Boetticher's Western world is a world of isolation, a world where men must grapple with these obstacles in relative isolation--for they are both physical and moral obstacles--and then live with the consequences. As Jim Kitses says of Boetticher's world, life is "a tough, amusing game which can never be won but must be played."

The isolation for Ben Brigade that comes at the end of the movie is typical of Boetticher's movies. After taking revenge upon Frank, Brigade's mission is nearly complete. He surrenders Billy John to Boone and Whit, who ride off together toward Santa Cruz, with Mrs. Lane in tow as a possible partner for Boone. But Brigade stands alone. He had lured Frank to the site of his wife's death--a hanging tree. Now, Brigades watches as the tree burns. With the symbol of his quest now destroyed, Brigade is free. But Boetticher doesn't allow Brigade to be part of the happy ending. He remains in isolation.

While John Ford made rituals part of civilization's encroachment upon wilderness--parties, dances, funerals, weddings, etc.--Boetticher uses rituals for personal significance. The ritualistic burning of the tree takes place just for Brigade's benefit. This underscores the difference between the world of Ford and Boetticher. Ford's world grapples with the role of society and its effects upon the men we call heroes. Boetticher's world discards these notions altogether. Life is a personal struggle--to be faced fundamentally alone.

After Ride Lonesome, Boetticher made one more movie with Kennedy, Scott, and producer Harry Joe Brown, Comanche Station. He spent most of the rest of the '60s attempting to complete a movie about bullfighting, Arruza, and encountering numerous obstacles of his own--including divorce, bankruptcy, jail, illness, and even insanity. Eventually he completed the movie in 1968. After teaming with Audie Murphy, he made one last Western, A Time for Dying in 1969 (also producer Harry Joe Brown's final movie).

Burt Kennedy's career was still young when he worked with Boetticher. After Comanche Station, Kennedy would move to the director's chair, but none of his own Westerns are as compelling as the ones he made with Boetticher and Scott. Meanwhile, Randolph Scott was very near the end his career. During these films with Boetticher, Scott's face (so debonair in his youth) had hardened like leather. With director Sam Peckinpah and follow actor Joel McCrea, he would make Ride the High Country in 1962, a mournful saga about the passing of the Old West. And then Scott retired. An era had come to an end.

Our Budd: Why Boetticher Is One Director Hardcore Western Fans And Cinephiles Can Agree On Glenn Kenny from The Auteurs

Ozus' World Movie Reviews (Dennis Schwartz)

FilmFanatic.org

Channel 4 Film

COMANCHE STATION

USA (74 mi) 1960 ‘Scope

Time Out

The last of the marvellous Westerns partnering Boetticher and Scott, beautifully scripted by Burt Kennedy and performed by a solid cast. Scott's the obsessive man, hunting these last ten years for a wife kidnapped by Comanches, who rescues instead another woman, only to find himself up against Akins and his reward-hungry sidekicks as he ferries her back to civilisation. With characters doomed from the start, it's a bleakly pessimistic film that gains warmth from gently ironic humour and a discreetly elegiac tone.

Chicago Reader (Dave Kehr)

The conclusion of Budd Boetticher's Randolph Scott western cycle (1960), and a worthy culmination, combining summary elements (it's the last word on Boetticher's revenge plot) and hints of further developments (in the ultimate purification and loneliness of Scott's revenge-seeking hero). The film is essentially a series of horseback and campfire conversations, in which the morally ambiguous characters size each other up and try to decide what best to do with the white woman (Nancy Gates) Scott has inadvertently rescued from the Indians. With Claude Akins and Skip Homeier. 74 min.

Channel 4 Film

The seventh, last and probably bleakest of the memorable Boetticher-Scott westerns made during the 1950s. Kennedy's screenplay typically provides a few moments of wry humour, but the story of Cody (Scott) relentlessly searching for his wife, abducted by Comanche Indians 10 years previously, darkens as it progresses. Unable to find her, he rescues other women. Having found Mrs Lowe (Gates), he heads for home, but their journey is interrupted in classic form (compare especially The Tall T) by three reward-hungry outlaws. The confrontation is not so much between good and evil as between moral rectitude and base instinct. Tight, menacing, sombre - a minor masterpiece.

Turner Classic Movies Bret Wood

Some of the most memorable American Westerns have come from the frequent collaboration of actor and director. Although not as well known as the works of John Wayne and John Ford, or James Stewart and Anthony Mann, the films made by actor Randolph Scott and director Oscar "Budd" Boetticher rank among the genre's finest creations. The last of seven films together (including Seven Men From Now, 1956 and The Tall T 1957), Comanche Station (1960), represents the full flowering of their collaboration, a rousing film that - in its taut 73 minutes - employs complex characters and finely-crafted narrative to explore the codes of honor and survival on the American frontier.

While many of the films of its decade tended to reshape the myths of the American West, Comanche Station honors the conventions and ideology of the traditional Western, without being trapped by its stereotypical elements.

Scott stars as Jefferson Cody, a bounty hunter of sorts who frequently ventures into hostile territories to retrieve women who have been captured by Native American warriors. After "purchasing" Nancy Lowe (Nancy Gates) from Comanches, Cody escorts her back to her husband to retrieve the $5,000 reward. En route to Lordsburg, they meet up with three gunmen who are fleeing a band of attacking Comanches. Ben Lane (Claude Akins), the leader of the trio, is also a bounty hunter, albeit one without a trace of conscience or sympathy. Riding in his shadow are Frank (Skip Homeier) and Dobie (Richard Rust), two inexperienced youths who follow Lane out of a thirst for adventure and lack of moral guidance. Mistrust and jealousy haunt the voyage of the five travelers, and it becomes clear that the greatest threat to their safety is neither the treacherous terrain nor the fierce Indians, but one another.

Behind the Scott/Boetticher collaboration are two men whose contributions cannot be underestimated. Harry Joe Brown produced five of these films, and brought in screenwriter Burt Kennedy, who penned five of the screenplays. It is a testament to Brown's abilities that he convinced Columbia Studios to back several of the films, at a time when very few high-profile Westerns were being theatrically released. The Western had been co-opted by television, which churned out numerous weekly installments of low-grade oaters, greatly contributing to the genre's decline.

But Boetticher's films were no ordinary Westerns. Comanche Station, in particular, is so finely observed that it rises above the status of mere shoot-'em-ups. The Scott/Boetticher Westerns forsake the bombast of the large-scale epic and the ribald comedy that flavor the films of John Ford or Howard Hawks. Instead, their films are low-key and tight-lipped, driven primarily by characters, and the deadly grudges that sometimes arise between them.

As portrayed by Scott, Cody carries himself with such quiet nobility that his strengths and virtue are established without acts of bravado, speeches or displays of emotion. Instead, his personality unfolds gradually and gracefully, more often than not through his stony yet expressive face and his weary but determined posture. In fact, ten minutes pass before Cody engages in any real dialogue in Comanche Station, and even then his words are spare and terse.

Much of Comanche Station was filmed in the northern California region of Lone Pine, near the foot of Mount Whitney. The mountainous accumulations of boulders, known as the Alabama Hills, figure prominently in the film, serving as the backdrop for the film's opening and closing scenes, as well as providing the arid, desolate battleground upon which Cody and Lane's grudges are resolved. "The great thing about Lone Pine is that you don't need to go anywhere else," Boetticher told writer Mike Dibb, "we had sand, desert, a river, mountains, all the volcanic structures, it's amazing....Kennedy and I just went from one place to another rewriting scenes to fit the rocks."

Another significant detail of the film's "natural production design" is a cross-shaped tree trunk that stands in a shallow riverbed. This same dead tree, transplanted from another location, figured prominently as the "hanging tree" in Boetticher, Scott, Kennedy and Brown's earlier collaboration: Ride Lonesome (1959).

Numerous Westerns have been filmed in the Lone Pine area, but Comanche Station seems utterly fresh, due largely to the unique perspectives discovered by Boetticher's calculating eye (and ear). For example, in several scenes, characters converse beneath shade trees as breezes stir the branches above them. While most filmmakers would have objected to the ambient noise and re-dubbed the dialogue in post-production, Boetticher allowed the sound of the gently rustling leaves to be recorded, endowing these scenes with a sense of serenity, a calm before the inevitable storm of violence that will ultimately end the conflict between Cody and Lane.

Senses of Cinema (Adrian Danks)

Epinions [Stephen O. Murray]

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams] also reviewing 7 MEN FROM NOW

Variety.com [Variety Staff]

Bogdanovich, Peter

All-Movie Guide bio by Lucia Bozzola

TCMDB profile by Turner Classic Movies

Film Reference comprehensive profile by John Baxter, updated by R. Barton Palmer

Guardian Article Back in the Picture, by Sam Delaney, November 20, 2004

Bogdanovich, Peter They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

Holder Overnight: Interview with Peter Bogdanovich by Peter Anthony Holder April 30, 1997, from CJAD AM, Montreal

The Connection Interview (Audio) Dick Gordon hosted radio show on WBUR in Boston (audio)

Pop Matters Interview by Cynthia Fuchs

TARGETS

USA (90 mi) 1968

Time Out

Karloff in effect plays himself as Byron Orlok, a horror star on the point of retiring, who suddenly confronts the reality of contemporary American horror in the form of a psychopathic sniper (O'Kelly) picking off anyone he can see with a vast artillery of weapons. Bogdanovich was given the money to make the film by Roger Corman, who also allowed him to use extensive footage from Corman's Poe movie The Terror in the sequences at the drive-in cinema where the confrontation takes place. The result is a fascinatingly complex commentary on American mythology, exploring the relationship between the inner world of the imagination and the outer world of violence and paranoia, both of which were relevant to contemporary American traumas. It was Bogdanovich's first film, and despite his subsequent success, he has yet to come up with anything half as remarkable.

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

What Roger Corman said was, “I want you to take twenty minutes of Boris Karloff footage from The Terror, then I want you to shoot twenty more minutes with Boris... and then I want you to shoot another forty minutes with some other actors over ten days. I can take the twenty and the twenty and the forty and I’ve got a whole new eighty-minute Karloff film. What do you say?”
"Sure.”
--Peter Bogdanovich

More than three and a half decades after its initial (unsuccessful) release, Targets remains a cracking, entertaining and thoroughly original thriller. And, if that wasn't enough, it also stands as a terrific inspiration to any aspiring film-maker - especially one lucky enough, like Bogdanovich, to work underneath a producer like Roger Corman.

Except there never really has been anyone in Hollywood - or anywhere else - like Corman, whose ad-hoc 'film-school' nurtured the likes of Scorsese, Coppola, Sayles and Jonathan Demme. While each of those auteurs came up with promising work for Corman, Targets remains the one masterpiece to have emerged under the producer's direct auspices. Because while severe budgetary and time limitations almost always compromised even the most talented directors' artistic visions, Bogdanovich managed to turn these 'restrictions' into strengths.

Working with a Fassbinderish speed and intensity, he wrote and shot the whole thing in less than three weeks for a reported $125,000. His use of Karloff is especially ingenious - resulting in arguably the horror veteran's most powerful screen performance in what may be his finest ever film. The eighty-year-old Karloff plays himself in all but name as 'Byron Orlok,' an eighty-year-old horror veteran who stuns his producer by announcing his retirement: what use, he asks, are the old-style celluloid shockers in a world so full of actual horrors? This comes as especially bad news to Sammy (Bogdanovich), the hotshot young director who'd hoped to provide Orlok with fresher material via a script set in a recognisably real world.

As Orlok mulls over Sammy's proposal, he agrees to one last personal appearance - at a drive-in cinema where his latest release is to be premiered. It's here that Orlok comes face to face with real-life bloodshed in the form of Bobby (Tim O'Kelly), a psychotic sniper who lurks behind the screen, picking off audience members with his rifle...

One of the first American films to tackle the problem of gun violence head-on - made when Michael Moore was still in short trousers - Targets is also way ahead of its time in terms of narrative: it soon becomes clear that the (untitled) script Sammy wants Orlok to appear in is Targets, the film we're watching unfold. Foreshadowing the likes of Wes Craven's New Nightmare and Being John Malkovich, Targets could be cited as one of the first serious post-modern films in the American cinema - just as the Karloff-Bogdanovich collaboration represents a passing of the torch from the 'old' Hollywood to the 'new.'

And it's entirely appropriate that Bogdanovich (although only a so-so actor here) should be the one on the receiving end of the transaction: out of all the directors of his era, he was the one most knowledgeable and admiring of, and in direct touch with, his 'golden-age' predecessors. Targets pays overt tribute to (among others) Hawks, Fuller and Hitchcock, but does so with a verve and economy that transcend mere pastiche. "All the great movies have been made," Sammy sighs - a statement which Targets goes on to emphatically disprove.

By concentrating his camera on the more humdrum corners of Hollywood, meanwhile, Bogdanovich's film stands alongside the likes of Point Blank, Memento and Punch-Drunk Love as incidental time-capsules charting the fascinating geography of backwater Los Angeles. Several scenes at the climactic drive-in have the rough edge of documentary, all the more poignant and affecting if you know that no trace of this particular (Reseda) drive-in now exists. Then again, perhaps this is appropriate in a film in which death and obsolescence are continual presences, hovering just around the next corner...

* quoted in How I Made a Hundred Movies in Hollywood and Never Lost a Dime (1990) by Roger Corman and Jim Jerome.

NB - if you can't see Targets on the big-screen, the 2003 DVD edition is strongly recommended. This features a very entertaining and informative director's commentary by Peter Bogdanovich, in which he pays moving tribute to Karloff and acknowledges the advice he received while making the film from luminaries like Hitchcock, Hawks and, most of all, Sam Fuller.

DVD Savant review Glenn Erickson

I saw Targets on a double bill with The Manchurian Candidate in 1973, at what was touted as a once-only screening: both films were at the time officially withdrawn from distribution. The Frankenheimer film was of course more impressive, but Peter Bogdanovich's premiere effort just happens to be one of the better director debuts of the 60s. Its concept is a clever critique of the place of Horror in the modern world, built around a terrific sunset role for screen legend Boris Karloff. Paramount's new DVD looks far better than the reamed print I saw, and is being sold at an amazing low price (to match Roman Polanski's The Tenant).

Seemingly happy gun enthusiast Bobby Thompson (Tim O'Kelly) tells his wife Ilene (Tanya Morgan) that he's feeling disturbed, but she hasn't time to hear him out. Aging horror film star Byron Orlock (Boris Karloff) reluctantly agrees to a public appearance at a drive-in, even though he's bitter and has announced his retirement. Their paths will eventually cross, as Tommy embarks on a wave of modern horror that outpaces anything in Orlock's old movies.

The classiest no-budget AIP film that AIP never released, Targets is literally one of those Roger Corman concoctions made from available found items: five days of Boris Karloff's time, and stock footage from The Terror, an earlier Corman feature that itself had been shot with 'extra' days owed by the great Karloff.

Although not billed, Roger Corman was the original producer, and for a director gave the nod to his ambitious acolyte Peter Bogdanovich, who at the time operated as a creative team with his wife Polly Platt. They concocted a brilliant movie idea from Corman's impossible recipie - make The Terror a film-within-a film, with Karloff more or less playing himself as an aging actor who comes face-to-face with a new kind of real-life horror. It's a screenwriting dodge worthy of Singin' in the Rain's Cosmo Brown.

Some of the details and story points were provided by Bogdanovich's friend Sam Fuller (Peter's idea of heaven was to hang out with famous directors 24-7), but the central material in Targets are modest but substantial scenes that might have come from a 30s script - the argument in the projection room, the drunk scene in Orlock's hotel. Bogdanovich himself plays a young director and doesn't embarass himself. You can tell that this ex-critic moviemaker wanted it all, the sooner the better.

The other half of the movie, the story of the mad sniper modeled on the Whitman Texas killings, is done in an impressive montage style that mixes silent masters with odd details. The introduction of the wholesome-looking Bobby Thompson (supposedly suggested by Fuller) is clean and precise, and there are excellent creative touches that must have thrilled Corman, such as the clever reveal of Thompson's suicide note in his final scene at home.

Bogdanovich and Platt make sure their sniper never has a motivation, never is explained in the slightest. He just flips and goes about his business, after a brief moment where he barely mentions a problem to his young wife. For all we know, the 'modern' streets of The San Fernando Valley and the drone of surf music on the radio are what have driven Bobby Thompson mad.

The production shows Bogdanovich out-doing Corman at his own guerrilla-filmmaking game. The scenes 'stolen' on the 405 freeway and Reseda Boulevard in the then much less dense Valley involve shenanigans like cars skidding off the shoulder and people pretending to be shot in clear view of other drivers. Bogdanovich's actors had to run for cover as soon as a shot was made, with the crew atop the water tower hiding at the approach of the curious California Highway Patrol. One motorcycle officer can be seen rushing to see what the disturbance is!

Polly Platt later did terrific work in Bogdanovich's 70s pictures, but here she has to cope with several sets that are barely adequate. The nightclub and Bobby's house look terribly phony, which in the case of the house adds to the weirdness of those scenes. Laslo Kovacs' budget camerawork is exceptionally good, even when a closeup cruise across the Thompson's floor reveals the carpet to be poorly-patched 'undercarpet' padding.

Bogdanovich gives himself an extended action scene for a conclusion, finishing out Boris Karloff's contractual obligation and disguising the fact that the barely-mobile star is barely shown. But he's there to tie up the two threads of the story in a very satisfying way.

All in all, Targets is that lucky kind of cheapie picture where even the padding seems part of the 'good stuff'. Bogdanovich uses details of the drive-in filling up and the projectionist at work, mundane material that tells us that violent action is on the way.

The Terror is part of this padding, but is also an essential part of the theme. We see a lot of the Karloff/Nicholson/Miller feature projected at the drive-in, which really isn't padding at all. We can tell it all works, when killer Thompson is confused by alternating visions of Karloff closing in on him - the figure on the screen, and the 'real' actor hobbling along on his cane. Surely Bogdanovich thought himself the cleverest guy in Hollywood, but in this brilliant moment, he justified the claim.

Bogdanovich doubles his own editor. He begins his show with a screech of a bird that comes out of nowhere, which might be an open nod to his hero's Citizen Kane.

Senses of Cinema (Andre Speldewinde)

Reverse Shot [Michael Joshua Rowin]

Turner Classic Movies John M. Miller

DVD Outsider Slarek

eFilmCritic Reviews Paul Bryant

Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick)

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Mark Zimmer)

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

DVD Crypt [Mike Long]

Classic-Horror.com Chris Justice

PopMatters Stephen Tropiano

DVD Verdict Bill Treadway

Monsters At Play Carl Lyon

Eccentric Cinema Lyle Horowitz

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

Film Freak Central Review [Bill Chambers]

VideoVista Tony Lee

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson)

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams] also reviewing PAPER MOON

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray] also reviewing WHAT’S UP, DOC? PAPER MOON, and DAISY MILLER

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Howard Thompson)

DVDBeaver.com - Review [Gary W. Tooze]

THE LAST PICTURE SHOW A 95

USA (118 mi) 1971 director’s cut (126 mi)

A darkly layered melancholic film adapted from the Larry McMurtry novel which has the true ring of authenticity stamped over every frame of the film, and don’t we wish films could be this refreshingly honest today, particularly the inhibitions to tell the truth about sex? Featuring a first rate cast, set in a small windblown west Texas town where you either work for the oil industry or you don’t work at all, where there’s next to nothing to do, so the entire town comes out to support the local high school football team every week and then lives or dies with their efforts. Filmed by Robert Surtees in Black and White, the town looks worn out and lived in before anything happens, where the flatness of the land extends in all directions beyond the horizon, where there is the feeling of no escape from this predicament where the same thing is likely to happen week after week. Only death brings change, as otherwise humans are tiny specks on the landscape. Seen through the eyes of high school kids who haven’t a clue what to expect other than a grilled cheeseburger with onions and a coke, the older ones around them, in contrast, have seen it all. They can look out into an endless patch of land that probably looks no different than it did a hundred years ago and speak of how it is all changing, how time feels faster, how the world is closing in on them making them feel squeezed when there used to be wide open empty spaces. They’re not really talking about the land, but the person standing there observing how life has changed, how in their youth everything felt possible, they could feel wild and carefree, but nowadays by the time you’re out of high school, your future is set. There won’t be any other possibilities, and it’s going to be that way for the rest of your life, where only death will change the inevitable.

Anarene (filmed on location in Wichita Falls and Archer City, Texas) is a small, dusty town of a little over a thousand with a diner and a pool hall that never seem to close, and a single run down movie theater that plays old classic movies where an old woman, the lone employee, struggles to make popcorn. A clue as to why they’re in this predicament on the verge of closing down is they don’t charge much more than a quarter. This is an era where radio is still king, where Bob Wills and Hank Williams reign supreme, the late 40’s and early 50’s, before most of the residents in town even own a television set. Boys work in the oil business or join the army after high school, while girls get married. That’s just the way it was then. Somehow, it felt simpler and less complicated, but people faced the same problems then as they do today. Timothy Bottoms plays Sonny Crawford, a sweet kid with a kind heart, while his best friend Duane (Jeff Bridges) is an oil roughneck with slick, greasy hair and a volatile temper. Like some kind of Peyton Place soap opera, Duane is going with the richest, prettiest girl in town, Jacy, Cybill Shepherd in her film debut, who is spot on as the spoiled brat with a charming smile who is used to getting whatever she wants by going into her helpless routine, a sex tease who can change the way a man thinks with the batting of an eye. After a worn out relationship with a girl dies of disinterest, Sonny hasn’t really got anyone except Duane. Ellen Burstyn as Jacy’s mother is one of the best things in this film, as she married the richest man for miles and is miserable, but she knows Duane is not the right kind of guy for Jacy, which is the only reason she’s with him in the first place. Clu Gulager plays Abilene, a pool shark who works for Jacy’s father, a man with a love for money and women and is usually mixed up with one or the other. Ben Johnson from the old John Ford westerns plays Sam, the grizzled old owner of most of the town’s establishments who has the decency to employ Billy (Sam Bottoms, Timothy’s real brother), a mentally challenged young boy who spends his futile time sweeping the dust from the sidewalks and the streets. Sonny is the only other kid in town who takes a liking to Billy, who worships him because of it. Eileen Brennan runs the diner with an iron fist, but is a soft touch with a no nonsense veneer, while Cloris Leachman as Ruth Popper is a revelation in this film, playing the eternally sad wife of a high school coach who is rejuvenated when she has a secret affair with Sonny that the entire town somehow knows about. Every one of these performances is something to rave about, all remarkably contribute to the overall tone of authenticity, as these characters feel lived in like a comfortable pair of old shoes. Somehow it all works.

This film is as much about the teenage kids as it is about their all but absent or missing parents, whose empty lives they are about to fill, which is a sad truth about isolated small towns where money remains in the hands of a privileged few and everyone else suffers. Jacy plays just about every guy in town, each move more calculated and self-centered than the next, but she gets away with it, making everyone else around her miserable. There are a couple brilliant scenes in this film, the town Christmas party with all of its ramifications, Sonny kisses Ruth for the first time as he’s helping her take out the garbage and Jacy leaves Duane for a rich kids naked pool party where first time initiates must strip naked on the diving board while everybody watches, which Sybill deftly handles, both the first and second times Jacy and Duane have sex in a motel room, both of which are comical, where he’s still talking about it to her as they’re singing the state song of Texas at their graduation ceremony, Sam’s personal confessions to Sonny out at the lake, one of the turning points of the film which won him an Academy Award, or my favorite, when Sonny’s crazy enough to fall for Jacy’s scheme to get married, alerting her parents so they barely get past the state line, only to lose her forever when her father snatches her away for good and Sonny has to ride back to town with Jacy’s sympathetic mother and a flask of bourbon, where for one brief moment in time the balance of adulthood and childhood are perfectly in tune with one another, and finally Sonny’s visit to Ruth at the end which resonates with a kind of fury that’s been missing in this film, where someone has hell to pay, but which turns on a dime and becomes one of the more eloquent transformations of damaged souls crying out in muted pain. This film is brilliantly written, so much of it understated, perfectly capturing that moment in time when a child is no longer a child anymore, where they have become who they are without even realizing it, still clueless perhaps about themselves and their future, but they are the living embodiment of heartbreak as time has literally begun to pass them by.

Time Out

Bogdanovich may have proved a wayward disappointment, but along with Targets this is a reminder that somewhere inside him the man has talent. Adapted from Larry McMurtry's novel, it tells of the problems of adolescence in a small roadside town in 1950s Texas. Sexual intrigue, the disillusionment of growing up, and gentle humour are common enough in many similar films. But where Bogdanovich scores is in his accurate depiction of period and place, so detailed as to be almost tangible, and in the unbridled sympathy he extends to his characters. The closing of the local cinema signifies the end of both personal and historical eras, but characteristically its function is never that of forced symbolism. In fact, the nostalgia for a simpler, quieter age is equally conveyed by the style of the film, which recalls nothing so much as the emotionally draining dramas of John Ford. Superb performances all round add to the charm of this fine, if now unfashionable film.

User comments from imdb Author: Dennis Littrell (dalittrell@yahoo.com) from SoCal

In this nostalgic, atmospheric study of small town life in the fifties as seen a decade later, filmed on location in Wichita Falls and Archer City, Texas (from a novel by the incomparable Larry McMurtry), the force of slow, inevitable change is symbolized in the showing of the last picture at the local movie house. That last picture show, incidentally, is Howard Hawks' celebrated Western, Red River (1948) starring John Wayne and Montgomery Clift.

Well, the movie houses came back to life as multiplexes charging eight bucks a pop, but the Western movie died out, and the boys watching that movie went their separate ways into manhood.

Peter Bogdanovich's direction is episodic and leisurely, naturalistic with just a hint of the maudlin. We get a sense of the North Texas prairie wind blowing through a cattle town where there is not a lot to do and a whole lot of time to do it. Hungry women and a sense of drift. Boredom, gray skies and a lot of dust. You could set `Anarene, Texas' down any place in southwestern or midwestern America, circa 1951, and you wouldn't have to change much: a main drag, a Texaco gas station, a café, a feed store, flat lands all around, old pickup trucks and a pool hall, youngsters with a restless yearning to grow up, drinking beer out of brown bottles giggling and elbowing each other in the ribs, and the old boys playing dominoes and telling tales of bygone days.

Robert Surtees's stark, yet romantic black and white cinematography, captures well that bygone era. The wide shot of the bus pulling out, taking Duane off to the Korean War with Sonny watching, standing by the Texaco station with the missing letter in the sign, was a tableau in motion, a moment stopped in our minds.

Cybill Shepherd made her debut here as Jacy Farrow, a bored little rich girl playing at love and sexuality. Part of the restorations in the video not shown in theaters in the early seventies includes some footage of her in the buff after stripping on a diving board (!). She is as shallow as she is pretty, and one of the reasons for seeing this film, although in truth her performance, while engaging, was a little uneven.

The rest of the cast was outstanding, in particular Timothy Bottoms whose Sonny Crawford is warm and forgiving, sweet and innocent. Jeff Bridges's Duane Jackson is two-faced, wild and careless, self-centered and probably going to die in Korea. Ben Johnson and Cloris Leachman deservedly won Oscars as best supporting actors. Leachman was especially good as the lonely 40-year-old wife of the football coach who has an awkward affair with the 18-year-old Sonny, while Johnson played a lovable, crusty guy that the kids looked up to. Sam Bottoms played the retarded Billy with steady, tragic good humor. Ellen Burstyn as Jacy's terminally bored mother, and Eileen Brennan as the wise waitress with a hand on her hip were also very good.

Memorable, but perhaps too obviously insertional, are the medley of country, pop, and rock and roll tunes from the late forties/early fifties jingling out of car radios and 45 record players throughout the film.

Peter Bogdanovich followed this with some hits, including the comedy What's Up Doc (1972) with Barbra Streisand, Ryan O'Neal, and Madeline Kahn, and the excellent Paper Moon (1973) with Ryan and Tatum O'Neal, but then tailed off. I don't think he ever lived up to the promise of this film, an American classic not to be missed.

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

The Last Picture Show more than lives up to its exalted reputation as an American masterpiece: achingly beautiful, strikingly confident and piercingly mature. But this is a puzzling kind of greatness, because the film stands so far above anything else in Bogdanovich’s long career. His debut Targets (1969), was a promisingly original, economical thriller – but Picture Show is a quantum leap forward, all the more baffling considering the largely unsatisfactory titles that followed, reaching a nadir (let’s hope) with the shoddily inept The Cat’s Meow (2001).

Peter Bart’s book Easy Riders, Raging Bulls suggests Bogdanovich’s success depended on his collaboration with then-lover Polly Platt – who apparently acted as a virtual co-director for all Picture Show’s scenes (their romantic and professional partnership ended when Bogdanovich left Platt for his star, Cybill Shepherd). Platt was also heavily involved in the adaptation of Larry McMurtry’s source novel – for which she’s credited along with McMurtry and Bogdanovich. While New Yorker Bogdanovich reportedly struggled to ‘get’ the novel’s small-town atmosphere, Platt responded much more strongly, having herself been brought up in an out-of-the-way spot very similar to McMurtry’s fictional Anarene, Texas.

This perhaps explains the film’s utterly believable evocation of this tiny, one-street settlement in the early fifties. Best friends Sonny (Timothy Bottoms) and Duane (Jeff Bridges) are leaving school and facing up to adult responsibilities. Lacking strong father figures, they turn to wise mentor Sam (Ben Johnson), who operates three of the town’s main businesses, including the fleapit cinema. The boys’ friendship is tested when both fall for local beauty Jacy (Shepherd), and Sonny’s relationship with Jacy causes him to neglect his on-off affair with the wife (Cloris Leachman) of his basketball coach. When Sam suddenly dies (off-screen, like many key events) Anarene rapidly hits the skids – its sudden decline symbolised most powerfully by the movie-house’s demise.

First-time viewers of The Last Picture Show are, however, often surprised by how late in the day the closure of the cinema actually happens. It comes very sudden, very near the end, hardly mentioned at all until it’s almost over – and is explicitly the direct result of Sam’s lousy judgement. He leaves the running of the Royal to the old woman who operates the concessions stand, and her lack of cinema-management experience means no-one is surprised when the enterprise goes belly-up soon after. This isn’t the only example of Sam’s blundering – he leaves his pool-hall to Sonny (who proves unable to make it pay) and a considerable sum of money to one of Sonny’s school-mates, who soon after is disgraced after kidnapping a small girl with apparently paedophile intent.

But Sam’s death, regardless of his will’s disastrous consequences, is clearly the end of an era – and not just for Anarene. For Bogdanovich, Platt and McMurtry, it symbolises the death of a noble cinematic tradition – their film is, among many other things, a farewell to the Western genre with which Johnson was so closely associated. Bart identifies the 1969 Oscars, where Midnight Cowboy beat True Grit for Best Picture, as the transitional moment when Old Hollywood gave way to the New - and emphasises how strongly Bogdanovich and Platt ‘rooted’ for True Grit. The Last Picture Show can be read as a direct consequence of that defeat – its tone is elegaic, grim, often depressingly bleak, very anti-nostalgic, in fact.

The film is like the flip-side of American Graffiti, George Lucas’s gaudy-neon, energetic blast of rock-fuelled early-sixties Californian nostalgia. Impressive as it is, Lucas’s romp seems adolescent and puny alongside The Last Picture Show, shot in timeless black-and-white by cinematographer Robert Surtees: when Sonny looks over the Anarene skyline by night, clouds hovering in the dark sky, it’s one of the most lyrical landscape shots in American movies. Time after time, everything comes brilliantly together: the visuals, the remarkable, restrained use of period music, and the performances by the large cast.

But, despite the strength-in-depth of the ensemble (Johnson and Leachman won Oscars, Ellen Burstyn was nominated, Eileen Brennan steals her scenes as a waitress), this is very much Bottoms’ picture – the fact that he never became as big a star as either Bridges or Shepherd (or even Randy Quaid, who pops up in a small part) seems to have resulted in a downplaying of his contribution to Picture Show’s success. This could perhaps be called ‘Wahlberg Syndrome’ after the way that, when audiences and critics talk about Boogie Nights, everybody mentions the supporting players but ignore the central performance around which the whole constellation revolves.

Bottoms has to pretty much carry the whole movie – he’s in nearly every sequence – and does so, culminating in the highly emotional finale where he visits the half-forgotten Leachman, who proceeds to unleash all her pent-up fury. It’s a lacerating display of anger – but even more impressive is the way the scene ends with a lengthy sequence involving hardly any dialogue, just these two damaged people sitting at a kitchen table: “Never you mind, never you mind,” she says. On paper, it doesn’t sound like much of a closing line. On celluloid, it’s poetry.

David Gardiner

Anarene, Texas, population 1131, is a no-account, dying township near Wichita Falls. The truck drivers don't slow down as they pass through it. A few old-timers live there, a few well-off employees of an oil company, a few wayward kids who've left home and gone into lodgings to get away from their folks, a few schoolteachers and their families, a young boy with a mental handicap - in short, the same kind of people who live everywhere else. This is Hicksville, Texas, and the year is 1951. It is solidly located in time and space, so real that we can almost smell it, feel the chill wind that sandblasts the buildings as it rips across the flat featureless West Texas plains, but the time and place don't matter because what the lm deals with applies to all times and to all places.

Sonny Crawford (Timothy Bottoms) is Everyman. He wants to be a good person, to be able to like himself, but he is weak, corruptible, easily deflected onto what he knows is the lower path. When we first meet him he has an enormous amount still to learn. He has to learn that actions have consequences, that other people have feelings and that when you trample on them they (and ultimately you) get hurt, that relationships create expectations and responsibilities, that the demands of kindness outweigh those of immediate sexual gratification: in short, what it is to be human. As the film unfolds, we see him grow into a decent, considerate human being despite all the forces pulling him in other directions. The triumph of the film's ending is that he doesn't run away from the things that he has done, he turns the pick-up truck around and goes back to face Ruth (Cloris Leachman), and more importantly himself. The heart-rending, inarticulate confrontation between Sonny and Ruth that ends the film is one of the all-time high-points of American cinema. This is how a film that seems at times unrelentingly downbeat and pessimistic can actually uplift and send you from the theatre believing that better is possible of human beings, that all is not hopelessness.

This is a shocking film: not because of nudity, or anything to do with sexuality or violence, but because of honesty. Instead of glossing-over those parts of all our lives that we would prefer to deny and/or forget, "The Last Picture Show" selects them out as its subject matter and places them before us without compromise, without moralising, without means of escape.

Some commentators have been inclined to blame the town itself and the crushing boredom of existence there for the moral shortcomings of its citizens, to over-stress the importance of a particular way of life and a particular moment in the history of the United States, as if people would behave better if there was more to do, more to aspire to, a greater variety of potential partners. Personally I think that this misses the point. The details of people's "lives of quiet desperation" would of course be different in another situatiuon, but whether in Anarene or Beverley Hills, Barcelona or Bangkok people have much the same choices to make as to how they are going to treat one another, much the same needs and wants and much the same opportunities to behave decently and achieve self-respect or to behave wretchedly and forfeit it. The town simply supplies a stage for the unfolding of completely universal aspects of human behaviour. It is the universality of the material that gives it its bite, that makes it at times downright uncomfortable. Which one of us has not, at some time or another, acted shamefully and tried to cover it up afterwards? Which of us has not experienced the mind-numbing clumsiness and embarrassment of early sexual encounters and lied about them?

It would be time-consuming to summarise all of the plots and sub-plots of "The Last Picture Show" and really they are not crucial to the film: the two central aspects are character and atmosphere.

We are introduced to Sam the Lion (Ben Johnson), the grizzled old cowboy who has settled down in Anarene and lives a lot in his own romantic version of the past, while providing a father-figure and role-model for some of the town's rootless teenagers; Ruth Popper, the neglected and near-suicidal wife of the High School football coach, who longs for some kind of affection and adventure in her empty life before she grows too old to enjoy it; Jacey Farrow (Cybill Shepherd) the pretty, self-centred, manipulative and spiteful teenager who comes from a family where this is the norm; Duane Jackson (Jeff Bridges) the aspiring High School football hero desperate to prove his manhood, full of pent-up violence and resentment which eventually find an outlet in signing-up to fight in Korea; and many, many more, each one of them a fully-rounded, believable human being without an ounce of carricature or exaggeration to mar their plausibility. Just look at the way the characters interact asnd spark off one another. Look at the relationship between Jasey and her mother, or between Sonny and his first lacklustre girlfriend Charlene Duggs (Sharon Taggart). Peter Bogdanovich must have made a pact with the Devil to extract performances of this level from all (yes, absolutely all) of his cast.

As well as the human actors and actresses the town itself is a major player in the drama. Bleak, windswept, tatty and dying it seems to stand for the emotional void in the characters' lives, and also for the end of an age of youth and innocence that has been outgrown, both in the individual lives of the protagonists and in America itself. The Royal Cinema presents flickering escapist fantasies, like "Father of the Bride" (the 1950 version) based on a sentimental and tacky representation of family life that bears no resemblance to anything in the real experience of the people watching it; and "Red River", a 1948 Howard Hawks cowboy movie in which John Wayne stands in for Sam the Lion in his particular fantasy of what Texas used to be. It is all myth and fairytale, it has nothing to do with what life is really like, and in the end it too is taken away - the cinema closes down: the time has come to stand on one's own two feet, the picture show is over.

If it is ever for a moment suggested that film is an inferior art-form to the novel or the play, "The Last Picture Show" provides all the counter-argument that one could possibly require.

I would recommend that you see this film first when you are about seventeen years old, again at about twenty-five, and then at intervals of about a decade for the rest of your life. On each occasion you will see a different film, an even better one than you saw the time before.

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Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times Roger Ebert in 1971

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times Roger Ebert in 2004

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

DIRECTED BY JOHN FORD

USA (99 mi) 1971 restored longer version (110 mi) in 2006

User comments from imdb Author: blanche-2 from United States

John Ford is one of our greatest American directors, and he is profiled in this 1971 documentary that features a hilarious interview with the man himself (Interviewer: How did you shoot that scene? Ford: With a camera) and actors who worked with him many times over the years: John Wayne, James Stewart, Henry Fonda, and Maureen O'Hara. Narrated by Orson Welles, prominent directors talk about his influence on cinema and his gifts as a director: Martin Scorcese, Peter Bogdanovich, Steven Spielberg, and Clint Eastwood.

The most fascinating part of this documentary was the discussion - with clips - of how the master framed his shots like a painter, and the scenes shown were truly stunning. The end of the documentary speaks to his sentimentality, belief in an afterlife and the family, demonstrated with heartwrenching scenes from "The Searchers," "How Green was My Valley," and others.

Finally there was a taped meeting between Katharine Hepburn and Ford in the year he died. The two had a great connection and perhaps even a relationship. It is most fascinating, particularly when Ford's son leaves the room and mistakenly leaves the tape recorder on.

Excellent all the way around.

The New York Times (Roger Greenspun)

In any reasonable list of the world's greatest filmmakers, John Ford will place in the top dozen. Among Americans, he belongs with Griffith and Hawks. Some attempt to measure Ford's achievement has now been made in "Directed by John Ford," a movie by Peter Bogdanovich, which played last night in the New York Film Festival at the Vivian Beaumont Theater.

Bogdanovich has also done a very useful interview book on Ford — along with books on Fritz Lang and Allan Dwan: and many magazine articles; and a couple of feature films, including "The Last Picture Show," and several superb retrospective programs on American directors, which he began at such an early age that one assumes he transferred directly from kindergarten to the Museum of Modern Art. He is especially qualified to handle Ford on film, and in certain respects he has succeeded very well.

"Directed by John Ford" begins with a film quotation, one of the loveliest moments in "The Searchers" (1956), and then goes on to an initial segment of interviews—with James Stewart, John Wayne, Henry Fonda and a marvelously uncooperative John Ford himself.

There are illustrative passages out of Ford movies from "Straight Shooting" (1917) to "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance" (1962), along with a modest and genuinely intelligent narration read by Orson Welles. Through all this, the film is workmanlike, amusing, instructive and put together with the kind of tact and freedom that illustrates the value of having a real movie-maker make the movie.

But then the film proceeds to tie Ford's work to the chronicle of this country, so much of which it does indeed record, and "Directed by John Ford" begins to take on a certain piety and to lose a bit of its purpose. I can understand the temptation to read Ford's history in terms of American history, but I think it is a temptation worth resisting. Ford's development cuts across American history at several angles and over several decades, and if he is often able to use that history as dramatic material, he is also often able not to.

Its almost exclusive concern with one aspect of Ford's themes may be the reason that the film ignores some of Ford's most recent and most beautiful work, such as "Donovan's Reef" (1963) and "7 Women" (1966), and ignores the significant fact that with such films this major living American director has lately been pretty much relegated to neighborhood theater openings, to obscure double bills and to the kind of critical indifference that the intellectual media commonly reserve for our greatest movie artists at their greatest.

It is a point worth considering, and I wish it had been considered somehow, just as I wish that less of Ford's epic sweep and more of his intimate grace had been included in the film clips. But I cannot quibble too much with any selection from this director. And at times, as when the Southern military school boys march out to do battle in "The Horse Soldiers" (1959), I am moved literally to tears by "Directed by John Ford."

Turner Classic Movies

FilmFanatic.org

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young] Torino report : review of film's 2006 version

WHAT’S UP DOC

USA (94 mi) 1972

Time Out

A homage to Hollywood screwball comedy that by and large gets its pace and cartoon/slapstick timings right, this began life with a call from Bogdanovich (hot from the Hawksian Last Picture Show) to screenwriting team Robert Benton and David Newman (even hotter from Bonnie and Clyde): 'I've got a deal with Streisand and O'Neal, and no script. I want to do a remake of Bringing Up Baby, and we can do it just like that'. A remake it's not, but the spirit of Hawks (and of Preston Sturges and Frank Tashlin) survived two rapid drafts from Benton & Newman and a polish from Buck Henry, to infuse the misalliance of absent-minded musicologist O'Neal and all-purpose kook Streisand with about the right amount of madcap frenzy.

What's Up, Doc? Jonathan Rosenbaum from the Reader

Peter Bogdanovich's bright 1972 screwball comedy, patterned after Bringing Up Baby and decked out with lots of references to silent slapstick, plants dim musicologist Ryan O'Neal and freewheeling kook Barbra Streisand in San Francisco and then piles on the comic complications, with assistance from Madeline Kahn, Austin Pendleton, John Hillerman, Randy Quaid, and Kenneth Mars. Much of the slapstick is deftly executed, but there is one unfortunate undertone--ordinary, unassuming workers tend to be the fall guys more often than the pompous rich (a factor that distinguishes this comedy from most of Bogdanovich's classic sources), although O'Neal's character, who stays at the Hilton, certainly has his share of pratfalls. Streisand sings a fabulous version of "You're the Top" behind the credits, and the busy script by Buck Henry, Robert Benton, and David Newman keeps things moving, but the spirit of pastiche keeps this romp from truly rivaling its sources. G, 94 min.

Edinburgh U Film Society [Stephen Cox]

What's Up Doc? is a film so hysterically funny that it should be made freely available to everyone on the National Health Service. So should basic health care you might well retort. This cinematic anti-depressant - the filmic equivalent to Prozac - is one of the most skilful updates of thirties screwball comedy, particularly of Howard Hawks and especially Bringing Up Baby.

The plot revolves around four identical tartan suitcases containing secret government papers, a cache of jewels, a rock collection, and some personal items; and the ensuing entanglement of spies and thieves intent on stealing the contents of the suitcases but inevitably picking the wrong one. Caught up in the mandatory mayhem are absent minded musicologist Ryan O'Neal and wild eccentric Barbara Streisand (whom one unkind critic compared to a cross between an albino rat and an aardvark). The fast paced verbal wit and visual slapstick crescendoes into an incredible car chase through San Francisco, a mixture of Buster Keaton, Mack Sennett and the Road Runner cartoons with a dig at the jumping cars in Bullitt thrown in for good measure.

The pace of the film is quicker than a fast thing in a hurry but Bogdanovich balances out the screwball antics with some nicely understated character comedy: the hotel manager, and the judge in the final reel for example. The acting of the two leads is exemplary, especially O'Neal as the academic who's away with the fairies, but Streisand too is unusually likeable though at one point she bears an uncanny resemblance to Bugs Bunny. Although not as mind-bogglingly perfect as, say, Raising Arizona or Bringing Up Baby (the original and best) What's Up Doc? is guaranteed to have you in stitches.

"The script and cast are excellent, the direction and comedy staging are outstanding, and there are literally reels of pure, unadulterated and sustained laughs" - Variety

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Brilliant Observations on 1173 Films [Clayton Trapp]

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray] also reviewing TARGETS, PAPER MOON, and DAISY MILLER

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

PAPER MOON

USA (102 mi) 1973

Paper Moon Dave Kehr from the Reader

Peter Bogdanovich seems to have chosen John Ford's underrated Will Rogers vehicles of the 30s (Judge Priest, Steamboat 'Round the Bend) as the models for this 1973 Depression comedy; the images (by Laszlo Kovacs) have a lovely dusty openness--a realistic view of the midwestern flatlands fading into a romantic memory. Ryan O'Neal is a con man and Tatum O'Neal is the foundling who may or may not be his daughter. Though their relationship is conventionally drawn, it has a heart that Bogdanovich hasn't been able to recapture. With Madeline Kahn and John Hillerman. 102 min.

Time Out Geoff Andrew

A charming mixture of Hawksian comedy and Fordian lyricism imbues Bogdanovich's not-too-sentimental meeting-cute between a conman (Ryan O'Neal) busy bamboozling widows into buying bibles during the Depression, and the 9-year-old wily brat who may or may not be his daughter (Tatum O'Neal). Modern cynicism and efficient acting hold the potential mushiness at bay, and the pair's picaresque odyssey through the Kansas dustbowl, during which they vie for control over their increasingly bizarre partnership, is admirably served by Laszlo Kovacs' marvellous monochrome camerawork. After Targets and The Last Picture Show, Bogdanovich's best movie.

Brilliant Observations on 1173 Films [Clayton Trapp]

There was every reason to consider Ryan O'Neal to be in the Warren Beatty/Paul Newman league after this one, and Tatum O'Neal's debut has to be one of the most promising ever. Peter Bogdanovich shoots the Midwest, in black and white-on purpose I think, in a manner at once stark and lurid. Ryan's running the most cynical scam in the history of western civilization but the power of his performance is such that he's got the audience in his pocket immediately, perhaps because or in spite of his silly mustache. His facial expressions render the equally brilliant dialogue almost unnecessary. The scene between Tatum and Madeline Kahn, who really needs to go potty, shows Tatum's expressions generating power to compare to her father. The ultimate review of this movie would be a face that silently says that there's more to life than being good and respectable.

filmcritic.com Christopher Null

Has the Depression ever been this much fun?

Tatum O'Neal's celebrated (and Oscar-winning) turn as the daughter of a traveling grifter (played by dad Ryan O'Neal) is reason number one to watch the film, but dad's not too shabby, either. Their story is a pretty simple one: Con man Moses (Ryan) finds himself the sole caretaker of otherwise orphaned daughter Addie (Tatum). He can't pawn her off, but soon finds her pulling her own weight as she helps size up rubes as part of his scam: selling "deluxe" Bibles to the widows of the recently deceased. Eventually dad and daughter move on to bigger crimes and more amusing hijinks, including a stint with dad falling for a bawdy lounge singer (Madeline Kahn) and the duo nearly getting busted for bootlegging whisky.

Shot in high-contrast black and white, director Peter Bogdanovich (he made this film following The Last Picture Show) crafts a gorgeous look at the dusty midwest that rivals the same era's appearance in The Grapes of Wrath. The dialogue is snappy, reminiscent of a peppery comedian's patter, and the acting from the leads is natural and engaging. O'Neal plays the tomboyish girl you'd love to have in your own family: whipsmart, cute, and all too wise in the ways of the world.

Paper Moon is perpetually underrated as a saccharine and minor work in Bogdanovich's oeuvre, but don't let the detractors get you down. It's a loving and very sweet movie, but the way it treats family relationships and slyly questions the degree to which we'll do anything in order to take care of our own makes it truly priceless.

The new DVD adds a few retrospective featurettes plus a commentary from Bogdanovich, wherein he explains how a book called Addie Pray became a film called, of all things, Paper Moon.

digitallyOBSESSED! [Joel Cunningham]

eFilmCritic Reviews Paul Bryant

Kamera.co.uk [Tim Applegate]

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Read the complete review for Paper Moon TV Guide

Turner Classic Movies Behind the camera with Scott McGee

Turner Classic Movies The idea behind the film

Turner Classic Movies The essentials by Jeff Stafford

Turner Classic Movies Trivia and quotes from the film

Turner Classic Movies critical reviews

DVD Verdict [Bill Treadway]

George Chabot's Review

Classic Film Guide (capsule)

All Movie Guide [Brendon Hanley]

Edwin Jahiel

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray] also reviewing TARGETS, WHAT’S UP, DOC? and DAISY MILLER

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams] also reviewing TARGETS

Exclaim! [Kathleen Olmstead] also reviewing TARGETS and DAISY MILLER

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

Bognar, Steven and Julia Reichert

A LION IN THE HOUSE

USA (225 mi) 2006

By Michael Koresky A Lion in the House, from Cinema Scope

Normal critical faculties are dwarfed in the face of something like A Lion in the House, though such phrasing already contains a fallacy: there has never been anything “like” A Lion in the House. Anyone who sees Julia Reichert and Steven Bognar’s monumental documentary will remark on its “scope,” its “expansiveness”—and by implication, its length. Yet there would be no other way for this film to exist: the feeling of time passing over Lion’s four-hour and six-year duration is what makes its every emotional rumbling hit with the force of a hurricane. Yet as with any great nonfiction film, it’s the little moments that remain fixed in the memory; in this case, they lodge like shrapnel. Just one week after seeing—rather, bearing witness to—A Lion in the House, I had a bit of an emotional breakdown when I recalled what for me has become the defining image of Reichert and Bognar’s epic journey: little Alex Lougheed, no more than seven years old, after months of treatment for childhood lymphoma in Cincinnati’s Children’s Hospital Medical Center, is finally released to go home. One eye swollen shut from infection, one cheek puffed out in bruised lumps, tears streaming down her face, Alex wails in front of the camera with apparent agony. When asked what’s wrong, the tiny, fragile, yet stunningly resilient Alex responds, through choked cries and hiccups, that she’s happy. Happy to be going back home, to be rejoining her whole family, to be relieved, if only for a moment, of the monotony and pain and procedure of her medical treatment—surely too conflicted an emotion for a seven-year-old to have to express.

The sadness of the scene might not seem particularly hard-won for a filmmaker, so inherently devastating is the subject matter. Yet thanks to all the hours of footage, all the years of large heartaches and small triumphs and trials that have come before, we know Alex intimately. The bright-eyed, good-natured girl who has had to readjust to school over and over because she’s missed so much time for treatment; who had maintained an inspiringly positive outlook amidst so much pain; who had been given the Cutest Personality award at summer camp. Through interviews, confessionals, fly-on-the-wall moments of personal drama, she has become a member of our extended family. Through the camera, she belongs to us.

This is where A Lion in the House both demolishes all notions of documentary aesthetics as well as reinforces the intrinsic value and the unique nature of film itself as an instrument of inquiry, compassion, and memorial. The film is so steadfast in its determination to document the suffering of others, as it’s being lived, now, here, every day, behind millions of closed doors in seemingly placid neighborhoods, that it almost feels intrusive—not to its subjects, but to us as viewers. Exiting the theater after such a headlong dive into our own fears brings not sadness, however, but elation and a sense of connectedness. It’s a confrontation with death, but it heralds something that even our greatest, most layered and symbolic fictions, like Atom Egoyan’s The Sweet Hereafter (1997) or Lynne Littman’s Testament (1983), could never manage. This is not something as simple as “truth” or “reality” or any other doc catchwords—A Lion in the House is nothing less than a work of towering human empathy, and goes further in uniting its audience in one conjoined emotional experience than any other film I’ve ever seen.

A casual, dismissive wave of the hand could relegate Lion to the status of a “cancer doc,” and that it focuses exclusively on the inhabitants (rarely interacting but obviously aware of each other’s participation in the film) of Cincinnati’s Children’s Hospital, overseen by the eminently compassionate, avuncular, Camus-quoting Dr. Robert Arceci, could also lead the skeptical to believe its primary function is as a hospital teaching tool. Yet as much as the film could benefit those who are battling disease, or who must watch a loved one’s body deteriorate, A Lion in the House might be most valuable to those who have yet to come face to face with the death of a loved one. With a marvelously measured editing rhythm and an accumulation of details that builds to beautifully spaced out emotional catharses, Reichert and Bognar present their five main families, from different races and income brackets, not as case studies, but as vessels for our spiritual edification, for a better understanding of what it must be like to see through someone else’s eyes.

In the gracefully constructed first half of the film, we meet three kids, all wildly different, yet all already somewhat resigned to a life of unending in-and-out care and habitual relapses. Sarcastic and pragmatic, tall and handsome when he opens the film at 19 years old, Justin Ashcraft, who has been battling leukemia for ten years, will transform before our eyes over and over, his face and body an amorphous battlefield of scars and wear; Tim Woods, 15 years old, quick-witted, animated, hugely compassionate, full of bonhomie yet fatigued and disillusioned by his constant struggles with Hodgkins lymphoma; and the aforementioned Alex, whose young life has been plagued with so much pain. If the act of living itself seems to be an endurance test to these children and their weary parents (for whom every moment is a battle of wills between hope and reality, between maintaining a calm outlook for their children’s sake and wrestling with their internal anguish), they nevertheless fight against sickness and the spectre of death with an almost superhuman fervency. The differences in response, in prayer, in economic struggle, between these three families makes up the film’s core; each is given long passages of screen time, their small and large successes counterpoised to the humbling, ongoing odyssey in which these are merely momentary gradations. Before the relief of intermission, we will have journeyed so far and wide with them that not knowing their individual fates plays like the most cruel, yet wholly unmanipulative, form of suspense. When, in a structural sleight of hand, the filmmakers introduce us in Part Two to our final two resilient children—the alternately tough and vulnerable eleven-year-old Al Fields and the sweet nine-year-old Jen Moore—A Lion in the House has already provided enough overwhelming emotional catharses for five films.

The miracle here is that Reichert and Bognar direct with an attentiveness to medical procedure yet with not a hint of clinical distance. Their approach has been compared to that of Frederick Wiseman, but Wiseman’s grand structural hypotheses have no place in Lion’s living-room intimacy. Reichert and Bognar never interject or make their presence thematically integral, yet their sensibilities imbue every frame. One may be reminded of Wiseman’s Titicut Follies (1967) when Reichert and Bognar unflinchingly show Tim slowly taking in a feeding tube through his nasal cavity; initially defiant, Tim suddenly chokes on the intrusion and vomits all over his chest. The camera remains fixed on his face, now defeated, sullen, humiliated; suddenly, he’s not the same vibrant Tim we have grown to love. In Titicut, this same procedure performed upon an unwilling inmate of the Massachusetts Bridgewater hospital for the “criminally insane” is meant to stand for the state’s cruel process of incremental dehumanization; in Lion, the image speaks for itself.

In fact, all of Lion in the House’s sociopolitical undercurrents—the plainly evident differences in health care coverage, working lives, and even the amount of time these parents are able to devote to their desperately ill children between the Caucasian and African-American subjects—are all just part of the fabric of everyday life, a natural progression of the filmmakers’ use of the camera as tool for creating social awareness. Reichert, who co-directed 1976’s landmark doc on the women’s workers’ movement Union Maids, and Bognar, whose 1996 film on his father, Personal Belongings, had also been a mammoth eight-year undertaking, are documentary filmmakers of the old school, taking a traditional, unblinking approach that cuts decisively against the grain of the current glut of the popularized documentary, largely eschewing intrusive cutting, scoring, or self-righteous indignation to make its points. Like the greatest works of nonfiction, it exists wholly outside of trends without ever departing from the now: it depicts trauma with both the universal cry and the achingly immediate empathy it wholly deserves.

In the face of such experience, of such a powerful dissolution of the boundaries between aesthetics and life, the task of criticism calls not for distanced judgment but communal dialogue. And with my coeditors at the online film journal Reverse Shot, I’ve been proud to dissolve the boundaries between advocacy and activism: Reverse Shot has been aiding the film in seeking theatrical outlets. We have no delusions of grandeur, just belief in the film’s utter goodness and transformative effects. In light of the sheer necessity of this overwhelming film, the passivity we so often bring to filmgoing and film viewing seems even more inadequate. It’s the rare film that can transform the so often anonymous community of filmgoers into a communion of hope.

Boisrond, Michel

NAUGHTY GIRL (Cette sacrée gamine)

France (86 mi) 1956 ‘Scope

Chicago Reader

Brigitte Bardot plays a schoolgirl who gets mixed up with counterfeiters in this 1956 feature, also known as Mam'zelle Pigalle, Naughty Girl, and That Naughty Girl. Director Michel Boisrond cowrote the script with Roger Vadim, who that same year catapulted Bardot to international fame in . . . And God Created Woman. In French with subtitles. 77 min.

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson) reviewing the 5-film Brigitte Bardot Collection, also seen here: Turner Classic Movies

Brigitte Bardot has never been forgotten, even though she's been absent from the screen for 34 years. She became a continental star with just a few films but didn't catch on internationally until 1956 in ... and God Created Woman, a sexy drama directed by her husband, Roger Vadim. This collection showcases three comedies, a romantic trifle and a more serious study of romantic obsession. Ms. Bardot's bright personality dominates all of them.

The first two shows are directed by Michel Boisrond. In 1956's Naughty Girl (Cette sacrée gamine) Bardot plays a mischievous young woman prone to amorous adventures. Handsome cabaret entertainer Jean Clery (Jean Bretonnière) spirits Brigitte Latour (Bardot) from a fancy girl's school to keep her away from police questions about her father's connections to a smuggling racket. Brigitte is delighted to stay in Jean's upscale Paris apartment. She accidentally starts a fire and sabotages Jean's engagement to Lili, his psychiatrist (Françoise Fabian of My Night at Maud's). Brigitte becomes entangled with numerous subsidiary comic characters while dodging the smugglers that operate out of the nighclub where Jean performs.

The story is feather light and wholly predictable, yet Bardot is pleasing as the bikini-clad daughter who delights in creating havoc. The message is that Brigitte is a delightful baby who needs to be pampered. Bretonnière has two or three musical numbers. Bardot joins him onstage to escape some crooks, and Jean's extended daydream sequence gives her a fantasy dance number. Hollywood veteran Mischa Auer has a bit as a pop-eyed dance instructor at the girls' school and the late Michel Serrault is one of the frustrated police inspectors.

Doug Pratt's DVD Review (excerpt)

The Collection is a boxed set includes all four films along with a 63 documentary profile, Brigitte Bardot...Take One . The films are all lightweight entertainments, but they have enough eccentric features to attract fans, and they all have the Marilyn Monroe of France--Bardot, who, especially in these features from the late Fifties and Sixties, looked and often acted like a flirtatious child in an adult woman’s body.

Vadim’s 1956 farce, Cette Sacrée Gamine... , known in America as Naughty Girl , is a partial riff on The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer . Bardot is the teen daughter of a nightclub owner being framed by gangsters. Her father leaves the country to clear himself and persuades the headliner at his club, a handsome young singer engaged to be married to a stuffy psychiatrist, to take care of his daughter until he can get back. The ensuing misunderstandings and comical run-ins with criminals are standard stuff, but there is also an elaborate dream sequence that might be called ‘Revenge of the American in Paris,’ a circus-like ballet with Bardot as the star attraction. The sequence is glorious and makes wading through the rest of the farce worthwhile.

The picture is presented in letterboxed format only, with an aspect ratio of about 2.35:1 and an accommodation for enhanced 16:9 playback. The sides of the image seem a little tight once in a while, but the rectangular framing is still highly satisfying, particularly during the aforementioned dream sequence. The color quality ranges from great to okay. In some reels, the hues are very bright and in others, they are reasonably strong, though slightly paler than in the presentation’s best moments. The image is crisp and wear is minimal. The monophonic sound is fine. The 83 minute program is in French with optional English subtitles that appear beneath the image, what is apparently an American trailer from the Fifties, and an essay on Bardot.

Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick)

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CRITIC'S CHOICE; New DVDs Dave Kehr from The New York Times

COME DANCE WITH ME (Voulez-Vous Danser Avec Moi?)

France Italy (91 mi) 1959

Doug Pratt's DVD Review (excerpt)

The 1959 murder mystery comedy, Come Dance with Me , directed by Michel Boisrond, is also an enjoyable romp. Bardot’s character, the wife of a dentist, goes undercover as a dance instructor, after the owner of the dance studio, who has been blackmailing the dentist, is murdered. The solution is frowned upon in these enlightened times and the mystery is never very heavy, but it is a good deal of fun to see Bardot’s bubbly character searching for clues and tracking down the bad guy. By this time, she had become very adept at manipulating her girlish facial expressions, and it can be so captivating to see her array of pouts and smiles that you almost forget to watch the rest of her.

The picture is presented in slightly windowboxed format only, with an aspect ratio of about 1.7:1 and an accommodation for enhanced 16:9 playback. Hues are bright and candy-like, and fleshtones are rich and finely detailed. The image is sharp most of the time, and contrasts are strong. The monophonic sound is fine. The 91 minute program has optional English subtitles and an essay on Bardot.

User Reviews from imdb Author: bonfirexx from United States

Brigitte Bardot was so completely feminine, playful, beautiful, and witty, she couldn't miss connecting with the male sector of any movie-going audience. And the women must have hated her, or at least envied her to tears.

Bardot's face is so luminous, focusing upon it is more stimulating than seeing close-up, revealing body shots of her contemporaries such as Eckberg and Lollobrigida. She could take a mediocre, or in this case, convoluted plot, and save a film which would have been a dud with just about any other female star.

The film is fast-paced, and suspenseful, in so far as the futility of trying to guess the culprit's identity, prior to the odds and ends being tied up neatly, in the end. And it far surpasses Bardot's collaboration with director Michel Boisrond, in "Mme. Pigalle," produced three years earlier. That one is filled with artifice and "mannerisms." such as fake auto rides, background landscaped fakery, lip-synch singing, fake piano playing, and the stereotypical bumbling, "moronic cops" syndrome, so prevalent in films of the time. This film contains no artifice, or editing "tricks," whatsoever, and while it lacks for substance, it is entertaining, and the Bardot charisma at this most appealing stage of her life, stays with one, long after the curtain rings down.

Henri Vidal, in his final role before his untimely death at age 40, is well-cast, as Bardot's husband who is being blackmailed by femme fatale Dawn Addams, herself a red-headed stunner who exits the film much too soon to suit the male voyeur contingent.

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson) reviewing the 5-film Brigitte Bardot Collection, also seen here: Turner Classic Movies

The New York Times (Bosley Crowther)

CRITIC'S CHOICE; New DVDs Dave Kehr from The New York Times

Bondarchuk, Sergei

WAR AND PEACE (Voyna i mir)

Russia (427 mi) Part I (147 mi) Part II (86 mi) Part III (83 mi) Part IV (98 mi) 1967 ‘Scope USA version (390 mi)

War and Peace Jonathan Rosenbaum

Sergei Bondarchuk’s epic 1967 adaptation of the Tolstoy novel, screening in four parts, is the most expensive movie ever made, and though it can be bombastic and mind-numbing, it’s often lively and eye filling. The balls and battle scenes are monumental, and Bondarchuk (who plays the bumbling Pierre, as Orson Welles would have in the 40s if he’d realized his own version with Alexander Korda) moves his camera a lot, incorporating some expressive 60s-style flourishes. Even at 415 minutes (over an hour shorter than the Soviet release) this rarely suggests the vision behind Tolstoy’s set pieces or populist polemics; his feeling for incidental detail is more evident in (non-Tolstoyan) films like The Leopard and The Magnificent Ambersons. This is a landmark in the history of commerce and post-Stalinist Russia, but not cinema. If you’d like to merely sample it, try parts one and three. With Lyudmila Savelyeva (graceful as Natasha), Vyacheslav Tikhonov (suitably morose as Andrei), and more than 100,000 extras. In Russian and French with subtitles. Part one: 147 min. Part two: 86 min. Part three: 83 min. Part four: 98 min.

User Reviews from imdb Author: TheVid from Colorado Springs

Bondarchuk brings Tolstoy's enormous literary work to the screen with all the scope and pomposity that the Soviet film industry could muster in the sixties. It's a long, two-part movie that tries to give moviegoers as much of an experience as readers often get from the novel. It's generally successful in a clinical way. The production design and set pieces are delivered on a massive scale, with battle scenes that are basically re-enactments of history. There's enough creative casting to make most of the characters come alive, although much of the drama is wooden and stagey (just as in the book, I might add). All in all, this is probably the biggest visual spectacle ever put on film, even in the age of CGI (a fact which only makes the viewer more appreciative of the logistics involved in setting up a production as big as this). A colossal epic that gives true meaning to the term "years in the making with a cast of thousands!". Image/Rusico is presenting a definitive DVD version in the Sovscope widescreen ratio with the original 70mm six-track magoptical sound on four discs. That's around 7 hours of subtitles for those inclined to see this spectacle in it's purest form.

The Village Voice [Nick Pinkerton]

A four-chapter, nearly eight-hour rendition of Tolstoy's Napoleonic-era opus, War and Peace represents more than a prestige mega-production: This is the barbaric yawp of the Soviet film industry circa 1968, an entertainment A-bomb test announcing to the world: "Here is what we are capable of."

This MosFilm restoration is as close as we're likely to get to the original 70mm Sovscope pageant, whose production history is a tale of singular largesse used to guarantee Greatness: The assembled cast and crew compared in population to Green Bay, Wisconsin; the Kremlin was anxious enough for a decisive blow in the cinematic-spectacle race to put a Red Army detachment under star-director Sergei Bondarchuk's command, with factories mobilized to costume them as Imperial Cossacks and hussars; a fleet of airborne vessels was employed to capture Sputnik's-eye views of the warred-over countryside. The resulting showpiece is the Battle of Borodino, an unprecedented concert of cinematograph, man, beast, and pyrotechnics. Bondarchuk has no head for geography—armies' positions are a muddle—but you can't help thrilling over the densely orchestrated scrolling shots that tour the carnage, or the camera's bayonette-skimming zipline plunge. And that isn't even the finale: The bottomless-budget decadence (the Soviets proclaimed the price tag at $100 million—adjusted for inflation, that's about $700 million today) only flames out with a show-stopper burning of Moscow.

Far from the front lines, Bondarchuk's camera platoon applies its virtuosity to the country estates and pastel ballrooms that serve as display cases for the film's Natasha (teen ballerina Ludmila Savelyeva, who has two charming dances). The novel's domestic drama is judiciously streamlined—subplots pared off, characters demoted to the background (or, in the case of Czar Alexander I, demythologized into a podgy-faced twit)—but there's still an impulse to get everything in. Such fidelity hampers the story's ability to play in specifically cinematic terms: hence the over-reliance on voice-over to draw things together. But of course it's magnificently presumptuous—and fearless—to even attempt to transfer Tolstoy's historical-psychological scope, intact, to another medium: It's as hubristic as invading Russia. Should you doze during one of the film's lulls, you might just hear the dour ghost of Tarkovsky warning against adapting masterpieces: "Only someone who is actually indifferent both to fine prose and the cinema can conceive the urge to screen them."

User Reviews from imdb Author: mr_sboub from Switzerland

War and Peace, to many, is synonymous with a colossus of a book. The ultimate door-stopper. It is among the most complex and epic works of literature ever written. In 19th century Moscow and St-Petersburg, youths grow, make their mistakes… hearts are bound and then broken… and then the great war against Napoleon tears all these lives apart. Leo Tolstoy created intimate portrayals, compelling characters and epic action, telling the story of an entire country and an entire era effortlessly and elegantly. So if books are often difficult to adapt, this one should be completely impossible (witness the shallow King Vidor adaptation).

This film is the stuff of legends. Reportedly one of the most expensive productions ever created, Sergei Bondarchuk's "War and Peace" benefited from the Red Army's involvement and the Soviet Government's financing, and clocks in at about 7 hours. It is as faithful to its source as could be imaginable. In fact, it almost transcends its source.

Admirably cast (the angelic Liudmila Savelieva is ideal as Natasha Rostova and the director was unbelievably wise in casting himself as Pierre Besukhov), elegantly transcribed into a witty screenplay and enacted with class and conviction by its immense cast, "War and Peace" is not just a good adaptation. Its merits as a film are colossal. The cinematography defies any other film, particularly during the battle scenes: rejecting the painterly staticism of Barry Lyndon and the simple charging and distant shots of older films, the violence in Sergei Bondarchuk's epic mirrors that of Kingdom of Heaven (2005!!!), as the camera flies over a never-ending battlefield at full speed, glides aver frantic canons and divisions, crashes into mêlées and follows haunting stampedes of riderless horsemen (a potent metaphor for how the great leaders of the time lost all control over the conflict's proportions). All this without a pixel of CGI in sight (and all the better for it as it presents shots that the eye would simply refuse to believe if generated by a computer) The epic battle of before the sack of Moscow is so colossal and devastating, that even Napoleon looks confused at how to feel before the ocean of corpses sprawled before him. This is the greatest display of cinematic warfare ever committed to the screen. That the calmer scenes manage to sustain that level of excellence is a testament to how grandiose an effort this film is. The display of repressed emotions and overt tenderness are heart-breaking and many episodic scenes stand out magnificently, such as the wolf hunt, the opening balls (easily rivaling anything in "Il Gattopardo") and the duel. This is a film to which the fantastic "Dr Zhivago" feels like a small appetizer… Bondarchuk's "War and Peace" reaches beyond the book and in doing so successfully is one of the greatest motion pictures of all time. It is cinematic poetry and entertainment of the highest order. And to sum things up in an overused – but never more appropriate than here – they'll never make'em like this again.

User Reviews from imdb Author: Galina from Virginia, USA

Sergei Bondarchuk, one of the most talented and important Russian filmmakers (he is known as an actor and epic- director) had made many good movies, very interesting technically and artistically. All of them are based on the first-class books (novels, stories, plays, and non-fiction) by the talented writers: Leo Tolstoy, Alexander Pushkin, Anton Chekhov, John Reed, and Mikhail Sholokhov, a Nobel Prize winner for Literature. Sholokhov's authorship of "Quiet Flows the Don" has been questioned lately but the novel is undeniably great.

Bondarchuk's finest directing achievement is 7 hours long epic "Voina i Mir" aka "War and Peace" which is a great film, worth of all money and effort spent. "War and Peace" which took over five years to complete is a masterful combination of many genres (just as Leo Tolstoy's greatest novel is). It is an awesome epic, and a lot has been said about the breathtakingly spectacular battle scenes that were shot on the historical locations and involved tens of thousands of extras, horses, explosions, and complex camera moves. The film is also the incredibly accurate period piece, moving romance, family drama, search for meaning of life (as all Leo Tolstoy's works are: "I want only to say that it is always the simplest ideas which lead to the greatest consequences. My idea, in its entirety, is that if vile people unite and constitute a force, then decent people are obliged to do likewise; just that. "). There are so many unforgettable scenes in the film: the first Natasha's ball and her waltz with Andrei Bolkonsky, the death of young Petya Rostov from a stray bullet, the meeting of Natasha and deadly wounded Andrei and their conversation...and many, many more. Sergei Bondarchuk's choice of the actors for the familiar and beloved characters has proved to be mostly successful. Ironically, the least convincing is for me Pierre Bezukhov. Bondarchuk cast himself as one of the most important novel's heroes, Leo Tolstoy's alter ago, and even though he was a very talented actor, I can't forget that he was twice as old as Pierre when he took the role. One of the most memorable performances was given by the veteran screen and stage actor, Anatoly Ktorov as old Prince Nikolai Bolkonsky. Ktorov's aristocratic looks and noble manners along with his talent made him simply perfect for the role of opinionated, proud, sarcastic but frank and absolutely non-sentimental nobleman. Antonina Shuranova shot to fame in 1966 after her stunning film debut opposite Anatoli Ktorov as his daughter and Andrei's sister, Princess Mariya with her "radiant eyes". Bondarchuk took the risk casting young professional ballerina Lyudmila Savelieva in the coveted role of Natasha Rostova, the most beloved female character in the Russian Classical Literature. Savelieva was natural as Natasha whom we see first as a 12 year old restless, spontaneous, gushing girl and in the final scene as a young woman who had lived though mistakes, regrets, and terrible losses.

I've seen "Voina i Mir" many times. I was even lucky to see it on the big screen in Moscow. It was originally released in four parts: I: Andrey Bolkonskiy (1965), II: Natasha Rostova (1966), III: 1812 god (1967), and IV: Pierre Bezukhov (1967), and for many years it had been shown in Russia as four films. To see this miracle on the big screen was the experience I will not forget.

DVD Outsider Slarek

DVD Savant Glenn Erickson

Goatdog's Movies [Michael W. Phillips Jr.]

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digitallyObsessed! DVD Review Marl Zimmer

Epinions [metalluk]

Movie Vault [Friday and Saturday Night Critic]

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson]

Chicago Tribune [Michael Wilmington]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

DVDBeaver.com - Graphic Review [Gregory Meshman]

Bonello, Bertrand

QUELQUE CHOSE D’ORGANIQUE A 95

aka: Something Organic

France Canada (90 mi) 1998

To love with your molecules is only possible at the beginning of a relationship

Romane Bohringer and Laurent Lucas play Marguerite and Paul, a seemingly happily married couple in Montreal, shown with a dizzying, nearly claustrophobic film style, especially the fast-paced party sequences, where something is in the air, but we don’t know what it is. He has an interesting job caring for animals at the zoo, but also cares for his elderly father as well as a son from a previous relationship. She finds herself strangely detached from his affairs, aware of his gentle, loving nature, but she can’t express it in words, only in her frustration and ever increasing alienation. Eventually, without a word, she simply disappears. Her adventure is indescribable, as it is so outlandish, perhaps something out of von Trier’s BREAKING THE WAVES. On her own, with no apparent reason, she ventures into the farthest northern region she can go, which ends up being a sparse makeshift town enveloped in snow next to an oil rig on Hudson Bay. The shift in scenery is fascinating, as we’re suddenly exploring a spacious universe that appears endless, and God knows most of us have never ventured into an unexplored wilderness like this. But Marguerite remains a source of bewilderment sitting silently in turmoil, alone in the only establishment in town, putting down one beer after another. Eventually, every guy in town has had a drink with her, which leads to the inevitable night where darkness must fall and she faces staggering consequences. The style of the film was well controlled and expertly directed, aided by Bohringer’s wonderfully complex, eerie inner detachment, where the film’s initial bursts of energy flatten out in the open air when time comes to a standstill, and the film turns into something of an inexplicable wonderment, where mood and atmosphere are brilliantly depicted, leaving us haunting imagery of nothing left but oblivion.

THE PORNOGRAPHER (Le pornographe) A- 93

France Canada (108 mi) 2001

A luscious and exquisite film that stars Jean-Pierre Leaud as a retired porn filmmaker from the 70’s who returns to work only for the money, but is completely disenchanted with the business, and with himself. The actual porn scenes are some of the funniest moments I’ve seen this year, including a girl in a bathing suit who enters the frame while a conductor is leading Wagner’s “Liebestod,” the death of Tristan and Isolde, she lays on the table and makes swimming motions while the conductor ever so seriously draws nearer and nearer to her flesh, even bending down to lick her, but he jumps back, as if by electric shock, and never touches her. Leaud’s son ran away from home when he learned of his father’s profession, but now college age, he reunites with his father, but they both keep a healthy distance. Leaud’s marriage disintegrates, while his son finds a new love, the swimmer. There are wonderful moments of pause and reflection in this film, with gorgeous music and some stunning cinematography by Josee Deshaies.

But easily the most special moments are Leaud’s, as he will always be Alexandre in THE MOTHER AND THE WHORE, the boy that is always chasing the girls. Here, he has all the girls he wants, and he’s completely disinterested. He sits in the same café’s drinking coffee, but now the café’s are nearly deserted. Like Alexandre, Leaud follows one woman on the street, but rather than a successful pick up, it’s a sign of his personal disintegration as he actually sneaks into a strange woman’s apartment without her knowledge, until he then confronts her and apologizes for his temporary madness, then slips back out the door. When the swimmer announces to the son that she’s pregnant, the son guesses that it must be marvelous for her, though he’s not particularly enchanted himself, which is followed by an interesting dance sequence of the son dancing alone in a disco, and what begins in slow motion rapidly becomes a blur, as if he is trying some way to get out of himself. Leaud, on the other hand, is doing just the opposite, trying to get inside himself, into that inner void of personal detachment, and there are images of statues, paintings, flowers and fruit, even a wonderful house in the country that could easily be Godard’s house in Switzerland, all representations of Western thought and culture, but Leaud can find no practical use for that knowledge, as he is so disenchanted with himself and filled with such self-loathing that he must separate from others to avoid hurting, and losing, the only people who can stand him. Like Imamura’s THE PORNOGRAPHER, Leaud retreats into his own little universe, but instead of being with the object of his sexual infatuation, he retreats into a sexless, joyless void. I, for one, found this to be an exquisitely beautiful film, not as original as his first film, SOMETHING ORGANIC, which also explores the inner world of personal despair, but still quite inventive, well acted, extremely well directed, with a rhythm and pace throughout that was, for me, an absolute delight.

BFI | Sight & Sound | The Pornographer (2001) Linda Ruth Williams in Sight and Sound, April 2002

France, the present. Veteran hardcore pornographer Jacques Laurent (Jean-Pierre Léaud) comes out of retirement in order to pay off debts. In a large country house he shoots scenes for a new film. His producer disagrees with the way Jacques is shooting a crucial scene, and assumes directorial control while the cameras are rolling. Jacques meets his estranged son Joseph (Jérémie Rénier), a student involved in political action who disowned his father when he discovered what he did for a living. Jacques is given some land in the country by wealthy friends, and plans to build a house on it. Joseph's girlfriend is pregnant; he proposes to her. Jacques leaves his second wife Jeanne (Dominique Blanc). He reflects on his life in a diary and justifies his work in an interview with a journalist.

Review

There are moments in The Pornographer when the overbearing ponderousness slips and the possibility glimmers that one is watching a comedy of genres. A comedy in which earnest French intellectuals ruminate on the revolutionary nature of obscenity, earnest skin-flick directors share their wisdom on the poignant, humane beauty of the blow job and earnest young French students wage war on advanced capitalism by revolutionary silence (using "a new radical language": muteness). I spent the first 30 minutes or so genuinely unsure about whether this film thought itself funny, willing it to favour knowing self-mockery, disappointed but not surprised when it plumped for high pretentiousness. You know you're in deep water when a film that features in its uncut form an 11-second cum shot is described by its director as inspired by "Rothko at the Grand Palais". Or when protagonist porn-director Jacques, having reflected that in May 1968 "making pornographic films was also a political act", admits that the high point of his career came "in Little Girls Hotel when she comes at the end. I was almost in tears when I shot the scene." Twist this just a fraction, and we might have witnessed the French porn industry's answer to Spinal Tap.

It may, of course, be possible to read The Pornographer as a meditation on the discrepancies between art and commercial cinema, its reflexive filmic pretensions laid bare through some painfully self-conscious narrative devices and extended dialogue. Having directed his lead actress Jenny in the art of swallowing sperm for best romantic effect, Jacques muses to his producer, "It would be beautiful at the end if we showed a birth" (to which the producer responds, "Are you nuts?"). The conflict staged here between erotic auteur and porno hack is most obvious when the producer takes over direction of the blow-job scene and prevents Jenny from the very swallowing which Jacques had asked for, instead making the actor "produce" on to Jenny's passive face. This shot - all 11 seconds of it - has been the subject of much discussion between the distributors and the BBFC. At the time of writing, the film's UK distributors are objecting to demands from the BBFC that the shot be cut. The point of the shot to The Pornographer, however, is that it serves to portray Jacques as the now marginalised arthouse erotician, his vision of humane sexuality going out with existentialism, the nouvelle vague and the ark. Sex cinema now belongs to the vulgar likes of his producer, a generational shift as significant to Jacques as the coming of New Hollywood was to studio directors.

This is but one of the film's weighty meditations on generational friction; it is nothing if not a young man's reflection (director Bertrand Bonello is in his early thirties) on an old man's vision, and is framed by issues of incest and familial alienation. As estranged son Joseph negotiates the memory of his mother's suicide and the implications of his father's unseemly profession, he revisits the radical politics of Jacques' generation. Family shame haunts these characters, and the fictional roles that some of them adopt: Jenny confides that her parents don't know what she does, while Jacques describes being disowned as a father. Chopping between versions of a scene for the film-within-a-film, we see different images of the predatory older woman, a mother spying on her daughter's sexuality via a hired stud-chauffeur.

In addition to this heady French mix of family and fornication, The Pornographer also eagerly philosophises about itself. As with Catherine Breillat's Romance, it is not enough that we simply watch, we also have to be told how to think about how we watch. This provides some painful moments of pseudo-sexual sophistry, especially when Jacques - who is played by a sorrowful, sad-eyed Jean-Pierre Léaud - reflects upon his career in the company of the most soft-hitting wet fish of a journalist ever to grace the profession. "Of course I go to the cinema," he says. "I know about Bergman, Antonioni... But as for me, I make porn films. I could've filmed nude women in front of factories but it wouldn't have been exciting." Well, perhaps it would have been more exciting than The Pornographer, which sets forth the notion that 'good' porn is also a paeon to soulful humanity: "In my films," says Jacques, "there's always something beautiful even if you find the rest terribly ugly. Why? Because it's pure, raw sex and therefore profoundly human."

My problem with the position that Jacques expounds is that it is disingenuous. It disavows the real implications of hardcore by cloaking the practice in reams of holistic justification. And while any self-critique this film allows itself is focused solely on Jacques' washed-up figure (such as when the journalist reflects on the irony that this foremost pornographer has been kept through his retirement by his architect wife), finally the film's resoundingly humane philosophy envelopes Jacques in a frame of liberal sympathy. At least - in a nod to hardcore realities - Jacques adds that "If I lose my audience of truck drivers I'm fucked." But you have to wonder how the truck drivers feel about all the potted profundity dished up with the porn.

TIRESIA

France Canada (115 mi) 2003

Tiresia Time Out

Various Greek myths suggest Tiresia was blinded by the goddess Athena then given the power of second sight in recompense, and that s/he took both male and female forms. It’s probably handy to know this before seeing Bertrand Bonnello’s florid update since it might help make this studied exercise in arthouse obtuseness just that little bit less impenetrable. In this modern French version, Tiresia is a Brazilian pre-op transsexual prostitute (former model Clara Choveaux) kidnapped from the Bois de Boulogne by an enigmatic loner (Laurent Lucas) and held against her will until tensions between them reach breaking point. From then on, the film switches tack completely, as Bonnello plays games with the casting – best say no more – and explores the impact of prophecy on a troubled village community. It’s moderately intriguing to see the legend unfold in modern times, but the overall intention remains inscrutable, despite the strong presence of the performers and Bonnello’s attempt to will significance into the material by holding each shot over a glacial time-span.

EyeForFilm.co.uk Anton Bitel

Tiresia (Clara Choveaux), a Brazilian transsexual living illegally with her brother in Paris and working as a prostitute, is abducted by Terranova (Laurent Lucas), an aesthete determined to possess the rose-like perfection of her fabricated beauty. Yet not long after becoming Terranova's house bound prisoner, Tiresia begins to change physically, as, deprived of daily hormone treatment, her masculine traits re-emerge, until her captor, disgusted by a process he cannot stop and terrified of retribution, pokes out Tiresia's eyes with a pair of scissors and dumps her unconscious body in the countryside.

Blind, Tiresia (now played by Thiago Teles) is taken in by 17-year-old Anna (Celia Catalifo) and discovers that he has the gift of prophecy. This attracts the attention of the local townsfolk, who come to revere him, and of the parish priest Father Francois (Laurent Lucas), a keen tender of roses, who regards Tiresia as a dangerous rival and an abomination that must be destroyed, even if the seer's final prediction is of Christianity, both perpetuated and renewed.

If Tiresias is a highly changeable character from ancient folklore, then the myths that enshrined his story were equally subject to variance. In one tradition, a mysterious encounter with two copulating snakes transforms wise Tiresias into a woman and a similar encounter seven years later enables him to regain his male form, leaving him unusually well placed to settle a dispute between Zeus and Hera, as to whether men or women derive the greater pleasure from sexual intercourse, but his answer leads Hera to punish him with blindness and Zeus to reward him with second sight. According to an alternative version, Tiresias is blinded by Athena as punishment for seeing her bathe naked, but then compensated by the same goddess with the gift of prophecy.

Bertrand Bonello's bold retelling of the myth in modern dress retains many elements from the ancient original(s) - his ambivalent gender, his violent transformations, his blinding, his power to see the future and even a figured version of his snaky confrontation (in Terranova's house, Tiresia's face is seen reflected on a painting of a coiled serpent), but the film also allows its transgressive protagonist's essential identity to remain no less difficult to fix in place, as Tiresia is set adrift in the ever-shifting no-man's-land between man and woman, art and nature, ancient and modern, native and foreign, paganism and Christianity, stasis and flux. For the opening (and recurring) images of molten lava point to the central theme of the film, that nothing is forever set in stone and even the most stable bedrock can be turned into a moving river.

"I feel lost. I don't understand it all. I just take it. Now I see that separate things seem to be connected." So declares Father Francois towards the end, echoing the puzzlement of the viewer. For the film is structured, not unlike David Lynch's Lost Highway (1997) and Mulholland Drive (2001), as an enigmatic diptych in fugue.

There are two distinct parts presented in succession and clearly demarcated by the change from actress Clara Choveaux to actor Thiago Teles in the role of Tiresia, but it is left to the viewer to weave their interrelated strands and repeating motifs (roses, paintings, genital gropings and the portrayal of Tiresia's two antagonists by a single actor) into something approaching a meaningful whole. Of course, we are as doomed to fail as Tiresia's persecutors in our attempts to pin this Protean protagonist down, but his/her journey reveals a (post)modern, enlightened, monotheistic world still resonating with mysteries as old as time itself.

Intense, intriguing, beautifully framed and intellectually challenging, Tiresia defies easy categorisation (much like its principal character), but to be struck blind by its obscurity is also to be rewarded with an altogether different kind of viewing experience that brings desperate joys of its own.

DVD In My Pants - DVD Review Cary Christopher

Consider this question carefully: How many times have you seen a movie and thought, “I’ve never seen anything like that before”?

If you’re reading this site, chances are you are a big movie fan and that experience has eluded you for many, many years now.   More often than not, I see a movie and immediately come up with at least three reference points where I have seen similar themes or plot points, each of which are executed in a way that does nothing to make them stand out.

The same cannot be said for Bertrand Bonello’s 2003 drama  Tiresia.  Sure, it blends a number of elements from films like Boxing Helena, The Vanishing, The Crying Game and even a little The Silence of the Lambs.  However, I can honestly say that even with all of those elements apparent, I have never seen anything quite like Tiresia.

That, my friends, is a very good thing.

Tiresia is loosely based on a Greek myth about an oracle that was half man, half woman.  The movie, set in modern day France, follows a transsexual prostitute’s abduction, imprisonment, blinding and ultimately her transformation into something that exists between genders and perhaps between worlds.  The title character is handled by two actors and is done so seamlessly.  When Tiresia is more female than male, her character is portrayed by Clara Choveaux.

Later, as she begins to revert back due to lack of hormones, the character is taken over by Thiago Telés.  Both of these actors are amazing in their roles.

The movie opens on Laurent Lucas’ character, a man obsessed with the beauty of the feminine form.  We are given a glimpse inside his head as he prepares a room for what he refers to as his “rose with a thorn.”  Lucas may win the prize for creepiest fucking guy on the planet.  The thing is, he’s not a bad looking man, but watch his eyes as he picks out his victim.  Pay close attention to the way his head begins to shake subtly as he becomes aroused at the sight of Tiresia or even the thought of what he’s about to do and you’ll see what I mean.  Either this guy is one amazing actor or he is someone you don’t want to spend much time with alone in real life. In the director interview, Bonello talks about the intensity of Lucas’ stare and how much power that brings to the character.  He’s not just blowing smoke up your ass.  What this guy can do with a look is nothing short of amazing.

Lucas’ character (I refer to him like this because his name is never really mentioned in the first half of the movie and once revealed could be a major spoiler) picks up Tiresia and brings her back to his place for what she figures is just another date.  Soon she’s locked in a room with no escape.  Lucas’ character leaves for a while so that Tiresia’s screams, threats and profanities won’t annoy him and later returns to watch as she paces and fruitlessly looks for a way out. 

Eventually, after what must be days, she calms down and Lucas’ character approaches her to explain that she can never leave.  Thus begins a strange relationship.  The captor rarely touches the captive.  He never makes a single sexual advance and in fact, seems to simply want to be in her presence.  He lets her walk around freely in the room except when he sleeps next to her (again never laying a hand on her).  During these times she’s tied up so she cannot escape. 

Okay… right now I have to take a break in the narrative to explain the thing that sets this movie so completely and totally apart from others with similar subject matter.  As my old Intro to Film teacher, Dr. Charles Eidsvik used to say, “Pacing!  Pacing!  Pacing!”

This film has it in spades!  Bonello lets the plot unfold at a snails’ pace and in doing so gives the viewer time to really think about what is going on.  The camera will linger on something as mundane as a character putting on her shoes or cooking an omelet. 

Each piece is framed beautifully and the slow pace reveals more about the characters than the actual dialogue sometimes does. 

Throughout this portion of the film I counted numerous ways Tiresia could have overpowered her captor but she never tried.  At first this was something that frustrated the hell out of me, but later scenes spell out what a special bond was being formed here.  The two exist in their own little world, with no outsiders allowed in and no insiders allowed out.  This becomes a problem only when the lack of a steady supply of hormone shots begins to manifest itself in Tiresia’s appearance. 

At first, Lucas’ character does not seem to mind, offering razor and soap to help keep up appearances but soon, it’s not just a little beard growth that gives Tiresia’s gender away.  Again, Clara Choveaux’s acting is amazing as she begins to carry herself more like a man with each successive scene.  Her shoulders slump differently.  The way she gets up out of bed in the morning becomes less graceful.  She completely makes you believe she is a transsexual female, losing her gender identity. 

Eventually, Lucas’ character comes to grips with the fact that this arrangement is destined to fail and blinds Tiresia before dumping her in the woods.  At this point we meet Sara, a 17-year-old girl who lives with her father in the country.  She attends a baptism and on her way home, stumbles across the bloodied but still alive body of Tiresia.  Anna takes her in, cleans her up and from this point on (aside from some important flashbacks late in the film) the Tiresia character is portrayed by Thiago Telés.  Again, his performance is brilliant.   Soft-spoken and gentle in manner, Telés plays the character as both male and female in the same body.

Tiresia crops her hair short and begins to slowly heal.  Her sight is gone, but in its place she finds the ability to see other people’s futures.  Soon the locals are coming to visit her for help and her fame spreads to a point where her former captor must confront her himself.  The movie shifts focus to become a statement about faith and the search for truth.

I won’t say anything more so as not to spoil the rest of the film.  Suffice to say that the movie has stayed with me for a while now and bears repeated viewing. 

Bonello creates a mood that I have rarely encountered in film.  He demands that you slow down and absorb his world.  I found myself taking in scenery and subtle changes in color and lighting that I never see in other films.  Again, that slow pace allows for this and creates a distinctive experience.  That said, it bears repeating that what makes this film work is a combination of that mood and the absolutely incredible acting by the three leads. 

I HIGHLY recommend this film. 

Krell Laboratories [Christianne Benedict] Vulnavia Morbius

DVD Times Anthony Nield

DVD Verdict [Joel Pearce]

DVD Talk Scet Atanasov

tiresia - review at videovista Gary Couzens

Wildside Cinema [Phillip Escott]

Shadows on the Wall [Rich Cline]

BBCi - Films Tom Dawson

Guardian/Observer

DVDBeaver.com [Henrik Sylow]

HOUSE OF TOLERANCE (L’Apollonide – souvenirs de la maison close) B+ 92

aka: House of Pleasures

France (125 mi) 2011

Stylistically, this is one of the more remarkable films of the year, beautifully shot by Josée Deshaies (the director’s wife), where the French title is more appropriate, as souvenirs is a French expression for a remembrance or a memory, where perhaps the most exact usage here is a cinematic reverie, where the film has a remarkably lush decorative bordello environment, as champagne flows freely, a perfect compliment for the open display of naked female bodies which are prominently featured throughout this film. There’s nothing remotely pornographic about this movie, as it rarely shows male anatomy, never aroused, and there are scant few shots of couples actually engaging in sex, and no sex is ever graphically revealed. Instead, Bonello is more interested in the down time, in the type of activity that normally occurs offstage when they’re not working. His camera is all over documentary style repetition of banal detail in showing the ordinary, day-to-day routines that the women follow, cleaning themselves and rinsing their mouths regularly, lorded over by the house Madame, Noémie Lvovsky, usually seen in lighthearted, dialog-driven French comedies, and a writer/director in her own right, where the rarely seen LIFE DOESN’T SCARE ME (1999) was one of the best films of the year. Lvovsky, however, is exceptional in the smart yet manipulative way she understands the business, where the secret is to keep the girls incurring more debt to the house in costumes, clothes, perfume, and other refinements so they can never move elsewhere or obtain their freedom. In this way, they are literally owned, the property of the house, a flesh and blood commodity to be used in a business transaction. Very much in the exotic mode of Hou Hsiao-hsien’s Flowers of Shanghai (Hai shang hua) (1998), both historical pieces and both nearly entirely studio shot, where the deep richness of the plush interior colors are illuminated by candlelight, giving these films a rarely seen sensual opulence that overshadows the more deeply disturbing side of forgotten and discarded souls.

Bonello’s interest lies in the suffocating treatment of women, where despite the everpresent titillation of the flesh, nothing that we see is the least bit sexually arousing. In fact the audience is numbed by the desensitization of their dreary working lives, much like the monotonous routine of real life prostitution highlighted by Godard’s VIVRE SA VIE (1962), as despite the frequent repeating customer that asks for you, what you’re expected to endure, because the customer is paying for it, is filled with sexual humiliation and degradation, which is seen as part of the tools of the trade, something women are supposed to get used to. Set in the waning months of the 19^th century, one should recall child labor was prevalent, there were few opportunities for women, as this was the era of Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, which portrays a woman in a loveless marriage as a caged animal where all the power and rights belong to the husband, as he has a source of employment, effectively owning his wife as his own exclusive property, under the law, free to do with as he wishes. Here, as in Hou Hsiao-hsien’s work, the filmmaker establishes the various character traits of the women, who and what they like, showing their habits and general tendencies so they become familiar to the audience. Bonello also accentuates the developing sisterhood between the women, who share the same harrowing fate, often seen lying listlessly and motionless in the precious few moments before they have to come to life for their customers. One of the women of the house beautifully performs as a wind-up porcelain doll for her paying clientele. In both films, the idea of a wealthy man buying their freedom and taking them out of prostitution for marriage is the ultimate dream, where many believe their beauty and dazzling sexual prowess will bring them what they desire, thinking they are more alluring than a continually deserted wife who doesn’t know how to fulfill her husband’s needs. Perhaps the ultimate insult is the lie and continual betrayal of men who keep promising to leave their wives, but never do. Left on their own without a wealthy benefactor, these women age and deteriorate quickly.

While Bonello dwells on the demeaning internalized side effects of continually pretending to be something you’re not, constantly feigning happiness, he also shows the devastation once reality sets in, using a theme of a brutally treated woman who becomes horribly disfigured, but has noplace else to go, so works in the kitchen or as a maid, or helps dress and prepare the women. In a rather macabre turn, her value as a grotesque object becomes a specialty item, a sexual novelty that interests the perverse and exotic interests of an aristocratic secret society, similar to Kubrick’s EYES WIDE SHUT (1999), but as imagined by Diane Arbus. What seems to set the wheels in motion for a steady downward descent is the mention by one of the regular house customers that recent scientific studies suggest prostitute’s brains, along with criminals, are decisively smaller than a normal brain, which accounts for their idiotic behavior. Rather than the illusory beauty that opens the film with a rush of intoxication, naked flesh, and perfume, the filmmaker retraces the precious few moments before the brutal attack, adding a parallel story of shame from the deteriorating health by one of the women succumbing to syphilis, which at the time was incurable, accounting for the deaths of noted artists Franz Schubert and Édouard Manet. The director shows no less than a thousand endings, and easily prolongs his movie, some may be a bit overdone, but each one adds another piece of the carefully constructed mosaic, becoming a lament for a forgotten era layered in the heartbreaking sadness of these women, perfectly expressed in one of the most haunting sequences set to the Moody Blues L'Apollonide Nights In White Satin - YouTube (2:59), a kind of vacuous last dance that eptimomizes their lost dreams slipping away. Bonello reverses the brief whisp of hope offered by Nora’s freedom at the end of Ibsen’s play as an illusory phantom and leaves her stuck forever with no escape from A Doll’s House. By the end, all the women characters inhabiting this film do look and feel a bit like glassy-eyed ghosts, lost and dispossessed souls with vacant looks emptied and disassociated from the real world.

One should mention some of the featured actresses, all excellent, who let it all hang out for this film: Samira, Hafsia Herzi from THE SECRET OF THE GRAIN (2007), Julie, Jasmine Trinca, the daughter in THE SON’S ROOM (2001), Clotilde (Céline Sallette), Léa (Adele Haenel), Madeleine (Alice Barnole), and Pauline (Iliana Zabeth), while two noted French directors are among the house regulars, Jacques Nolot as Maurice and Xavier Beauvois, who recently directed the acclaimed OF GODS AND MEN (2010).

Time Out New York [David Fear]

They loll about in their lingerie, young ladies waiting for clients to enter the opulent foyer of the brothel L’Apollonide; it’s 1899, and such French “houses of tolerance” are scattered throughout Paris. Some prostitutes cater to certain peccadilloes, from “doll acts” to the colonialist kink of sleeping with an Algerian like Samira (The Secret of the Grain’s Herzi) or, as the Dreyfus affair looms in the background, a “Jewess” like Madeline (Barnole). Others stick to the straight-and-narrow shtup. As the women’s bad luck turns to worse—syphilis, opium addiction, a most unfortunate encounter with a knife-wielding john—the fate of this establishment seems bleak. Time and social tides will eventually wash away these comparatively reputable centers of carnal commerce.

Given the plentiful voluptuous flesh on display, it won’t surprise many that French filmmaker Bertrand Bonello is best known on these shores for a 2001 film called The Pornographer. But for all of his male-gaze imagery, the writer-director is more interested in exploring the solidarity of this sorority; his sympathies lie with these young women, detailing their daily rituals with an anthropologist’s eye. The fin de siècle realism, however, often takes a backseat to Bonello’s catch-all stylistics, from anachronistic music (you’ll never hear “Nights in White Satin” the same way again) to the overripe arthouse lushness of the cinematography. The result is erratic, occasionally WTF hilarious (three words: revenge by panther!), and in its transgressive tracks-of-my-tears climax, capable of finding pleasure in being bat-shit crazy.

The A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

Bertrand Bonello’s House Of Pleasures takes place at an elegantly appointed French country brothel at the turn of the 20th century, a setting so beautifully evoked that the perfume practically wafts off the screen. Stretching out over an appealingly hazy 125 minutes, Bonello’s film maintains a delicate tone that’s alternately elegiac and pitiless about life in the brothel, which has its seductions for worker and client alike, but isn’t free from the cruelties that have always attended the world’s oldest profession. In spite of the expensive dresses, the champagne baths, and the illusion of upper-class politesse, the realities of the job are often no different for these women than for 21st-century streetwalkers: They carry debts that only deepen over time. Moneyed clients are no less prone to shocking violence and abuse. And those who are victimized by disease or other physical ailments or scars are essentially doomed.

In many respects the European analog to Hou Hsiao-Hsien’s 1998 film Flowers Of Shanghai, another claustrophobic tale of high-end courtesans in the late 19th century, House Of Pleasures follows life in the brothel as changing times and insurmountable debt hasten its decline. Though Bonello is more interested in documenting the seductive, suffocating atmosphere of the place than driving the narrative forward, a few characters emerge. The most harrowing among them is the story of “The Girl Who Laughs,” so called because of the Joker-esque scars left on her face after a kinky session with a sick client takes an awful turn. She’s indefinitely resigned to kitchen duty and other behind-the-scenes labors, but she’s also relieved of the illusions the other women carry about the marriage proposals that will buy their freedom. 

The House Of Pleasures makes the connection between the lives of sex workers then and now clear enough by inserting anachronistic music on the soundtrack—the use of a certain late ’60s Moody Blues song is particularly inspired—but there’s a shade of nostalgia to the film as well. As Bonello details its nightly routines, the brothel takes on the qualities of an organism, one that’s mostly bonded in feminine solidarity, but nonetheless subject to forces beyond its control. Without soft-pedaling it in the least, Bonello nonetheless mourns the passing of a time where prostitutes didn’t control their destinies, but at least had each other.

House of Tolerance Geoff Andrew at Cannes from Time Out London, May 16, 2011 (link lost)

Few would argue that the low point so far in this unusually consistent Cannes (as far as dependably solid quality is concerned) must surely be Bertrand Bonello’s exploration of everyday life in a fin-de-siècle Parisian brothel frequented by the rich and powerful. The French title, with its accent on memory, may possibly account for a narrative occasionally so unilluminatingly repetitive, fragmented and elliptical that it often slips into incoherence, but it’s difficult to excuse (let alone comprehend) its bizarre use of music – one might accept as appropriate exotic anachronisms like Puccini, but ‘Motherless Child’, a ’60s soul number and ‘Nights in White Satin’ (accompanied by modern dancing) feel as risibly wrong as a tacked-on, painfully obvious coda showing hookers on the roadside in today’s Paris.

A pre-credits scene, outlining a prostitute’s eventually fateful dream, at least suggests that we are in for something both sumptuously painterly and rightly sympathetic to the plight of women dependent on the mercy of the male clientele visiting their madame’s lavish but economically strict and straitened establishment. Indeed, it would be foolish to decry the film’s carefully contrived look – the women in their petticoats and corsets and the men in their formal attire all lolling around picturesquely in tableaux of golds, greens, crimsons and purples – or its acknowledgement that the working girls, for all their courage, sisterly camaraderie and canny intelligence, are being exploited. But once one gets beyond the curiosity value of certain historical and sociological aspects to what passes for a plotline, one is left with a mostly turgid, tedious and frequently pretentious series of scenes of scant dramatic interest or progress,

Typical of the fundamental wrong-headedness of the project are a couple of early captions setting the temporal scene, the first announcing that it’s November 1899, twilight’ of the nineteenth century, the second that we’ve moved on to March 1900, ‘dawn’ of the twentieth century. Does Bonello believe we’re too innumerate or dim to work this out for ourselves? It’s not as if we won’t notice how things have changed. But then so much of the film is over-emphatic, be it the occasional bouts of grotesquerie or supposedly ‘subtle’ touches like a petal falling from a flower. The claustrophobic atmosphere produced by the film constantly staying within the bordello (save for one scene and the aforementioned coda) initially aroused hopes that Bonello might have made a French ‘Flowers of Shanghai’. No such luck; for all its lavish tableaux, this is, in the end, a very weedy affair.

HOUSE OF PLEASURES (BERTRAND BONELLO, 2011) Ignatiy Vishnevetsky from The Most Underrated Movies

2011 saw many independent and foreign films go mostly unnoticed with major audiences. If it was something from overseas or independent, and it wasn’t called The Artist or Beginners (both overrated), then it probably wasn’t going to make it with audiences in American theaters. Instead, moviegoers preferred Transformers 3: Dark of the Moon, and Harry Potter Part 7 Part 2, both of which grossed over $350 million in the US.

Turning the attention away from those blockbusters and sure-to-win-come-awards-time films, it is worthy to note a little-known French film by veteran Bertrand Bonello.

Bonello’s fifth feature-length film, House of Pleasures, is that rare type of film--both shocking and disturbing to the eye, yet provocative and intriguing enough to captivate you. Based on a screenplay written by Bonello himself, House of Pleasures takes place entirely in a Parisian brothel at the turn of the 20th Century. Its inhabitants vary from naïve teenagers who seek independence from their families and girls in their late 20s, already considered old and brittle. Each girl has a sad story to tell, each with enormous debts forced to pay them off by living and working in the house. Life is difficult for the prostitutes. They have no future, no hope. Their debts will never be paid off. Some will catch fatal diseases, which is unavoidable; others suffer a fate far worse--mutilation and lifelong humiliation. A client assaults one girl so badly that she ends up with the nickname “The Woman Who Laughs.”

The movie was immediately written-off by critics after its premiere at the Cannes Film Festival in May. It is difficult for critics to praise the film, since it consciously resists definition and meaning by traditional standards. It is a shame though, because House of Pleasures is worthy of an audience outside of the art house crowd. From the start, the film draws you in with sensuous, ethereal imagery. Helmer Bonello's self-penned score alongside use of playfully old-fashioned soul music and 1960s rock tunes infuse a modern sensibility that keeps the period flavor from becoming overly sentimental.

It should be noted that Bonello never seems to resist alienating his audience, forcing the viewer to squirm in their seat, yet the landscape is so exquisite and stylish that they cannot turn away completely. House of Pleasures, also known as House of Tolerance in the United States, is a brave, titillating and unrelenting work of art. While it may not please a wide range of audiences, the film retains an odd appeal, which might explain its strange effect on the viewer. Bonnello does a great job in creating a beautifully constructed alternative art film. It stands as the one of the finest motion pictures of the year, and certainly the most underrated.

The Defeatist Completist [Mike Maguire [

Bizarrely received with relative indifference at the latest Cannes – no awards, and only a handful of vocal apologists – Bertrand Bonello’s House of Tolerance has started to develop a steadily increasing fan base since its American release in November in theaters and on demand. Regarding the latter distributive medium, House is one of the most ironic releases imaginable; not only does it boast a couple hundred of the most striking (and strikingly filmic) compositions of the year, but its last minute is essentially a middle finger to digital video’s ascendancy at the sake of film stock. Alas, most folks outside of major cities will be forced to see it on demand or on home video, but of course one of the paradoxical values of digital technology is its capacity to allow Bonello’s film to be seen by anyone who so desires – the trade-off is obviously rife with complexity.

Thankfully, so is House of Tolerance‘s fin de siècle dirge for independent bourgeois-serving brothels, pre-20th century capitalism, and celluloid – the bell frequently tolling for specific and symbolic entities simultaneously. The film’s overture is set at the twilight of the 19th century, as the eponymous brothel is ominously thrown into the 20th century with one prostitute’s face being sliced into a Joker grin. The chronologically-jumbled sequence builds up a foreboding tone through its use of repeated scenes and a sparely ambient score, pierced by aural shock cuts. The still photograph opening credit montage set to The Mighty Hannibal’s “The Right to Love You” announces the film’s intentions to draw comparisons between then and now, and the following title card’s announcement of the dawn of the 20th-century is easily suggestive of our own recent turn into a new century.

Bonello’s wacky chronology is not unmotivated, as proprietor Marie-France has contrived the women’s employment at the bordello to be essentially indefinite, as they are forever working off their debts for the ostentatious clothes and cosmetics necessary for their services. Yet the prostitutes are relatively more independent than they might be at home, and more secure than if they were to transfer to an urban brothel. These complex circumstances allow for a strange, diluted sense of nostalgia; the girls dream of bring proposed to by their clients, and yet they are deeply interdependent on one another. The near-absence of inter-female drama is almost startling, the sense of unarticulated community reaching its emotional climax in a brief revenge fantasy wherein the girls all sport lipstick scars in solidarity for their effaced friend. In fact, without implementing any obvious plot beyond the house’s looming foreclosure, Bonello elicits a number of similarly cursory moments of genuine catharsis–as when the “exotic” Algerian Samira breaks down reading a bogus phrenological study that explains that prostitutes are neurologically equivalent to criminals. In comparison, the film’s proper culmination, a manifestation of a dream in which the lacerated woman literally cries tears of come, loses a good portion of its punch by needlessly replaying a description of the dream featured in the opening movement. This mistake is easily forgiven, however, as the film’s last minute jarringly shifts from film to VHS-quality digital, a despairing subtraction echoed by one of the final, anachronistic shot of the oldest prostitute posted on the curb of a contemporary French street, turned toward the camera with an ambiguous countenance of perhaps fear, shame, or yearning. House of Tolerance captures the complexity of nostalgia in a myriad of ways, and yet neither entirely condemns nor capitulates to its attraction.

Slant Magazine [Phil Coldiron]

HOUSE OF PLEASURES – Hammer to Nail Michael Nordine

theartsdesk.com [Graham Fuller]

Phil on Film [Philip Concannon]

Filmleaf [Chris Knipp]

Plume-Noire.com [Moland Fengkov]

Though beautiful to look at, ‘House of Pleasures’ presents dark picture of Paris brothel in 1900 Hans Morgenstern from Independent Ethos, January 4, 2012

Films Deserving of Greater Recognition IY

Cannes 2011. Rushes: "L'apollonide (Souvenirs de la maison close)", "Return", "Take Shelter" Daniel Kasman at Cannes from Mubi, May 19, 2011

Subtitledonline.com [Stefan Pape]

Cannes 2011 Review: Bertrand Bonello's ... - Film School Rejects Simon Gallagher

Cannes Review: 'L'Apollonide' A Preposterous, Misguided ... Kevin Jagernauth at Cannes from the indieWIRE Playlist, May 16, 2011

Cannes '11, day five: Our favorite film at Cannes so far turns out to be our favorite film from Sundance, too.  Mike D’Angelo at Cannes from The Onion A.V. Club, May 16, 2011

House Of Tolerance Howard Feinstein at Cannes from Screendaily, May 16, 2011

Cannes Film Festival 2011: Day Five – The Artist, Martha Marcy May Marlene, and House of Tolerance Glenn Heath Jr. at Cannes from The House Next Door, May 15, 2011

CANNES REVIEW: Sensuous, Intriguing L’Apollonide Takes a Fatal Wrong Turn Stephanie Zacharek at Cannes from Movieline, May 16, 2011

Sex, death, rape, murder: Just another day at the movies Barbara Scharres at Cannes from the Ebert blog, May 15, 2011

Bonjour Tristesse (English) excellent still photos

Fabien Lemercier at Cannes from Cineuropa, May 16, 2011

Melissa Anderson on day six of the 64th Cannes Film Festival ArtForum, May 16, 2011

CineVue [Joe Walsh]

Total Film [Tom Dawson]

Screenjabber.com [Doug Cooper]

Cannes 2011. Bertrand Bonello's "House of Tolerance" David Hudson at Cannes from Mubi, May 17, 2011

House of Tolerance (L'Apollonide, sourvenirs de la maison close): Cannes Review Deborah Young at Cannes from The Hollywood Reporter, May 16, 2011, including an interview by Rebecca Leffler: CANNES Q&A: 'House of Tolerance' Director Bertrand Bonello

Leslie Felperin at Cannes from Variety

House of Tolerance Trevor Johnston from Time Out London

House of Tolerance – review Philip French from The Observer

House of Tolerance – review | Film | The Guardian Peter Bradshaw

Chicago Sun-Times [Roger Ebert]

A Doll's House - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Syphilis - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Bong Joon-ho

The Bong Joon-ho Page Darcy Paquet from the Korean Film Page

With his off-tempo, quirky first feature, Bong Joon-ho marked himself out as a talented newcomer. His second film, a smash hit, established him as a major directorial star. His third set a new box-office record and propelled him to the very top of the Korean film industry. Few Korean directors, if any, have experienced such a rapid rise to stardom.

Born on September 14, 1969, Bong says he decided in middle school that he wanted to be a filmmaker, perhaps influenced by his being raised in an artistic family (his father was a designer and his grandfather a noted author). He majored in sociology at Yonsei University in the late 1980s during the height of Korea's pro-democracy movement, and was part of the film club there. He is said to have been particularly fond of Edward Yang, Hou Hsiao-hsien and Imamura Shohei at the time.

In the early 1990s he was accepted in the two-year program at what many people consider Korea's top film school, the Korean Academy of Film Arts (KAFA). While there he made a number of 16mm short films, with two -- Memory in the Frame and Incoherence -- invited to screen at the Vancouver and Hong Kong international film festivals. He also collaborated on several works of his classmates -- most notably as cinematographer on the highly acclaimed short 2001 Imagine directed by his friend Jang Jun-hwan (Save the Green Planet). He was also lighting director on an early short by Choi Equan (Voice).

After graduating, he spent the next five years contributing in various capacities to works by other directors. He received a partial screenplay credit on the 1996 omnibus film Seven Reasons Why Beer is Better Than My Lover; both screenplay and assistant director credits on Park Ki-yong's 1997 debut Motel Cactus; and is one of four writers (together with Jang Jun-hwan) credited for the screenplay of Phantom the Submarine (1999).

Shortly afterwards Bong began shooting his first feature Barking Dogs Never Bite under producer Tcha Seung-jai, who had overseen the production of both Motel Cactus and Phantom the Submarine. The film, about a low-ranking university lecturer who abducts a neighbor's dog, was shot in the same apartment complex where Bong had lived after getting married. Although now remembered fondly, at the time of its release in Feburary 2000 it did not stir up much interest among audiences, and the response from critics was positive but slightly muted. (The first half of 2000 saw a burst of inspired features from Korea, including Peppermint Candy, Lies, Chunhyang, The Foul King, The Isle and Virgin Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, so that Bong's film was slightly overlooked in comparison) Nonetheless, the film was invited to the competition section of Spain's prestigious San Sebastian International Film Festival, and it would go on to win awards at Slamdance and Hong Kong. Slowly building international word of mouth also helped the film financially -- over two years after its local release, the film reached its financial break-even point due to sales to overseas territories.

Bong's second film, a much larger-scale project, was adapted from a popular stage play centered around a real-life serial killer who terrorized a rural town in the 1980s (and was never caught). Rumor has it that director Park Chan-wook had originally shown an interest in this project -- at the same time that Bong was considering adapting a Japanese comic book called Oldboy. In the end, however, it was Bong and co-screenwriter Shim Seong-bo who set about adapting the play into what would become Memories of Murder. Production of the film was a long and arduous process (the film set a local record for the sheer number of locations it utilized), but with the weather providing unexpected help with some stunning skyscapes, the film wrapped without major problems and was released in April 2003.

Memories of Murder was an immediate critical and popular sensation. Enthusiastic word of mouth drove the film to sell over 5 million tickets (rescuing Tcha Seung-jai's production company Sidus from near-bankruptcy), and a string of local honors followed, including Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor (for Song Kang-ho) and Best Lighting prizes at the 2003 Grand Bell Awards. Although passed over by the Cannes and Venice Film Festivals, the film eventually received its international premiere (again) at San Sebastian, where it picked up three awards including Best Director. The film also received an unusually strong critical reception on its release in foreign territories such as France and the U.S.

Following this, Bong took some time to contribute short films to two omnibus projects. Influenza is a disturbing 30-minute work acted out entirely in front of real CCTV cameras stationed throughout Seoul. The film, which charts (from a distance, quite literally) a desperate man's turn to violent crime over the space of five years, was commissioned by the Jeonju International Film Festival, together with works by Japanese director Iishi Sogo and Hong Kong-based Yu Lik Wai.

Twentidentity, meanwhile, is a 20-part omnibus film made by alumni of the Korean Academy of Film Arts, on the occasion of the school's 20th anniversary. Bong's contribution is Sink and Rise, a whimsical work set alongside the Han River that can be seen as a warmup for the director's third feature The Host.

The Host marked a newly ambitious gamble in Bong's career, and indeed for the Korean film industry as a whole. The big-budget ($12 million) work centered around a fictional monster that rises up out of the Han River and wrecks havoc on the people of Seoul -- and on one family in particular. Featuring many of the actors who had appeared in his previous films, the film was the focus of strong audience interest even before it started shooting, but many doubts were raised about whether a Korean production could rise to the challenge of creating a full-fledged, believable digital monster. After initially contacting New Zealand's Weta Digital -- the company responsible for the CGI in The Lord of the Rings -- schedule conflicts led Bong to San Francisco-based The Orphanage, who took on the majority of the effects work. After rushing to meet deadlines, the film received a rapturous premiere in the Directors Fortnight section of the 2006 Cannes Film Festival.

Although local audiences were slightly more critical of The Host than attendees at Cannes, the film was nonetheless a must-see event during its summer release. With theater owners calling for more and more prints, the film enjoyed the widest release ever (on over a third of the nation's 1800 screens) and set a new box-office record with just under 13 million tickets sold. The film was quickly sold around the world, and US studio Universal even snapped up remake rights to the picture.

Bong in general is known as being a director who takes a great interest in film genres, while simultaneously trying to move beyond genre's usual boundaries. In this he shares a common approach with a number of other noted Korean filmmakers, such as Kim Jee-woon, Park Chan-wook, and Jang Jun-hwan. He is also known for the pure craft and finished quality of his works. Korean film industry insiders have nicknamed him "Bong Tae-il," which, pronounced in Korean, sounds similar to the word "detail".

He also displays a fascination for strong subject matter. Although not especially violent, his films often make viewers squirm -- whether at seeing a cute puppy in mortal danger in Barking Dogs, or witnessing a sympathetic character meet a cruel end in Memories of Murder or The Host. At the same time, his films are filled with (often black) humor and sudden mood shifts, making for an emotional roller coaster ride. The fact that he is able to combine all these contrasting elements into such a smooth whole is Bong's particular strength as a filmmaker.

Jung Ji-Youn’s book book from Seoul Selection

Interview - The Host’s Bong Joon-ho by Emanuel Levy at Cannes, May 2006

TIFF Interview: The Host Director Bong Joon-ho - Cinematical by Scott Weinberg, September 13, 2006

Bong Joon-ho | jürgen fauth's muckworld YouTube 16-minute translated interview by Richard Peña from the New York City Film Fest, October 2006

Cineaste: An Interview with Bong Joon-ho feature and interview by Kevin B. Lee, Spring 2007

Cinema Strikes Back - Covering the World of Film » Cinema Strikes ... Interview March 2007

Combustible Celluloid interview - Bong Joon-ho, The Host (2007) by Jefferey M. Anderson, March 5, 2007

Replaying "The Host" with Bong Joon-Ho Interview by Jennifer Young from SF360, March 7, 2007

indieWIRE: indieWIRE INTERVIEW: "The Host" director Bong Joon-ho March 13, 2007

Bong Joon-ho: Horror on the River Han | GreenCine Interview by John Esther, July 24, 2007

An Interview with Bong Joon-ho by Giuseppe Sedia from the Korean Film Page, October 2007

Hollywood Reporter Interview with Bong Joon-ho, May 14, 2009

Bong Joon-ho (봉준호) @ HanCinema :: The Korean Movie and Drama ...

Bong Joon-ho - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

BARKING DOGS NEVER BITE (Flandersui gae)

South Korea (106 mi) 2000

Time Out

This eloquent social comedy has a self-pitying professor hunting out the mutt who's been disturbing his sleep. He locks the creature in a closet in the basement of his apartment block and later stumbles across a janitor with a taste for dog soup (dog lovers might want to give this one a miss). The trouble is, he realises he put away the wrong hound. Ironies multiply. His pregnant wife drives him crazy. He throws the right dog from the roof of the building. His main rival for a top job is beheaded in a drunken subway accident. His wife buys a poodle. And so on. Beautifully directed, unsentimental and darkly funny.

FilmsAsia [Wong Lung Hsiang]

The first three minutes of this film (right before the opening credits) seems like a sitcom-style student short film of mediocre quality. As the story unfolds, everything clicks together and becomes a wonderful social satire of South Korea. Don't get me wrong but by social satire I don't mean heavily analytical commentary. The black comedy touches various aspects of the modern urban culture without drilling into the depth. However, I am reluctant to use the word shallow on this film, simply because the debut director/screenwriter's brilliant threading of individual subplots making all the elements and characters seamlessly bring up his view on the society - a society that is full of people of different frequencies that frequently bump into each other and cause unnecessary but unavoidable conflicts. Yes, it's more than just a story about dog lovers vs. dog haters vs. dog eaters. And oh, the use of Jazz music is wonderful (especially in the thrilling and funny chasing scene).

Barking Dogs Never Bite Darcy Paquet from the Korean Film Page

A low-ranking university lecturer (Lee Sung-jae), strained by the pressures of money and his wife's pregnancy, snaps one night at the incessant barking of a neighbor's puppy. After seizing the dog and exacting a cruel revenge, he nonetheless fails to secure the peace and quiet he so desires. Meanwhile, an employee at the apartment office (Bae Doo-na) receives a notice from a young girl about her missing dog...

Barking Dogs Never Bite is hard to characterize: part comedy and part cruel social satire, the film is spiced with scenes and characters which seem unique to the cinema of Korea, or perhaps any country. The film neither looks nor feels like an art film, and yet on closer viewing, the aesthetic it creates is both complex and extremely well-executed.

Part of what makes this film stand out is its characterization. The women characters, for one, contrast sharply with the naive, pretty image that dominates Korean film. Our male lead arouses both sympathy and horror in turn, leaving the viewer unsure of whether to identify with him. Characters like the janitor, with his penchant for Korean dog soup, also leave an unforgettable impression.

My favorite part of this film, though, are the small details scattered throughout: an erratic jazz soundtrack; the predominance of the color yellow; rolling pears; abrupt cuts to airplanes or imaginary cheering crowds; a dispute resolved by a roll of toilet paper; and the hauntingly-narrated tale of "Boiler Kim."

The strength of this, Bong Joon-ho's debut feature, was foreshadowed in 1995 by his amazing short film Incoherence, in which a series of professors are caught in shameful acts unbecoming of their status. Incidentally, here too we see a searing indictment of academia, where rampant drinking parties predominate, and bribery remains the only path to a promotion.

Every time I watch this movie I'm impressed more and more. With so many films made all over the world, it's become rare to find a work that feels like it's writing its own rules. Nowhere to Hide (1999) was one such film, with its wild visuals and stripped narrative. In a much more subtle way, Barking Dogs Never Bite may stake a similar claim.   

Filmbrain from Like Anna Karina’s Sweater

The Storyboard Guo Shao-hua

Film Threat Merle Bertrand

Yupki Taste Rainer

iofilm.co.uk Rebort

DVDBeaver.com - Full Review [Kin Ho]

MEMORIES OF MURDER (Salinui chueok) A 95

South Korea (130 mi) 2003 (Trailer: 300k)

A terrific film, a comedy of errors of all things gone wrong in a police procedural that has a bit of the obsessive nature of ZODIAC (2007) mixed with dysfunctional, time-warped characters the likes of which we haven’t seen since IN THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT (1967). Set in a place where scientific progress collides against the inept, near barbaric police methods used in small, rural villages, the film is surprising in its shifting tone throughout, from its raucus physical comedy to its quiet inner poignancy, using sumptuous opening visuals, taking perfect advantage of the beautiful panoramic mountainous scenery, shot in the rural region of Gyeonggi Province, cinematography by Kim Hyung-gu. Supposedly adapted from a play, though one would never know it, as the film makes excellent use of multiple locations, all of which create an uncertainty of what the viewers will be exposed to next. Based on real life incidents of a serial killer who raped and murdered ten women without leaving a trace of evidence behind, the film focuses on two police detectives, a big, bumbling local cop Detective Park (Song Kang-ho, nothing short of brilliant in the role), something of a lunkhead who typically beats his potential suspects into confessions, along with his maniacal Kung fu jumping partner Detective Cho (Kim Rae-ha), who becomes a feet-first, flying projectile always aimed squarely into his suspect’s chests, both of whom take exception to the outside presence of Detective Seo (Kim Sang-kyung from TURNING GATE), a more sophisticated, big city detective from Seoul who volunteered to help find the murderer. Initially, Seo remains quietly behind the scenes, invisible as a ghost, deferring to the comical antics of the local cops who literally stumble over one another as well as the crime scene, but as he is apparently the only cop in the vicinity who actually reviews evidence, he eventually becomes more outspoken and takes over the case. Despite leading the investigation, pouring over the details with his calm intelligence, after they’ve run through a handful of suspects, his more meticulous methods lead them no closer to solving this crime. Over time, the need to find answers becomes something of a nagging obsession.

The film uses the eerie landscape of a gargantuan factory on the edge of a grassy field with secluded wooded areas where the killer lies in wait. Occasionally the camera takes the position of his vantage point, and when he suddenly leaps out at his victims, it has the sensation of a tiger leaping out of the jungle where he can only be seen at the last split second. By then it is too late. Exquisitely crafted, these are heart-racing, panic ridden moments where the rush of Iwashiro Taro’s music kicks into high gear. These sudden bursts of energy are matched by occasional brawls in the police station where the squabbling detectives themselves attack one another like animals, which only adds to the ineptitude of their investigation. There are hilarious asides, such as the utter lack of community respect for crime scenes, where tractors and children freely trample all over potential evidence, also the local cop’s obvious thrill at watching a cheesy American TV cop show while munching down food in between beatings, the creepy sensation of having to watch Detective Park’s girl friend calmly cleaning the wax out of his ears following uneventful sex, or a visit from the Prime Minister, which one would think would be a prestigious event, but when he is ambushed by a violent crowd of protesters who denounce his ineffectiveness, it reveals a complete societal lack of respect for authority. Additionally, there is a continuing local investigative TV series on police brutality which has the entire town up in arms and thoroughly suspicious of anything they do, actually coming under attack by citizens at one point when attempting to interrogate a potential witness.

As we become more familiar with the disparate nature of the zany cops and the equally bizarre criminal suspects, also understanding that the government can’t send sufficient help as they’re too busy protecting themselves from their own citizens, the initial Keystone cops hilarity gives way to the severity of the crimes, where in a ghastly change of pace, we see a helplessly bound sympathetic victim alive just before she is brutalized. Despite the length of the film, these abrupt mood shifts keep the audience off balance, never knowing what to expect, interjecting high doses of suspense and graphically detailed exposure to crime scenes with long doses of quiet reflection, which includes the use of the expansive landscape and occasional downpours of rain. The lead characters reverse their roles in the end, as the local brawler has to restrain the city cop from resorting to his own underhanded methods, where the outrage at their futility in being unable to solve the case leads to a fleeting notion of morality, where the world as they know it has been turned upside down by a phantom figure they can’t find. Both the opening and closing sequences are stunning for their mix of dark humor and brooding poetry, where it’s apparent the impact of these events is traumatizing in ways people can’t fully comprehend, the breadth and scope of which they’ll never get out of their systems. It’s all part of the human equation, having to live with and ultimately accept their own shortcomings and human limitations.

Time Out Tony Rayns

A huge critical and commercial success in Korea, Bong's film fictionalises the search for the country's first recorded serial killer. (The actual crimes - rapes and murders - began in Gyeongi Province, outside Seoul, in 1986 and continued for some five years; the perpetrator was never caught.) The film centres on the efforts of the local cops and an officer from Seoul to sift evidence, identify patterns, follow up leads and interrogate suspects; there are several false leads before a woman cop notices a correlation between the attacks and requests for a particular song on the radio. Much of the plentiful gallows humour springs from the clashes between the poorly educated and trained local force and the more sophisticated urban detective, but nothing works out predictably. All of the characters, including the prime suspect, are victims of the Korea of the 1980s: living under dictatorial military government and inured by a Cold War mentality to acts of violence and brutality. Bong brilliantly spreads the blame by using multiple points of view for his mise-en-scène, and gets tremendous performances from his stars and supporting cast alike.

2004 top 10 list Steve Erickson’s #1 Film of 2004 from Chronicle of a Passion

Languishing without an American distributor, although it‘s been released in the UK and France, Bong Joon-ho’s MEMORIES OF MURDER is one of the best Korean films I’ve ever seen. I went in expecting a Korean equivalent of SE7EN (that would be TELL ME SOMETHING, briefly released a few years ago), but its wit distinguishes it from generic serial killer films. Set in 1986 in a backwater town where a rapist/murderer strikes on rainy nights, it has a raucous sense of humor,  often playing violence for laughs. Then it slams us in the face with the consequences of its characters' reckless actions. Here, police brutality isn't just immoral; it's futile at best and counterproductive at worst. Bong  creates a gritty look that avoids shakycam clichés, relying on cinematography that resembles a slightly faded, green-tinged print. About two thirds of the way through, the tone switches into sadness and disenchantment. Bong pulls off the change beautifully. He leaves politics - the government's violent crackdown on protest, in particular - in the background but never allows us to forget the social context. In the end, the failures of the police in MEMORIES OF MURDER are both personal and institutional. Rarely has cop life looked so unappealing.  Its sorrowful mood doesn't even allow the scorched-earth comfort of nihilism, as a cyclical present-day ending keeps closure at bay. Out of all this year’s films, it’s the only one that would make sense as a response to Abu Ghraib, even if it’s a reaction to a much different time and place.

koreanfilm.org Darcy Paquet (credited English language editor for the film) from the Korean Film Page

Between the years of 1986 and 1991, a small village in Korea's Gyeonggi Province was witness to the rape and murder of 10 women, all in the same groteque and brutal manner. Korea had never before experienced serial murders of this kind, and an intense media frenzy and police investigation followed. As the murders continued to take place over the years, investigators grew more desperate, at one point even consulting a shaman who advised them to move the gate of the police station to a more favorable location (which they did, to no avail). Ultimately all their efforts would be in vain, and to this day nobody knows who the murderer was or whether he is still alive.

In 1996, the poignant memories of this incident were reshaped into a successful stage play directed by Kim Kwang-rim. The dramatic intensity of the story attracted the interest of several filmmakers who wished to make a film of the material, but ultimately it would be Bong Joon-ho, the talented director who debuted in 2000 with Barking Dogs Never Bite, who would be charged with the task. Bong took the stage play and, consulting historical documents, wrote a screenplay focusing on two of the police investigators. Bong's primary addition to the material was to highlight the era in which the murders took place -- a time in which the Korean populace was struggling to shake off its authoritarian and militaristic past.

The end result is perhaps Korea's biggest event film since Joint Security Area, a masterfully directed, superbly acted film which is at turns blackly humorous, thought-provoking, and horrifying. The film stars top actor Song Kang-ho (JSA) and Kim Sang-kyung (Turning Gate) as two investigators, the former a local policeman and the latter a detective who comes from Seoul to assist in the case. The first part of the film focuses on the two men's characters and the rivalry that builds between them. As time passes, however, the narrative becomes more complex, as our leads begin to transform under pressure and as we see references to the social situation in Korea at the time, when the government was too busy suppressing its own citizens to put resources into a proper investigation.

Although this movie features one of the best performances ever from Song Kang-ho, one of Korea's most talented actors, the film's amazing ensemble cast almost succeeds in stealing his spotlight. Minor characters such as the old police chief (played by Byun Hee-bong), the slightly retarded Baek Kwang-ho (played by theatre actor Park No-shik, who now has his own fan club), violent investigator Yong-gu (Kim Rae-ha, in his most prominent role to date), Song Kang-ho's girlfriend Sul-young (played by Jeon Mi-seon, who was Han Suk-kyu's old flame in Christmas in August) and the new police chief (Song Jae-ho, also in Double Agent) are only a few of the memorable characters created by this skilled cast. Park Hae-il from Jealousy Is My Middle Name also takes a role towards the end of the film that is sure to stay in the memory of viewers.

Another impressive aspect of this film are its visuals. The production set a record for using the most locations in any Korean film to date, in an effort to recreate the underdeveloped rural landscape of the mid-80s. Director of photography Kim Hyung-gu (who also shot Musa, One Fine Spring Day and Chen Kaige's Together) creates striking images out of ordinary objects, with earthy browns and yellows painting an unforgettable portrait of small town life.

Recently, many critics have begun saying that Korean audiences no longer appreciate good films, that they prefer instead the light comedies that have dominated the box-office over the past couple years. The smashing popular success of Memories of Murder now acts as a counterweight to that argument, signalling that ambitious, serious, well-made productions in Korea still have potential if they can capture the imaginations of ordinary viewers.

BFI | Sight & Sound | Memories of Murder (2003) David Jays from Sight and Sound, August 2004

In 1986, the local police force in a small Korean town investigates a series of murders of women. Detective Park Doo-Man (Song Kang-Ho), who works on instinct, attempts to extract a confession from village idiot Kwang-Ho (Park Noh-Sik). A younger detective, Seo Tae-Yoon (Kim Sang-Kyung), arrives from Seoul to join the floundering investigation. Kwang-Ho is released and the head of the investigative team replaced. Seo suggests that a missing woman is probably another victim; her body is subsequently discovered. Seo constructs a detailed picture of the crimes, all of which take place in the rain.

Kweon Kwi-Ok (Koh Seo-Hee), the team's only female officer, discovers a radio show that has received a request for an identical song on the day of each killing, but the caller's details have been discarded. Park, desperate to regain credibility, visits a shaman and arrests another suspicious, but innocent, suspect. Seo finds a woman who escaped the killer, and then a young man called Park Hyun-Kyu (Park Hae-Il) who arrived in the town shortly before the first murder. The interrogation of this young man is ruined by Detective Park's thuggish sidekick, and Park Hyun-Kyu is released pending DNA tests. Kwang-Ho, who witnessed one of the murders, dies in an accident before he can identify the killer, and a schoolgirl becomes the next victim. Seo tries to compel a confession from Park Hyun-Kyu, but the DNA test proves inconclusive.

In 2003, former Detective Park is now a salesman. He passes the location of the first murder, where a girl says another man recently revisited the spot.

Review

Memories of Murder is based on a series of unsolved murders that took place between 1986-91 in provincial South Korea: ten women were raped and murdered but the killer was never brought to justice. Bong Joon-Ho's remarkable film goes beyond telescoped details of the failed investigation to construct a desolate portrait of the rents in civil society. As two combative detectives - lazy local detective Park and his lean city rival Seo - clash, then gradually discard their contrasting professional principles, Bong tells a devastating story about the failures of both corruption and rigour and suggests a pessimism leeching through Korean society.

The police station is presented as a clunky old office in bleached-out grey and beige. Under a low ceiling, the air fills with smoke and a cop sticks photos of suspects in a scrapbook. The only female officer is confined to making coffee; this masculine world of snacking and petty corruption breeds negligence. The basement boiler-room is the scene of wrongheaded hardball and torture, as Park's sidekick stamps on suspects with duster-wrapped boots. A maintenance guy potters in to adjust the boiler while a near-delirious suspect struggles to fabricate an acceptable confession.

From the first, the tone is marked by incongruous comedy. Crime scenes mill into chaos as the forensics man tumbles down a slope and bystanders trample vital evidence. The camera pans over these antics until it reaches the corpse: there is a terrible sense of time being lost. Even more challenging is a gruesome cut from a corpse to the bloody meat sizzling in one of the cops' communal meals, and the tragi-farcical blunders seem increasingly less amusing. A radio station thwarts the investigation, leaving Seo standing in a slag heap of trash; as a witness seems close to identifying the murderer, he dies in a pointless train accident, leaving only his fake Nike sneaker on the line. Bong's comedy gathers dispiriting force.

The camera brings us queasily closer to atrocity. At first we see the bodies, then share a victim's point of view. We've already seen her doing domestic chores; now her torch trails uselessly through the dark fields. Finally, we share the killer's viewpoint as he considers potential victims, selecting a schoolgirl who has appeared in previous scenes. The crimes become more personal even as the prospect of arrest recedes.

Bong achieves a wonderful poker-faced absurdity. Simple-minded Kwang-Ho, hauled in for questioning, eats and watches a TV cop show with the policemen between beatings. Other bizarre details have a factual basis, including Park's visit to a shaman who gives him a charm to reveal the killer's face. It doesn't work, but Park and Seo do spot a man wanking at the murder spot, torch bobbing from his mouth. The ensuing chase releases the investigators' frustrated energy; a percussive rumble on the soundtrack accompanies the cops pelting after the perv. They eventually erupt into a weirdly busy nocturnal quarry, just one of the dislocations in mood and expectation.

The dynamic between Park and Seo is central to the film and brilliantly played. Park (droll, fleshy Song Kang-Ho) survives on instinct, planting evidence and beating out confessions. His sole attempt at deduction is to suggest the murderer lacks pubic hair, so he searches for hairless men in the sauna. He believes the FBI uses investigative techniques because the US is so large, while Korea is merely "the size of my dick and can manage without". Kim Sang-Kyung's sardonic Seo views the case as fertile territory for his investigative rigour. He rejects a prime desk for a dark corner, and prefers to peel apples on a lads' night out rather than snog or sing.

Only when they belatedly identify a probable killer do the rivals converge. This is an unassuming but implacable young man in a neat grey turtleneck. Seo is so certain of his guilt that he resents waiting for a DNA test (Korea couldn't perform DNA testing, so samples must be sent to the US). In a downpour, he manhandles the youth to a railway tunnel and threatens him with the first gun we've seen - previous police brutality has been administered the old-fashioned way. When Park arrives with inconclusive DNA results, Seo's bloodied hands clutch the letter as he snarls, "The document is a lie. I don't need it." The suspect, his smooth face mocking, totters up the tunnel as Seo shoots and misses. Seo hurls away his principles and still fails: it's a devastating, inconsolable finale.

The atmosphere of Memories of Murder settles like a mist. In this dank, provincial autumn, greys and beiges infect the green of the rice and cabbage fields, and a victim's red clothes seem to darken lifelessly in the film's muddy palette. Only the present-day coda introduces blue skies and golden fields. Park now only uses his old techniques to quiz his son about homework. We leave him, haunted by the unsolved case: the film ends with him staring, perplexed and greying, into the camera.

These murders tapped into South Korea's collective fantasies and paranoia. We see civil defence drills, crackdowns on dissent (cops are unavailable for an important operation because they're off suppressing a demonstration) and zealously enforced blackouts: shop shutters descend, lights disappear during the last murder, stressing the detectives' despairing impotence. Building into a portrait of a society displaying its fractures and fears, a corrosive suspicion of its own institutions, Bong's unpredictable comedy becomes a sombre, forensic examination of failure.

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World Socialist Web Site David Walsh

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Memories of Murder - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

THE HOST (Gwoemul) B 87

South Korea Japan (100 mi) 2006

I’m not as enamored with this film as some, a low budget monster flick that cuts through various genres to make a pretty effective statement about the state of preparedness, bordering on negligence and sheer incompetence of various governmental entities, from top to bottom, to handle an actual terror alert. Instead, they rely on old-fashioned methods that are likely out of the Cold War bag of tricks, as they haven’t really developed anything remotely different from Spielberg’s government quarantined imagery in CLOSE ENCOUNTERS, which is based on a steady stream of misinformation, as most likely, they don’t know what the hell they’re doing, so they have to make it look like they’re in charge, resorting to an excess of force and control that covers up their own internal ineptitude. Geez, sounds like it’s right out of the Bush playbook. This film does a good job of satirically exposing the hypocrites for what they are, perhaps a bit cynical, but then it’s a sci fi/ horror/disaster/monster/comedy/action/adventure/family drama with relevance. There’s some very effective editing, clever use of sound and over the top panic music, creepy hospital and slimy sewer scenes, and more tons of fun, which includes poking fun at an Olympic medal winner, and a hilarious demonstration that attempts to greet the monster with their grievances.

The film actually reminded me more of CHRISTINE, where a pissed off car goes on a rampage, but in that film, what’s hilarious is that the car is given human feelings. Here, we wonder throughout if the monster has a motive, or if it’s just a monster hell-bent on being the picture image of terror, probably pissed that it’s a mutant. Looking a bit like a running fish on legs with Spider Man-like capabilities and a rat tail, this flesh devouring mutant creature was inspired by a real life incident where a U.S. government military employee ordered a Korean subordinate to empty huge doses of a toxic substance into the sewer system, which emptied into the Han River. The same thing happens here until a crowd of Sunday afternoon picnickers notice something large hanging from a bridge, that drops into the water and...holy shit, it’s coming our way!

IMDb Trivia: The event described in the beginning of Gwoemul is based on an actual event. In February 2000 in a US military facility located in the center of Seoul, US military civilian employee Mr. McFarland ordered to dispose formaldehyde into the sewer system leading to Han River despite the objection of a Korean subordinate. Korean government attempted to prosecute Mr. McFarland in Korean court but US military refused to hand over the custody of Mr. McFarland to the Korean legal system. Later, a Korean judge convicted Mr. McFarland in absentia. Public enraged at the Korean government's inability to enforce its law on its own soil. In 2005, nearly five years after the original incident, Mr. McFarland was finally found guilty in Korean court in his presence. He never served the actual prison sentence, however. No sighting of mutant creature has been reported in Han River, yet.

CANNES JOURNAL; A Look at Italian Politics, A Peek at American ... Manohla Dargis from the New York Times (excerpt)

There are several South Korean films at Cannes this year, including "The Unforgiven," an impressive first feature from Yoon Jong-bin...Another offering from South Korea — and the best film I've seen to date at this year's festival — is “The Host,” which for some reason is screening outside the main festival program in a parallel section called the Directors' Fortnight. Directed by Bong Joon-ho, who made the policier "Memories of Murder," this terrific hybrid-genre fantasy about a mutant creature with a lotuslike mouth and a steady appetite has been alternately described as a monster movie and a science fiction thriller, but is also a comedy, a family drama, a political critique and, at times, a seriously scary freak-out. Mr. Bong can shift moods and tones on a dime, and when the loudly appreciative audience wasn't laughing at the witty dialogue it was shrieking at tensely wound scenes as effective as any in Steven Spielberg's "War of the Worlds."

The Host Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

I admired many aspects of Bong's previous film, Memories of Murder, but I well stopped short of loving it. It was obvious that Bong was a skilled directorial surgeon of the Hitchcock / Kubrick variety, chilly, ruthless, and fat-free. But that damned Korean tonal inconsistency just got to me. Why should such an unrelentingly grim police procedural be "leavened" with stupid cop humor? But now, oh boy does Bong get the balance right. Instead of taking a serious project and lowering it, he's taken a goofy, utterly disreputable genre (the monster movie) and elevated it with moments of familial strife, genuine loss, and eventually [SPOILER but I mean come on] a sense of human triumph. Song Kang-ho is spot-on as a doofus pressed into service by incomprehensible circumstance To Song's credit, he manages to let the character of Gang-du transform without ever exactly getting wise. Instead, he becomes a fully functioning component of the family unit without much thinking; it's called rising to the occasion. And in fact, that's what Bong does as a writer-director: he becomes the very conductor of the monster-movie ethos, transmitting it effortlessly as though it were an inevitable part of all our DNA and all he had to do was gently tap on our pressure-points. Any serious student of pop cinema owes it to him/herself not only to see The Host, but to absorb it through the pores. Also, Bong is wise to resist concrete allegorical resonances, but let's hear it for a giant mutant tadpole movie that finds the time to acknowledge that Kwangju happened. Honestly, name any populist U.S. director who would make one of his protagonists a student protester whose Molotov-chunking skills would be vital to the survival of the human race? Okay, besides Joe Dante.

Mike D'Angelo

We first see it hanging beneath a bridge spanning Seoul's Han River, where onlookers mistake it for some sort of construction equipment. Moments later, the creature gracefully unfolds — it's much bigger than it had appeared — and plunges into the water, swimming so close to shore that picnickers, at once curious and bored, begin to pelt it with empty beer bottles and half-gnawed chicken wings. This inspired amalgam of the fantastic and the quotidian, juxtaposing the outré design of the amphibious whatsit with the populace's hilariously blasé (and utterly credible) reaction to it, is pure Bong Joon-ho, immediately recognizable to the handful who saw his wacko romantic comedy Barking Dogs Never Bite (never released in the U.S.) or his unconventional policier Memories of Murder (barely released here). But not even Bong's most ardent fans could have been prepared for the brilliantly choreographed mayhem that erupts once the creature scampers ashore and proceeds to improvise a picnic lunch of its own. Shot with the innovation and precision of Spielberg in his heyday, this giddy melee makes you realize what's been sorely missing from recent Hollywood F/X showcases: wit.

Like most Korean filmmakers, Bong has no interest in doing the same thing over and over, even within the confines of a single picture. For all his stunning facility with action and suspense, his primary interest here is in the crazy-quilt dynamic of the Park family: shambling slacker Gang-du (Song Kang-ho); his drunken activist brother (Park Hae-il); his sister (Bae Du-na), a champion archer who (uh-oh) tends to freeze under pressure; his irascible father (Byeon Hie-bong); and his teenage daughter (Ko Ah-sung), who's being held captive by the creature somewhere in the city's sewer system along with other potential midnight snacks. As the little girl's family attempts a rescue, The Host gradually reveals the pointed import of its title; American viewers may be galled to discover that we're as much the enemy as is the giant carnivorous tadpole (or whatever it is). But a little shame is a small price to pay for such a big-hearted, rip-roaring entertainment. Pray that Hollywood is taking copious notes.

Reel.com [Jim Hemphill]

Bong Joon-ho's The Host is the best kind of genre film, a movie that delivers the conventions audiences expect from a horror flick while also offering surprising new variations on the formula. The plot superficially resembles any number of environmental monster movies from the 1950s, like Gojira or Roger Corman's Attack of the Crab Monsters, in which human carelessness with toxic chemicals leads to the formation of destructive creatures. In The Host, a U.S. military officer (veteran character actor Scott Wilson) orders an underling to dump hazardous waste down a drain that leads to a river in Korea; years later, a lethal monster emerges from the river and wreaks havoc.

The premise promises a lot of old-fashioned sci-fi/horror kitsch, and Bong does not disappoint. There are many delightful images of the creature rampaging on land and in the water as dozens of screaming extras flee, and these scenes will bring a smile to the face of anyone with fond memories of Japanese monster movies or Steven Spielberg's Jaws, a key influence on Bong's film. Like Spielberg, Bong seems never to make a wrong choice in terms of editing or camera placement—every action sequence is timed for maximum impact, and the movie contains both big laughs and big scares. It's a very different kind of horror filmmaking from what one finds in movies like the Saw series and Hostel. Bong doesn't skimp on the scares, but the movie doesn't have any truly nasty moments. It's as sweet as it is scary, and the audience leaves the theatre energized and giddy, not shaken and depressed.

While Bong provides all the expected pleasures of a movie in this genre, what makes The Host special is its completely unexpected emotional resonance. Most of the film focuses on a dysfunctional family that is troubled even before one of its members—a young girl—is kidnapped by the creature. After the child is taken, the tensions in her family reach a boiling point as the characters try to assign blame for the tragedy before eventually joining forces to save the girl's life. The scenes of domestic strife are perfectly balanced with the supernatural sequences so that each complements the other—the family arguments are given more intensity because of the high physical stakes involved, and the action set pieces are more exciting because of the complex and compelling characters.

The result is an odd but effective cross between Jaws and The Family Stone, though to imply that Bong is doing nothing more than combining elements from other films would be inaccurate—he assimilates his influences but doesn't imitate them. And the sincerity of his characterizations gives The Host a specific sensibility that distinguishes it from its predecessors; it's as cheerfully silly as a Corman exploitation movie, but its emotional pull gives it an appeal for audiences who would normally steer clear of movies about rampaging sea beasts. Bong's love of filmmaking is as obvious and infectious as his love of humanity, and his stylish and entertaining movie is irresistible.

The Host Darcy Paquet from the Korean Film Page

It's hard to write about Bong Joon-ho's The Host (the original Korean title is "Creature") without making puns on the word "monster." The temptation arises not only because of the subject matter, but because everything about the film -- its scale, its budget, its record-breaking performance at the box office, its overseas potential -- is huge within the context of the local film industry. It is a monster movie -- about a truck-sized mutant that crawls out of the Han River and unleashes terror upon the citizens of Seoul -- and yet, it is not one. Part of The Host's appeal is that its core concerns are somewhat slippery, and hard to pinpoint.

You could just as well call The Host a family movie. Hee-bong (Byun Hee-bong) is the owner of a small food stand in the Han River Citizen's Park, selling squid, candy and beer to people who have come out to enjoy the sun. Gang-du (Song Kang-ho) is one of his three children, a man who seems a bit slow mentally and whose one motivating strength is a devotion to his schoolage daughter Hyun-seo (Ko Ah-sung). Rounding out the family is Nam-joo (Bae Doona), an amateur competitive archer and her brother Nam-il (Park Hae-il), a former student radical who at present is drunk and unemployed. There are no mothers in the family -- Hee-bong's wife having passed on and Gang-du's having run away. It's a dysfunctional group, held together only by the crisis that faces them, and yet the family dynamics will feel familiar to many viewers.

It is when the creature snatches the young Hyun-seo that the family becomes aligned against this unknown biological threat. However, in what is perhaps a telling reflection of our times, the family ends up spending more time battling health professionals, military personnel, and other manifestations of the government than the beast itself. The Host mixes more than a few political barbs into its genre cocktail: a bit of SARS here, a bit of Iraq there. Yet it's with a black sense of playfulness and absurdity that these satirical quips are delivered to the audience, suggesting that the film's chief concerns lie elsewhere.

The monster itself is not a force of pre-meditated evil, bent on destroying civilization. (In this sense it is more Katrina than 9/11) Like any other natural disaster, this clever, ugly, lethal, clumsy, and at times ridiculous monster does what it does simply because it is part of its nature. It eats humans because it is hungry, and because it enjoys it. So in some ways it's hard to see The Host as a contest between good and evil. From a moral sense (if not an emotional one) the film resembles wildlife videos of lions taking down gazelles.

Yet in the course of the showdown with the beast, there's a very human sense of loneliness that seeps into the film. Part of it comes from the realization that, in a crisis, one's country may be of no help -- or indeed, may turn against you. A disaster that rips through the fabric of society may reveal that the laws, conventions and beliefs that keep us civilized lie only on the surface. Perhaps the other source of the film's sadness is reflected in a startling line delivered by Byun Hee-bong at the story's mid-point: "Have you ever smelled it? The stomach of a parent who's lost a child... Once it goes rotten, the smell can travel for miles..." The family unit at the center of The Host faces the prospect of losing a girl who is dearer to them than anything else, and this too pushes them up against the cruel, arbitrary forces that determine who lives or dies.

For me, The Host will not displace Memories of Murder as my favorite Korean film of this decade. Every scene of the latter work is golden, and the more you watch it, the more it resonates as a haunting, brilliantly-shaped composition. The Host is more of a spectacle film, a sensual burst of inspiration that picks us up and carries us along on a harrowing ride (this must be seen in the theater if at all possible). It is perhaps unfair to expect Bong to come up aces two films in a row; but it is surprising is that he came so close to doing just that.

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Tokyo!

France Japan S. Korea Germany (110 mi) 2008 co-directors: Michel Gondry and Leos Carax

Shaking Up the Crowd at Cannes Manohla Dargis at Cannes from the New York Times, May 16, 2008

Far superior is the metaphorically inclined short “Shaking Tokyo,” a story about a shut-in from Bong Joon-ho, last in Cannes in 2006 with “The Host.” Mr. Bong’s short is the final chapter in the triptych “Tokyo!,” which, as you might expect, mostly takes place in that city. The first, “Interior Design,” is a bit of predictable whimsy from Michel Gondry and involves a wallflower who metamorphoses into a chair; the second short, named for a French vulgarity, finds its director, Leos Carax, in an absurdist mood and throwing scat all over the screen. Too bad that the tough female prisoners in the Argentine drama “Leonera” weren’t around to reply in kind.

Tokyo! Lee Marshall at Cannes from Screendaily

One out of three ain't bad for this Tokyo-themed directorial three-hander. Whimsical Michel Gondry delivers a thirty-minute segment that resonates, while compatriot Leos Carax spoils an otherwise tasty genre exercise by pressing it into service as a message film. Korea's Bong Joon-ho, meanwhile, delivers an artsy rom-com that is too slight even for its half-hour running time.

Unlike Asian horror omnibus Three Extremes, the directors of Tokyo ! have little in common and the Tokyo cityscape isn't enough to make them bond. Another recent urban-themed portmanteau, Paris Je T'aime, managed the act better – perhaps because its 18 segments were more bite-sized. Tokyo ! is unlikely to repeat that film's relatively wide arthouse outreach, with only the four co-production territories looking like dead certs for theatrical distribution. But all three directors have cult fanbases – so long-tail ancillary prospects should be more upbeat.

An animated title sequence and the final credits are the film's only communal spaces. Gondry is the first up with Interior Design, a tale of a couple of amiable urban drifters, Akira (Kase) and Hiroko (Fujitani). Gondry perfectly captures the fantasy-realist spirit of his source material, the graphic short story 'Cecil and Jordan in New York ' by Gabrielle Bell, even though it has been moved to Tokyo. Though apparently inconsequential until it becomes a partly-animated surreal parable in the last five minutes, the segment has a warm indie fire to it that is stoked by the chemistry between the three leads (the other is Ayumi Ito, who plays the pair's former schoolfriend and reluctant Tokyo host).

No shrinking wallflower, Carax puts his cards on the table with the title of Merde, an odd, angry little curio about a Tokyo sewer-dweller that is at its best during rare moments of tenderness. Denis Lavant is suitably extreme as Merde, a green-suited, red-bearded, flower-eating freak who is vilified by Japanese nationalists and idolised by the country's non-conformists after a bombing spree. There's humour in a series of spoof TV news reports and both humour and pathos in Merde's courtroom and prison exchanges, but Carax's attempts to turn what is basically an enjoyable weirdfest into a parable of intolerance falls flat.

Which leaves Shaking Tokyo – a decidely minor outing for Korean genre auteur Bong Joon-ho. Teruyuki Kagawa plays an unnamed hikikomori, an urban recluse who shuts himself up in his obsessively tidy apartment, refusing even to make eye contact with the bike couriers whose deliveries he survives on. Then a pizza girl (Aoi) faints on his floor during an earthquake. Jun Fukumoto's poetic photography – which recalls Chris Doyle's long-lens work in another film about an urban recluse, Last Life In The Universe – is the best thing about this occasionally charming but dramatically flaccid love story.

Cannes Film Festival, 2008: “Tokyo!” (Gondry/Carax/Bong, Japan) Daniel Kasman from the Auteur’s Notebook

Tucked in the middle of the surprisingly inspired omnibus Tokyo! is the first masterpiece of Cannes, Leos Carax’ short feature

Merde.

A sneering dark comedy pastiche combo of Godzilla and Oshima’s Death by Hanging, it captures in wicked digital imagery (by the unbeatable Caroline Champetier) the emergence from the sewers of a hideous Denis Levant to wreck havoc on the unprepared Japanese city. Red-bearded like an ur-gaijin, wearing a leprechaun’s garb and crawling up from the catacombs not unlike some silent serial super villain, he roars down the streets in a gregarious, brilliant verité sequence set to Ifukube Akira’s killer score from Godzilla, stealing cigarettes, licking schoolgirls, and generally strutting with an anarchic frenzy.

Logically, the next step is to grenade nighttime city crowds, and Levant’s madman—who speaks a gibberish language that only an absurd Parisian defense attorney, himself having the same curled, monstrous nails, devilish beard and milky dead-eye, can understand—is soon captured and condemned to death. Living in the underground remains of Japan’s Second World War detritus and eating only cash and imperial chrysanthemums, Levant’s creature—”Merde”—is too insanely, enjoyable kooky to express any kind of simple allegory. (Arbitrary split screen—now three ways, now four!—and an endless, untranslated interrogation scene seem to underline a certain stunt-like quality to the film’s exuberance and concept.) Instead we only see madness, Carax relishing an all-too-rare opportunity to make yet another unqualifiable, indescribable work of pure cinema, an ode to the monsters of the world.

***

Michel Gondry, with Interior Design, proves that rather than be all by his lonesome, with the help of a screenwriter he can reign in his meta-craftsman indulgence and just tell a story. Of course, we have yet to arrive at character—our heroine leaves her filmmaking boyfriend during the upheaval of the couple looking for an apartment and work in Tokyo but without any real reason for breaking the relationship—but the arc, from Fujitani Ayako’s girl on the sidelines to girl turned into a piece of useful furniture, has a touch of tenderness and much energy, despite the lack of human logic.

Gondry, with much cleverness, makes us assume from the get-go that the filmmaking boyfriend is the protagonist, opening with the joke of having him narrate a post-apocalyptic future over images outside of the window of the couple’s car, stuck in traffic on a rainy night. Is Gondry giving up the obsession with dreamer-filmmaker stand-ins? Probably not, but when Fujitani’s frustration turns her into a wooden chair to be found on the streets, for the first time in a while we see not Gondry watching someone craft whimsy, but rather we see someone inadvertently craft themselves. Feeding a creative impulse inside an ordinary character and not a savant creator is the path that will lead Gondry back to the emotional and narrative splendor of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and his segment in Tokyo! is a very promising step in the right direction.

***

Two out of three isn’t bad, but one must admit that Bong Joon-ho’s Shaking Tokyo has none of the vigor of The Host or Memories of Murder. His enjoyable jerky tone in shorter form here turns into a torpid kind of whimsy—symmetrical interior decoration, push-button tattoos, slightly odd and dramatically convenient earthquakes—none of which carries much impact. And his Imamura-like preference for social losers turns downright quirky-cute with our hero being an agoraphobic shut-in.

As the shortest film of the trio, it gets more than a pass though: it’s final image of the girl who brought our recluse out in the open is a doozy. Literally trembling during a quake which vibrates the glaring light, as if all the fear of leaving the house, facing the sun, and entering the crowd was manifesting itself in the on-fire form of this pretty girl, Bong embraces the latent whimsy of the short and for a few seconds goes all out. No explanation, just magic.

Thursday 15 Emmanuel Burdeau at Cannes from Cahiers du Cinéma

Merde.

This word, used as the title for a mid-length feature by Guitry, became yesterday, around 10 p.m. the title for another mid-length feature, this time that of Léos Carax in his Tokyo! triptych.

In Merde, Denis Lavant comes out of the gutter dressed in green and terrorizes Tokyo crowds. He ends up being hanged, after having tossed a number of grenades en route. It is funny, ferocious, and often facile. It connects well with the first and last parts of the triptych, respectively by Michel Gondry and Joon-Ho Bong. We were happy to rediscover Léos Carax, intact, still alive, as he stated himself, speaking to Thierry Frémaux.

There is more. Merde is a chance for us to say what type of cinema it is that we want. Cahiers du Cinéma readers no doubt already know it. But let’s reiterate it.

It is a cinema that goes from the silent film irises to the multiple screens of the 24 series. That jumps from film to digital media without transition or concern for looking pretty. An outrageous cinema, that makes terrorism its subject, its object, its love: that’s what we saw yesterday, and we’ll certainly be talking about it in the days to come. A cinema of anger and furor.

Films that are stolen, as if kidnapped: that’s the impression one gets, seeing Lavant strolling the avenues of Ginza. And it’s the same impression we get from great films like Cloverfield.

Films that are lost, rediscovered, or reaped are the real deal of our time.

False reporting. Unearthed archives. Violations of privacy.

Thief!

Someone has stolen the cinema!

What luck.

Matt Noller at Cannes from The House Next Door

Bong Joon-Ho Teams Up for “Tokyo!” Triptych Marc Raymond from One One Four

MOTHER (Madeo) A- 93

South Korea (129 mi) 2009 ‘Scope

Another extremely intelligent film, a psychological thriller that veers into murder mystery territory, with a shifting storyline that leaves the audience a bit off-kilter by the end, still wondering more about the full extent of the central relationship between mother and son. There’s a killer opening credit sequence that features the title character wandering through a grassy field looking somewhat dazed before stopping, turning to the camera, and performing a free form dance, not really in rhythm to the Spanish guitar music, but lost in her own peculiar world, a scene that repeats itself later with a different perspective. Korean TV star Kim Hye-ja is mercilessly plastered all throughout this film, never seeming to enjoy a single minute of it, as every second is spent watching over her grown son Do-Joon (Won Bin), who due to his mental impairment has the brain function of a young child, including considerable memory loss. Do-Joon contuinues to live at home with his mother, even sleeping in the same bed where his hand can be seen resting on her breast. But there’s an eye opening jolt when Do-Joon is nearly run over by a luxury Mercedes Benz car that continues on without stopping. His friend, local bad boy Jin Tae (Jin Ku), figures it must be heading to the golf course and they follow to administer local justice, but they bungle their mission, spending the afternoon with the hit and run drivers cooling their heels at the police station.

Even though Jin Tae appears to be his friend, he nonetheless blames Do-Joon for breaking the Mercedes side mirror that he himself broke. This establishes the pattern where Do-Joon is routinely called names by others in town and blamed out of convenience for things he didn’t do. The idea that the disabled are weak and easy to be exploited is a central theme of Bong Joon-ho, ocurring previously in MEMORIES OF A MURDER (2003) where the police are quick to blame a village idiot character for a series of murders. The same thing happens here as Do-Joon is quickly arrested and charged with the murder of a young girl in what the police are calling an open and shut case. The audience is shown a few visual cues just around the time of the murder, but nothing substantial. A lawyer is hired, but he is soon depicted in the most reprehensible manner, a man with few, if any, remaining ethics, as he’d just as soon sell out his own clients, concerned more about his own image and the collection of his fee. The police aren’t much better, as they easily coerce Do-Joon through fear of physical violence to confess to a crime he has no knowledge of ever committing. The authorities have no interest in what really happened, despite parading every known CSI contraption out before the public in a blatant effort to fool people into believing they know what they are doing, covering up the real fact that they haven’t a clue.

This leaves Kim Hye-ja to trudge through the rain in search of clues to save her son, actually turning into a police procedural film through her meticulous efforts to follow the evidence. This of course leads to dead ends mixed alongside essential information. Perhaps the most outrageous sequence in the film is when she tries to offer her condolences to the grieving family who nearly start a riot in outrage over her presence. The authorities in town have everyone convinced that her son is the killer, so she is threatened and eventually assaulted by the girl’s family. The mother initially suspects Jin Tae, actually sneaking into his home where she is forced to hide behind a curtain in a perfect example of Hitchcockian suspense, where Lee Byeong-woo’s music matches the frayed nerves. Out of sheer desperation, she is force to hire Jin Tae to try to break down a couple of glue sniffers who have been concealing information about the girl. Do-Joon himself, pressed to recall what happened, has brief flashbacks of clarity, but they’re not always pertaining to the case, as he scares the hell out of his mother when he recalls a horrifying memory of such a hideous nature that it's hard not to recoil in disbelief. If it’s not one setback, it’s another, but the mother relentlessly pursues what she can, stopping at nothing, crawling ever closer to knowing what happened. Hong Gyeong-pyo’s cinematography captures in great detail the small, decrepit quarters of the rural poor where the walls are crumbling, where dark community secrets are held, where the physical reality matches the deteriorating state of mind of the mother’s ever increasing desperation. By the time we reach the finale, some viewers may believe she has solved the puzzle while others may feel she is no closer to ascertaining the truth, as truth remains ambiguous and elusive, leaving the mother rattled and in a state of shock. Bong Joon-ho utilizes near experimental imagery for his final sequence, one that has little basis in reality and instead extends the realms of the imagination to near formless images of fire dancing in the air as if the truth is going down in flames.

Special note — actress Kim Hye-ja, supporting actors Jin Ku and Won Bin, screenplay by Eun-kyo Park, Wun-kyo park, and Bong Joon-ho, director Bong Joon-ho, cinematography by Hong Gyeong-pyo, music by Lee Byeong-woo

User comments from imdb Author: gregking4 from Australia

A marvellous and intelligent psychological murder mystery from Korea, Mother has been one of the highlights of the Melbourne International Film Festival this year. When her mentally handicapped son is arrested for the murder of a school girl, the boy's over protective mother (Korean star Hye-ja Kim) believes that the police have made a mistake and that he is being made a scapegoat for their lazy, sloppy investigation. Convinced of his innocence this slightly built acupuncturist sets out to investigate on her own. But even she is unprepared for what she discovers. Even the audience is surprised and shocked by the lengths to which she is prepared to go to protect her son. Mother is a far more restrained and thoughtful film from Joon-ho Bong, better known for his over the top horror films like The Host. With its careful development of suspense and sly injections of humour, this outstanding psychological thriller is reminiscent of vintage Hitchcock (Rear Window, Vertigo, etc). At first it is hard to warm to Kim's character, but as the film progresses audiences begin to sympathise with this unusual heroine and her obsession.

Mike D'Angelo at Cannes from The Onion A.V. Club, May 17, 2009

More original and more satisfying, despite having been relegated to the Un Certain Regard ghetto, is Mother, which confirms South Korean filmmaker Bong Joon-ho (Memories of Murder, The Host) as one of world cinema’s most versatile and arresting talents. His playfully idiosyncratic touch is evident from the opening shot, in which a 50-something woman (Kim Hye-ja, who I gather is the Korean equivalent of somebody like Marion Ross or Florence Henderson in terms of her established TV persona) stumbles through a field in an apparent daze and then breaks into a tentative dance routine, playing directly to the camera—a bewildering salvo that’ll only seem more disturbing and mysterious by film’s end, when this scene (sort of) recurs in context. In between, Bong explores the furthest reaches of maternal instinct, as this frail bulldog of a mom fights to clear the name of her mentally damaged son, who’s been arrested for the murder of a schoolgirl; both director and actress fully commit themselves to the title character’s lovingly warped psyche, and the atmosphere is Hitchcockian enough to make the film feel a bit like Psycho in reverse. Not only is Mother superior to everything I’ve seen in Competition thus far, but its UCR placement robs Kim of the Best Actress award she so richly deserves; that she never once slips into caricature or begs for easy pathos is miraculous, and I can only imagine how subversive her performance must be for a Korean audience. Alas, I’m pretty sure I napped through a good 15 or 20 minutes in the middle—one of the occupational hazards of the film festival, where you often get only 4-5 hours of sleep—so my grade will have to be tentative, and I’m erring on the side of caution/conservatism. But see this film.

Filmink Magazine Australia

Bong Joon-ho tones down the absurdist, affectionate humour of The Host to deliver a psychological study of dark, intense impulses, an intellectual piece about man's suffering and an emotional reflection of a mother's capacity for love. Mother may not be as immediately visceral and broadly entertaining as the director's previous work, but it weaves a strongly intense web as a deeper, more complete story about our internal emotional worlds. As a filmmaker, Joon-ho sensitively essays the material's potential hysteria to deliver an absorbing, gripping modern thriller, a Dostoyevsky-like parable about fate's cruelties. 

In a small Korean town, acupuncturist Hye-ja (Kim Hye-ja) protects her grown, but mentally handicapped son, Do-joon (Won Bin). When her son is arrested for the murder of a teenage girl, Hye-ja sets off to find the killer.

 Bong Joon-ho shows a nice feel for classic, tightly directed tension. In a way that surpasses his broader, less talented American counterparts, the director's clean, unpretentious visual style and simple, quietly affecting sound design deftly ramp up the story's intensity (in particular, the wistfully emotive score beautifully complements the story's dramatic texture).

 A key to the story's success is the use of technology - from mobile phones to modern acupuncture techniques - to contrast the story's present trajectory with its past, effectively linking both timelines into the sharp narrative. Bong Joon-ho remains a filmmaker of sympathetic wit, using often-comic situations to frame the story's intense tragedy and pathos. Even as a scene focuses on another character or the story's ongoing mystery, he trains his camera on the mother's face, which reveals her slowly crumbling interior landscape. There is something desperately moving about Kim Hye-ja's very fine performance, a quietly wistful exploration of a mother's intense determination and devotion to her fickle, but sweetly naïve, child.

Hollywood Reporter [Maggie Lee]

CANNES -- Maternal instinct exerts fearsome force in "Mother," when a woman finds that no one but herself can clear her son of murder. Bong Joon-ho's top opus zooms in on one character with smothering intensity to examine the primal quality of motherhood. At the same time, it is a superb murder mystery, with twists coming thick and fast yet always at the right moments.

"Mother" confirms Bong's prodigious talent in bending any genre to serve his own idiosyncratic vision. Though premiering in Cannes' Un Certain Regard section, it would not feel out of place In Competition. Made with less commercial considerations than the monster movie "The Host," his boxoffice smash in Korea, this more personal work may alienate some popular audiences, but critical accolades will give it a boost. Overseas marketing aiming beyond the art house may emphasize the script's cleverly plotted detective yarn, which is paced like a Hitchcock suspense thriller.

Hye-ja (Kim Hye-ja) runs a herbal apothecary, and performs unlicensed acupuncture to make ends meet. She is constantly on the look out for her son Do-joon (Won Bin), who easily gets in trouble because of his mentally challenged condition. When high school girl Ah-jung is found dead and dangling halfway from a rooftop, incriminating evidence points to Do-joon as the killer.

Neither the district police whom Hye-ja routinely grovels to, nor the lawyer whom Hye-ja must pay through the nose for, show any sympathy or patience to Do-joon's case. Frustrated, Hye-ja decides to find the killer herself. Her biggest suspect is Do-joon's hoodlum buddy Jin-tae. However, she soon learns that there is no one she can trust in her close-knit village.

Although the small town setting and sex crime plot suggests Bong is revisiting his own "Memories of Murder" territory, "Mother" is less concerned with capturing the mindset of a milieu or community, or to criticize ineffective social systems than "Memories." Bong is more fascinated with the glory and misery of Hye-ja -- initially as an embodiment of the indomitable human spirit as she refuses to surrender to circumstances, then gradually as an elemental force of nature, as inhuman and destructive as the monster in "The Host" (which, incidentally, dwells in dark waters like a Grendel figure).

This is expressed with a stylized film language that he forges with more confidence than ever before. Looming close-ups of Hye-ja stretched across the screen both mesmerize and unnerve. Other times, wide shots of endless fields or misty mountains frame her as a speck in the landscape -- implying both her insignificance, and her affiliation with nature.

TV actress Kim Hye-ja, long-accustomed to playing overbearing Korean mothers, commands the screen, though she sometimes goes overboard with too many mannerisms in a larger-than-life performance. Won Bin exudes guileless charm as the dim-witted son, and is almost unrecognizable from his usual heartthrob image.

The film's use of sound, from the ominous rustling of leaves to the menacing sounds of Hye-ja's herb chopper, is more effective than any music score. The appearance of not more than two persons in most frames, and the stark palette of primary colors of doleful smoky blue and petulant rusty red create a sustained mood of claustrophobia and discomfort.

Mother Duncan Mitchel from The Korean Film Page

Bong Joon-ho's new film Mother begins with a tease: Do-joon's Mother (Kim Hye-ja, Palace), in an embroidered violet jacket, walks toward the camera through a field of tall grass. Soft jazz-funk begins to play on the soundtrack. Gazing offscreen, she stops walking, then hesitantly starts dancing to the music. We'll see her in the same field later in the movie, but not dancing.

Do-joon's Mother lives with her son Do-joon (Won Bin, Taegugk, Guns and Talks) behind the murky shop where she sells medicinal plants and roots, and practices acupuncture without a license on the side. Do-joon is very good looking (he's played by Won Bin, after all), but he's not quite right in the head, rather like Song Gang-ho's character Gang-du in The Host, and like Gang-du, there is a hint that his impairment is his mother's fault. He's not retarded, but his dullness is difficult to define: he has no attention span to speak of and a poor memory; at twenty-seven he still sleeps with his mom, with a hand on her breast. He hangs around with Jin-tae (Jin Ku, A Dirty Carnival), who's also good-looking in a bad-boy way, and is a bad boy - a tough, cynical hustler who feels constrained by his small-town life and dreams of adventure. Still, Jin-tae seems to have nothing better to do than hang out with Do-joon. He taunts Do-joon for being a virgin at his age. Jin-tae doesn't seem to have any family, and lives alone at the edge of town. There's a lot of this in Mother: one high school character lives with her half-senile, boozing grandmother, intact families are not much in evidence. (For a "traditional" society like Korea, its films and TV dramas feature a surprising number of one-parent families and broken homes.)

Do-joon and Jin-tae are already in trouble with the police for vandalizing a Mercedes-Benz that knocked Do-joon down in the street. Then a high-school girl is murdered, and a clue connected to Do-joon is found near her body. Relieved that their first murder case in living memory is so cut-and dried, the police pack Do-joon away. He insists that he didn't kill the girl, though he saw her the night she died. Frantic, his mother sets out to prove Do-joon's innocence. Her blundering efforts draw Jin-tae into helping her to play detective, and they poke around the seamy underside of the town. Jin-tae enjoys himself: "This is in my blood!" he exults after beating up a couple of "suspects," "I should have been a cop." In jail, Do-joon tries to dredge up details from the sieve of his memory, often coming up with details that make matters worse, while his mother closes in on the girl's real killer ... or maybe not ... before returning to that grassy field.

Kim Hye-ja is famous for playing mothers on Korean TV, and it must have been interesting for her to play such a double-edged role. Taking the melodramatic archetype of the Mother to extremes, Kim plays a mother whose symbiosis with her son is nearly complete, yet Bong and Kim manage to keep the character from being monstrous. (The archetype isn't just Korean: the mother who sacrifices everything to save her accused son is a mainstay of American country music, for example.) She does a great job, and one of the main pleasures of the movie is watching her. Won Bin's Do-joon seems like a change from his usual pretty-boy roles, but since the people around Do-joon comment ruefully on his good looks (another of Bong's jokes, I suspect), it's not that big a leap. Jin Ku plays Jin-tae energetically, full of frustrated vitality, and by the end turns out to be a bit more sympathetic than you'd expect.

If you've seen Bong Joon-ho's earlier movies, you'll have some idea what to expect from Mother. Bong says that he chose the English word mother as his title to avoid the associations of the Korean word omoni, but it's probably no coincidence that the Korean pronunciation of mother also sounds like the Korean pronunciation of murder. He likes to build his stories around ordinary people; the characters of his first feature Barking Dogs Never Bite -- a college professor and his salarywoman wife -- were as upscale as he gets. Since then his protagonists have been small-town cops (Memories of Murder), a family that runs a food stand by the Han River (The Host), and now a small-town widow. His manner is operatic: reactions, facial expressions, sound design, even the weather (see the use of rain in Mother) tend to be over the top. Even Won Bin's stupefied look is rapturous in its dullness. Typically for Bong, there are plenty of small jokes at the expense of movie clich?s - misrecognitions, comically inappropriate reactions - jokes that make you wince as you laugh.

In this and in his operatic excesses, Bong is reminiscent of Pedro Almodovar - think of All About My Mother - and if you like Almodovar you may like Bong. (Come to think of it, Lee Byeong-woo's music reminds me of the music in Almodovar's films.) Hong Gyeong-pyo's photography captures the grittiness of decrepit small towns and the working poor; there's a lot of grey and murk, and even the blood looks dark and muddy. Mother is a retreat in scale after the CGI-heavy science-fiction blockbuster The Host, but an advance in confidence and style. It even contains his first sex scene! It's been obvious since Memories of Murder that Bong is a director worth watching, and Mother confirms it.  

Mother Megan Ratner from Film Comment, March/April 2010

Cannes 2009: An American Multiplex in Seoul ("Mother," Bong) Daniel Kasman at Cannes from The Auteur’s Notebook

Screen International [Mike Goodridge] at Cannes

Twitch [X]

Urban Cinefile review Geoff Gardner

Cannes 2009: A Host of Fools ("Mother," Bong) David Phelps at Cannes from The Auteur’s Notebook, also seen here: The Auteurs

Mother Michael Sicinski from The Academic Hack

User comments from imdb Author: kimkegaard from United States

User comments from imdb Author: sitenoise from http://sitenoise-atthemovies.blogspot.com/

NOW Magazine capsule review [4/5] Paul Ennis

eye WEEKLY capsule review [4/5] Jason Anderson

Cannes Report: Day 4 Melissa Anderson from Artforum, May 16, 2009

Cannes. "Mother" David Hudson at Cannes from The IFC Blog, May 17, 2009

Tom Carson GQ magazine Blog at Cannes, May 18, 2009

Hollywood Reporter Interview with Bong Joon-ho, May 14, 2009

Maggie Lee at Cannes from The Hollywood Reporter, May 17, 2009

Derek Elly at Cannes from Variety, May 17, 2009, also seen here: Variety (Derek Elley) review

Cannes '09 Day 4: How to make an exit Wesley Morris at Cannes from The Boston Globe

Hush now, baby, don't you cry Roger Ebert at Cannes, May 18, 2009

Bonnaire, Sandrine

HER NAME IS SABINE (Elle S'appelle Sabine) C 70

France (85 mi) 2007

Opening with a shot of a gorgeous teenage young girl, we meet Sandrine Bonnaire’s younger sister Sabine, who has exhibited signs of mental illness since she was a child, but was at times able to mix with regular kids and determined well enough for placement into a public school, at which time she was subject to such severe humiliation that she was removed shortly afterwards, eventually suffering such severe symptoms, worsened by the death of her brother, that she was institutionalized for a period of 5 years, where any resemblance of her former personality simply disappeared, most likely due to brain damage, requiring large doses of medication and full-time care for the rest of her life. Where she once took walks every day, or even regular jogs, enjoyed painting and playing piano, learning to play Bach and Schubert, she has now gained 70 pounds and can’t stop herself from uttering profanity, incessantly using the F-word, or hitting or biting people, even her family, where we see her actually stabbing another patient’s hand with a fork. She is a danger to herself and others, which is exacerbated by profound abandonment issues, such as every time a family visit comes to a close, or when she doesn’t get the immediate attention she wants, she acts violent and people will immediately pay attention to her, where negative or positive attention is indistinguishable.

Entirely shot by Sandrine, much of this is difficult as we see the agonizing efforts of the family and the professional staff who are with her all the time to get her to stop biting or hitting, for instance, where Sabine mentally acknowledges she needs to stop, but then she can’t stop herself, which is part of her illness. Finding the right facility was difficult, even impossible for most of her life, as they were unable to diagnose her condition for nearly three decades until she was recently placed in a brand new fully staffed support facility where she’ll likely live for the rest of her life, which was built from contributions raised by her sister’s fame, and where at age 38 Sabine was finally diagnosed with psycho-infantilism combined with autism, where she seems most comfortable when she can revert to childish symptoms. The home movie aspect of the film keeps the story personalized, but fairly typical, as there are many pieces missing, where we never get the full story, even about her illness. Sandrine’s intentions are clear, raising awareness to the difficulty of diagnosing mental illness symptoms and finding appropriate care, but the film is conventionally told. It was hard not to think of TARNATION, another home movie mental health story which asks the same questions but provides infinitely better results, using a much more provocative film language that integrates a certain flourish or style into telling the story. That story was charmingly brought to life while this one sadly just sits there.

Moving story of the actress and her autistic sister Charente Libre

A French actress whose autistic sister is in a special centre in the Charente has made a moving film about the life of her sibling. The documentary Elle s'appelle Sabine, which will be shown at Cannes on 24 May, has been directed by actress Sandrine Bonnaire. Six years ago her sister Sabine was admitted to the Foyer d'accueil medical centre at Montmoreau and the documentary explores her daily life there – as well as deploring the fact that there are so few such centres available. Sandrine, who describes the centre as a ‘great place’ felt a strong need to make the film. ‘I wanted to make it from the day that Sabine entered the centre,’ she says. As a young girl, Sandrine had known that her sister was a ‘a bit different’, she says. ‘At school she was called Mad Sabine, she had to put up with the taunts from other kids. She took out her violence on herself.’ She became violent towards those around her, too, and spent time in a psychiatric hospital

‘She had lost a lot of her faculties,’ recalls Sandrine. ‘She was on a lot of medication.’ The actress adds: ‘Hospital was necessary but it was a place of transition, not a place to stay.’ Sandrine has many happy memories of her sister before she was forced to stay in hospital and then in the centre. ‘She has always loved to be filmed and loves geography, and has always wanted to travel, for example to America,’ says Sandrine. She also recalls when Sabine came to see her perform in a Brecht play in Paris. ‘She was very happy,’ recalls her sister, who is able to remember the good times with her sister as well as the less good. The film was part funded by the department council and Sandrine Bonnaire met with producer Thomas Schmitt and department president Michel Boutant to discuss the film last week. It will be shown on France 3 at the end of September.

Variety.com [Lisa Nesselson]

MADDENED BY HIS ABSENCE (J'enrage de son absence)

France Luxembourg Belgium (99 mi) 2012

Maddened By His Absence Lisa Nesselson at Cannes from Screendaily

A tale of inconsolable grief sensitively told from a bizarre angle, Maddened By His Absence (J’enrage de son absence) is carried beautifully by a downright haunted William Hurt. If ever a character fit the description “There’s method in his madness,” Hurt’s Franco-American Jacques, who returns from Boston to Paris to settle several layers of family business, is it.

Co-writer/director Sandrine Bonnaire whose 2007 doc about her developmentally-challenged sister Her Name Is Sabine enjoyed deserved attention, makes the transition to fiction by drawing viewers in to a story as wrenching as it is layered. This increasingly harsh but rewarding adult drama deserves a look from international distributors.

The film addresses how life does and doesn’t go on after the death of a child.  While that sounds like a perfect opener for the ‘Flee In The Opposite Direction Film Festival’, this is actually a low-key thriller with a steady hum of mysterious behaviour. Deeply serious, slightly repetitive venture should be aided by the presence of Hurt and curiosity about Bonnaire’s second outing behind the camera.

Under a black screen with white credits, Hurt’s voice is heard helping a very young French boy recite a nursery rhyme in English. All of Hurt’s subsequent interactions are conducted in fluent, lightly accented French.

Jacques is presented at first like a potential stalker or child molester, staring intently from behind the wheel of a car as a woman accompanies her seven or eight-year-old boy to school in a Paris suburb.

In the first quarter hour we learn that Jacques’ father has died, an event that prompts him to telephone Mado (Alexandra Lamy), the woman whose movements he was tracking. This is their first contact in eight years. They were once a couple. Jacques still blames himself for something that happened over 10 years ago.

Mado has remarried a tall, openly affectionate man, Stéphane (Augustin Legrand), with whom she has a child. Mado is in charge of shipping at a fabrics firm; Jacques is an architect. His late father’s home is stuffed with fine furnishings and artwork to which he is the sole heir.

While the packing and legal obligations in conjunction with the estate are underway, Jacques asks to meet Mado’s son, Paul (Jalil Mehenni, appealing and convincing). Jacques takes an intense interest in the boy.

The camera offers tight close-ups - Bonnaire loves to linger on and scrutinise faces - and elegant movements. As befits the worldview of an architect, we understand the lay of the land. Appearances that speak volumes are all in place, with the window to a below-ground cellar a particularly sharp piece of production design.

Reactions flow organically from carefully laid groundwork. The film explores how otherwise reasonable people can be driven to extreme behaviour. As the film advances into “How are they going to write their way out of this corner?” territory, the suspense builds to an emotional crescendo.

Maddened by his Absence (J' - The Hollywood Reporter Jordan Mintzer at Cannes, May 21, 2012

CANNES - About as subtle as its painfully literal title, Maddened by his Absence (J’enrage de son absence) is an emotionally overcharged psychological drama about a father who tries to purge the demons of his son’s death by latching on to his ex-wife’s family. Featuring a brooding French-language performance by William Hurt, this heavy-handed sophomore effort from actress turned cineaste Sandrine Bonnaire (The Ceremony, Police) should do modest art house biz following its Critics’ Week premiere.

While Bonnaire’s 2007 documentary, Her Name is Sabine, was a highly autobiographical affair, the scenario (co-written with Jerome Tonnerre, The Women on the 6th Floor) for this first fictional endeavor is closer to high-concept melodrama, even if there seem to be some personal elements in its story of a Franco-American couple with a troubled past (Bonnaire and Hurt were an item back in the 90s, and have a daughter together).

Set in the distant suburbs of Paris, and predominantly in a series of darkened rooms and basements, the story follows Jacques (Hurt) as he arrives back in France following his father’s death. While administering his dad’s estate, Jacques begins stalking Mado (Alexandra Lamy) and her 7-year-old son, Paul (promising newcomer Jalil Mehenni), and we soon learn that Jacques and Mado were formerly married and had a child who died in a car accident nine years prior.

Once the backstory is cleared up, Maddened by his Absence becomes an increasingly morose portrait of a man coping with a loss he could never overcome, with Jacques slyly befriending Paul and hiding in the latter’s storage cellar nearby a box of his dead son’s belongings. For the rest of the movie, the narrative turns around whether or not Mado and her new b.f., Stephane (Augustin Legrand) will realize just how low Jacques has sunken, and it takes so long for everyone to literally deal with the elephant in the room that some viewers may be screaming for an on-set psychiatrist.

More subtly drawn is the relationship between Jacques and Mado, whose romance was initially interrupted by the accident, and for whom there still seems to be a fair amount of mutual love and respect. Not unlike in Rabbit Hole, Bonnaire does a decent job revealing how a couple can manage to bond over a tragedy that once drove them apart, and the scenes between the two ex-spouses are more palpable than all the ones of Jacques curling up alone on the basement floor.

Making his first excursion to France since Chantal Akerman’s A Couch in New York, Hurt fares extremely with dialogue predominantly en français, offering the rare occasion of an American actor who can hold his own in a French movie. However, his verbal dexterity is often at odds with the film’s onslaught of grandiose emotions, which Bonnaire dishes out via countless close-ups and a soundtrack of heavy-duty orchestral compositions from Arvo Part and Henryk Gorecki.

Widescreen lensing by Philippe Guibert (Hidden Diary) makes the most of all the somber interiors, although the film’s gloom and doom tone never really subsides.

Bonnell, Jérôme

LE CHIGNON D’OLGA

France Belgium (96 mi) 2002

Time Out

Before you ask, a 'chignon' is a woman's hair-bun, and alluring Olga (Rollin) works in a bookshop. Teenager Julien (first-timer Benhamdine) is so smitten, he buys a volume of obscure poetry just to talk to her. But where next for his seduction plans? At least it gives him something else to think about, since all is not well at home just outside Chartres. Ignoring offers from music school, this once promising pianist finds himself unable to touch a keyboard; his troubled dad (Riaboukine, an avuncular teddy-bear of a man) has stalled during the writing of his latest children's book; and his sister (Loiret Caille), usually a real rock, is preoccupied with her love life (or lack of it). There's good reason why the household should be in such a funk, but among the many joys of 26-year-old writer/director Bonnell's remarkable debut is the deft, unpredictable and impressively mature way in which he patiently reveals the full extent of the family's plight. A sense of accomplished naturalness prevails, thanks to unaffected performances (particularly good are Benhamdine's listless yet sympathetic protagonist, and Boutefeu as the neurotic friend with unending man trouble), and the camera's intimate ease with the everyday travails. There are definite shades of Rohmer, and even a sprinkling of delightful clips from Chaplin's The Circus, in this considered, compassionate, utterly disarming record of life's learning curve. Just lovely.

Guardian/Observer Philip French from the Observer

Le Chignon d'Olga, the accomplished debut of the 24-year-old writer-director Jérôme Bonnell, is a Rohmeresque study of a middle-class family living in the flat countryside outside Chartres and coming to terms with the recent death of a wife and mother. On the face of things, they're playful and supportive. But they never speak directly of their grief and the palpable absence in the family, and underneath they're deeply troubled.

Dad, a successful author of children's books, has lost his literary knack; his 20-year-old son, a promising concert pianist, can't touch the keyboard; his daughter has broken with her boyfriend and has a dead-end job in a toy store. All three are engaged in affairs of sorts. The father has a guilty relationship with a friend's wife. The daughter is being tempted by a gentle lesbian. The son is going around with an older girl as her counsellor rather than boyfriend and has developed an obsession with a bookshop assistant, Olga, with the eponymous knotted hair. Meanwhile, they look obsessively at a cassette of Chaplin's sad, wistful comedy, The Circus. It is a light, neatly plotted film, predictable, but truthful.

Kamera.co.uk Edward Lamberti

Writer-director Jerome Bonnell has made, in Le Chignon d'Olga, a very good first feature film, if rather misleadingly titled. Its story centres around Julien (Hubert Benhamdine), a young musician with a crush on Olga (Delphine Rollin), the bookshop worker with the hair in a bun. But this is not a light-hearted romcom in which he pursues the object of his affection, nor is it an intense portrait of obsession. It's actually a depiction of a family in the aftermath of bereavement: the mother has died a year before, and while Julien, his sister Emma (Florence Loiret) and their father (Serge Riaboukine) are superficially communicative and courteous, underneath they are all disaffected and suffering in their own ways.

Julien sets out to pursue Olga, but only from afar. He has a far more fruitful relationship with his older female friend, Alice (Nathalie Boutefeu) - notably in an excellent party sequence. Emma, meanwhile, is charmed by a young woman, but she is unsure whether or not she should reciprocate. The father is involved with a friend's wife. To say that it's like a Rohmer movie is perhaps an over-easy observation to make. But it does give some sense of this film's fidelity to a form of naturalism. The look, the framing and the sound are all at the service of the characters and the story, nothing more or less. As with Rohmer, Bonnell's drama is expressed through small, everyday details. Bonnell's visual style - although convincingly pared down - has a poetry of its own; witness the rapturous shot of a car driving into the distance, held until it disappears from view.

With this approach, the humdrum must be kept at bay, and Le Chignon d'Olga does at times come close to being commonplace in theme and style. The actors are all good, but the characters are actually left quite underdeveloped - or maybe it's just that the story is small and gentle and we are more attuned to larger character arcs. However you view it, the pacing tends towards the ponderous; sometimes shots threaten to hang around and not move on, as in an early sequence in the film, for example, where Julien runs through a field to let off some steam, filmed in a long-held static shot which isn't really merited by the action.

At times this film is reminiscent of another altogether impressive debut film by a French director, Damien Odoul's Le Souffle (2001). In both movies, the camera is used as a window onto the natural world, finding significance in an accumulation of seemingly banal moments. These directors still have a way to go before they invest their images with the hypnotic resonance of, say, Antonioni at his best, but both Odoul and Bonnell display rare sensitivity and tenderness for their characters.

In the case of Bonnell, this has produced a rather original take on familial grief, and although the conclusion is not truly earned - it feels convenient and lazy and rather undercuts the subtlety of what has come before - Le Chignon d'Olga is consistently calming and well-observed.

BFI | Sight & Sound | Film of the Month: Le Chignon d'Olga (2001) Philip Kemp from Sight and Sound, Octoberm 2003

DVD Times Noel Megahey

DVDBeaver.com - Review [Henrik Sylow]

PALE EYES (Les yeux clairs) B 89

France (87 mi) 2005

A sumptuously beautiful film that utilizes the piano music of Robert Schumann throughout, in particular, brief pieces from “Scenes from Childhood” which are hauntingly beautiful and very effectively expressed. There are two halves to this film, a real world, and an escape from the real world. In the real world, Nathalie Boutefeu lives with her brother and his wife, where there is underlying claustrophobic resentment, as she’s difficult, due to her schizophrenia, as she hears voices, which she tells to piss off, and can be heard continually telling them to “shut up.” She is largely solitary and plays the music of Schumann on the piano, providing a sense of calm and inner beauty, but she’s subject to uncontrollable outbursts. Despite an overall tone that includes humorous situations, tensions mount, she’s disruptive, she breaks things, she’s aloof, she can’t explain herself, she has tantrums, she needs constant looking after, like caring for a young child, and it’s difficult for everyone involved, as they all seem to get on each other’s last nerves. One night, she snaps, grabs her brother’s car keys and takes off in his car, escaping from a world where she doesn’t feel appreciated.

Led by a desire to visit her father’s grave in Strasbourg, Germany, she drives through small towns, where the director himself plays a one-legged man trying to put away chairs from a neighborhood cafe. She offers to help, and eventually the director can be seen walking ahead, leading the way, while walking behind, she is carrying all the weight with about a dozen chairs on her back, perhaps a metaphor for filmmaking. She drives through the night, hearing the music of Schumann in her head along the way, entering solitary roads that travel through darkened green forests, continuing through a period of total blackness, just before the briefest glimpse of light can be seen through the trees of the Black Forest in the early morning. She stops with a flat tire, somewhat stumped at what to do, until across the street, a woodsman living next to a huge forest comes to her aid. Her quest to find the cemetery is met with puzzlement, as this man, Lars Rudolph (from WERCKMEISTER HARMONIES), looking very much like William H. Macy, doesn’t speak French, while she doesn’t speak German. After trying a bit of unsuccessful charades, there isn’t another word spoken for the rest of the film.

While it’s delightful to see two actors communicate silently in long, extended shots, using a kind of choreography of facial expressions and body movement, and much of this fairy tale finale is gorgeous and extremely well-written, but the humorous tone continues throughout, which is amusing, but is also part of the problem. Using mental illness in this manner, making light of her situation, occasionally as a means to get a laugh, as if she’s feeling liberated and free in this pastoral paradise, but still just a little bit quirky, while also attempting to reveal a hypersensitive woman whose highs are overly high and whose lows are disturbingly low, seems like a rather flippant view. It’s hard not to take mental illness more seriously than that. Unlike fairy tales, the lows do not simply disappear, turning the frog into a princess, and they all live happily, or at least more happily, ever after. The overall tone is one of misunderstanding, oversimplifying to the point of ignoring the real life symptoms that come with this problem, which the director has chosen to be the subject of his film, where the use of humor and continuing sight gags just felt wrong here, despite the overall splendor of the film.

JUST A SIGH (Le temps de l'aventure) B 84

France Belgium Ireland (105 mi) 2013

This is the kind of film that is stereotypically French, where one comes to assume that one of the favorite film subjects of the French is adultery and illicit love affairs, where this could just as easily have been called Love In the Afternoon, but both Billy Wilder (1957) and Eric Rohmer (1972) already nabbed that title. Who knows where this sappy American title comes from, as the French version, The Time of the Adventure, has much more of a mysterious sounding allure. Claire Denis’s FRIDAY NIGHT (Vendredi Soir, 2002), another variation on the same theme, gets directly to the point and may be considered a groundbreaking work, but this film about a sexual liason plays out more like an afternoon reverie, a daydream of wish fulfillment fantasy, where the kind of thing that never happens, by a strange act of fate, actually happens, with two strangers whose eyes meet on a train, always averting their looks, who speak just for a brief moment afterwards, only asking for directions, and then part, presumably fading into one of many forgotten moments in the course of any given day. Written with actress Emmanuel Devos in mind, she is in nearly every shot of the film and offers a tour-de-force performance, showing a great range of expression, much freer, more vulnerable, and funnier than we’re used to seeing her, where she’s the risk taker. The object of her gaze is Gabriel Byrne, an Englishman whose name she never learns until the end, but his face remains a fixture in her imagination before running off to a rather wretched audition that leaves her feeling empty and dissatisfied with herself. Having taken the early morning train from Calais to Paris, she’s expected back for an evening performance of Ibsen’s Lady from the Sea, where we see her walk onto the stage, but never see her perform in a play about having to choose between two men, which is essentially what this film is about as well, playing what amounts to a variation on a similar theme.

The film has an exquisite classical structure, making great use of the music of Vivaldi and occasional sacred chorales from Verdi, which becomes equated with unspoken states of mind. Devos plays Alix as a still attractive middle-aged woman continually frustrated at being unable to connect to her boyfriend’s cell phone, which is aways forwarded to voicemail, and with the pent-up energy from the disastrous audition, remains restless, and curiously wanders over to the location of the earlier overheard directions, which turns out to be a church where a funeral is taking place, where she easily blends into the crowd and discovers the face she saw on the train suddenly staring back at her with an astonishing look. After the service, people gravitate to a nearby bar, where Alix has become the ear to nonstop chatter about the deceased from one of the well wishers (Gilles Privat), growing absurdly humorous as she has to continually pretend how well she knew the deceased, finally taking refuge on the sidewalk where she joins the handsome Englishman for a cigarette. While there are multiple opportunities for each to go their separate ways, Alix is seen dawdling in front of his hotel, which, of course leads them both to take the plunge, becoming a sophisticated affair, where the bedroom conversation is quietly honest and unpretentious, but not without moments of humor, such as when Alix acts out what she does for a living. While he is married with children, Alix remains unable to reach her boyfriend, continuing her feeling of disconnect. Rather than immediately take the train back afterwards, she decides to visit her wealthy sister (Aurélia Petit), living in a lavish estate behind a locked iron gate, who presumes she’s there to borrow money, which she is, as her bank card failed at a cash machine. This family visit turns into a full blown farce when the tone grows more and more condescending, eventually inspiring competitive jealousy and scene stealing theatrics from her sister that earns a bravado from Alix, as the scene was so spectacularly overplayed. Afterwards, of course, she drifts back to the hotel.

Many will find this kind of rhapsodic adventure to be romantic, others might think it stereotypical, but it certainly becomes all too predictable after awhile, as the same theme is repeated throughout. Much like Richard Linklater’s bustling romantic trilogy, Before Sunrise (1995), Before Sunset (2004), and Before Midnight (2013), the couple walks hand in hand through the streets of Paris where an international music festival is taking place, all of which adds kinetic energy and an immersion into a kind of unreal landscape, suddenly overflowing with party revelers all celebrating some mysterious event, which may as well be this romantic affair, becoming melodramatically overblown in order to sustain the level of interest throughout. For all practical purposes, this remains Alix’s story and her adventure, where much like FRIDAY NIGHT (Vendredi Soir), it’s the portrait of a female protagonist who enters into an affair guilt free, as an act of personal liberation, a temporary means to rise above what feels like a stifling relationship with her own boyfriend (who we never see, but only hear on the phone). Alix allows herself sexual expression as circumstances permit, as she never set out to seduce anyone, but allows herself to become involved in a kind of play acting, like a continuation of her morning audition, hoping to improve upon her performance. In this way, instead of a typically male oriented fantasy, whatever erotic charge is what she puts into the moment, and Devos is wonderfully off balance throughout, providing a flair for lighthearted spontaneity and personal warmth, not to mention a healthy degree of curiosity, becoming as much about herself as whatever it is she hopes to discover. It certainly rekindles a kind of passion that has been kept in reserve all too long, where the question becomes what does she intend to do with it, and with whom? Perhaps due to language barriers, their dialogue throughout is in English, which is unusual to say the least in a French film, and may actually be a distraction, losing a degree of naturalness in her character. Much of the overall experience is wordless, relying upon shifting atmospheric moods, where the film has an elegance about it, but feels strangely somber, never delving very deeply into either one’s character, knowing next to nothing about one another, which is perhaps the point, but then it never rises to a level of great heights and remains only a fantasy.

EyeForFilm.co.uk [Anne-Katrin Titze]

In Jérôme Bonnell's jaunting Just A Sigh (Le Temps De L'Aventure), the winsome Emmanuelle Devos plays Alix, who catches the eye of a stranger played by Gabriel Byrne, a combination of the mysterious and the tangible, and decides to follow up on the first alluring glances. Escape from everyday life becomes a tempting promise, while the characters overcome sheepishness and shame.

A theatre actress, Alix makes a quick journey between performances in Calais to hop on a train to Paris. On board she meets Doug (Byrne), a perplexing Englishman who takes her on a trip down a different track.

Taking the cue from Yasujiro Ozu, central characters never show up on screen, while others are placed as obstacles, classic threshold guardians, who need to be overcome, as in a Kafka tale. In Just A Sigh they can be tricked with apple pastries. One particular Cerberus looks a bit like Michael Haneke (Rudolph played by Gilles Privat) and protects the underworld with conversations about national debt. "I think cinema is to hide, before it is to show things," Bonnell told me at this year's Tribeca Film Festival premiere.

Alix performs in Ibsen's Lady From The Sea in Calais, but we never see her in the play. The camera follows her walking onto the stage, a shot similar to that of Ryan Gosling, at the start of The Place Beyond The Pines, about to perform a motorcycle stunt. Her stunt also has a daredevil quality that might cost her the life she has known. In an interview, Emmanuelle Devos told me how much for her the Ibsen play informs the theme: "It's about a woman who has to choose between two men and two lives, just like my character."

Devos equips her Alix in wonderland with first-rate courage to overcome humiliation, as she stumbles through Paris, the place where she lives, like a tourist, or a sailor on shore leave. Things don't work as planned and after an appallingly funny audition which brought her back to Paris for the day in the first place, she decides to go stalking at a funeral.

Gabriel Byrne gives Doug a breath of the imaginary. "When I was five I had an enormous crush on my brother's girlfriend… I drank a glass of gin and threw up on her shoes," he tells Alix to encourage her to stalk him some more. His crepuscular unease gives the love scenes the instability they desire and deserve. Alix rightfully answers a cliché with a cliché. He says " I love your jaw - it's a gregarious jaw." She says, not in the same scene, though, "I wish I were dead and Norwegian."

An International music festival is happening all over the streets of Paris, while Alix visits her sister who lives in an enchanted garden in the middle of the city and who behaves like a weary Hollywood wife.

Just A Sigh gives a lot of options to the viewers - it is a movie that lets you be the judge of inappropriate behaviors and risks worth taking. Bonnell's characters are loaded with longing and seem to be hardly aware of it until the meeting with a stranger on a train reveals the urgency of adventure.

Slant Magazine [Chris Cabin]

First of all, Just a Sigh is the wrong title. It's elegant and adequately conveys the delicate, dreamlike aesthetic director Jérôme Bonnell gives the film's admirably weird romance. But the title in the film's native France is Le Temps de L'Aventure, which roughly translates as The Time of the Adventure. And really, it's the sense of adventure, as limited and sparse as it is, that gives Just a Sight a certain seductive element. The unlikely and weirdly direct connections made and explored are unlikely, at times even bordering on the preposterous, but are performed with such engaging and strange conviction that the film nearly overcomes the thinness of its conceit.

There's also an inviting breeziness to this story of Alix (Emmanuelle Devos), a dead-broke actress on a quick break in Paris from a play in Calais, catching a disastrous audition before heading back to finish the show's burdensome run. She's on the train to the City of Lights, going over lines, when she first sees the handsome, essentially nameless professor who will become her guiding interest over the next few hours, played with rough charm and hungry desire by Gabriel Byrne. He asks her for directions, but someone interrupts their meet-cute, which isn't rekindled until later that day when, reeling from her audition, Alix finds herself swept up in a local funeral that he happens to be attending, and for a woman he loved.

There's a potent cuteness to the entire scenario, but Devos and Byrne make it sing, and Bonnell, far from matching the complexity of his subjects, gives the film an invitingly warm aesthetic, of nice hotel rooms, modern apartments, and Parisian streets. Alix is performing in search of escapism, to be someone else, and Bonnell, who also wrote the script, is smartly acute about the physical, sexual desires that can become a part of performance, as the first smoldering tryst between Alix and the man is invigoratingly captured. For a moment, the film feels like an enjoyable two-hander, but Bonnell reintroduces the harshness of the real world via Alix's encounter with her wealthy sister (Aurelia Petit), wherein a plea for some extra cash is made and given with the caveat of immense condescension.

Just a Sigh feels less convincing in these sequences, as the lacerations of age and monetary stress leveled at Alix feel superfluous to the story, meant only to convey a slight sense of urgency and discomfort in the woman that remains unexplored. What's worse, this pesky sense of drama crassly interrupts and weakens the lusty enchantment of Alix's affair with Byrne's nameless character. If these asides are Bonnell's attempts to depict the struggles of a modern, middle-aged artist, they're invariably toothless, in effect drawing attention to the poverty of the narrative and visual ideas at play.

When Bonnell allows his two magnificent leads to work at the sparse dialogue, he invokes a powerful, elemental sense of frank, sexual discussion and high-end flirtation, imbuing the relationships with a maturity that's loathsomely rare in films today. But the writer-director's cheap pretense to bluntly discuss matters of money, to say nothing of familial and artistic shame, is especially pronounced, as if to victimize the suffering of artists. This barely covert self-regard tethers the dreamiest elements, which also happen to be the wisest ones, of his lovely story.

Just A Sigh | Reviews | Screen Lisa Nesselson from Screendaily

If there’s a gestational quota for pregnant glances, writer-director Jerome Bonnell makes the most of it in Just A Sigh ( Le Temps de l’aventure), the carefully made and very well acted tale of a fling set in Paris on the longest day of the year.  Predicated in large part on the notion that most any 43-year-old French woman — in this case, an actress played by Emmanuelle Devos — would find Gabriel Byrne’s lived-in lookes irresistible, the film will play like a pleasing fantasy to most and a borderline parody of a French movie to some.

This 21st century Brief Encounter-mit-bonking, which figures in the Tribeca competition line-up, has met with reverent critical approval in France and promising local attendance since its April 10 release.

Alix (Devos), who is performing in an Ibsen play in Calais, takes the train to Paris at the crack of dawn for an audition and is due back on stage that night. It’s June 21st, the annual anybody-can-perform-anywhere Fete de la Musique which is as good an excuse as any for the otherwise incongruous musical acts that sometimes punctuate the romantic proceedings.

On the train, Alix spots a fellow passenger (Byrne, whose character’s name is long left unspecified). She keeps stealing glances at him and he seems neutral or slightly pained rather than intrigued.

When the train pulls in to Paris, Byrne asks in adequate French whether she speaks English and requests directions to a specific church. Another passenger obliges, but Alix now knows where the mysterious man is headed. Alix goes to her audition — an amusing set piece in which she shows her range when a desultory assistant has her play the same scene twice.

She should meet her mother for lunch and then hop back on a train but instead proceeds to the church where the reason for Byrne’s melancholy expression is revealed. Alix half-loiters, half stalks him while various clocks indicate the passage of time.

When they do speak it’s in English although flighty-cum-determined Alix probably couldn’t articulate quite what she’s up to in any language.

An overheard conversation supplies her with the name of his hotel and after a few amusing obstacles are overcome, bingo. Needless to say, he’s a generous and creative bed partner.

A student of sex scenes in recent French films could pause to ask why the carnal interludes between Jean Dujardin and Cecile De France in Mobius were much mocked but the manner in which Devos and Byrne sensitively cavort has met with approval and not a little envy. (“Why can’t I meet Gabriel Byrne on a train?” a female critic reportedly sighed on her way out of a screening.)

The clock keeps ticking, Alix goes to see her holier-than-thou sister (a highlight replete with passive-agressive comic timing) and does battle with cash machines that refuse to spit out a lowly 30 euros because she’s overdrawn.  Her mobile phone’s battery is kaput and she left the charger in Calais, which occasions a great many scenes of dialing in telephone boxes, a once-common activity that has grown as scarce as Last Tango-style encounters in which nobody gets killed, catches a disease or otherwise has reason to regret the impetuous near-anonymous satisfaction of an unspoken urge.

Will Alix get through to her boyfriend of eight years who never answers his mobile phone? Will she catch the train back to Calais in time for that night’s performance?

Bonnell gets appealing performances out of his two leads and although a few lines in English are slightly too literary, it’s not impossible that a real person might utter them.

While pleasant enough, the classical music (Vivaldi, Verdi, Mozart) that surges forth at certain junctures detracts from the hard won aura of plausibility. (There’s that celestial choir again; the violins are back.) Continuity spanning multiple Paris locations is excellent. If anybody’s planning a ‘Movies Set During One Day’ film festival, this would be a fine addition.

User Reviews from imdb Author: GUENOT PHILIPPE (philippe.guenot@dbmail.com) from France

Just a Sigh (Le temps de l'aventure) - The Hollywood Reporter Jordan Mintzer

Film Review: 'Just a Sigh' | Variety Boyd van Hoeij

Bonny, Jan

COUNTERPARTS (Geginüber)

Germany (96 mi) 2007

Counterparts (Gegenueber) Dan Fainaru from Screendaily

A study in midlife crisis verging on pathologic hysteria, Jan Bonny's debut may be of some interest to sympathetic psychoanalysts dealing in Freudian hang-ups but won't go far with audiences at large, who are bound to lose their patience with the two leading characters long before they do it themselves.

Looking and feeling very much like a typical TV movie, it will not tarry long before reaching its destination.

Georg (Brandt), a policeman, and Anne (Trauttsmandorff), a school teacher, are supposed to be an average, happily married lower middle-class couple. At least that seems to be the impression they impart for a while on the rest of the characters in the film. But the audience knows better from the very first time they meet each other on the screen. Anne's temper is unleashed already in the early sequences, a crescendo of enraged paroxysms follows and the hostilities aren't appeased as the film draws to an end, though the last frame suggests a brief lull in action after a particularly strenuous session.

Georg's meek, ingratiating nature, avoiding confrontations both at home and at work where he is almost willing to pass up promotion in favour of an insistent colleague who wants it more, drives Anne berserk. Already suffering from an acute inferiority complex, fuelled by her father's sneering attitude to her and her marriage, fearing she is not appreciated at her true value, she feels her husband is a hopeless loser, and the failure of her extreme and violent attempts to goad him into some kind of reaction push her somewhere close to the edge, if not actually over it.

All this looks more like a textbook case in need of urgent therapy rather than a script begging to be adapted. There is never more than a flat perception of the two main characters and reason for empathy with either one of them. If it is not difficult to understand the gall raised by Georg's passive conduct; it is practically impossible to feel for Anne, who is painted as a full-blown harpy. Her problems may be authentic enough, but few would be willing to go along and solve them, as there is nothing very promising waiting to be found behind her angry outbursts and flying fists. Neither one of the two performers manages to infuse a deeper dimension to the roles they play. Handheld camera moving nervously often far too close to give the characters any space to develop in, and restless montage, contribute to the unsettling mood prevailing all through the film, but irritating the audience cannot be a purpose with itself.

review: Gegenüber (Counterparts) (Cannes 2007) Boyd van Hoeij from European-Films

Traditional role reversals alone are not enough to make a good film, as the 2007 Cannes Directors’ Fortnight title Gegenüber (Counterparts) proves. Shot by debuting German director Jan Bonny in the bare-bones way of bleak family dramas from the North, this tale of a respected police officer who is beaten by his wife at home is interesting for its portrayal of a type of domestic violence rarely seen on screen, but offers little else beyond this new angle and two very brave performances. Prospects on the festival and arthouse circuit might be only a little brighter than the film itself, though in German-language countries, if cleverly marketed, could profit from a topic-driven discussion in the media.

Bonny opens the film with a police operation that has a officer piss his pants as his colleague Georg (Matthias Brandt, in fine form) saves the day. That the film is no police procedural or a thriller is clear from the way in which it is shot and edited; Bonny only focuses on the human element on the side of the police, leaving out shots to the point that the actual operation itself is incomprehensible, which forces the audience to concentrate on the characters and Georg’s heroic act.

The hero of the strong arm of the law is married to primary school teacher (Victoria Trauttmansdorff, excellent), with both children already in university. They are not a happy family, however, as their son Lukas wants to quit but is afraid to tell them; Anne and Georg have to rely on Anne’s parents for the tuition fees and Anne’s violent temper leads her to hit and abuse her husband as if he were a punching ball. Surprisingly, Georg seems to accept this as part of their relationship; he is such a serious man that he believes his wedding vows are indeed forever and should be explained to mean that people stay together no matter what. "I strive for consistency," he at one point remarks. If only he realised how truthful that admission was.  

His relationship with his wife also has it good moments when both are very lovey-dovey, but the bigger family problems have a way of always taking over the conversation -- both verbal and otherwise -- at the most inopportune moments. In one of their moments of happiness, a colleague of Georg observes them kissing before saying "Happy couples make me puke," to which Anne responds: "I’m not always happy". Anne never seems to move beyond this recognition to fix her issues, however, and her husband only endures it as if he were a loyal pet, which makes their story sometimes hard to believe. A little more explanation for their emotional dead ends might have helped.

The film is set during the Advent period leading up to Christmas, but though more candles are lit as days turns into weeks and the anticipation for the advent of the Holy Family grows, things barely brighten up inside the couple’s home (the dark cinematography does not help much either). Gegenüber’s last thirty-odd minutes have an increasingly surreal touch, including a scene set at a silent party at their apartment that Georg celebrates with his colleagues while Anne is asleep, a sequence in which Georg kisses a female colleague before deciding to head home where he finds his pants-pissing colleague busy on the couch with Anne, and a revenge visit to the same colleague’s flat that includes a full tour of the house as well as free whiskey.

These later scenes add some much needed humour but also make the proceedings even less believable. Generally speaking, Gegenüber is bleak without being poignant, and the film’s attempts at absurd and black humour push the already not very developped characters into the realm of cliché, where a simple role reversal is all that is needed for some good laughs. A good film, however, might need something more.

Boo Junfeng

SANDCASTLE B 85

Singapore (95 mi) 2010

This is a quietly moving yet nostalgic film about a moody young 18-year old En (Joshua Tan) who has to deal with a wave of family events, including the death of one grandparent, Alzheimer’s Disease with the other, a father that he never knew, and a mother who refuses to reveal any information about him, which, the more he learns, becomes a metaphor for the nation’s history. While the director is credited for writing his own screenplay, both the style and the subject matter feels stolen from other artists, namely Hou Hsiao-hsien’s historical reflections in A City of Sadness (Bei qing cheng shi) (1989) and Good Men, Good Women (Hao nan hao nu) (1995), where Taiwanese history, both personal and national, is interwoven into the narrative, where the struggles of the characters depicted represent the consciousness of the nation. Similarly, Edward Yang’s novelesque recollection of his own generation’s struggles in A Brighter Summer Day (Gu ling jie shao nian sha ren shi jian) (1991), which is actually shot at the director’s own high school, reveals as much about his parent’s generation as his own. Using an identical template (as it turns out, Hou Hsiao-hsien was one of the director’s teachers at the Asian Film Academy), this Singapore director opens up his nation’s history to public scrutiny through the unseen character of En’s father who towards the end of the film can be heard narrating brief scenes, but only after En and his young Chinese girl friend next door, Ying (Bobbi Chen), uncover carefully saved negatives and letters that his grandparents have been hiding. What initially catches En’s attention is a contrast in how his mother and grandfather describe his father, where his mother (Elena Chia) continually feels ashamed by the mere mention of his name, calling him “brainwashed,” while his grandfather calls him the leader of a student rebellion. When his grandfather dies suddenly, En goes searching for the answers.

While the film reflects the slow rhythm of family life, including his grandmother’s habit of feeding stray cats, En’s romantic escapades with Ying which are followed by a curious exploration into the scrapbooks of his family’s past, static shots of giant ships dotting the ocean’s horizons, a recurring image of dragonflies returning within seven days as the reincarnated spirit of the family’s deceased, and his mother’s overriding seriousness which is continually at odds with her rebellious teenage son, where the grandmother’s Alzheimer’s becomes a metaphor for the nation’s forgotten history, while his mother represents the repressed memories. En wishes to re-open those closed doors. What we discover is that Singapore is a country with a long history of immigration, where Chinese foreign workers migrated centuries ago, creating a nationwide identity conflict, as despite nearly everyone being a descendent of the Chinese, natives from Singapore, like En’s mother, frown upon the Chinese and associate them with Communist influence. En’s grandfather explained that the student leaders of the 50’s and 60’s were labeled Communists whether they were or not, a label that sent many of them to jail, where a similar fate lay in store for arrested associates of Chinese Mainlanders in Hou Hsiao-hsien’s Taiwan during the same period, many of whom were executed.

While this film doesn’t have the historical complexity of the Taiwanese filmmakers, as the characters aren’t nearly as well developed, where the repeated use of nationalistic songs as rote scripture and a sappy, nostalgia-tinged song over the end credits both feel misguided, as it only serves to diminish the overall impact, and while the director is not afraid to break into hilarious changes of pace, he retains the slow moving style, uncovering revelations through an almost languid pace, with a haunting and effective use of poetic images, uncovering what appears to be archival prints to unearth bits and pieces of repressed Singapore history, where his father once hoped to be the voice of the nation, but discovered the nation was not yet ready to hear his voice. The truth and healing power of his parent’s relationship is finally honored and revered when En takes his grandmother to Malaysia to visit his father’s grave, a scene that has the solemnity that it finally deserves, as the dead are not forgotten, they have not died in vain, and their lives bridge the generations together in subtle ways, all expressed with an extraordinary melancholic tone of sadness and sacred remembrance.

Toronto Film Scene [Andrea Nene]

En is your typical teenage boy; interested more in his computer than the family around him. But when he is forced to live with his grandparents for two weeks, he begins to recognize the importance of his family history.  

Through old letters, remnants of photo negatives saved from the aftermath of Singapore’s Chinese middle school riots of the 1950s, and stories from his grandfather, En is able to piece together his father’s past; a father he’s never really known. In En’s quest to discover the truth about his father’s political activist past, he also embarks on finding his own identity as a Chinese Singaporean today.

The parallel of social and personal memories are very central themes in Sandcastle. Director, Boo Junfeng’s inspiration to make his debut feature length film came from his own grandmother, who suffered from dementia. Boo wanted to show how this disease affected the family. Many of the scenes in the film between En and his grandmother actually stemmed from Boo’s own experiences. Those moments in particular were certainly hard to bear. The romantic sentiment for the past and the sense of loss is what makes this film work so well. Joshua Tan does a remarkable job as En in his first ever acting role.  He makes you believe with the certainty that family is everything. Be sure to bring tissue for this one.

The Hollywood Reporter review Maggie Lee at Cannes

"Sandcastle" is a sensitive and personal work that makes unforced associations between memory and repression, male rite de passage and historical consciousness, aging and national amnesia, idealism and death. Boo Jun Feng's debut feature about a young man's discovery of his late father's involvement in Singapore's suppressed student movement in 1956 handles this touchy subject with a maturity and gravity rare among his compatriots.

However, Boo also suffers from the habitual reflexes of neophyte arthouse directors, who are prone to aesthetical posturing. So even with a tender and moving denouement, the film is paced like a plane forever encircling the airport without touching down. The film is positioned for fest play.

The soulful looking band boy Joshua Tan becomes more and more engaging as En, an 18-year-old who discovers his late father Boon was a student leader in 1961 from old photos and other records at his grandparents' house. There also is a letter from Boon to En's mother (Elena Chia) which is in traditional Chinese characters, and therefore illegible to En. After En grandfather's sudden death, the increasingly senile grandmother moves in at his mother's insistence.

Tensions flare between mother and son -- over her reticence about Boon's activism, her new boyfriend and En's sexual liaisons with Ying (Bobbi Chen), a neighbor from China.

While the grandmother's Alzheimer's is developed as a parallel to and symbol for the fading memory of Boon's generation, the interspersing of patriotic songs and archival photos of 1960s student rallies with the clockwork running of mundane family life further intertwines the personal with the political.

When the contents of Boon's letter finally become clear to En, he takes his grandmother across the Malaysian border to visit Boon's grave in Johor. Boon's allegory about a man in search of a mythical Utopian sea kingdom finally brings the weight of the past to bear on the present with full force in a poetic scene by the sea that merges father with son as En realizes the agonizing choices and sacrifices his parents made. The voiceover of Boon reading his own letter could have been a corny device but his deep-throated enunciation is surprisingly dignified and poignant.

"Sandcastle" owes much of its evocative visual tone to the refined lighting, which is lushly flickering inside the grandparents shambling old house and iridescent outside. Thematic shots of the beach in various times of day are as dreamy as Turner's oils.

The screenplay is sometimes unfocused and spread out to touch on too many things, and many recurrent artsy shots like low angle shots of stray cats or scenes in the hospital are redundant. The long tracking shots are exacerbated by people who move like pregnant tortoises on a sunny day.

A Nutshell Review [Stefan S]

Perhaps I'm reading too much into it, but I think writer-director Boo Junfeng has an affinity for the beach and the sea, as seen from a number of shorts he had done, such as Tanjong Rhu, Katong Fugue and Bedok Jetty, all of which have visuals or settings that lingers on the vast oceans and open sandy beaches. It's perhaps an uncanny coincidence that this film had its title being something usually found on sandy beaches, and being the setting to introduce his lead character in Xiang En (Joshua Tan).

It's quite surprising that for a young director he had chosen to embark on intensive research about an era during nation building that's actually not talked much about, being shrouded with a sense of mystery and discussed in careful whispers, where it's rare for films, the last I recall being Tan Pin Pin's Invisible City which had a section devoted to, explore the Chinese student protests in the 50s (Pin Pin also snags a cameo as a doctor in this film). But here Boo goes headlong, never one to back down from tackling controversial subjects in our island state from GLBT issues to entrapment, and Sandcastle in some ways does seem like an amalgamation of ideas and little elements from his shorts, from Keluar Baris' protagonist being just about to enlist in the army, the mother and son relationship in Katong Fugue, shots reminiscent of Bedok Jetty, and a dabble with an historical piece ala The Changi Murals.

If family dramas are your cup of tea, then Boo Junfeng's maiden feature film will be right up your alley. Of the films released this year so far, it is no wonder that Sandcastle made it to the Cannes Critics' Week. It is a mature piece of cinema as if under the steady guidance of an assured veteran, with quality in all departments. But this is no castle built in the sky. Boo Junfeng has cut his teeth with a series of well liked, and obviously well travelled and award winning short films, so it's only a matter of time before we see him embarking on a feature film project.

This is the story of the life of the Tan family, where we follow the life and adventures of En, a junior college student who will be enlisting to the army by year's end. It's a perfect demonstration, and I suppose since Boo was a teenager not too long ago as well, of the rites of passage a Singaporean male at 18 years of age undergo, from education to the lull period waiting for enlistment, that taking up of a part time job for additional income and to pass time, the learning how to drive and the sweet encounters with the opposite sex, and death even, as this is roughly about the age where grandparents say adieu.

I can easily identify with En, and I suppose that's almost the case with many other males out there, as he goes through his teenage life not quite unlike many of us in Singapore. What more, I come from the same junior college, so it's something of a blast to see a small scene shot on campus grounds, and the temasek green uniform. I can't remember if there was a choir group during my time, but I suppose they did exist.

The story picks up when En has to stay with his grandparents for 2 weeks during the renovation of his home, while his choir and music teacher mom (Elena Chia) scoots off for a China vacation with her new beau Wilson (played by Samuel Chong), a military colonel whom En detests. It is this time that En learns, through his grandfather's safely kept film negatives, more about his father Boon (Andrew Seow in what's mostly a photographic cameo) and the student leader he was, something like En is which we see from the plague on display in his room, but only more engaged and fervent in his ideologies and beliefs, which we will learn how they take its toil as the film unfolds.

The first salvo gets fired here in highlighting this 50s to early 60s era about the Chinese student protesters, and along the way throughout the narrative, this constant probing a section of our history that has been swept under the carpet, creeps slowly into the story in non-provocative fashion as En becomes incessantly obsessed with knowing more, as does little commentaries on the nuances of religion such as death-bed conversions, and the frowning upon the participation of customs and rites from a relative's beliefs. Perhaps this may spark some thought with the younger generation audiences to try and find out more, and for those from the era to begin opening up to talk about it when a budding interest in that era begins to grow.

But it's not all serious without some touches of comedy, which come in feather light doses at the right places, where the loudest guffaw comes courtesy of Wilson providing a chest-thumping presentation on National Day Parade preparations, which incidentally in real life, Boo Junfeng also had a contributing hand in this year's parade. I wonder whether he had encountered similar gaffes! The romance bit between En and Chinese neighbour Ying (Bobbi Chen) also provides some relief from the heavier themes, though their expected sexual awakening (hey, two hot blooded teenagers alone at home) provides the other fulcrum which gives the narrative another push forward.

Managing to coax convincing, natural performances that does away with exaggeration is one of the key major plus points in the film, where surprisingly the leads Joshua Tan and Bobbi Chen are making their film acting debuts, balanced with veterans such as Elena Chia and Samuel Chong. Language delivery for a local film tends to be cringeworthy, but Sandcastle successfully blended a mix of languages without coming across as forced or too artificially polished, especially when one speaks in one language, and a reply comes in the form of another; worked perfectly well here.

Production values are absolutely great, with nicely designed sets and art direction in place to make it all look like the 90s. I think we should begin to sit up and take note of Director of Photography Sharon Loh, as she conjures up beautiful images captured of metropolitan Singapore without resorting to having them all look like banal tourism ads. The song Home also gets a slower, more purposeful spin and beat, as do other Nationalistic songs that get performed by En's school choir. I felt Home's new sound rang home accurately on the exploration of the titular concept, and how the Tans have to live and love how they do.

I'll go as far to honestly say that Sandcastle is Singapore's answer to Japan's Tokyo Sonata by Kiyoshi Kurosawa. It deals with familiar family issues that are central and familiar to a local audience, yet dealing with universal themes that can reach out to the bigger world out there. If you've found this year's commercial releases to be somewhat lacking in depth, then Sandcastle is that film to make you realize that we do have talented filmmakers in our midst with courage to tackle taboo issues in a manner that's non confrontational, yet set to make you think.

This year's best Singapore film, setting a high quality benchmark for others to follow.

Sandcastle | Review | Screen Alan Hunter at Cannes from Screendaily

User reviews from imdb Author: Eternality from Singapore

Fridae [Vernon Chan]

Variety (Boyd van Hoeij) review

APPRENTICE B 88

Singapore Germany France Qatar Hong Kong (96 mi) 2016

Following on the footsteps of SANDCASTLE (2010), a nostalgia-driven Singapore debut feature film opening up the nation’s history to public scrutiny, which felt overtly modeled after the historical reflections of Hou Hsiao-hsien, who, it turns out, was one of the director’s teachers at the Asian Film Academy, this is a smaller, more measured film, premiering at Un Certain Regard at Cannes, taking on the subject of the death penalty. Singapore has had capital punishment since it was a British colony, and while the United Kingdom abolished the death penalty, Singapore continues to rely upon long drop hanging methods that were introduced by Britain in the latter stages of the 19^th century. Between 1994 and 1998, Singapore led the world in per capita executions (CNN.com - Singapore 'top executioner' - Jan. 15, 2004), compiling shockingly high statistics relative to its small population of just over 4 million people, three times higher than the next country on the list, Saudi Arabia, where its drug laws are among the world’s harshest, with anyone aged 18 or over convicted of carrying more than 15 grams of heroin facing mandatory execution by hanging. While the executions are carried out in relative secrecy, drug addiction remains a problem, with no convincing evidence that the high execution rates curbed drug use in Singapore. Nonetheless, following the release of a study, SINGAPORE The death penalty: A hidden toll of executions - Refworld (pdf file), which emphasizes the cruel and arbitrary nature of the death penalty and shows how it has been imposed on the most marginalized or vulnerable members of society including drug addicts, the poorly educated, the impoverished or unemployed, and migrant workers, the country amended some of the death penalty laws and the number of executions have slowed, where no one was executed in 2012 and 2013, only two in 2014, yet according to a 2005 newspaper survey, 95% of Singaporeans believe that their country should retain the death penalty. Viewed in this light, writer/director Boo Junfeng has created a stunning morality play whose strongest asset is a complete lack of artifice, taking viewers into the prison itself (using unused prisons in Australia), developing a film from the perspective of the hangman who pulls the lever, where Singapore is one of the last 36 nations to actively retain the practice.

Working on the film for five years, the director spoke to priests and imams who were with condemned prisoners at their final hour, also families who lost someone to the death penalty, but he also spoke to a few executioners who took great pride in their work, especially the almost caring way they tried to make it as humane as possible, always looking to perfect their craft. One of the starting points for the film is the 2010 book Once a Jolly Hangman, featuring an executioner (Darshan Singh) who worked in Singapore for nearly 50 years, once executing as many as 18 men in one day. The book’s release was so controversial that the British author Alan Shadrake was arrested the morning after the book’s release and held in Changi prison (ironically the sole prison of executions) for a month, charged with contempt of court for insulting the country’s judiciary as he criticized the way the death penalty was disproportionately applied to the poor, while criminals with financial resources or wealthy foreigners escaped execution. While this film is largely a character study, at the center is a former soldier Aiman (Fir Rahman) who is now a 28-year old corrections officer, seen shortly after he’s transferred to Larangan Prison, the nation’s exclusive maximum security prison that houses Death Row inmates, and the site of their executions. For Aiman, he appreciates the uniform and the adherence to discipline, similar to the army, where he’s attracted to the idea that prisoners can improve their lives, at least those who want to change. He’s living with his older sister Suhaila (Mastura Ahmad), where the two share an impoverished history of being apart during childhood, yet she has an Australian boyfriend that may be her ticket out of the country, something Aiman is less than thrilled about. At work, he’s a stickler for details, always going by the book, where he builds a reputation for competence and self-motivation, though he’s a man of few words. He draws the attention of white-haired Rahim (Wan Hanafi Su), the facility’s elder chief executioner, who’s interested in developing a replacement team equipped to handle the responsibilities, as Singapore (neighboring Malaysia as well) utilizes execution by hanging, where justice is delivered by pulling a lever. Aiman needs a higher security clearance just to enter this section of the prison, curiously proclaiming himself to be an orphan on the application. As he witnesses Rahim in action, standing by as an assistant, one gets a sense that this is a highly personal endeavor, as the prisoner meets with his executioner the day before in his prison cell, where the executioner reassures him “I’m sending you to a better place.” On the final walk to the death chamber, led by prison guards, the prisoner again comes face to face with the executioner, who leads him into position, tightly placing a noose around his neck, where positioning makes all the difference. An execution done right will immediately break his neck, “quick and painless,” which is viewed as the most humane method.

Like the execution ritual, the film itself is a precision of choreography, a series of repeated movements, where in order for the system to work properly, these routines must be exactly adhered to, where there’s no margin for error. Aiman seems to keep his thoughts in order in much the same way, never revealing his interior mood, every action planned and deliberate, yet the film allows the audience to see what no one else sees, slowly accumulating a series of revealing details about his secret inner sanctity. While the overall mood is a picture of restraint, there are occasional moments that offer other ideas, never revealing what’s behind those moments until late in the film, where a few hidden surprises come to the surface, yet remain closely contained secrets. This repressive interior atmosphere is rigorously developed, constructed like a piece of well-crafted architecture, suitable for this exact moment in time, completely in balance with all relevant issues. While the overall mood of the film is a picture of restraint, there are occasional moments that offer other ideas, feeling completely out of place, never revealing the disturbing truth behind those revelations until the precise moment when they have the most dramatic effect. Tense, often surreal, there are plenty of twists that lie ahead, but most all occur within the framework of a prison compound, with enlightening views of the siblings at home, where despite their occasional differences, they are intrinsically close. Humanistic in every sense of the word, the film takes great pains to get at what lies beneath the exteriors, where the performances are all excellent. Rahim is impressed by Aiman’s moral outlook, believing his inner calm fits the position, as he’s not one where the moment is ever too great for him, as he’s reliable and dependable. Yet something unravels, where what’s supposed to happen and what will happen are on a collision course of mandatory obstacles in the way. Aiman calls his sister reporting a life-changing dilemma known only to them, revealing a part of their history that can never be undone, which may, in fact, be the fabric that holds them together. “I know you’ll make the right decision,” she assures him, “You always do.” In the annals of film history, there have been extraordinary films made on the subject of capital punishment, where two of the best remain Kieslowski’s A SHORT FILM ABOUT KILLING (1988), an expanded sequence from his masterful The Decalogue (Dekalog) (1988), and Stanley Kubrick’s exquisite PATHS OF GLORY (1957). Few films match their greatness, but this film at least adds to the discussion.

Apprentice (Boo Junfeng, Singapore/Germany ... - Cinema Scope James Lattimer

It’s rare to come across a film as utterly, ruthlessly plot-driven as Apprentice, particularly in the at least theoretically rarified environs of Cannes’ Un Certain Regard section. Boo Junfeng’s second feature tells the wearingly predictable story of Aiman, a buff young ex-army officer who has taken a job at a Singapore prison because he apparently wants to help the inmates become better people. Yet such sentiments are immediately forgotten once he claps eyes on the prison’s chief executioner Rahim, an unexpectedly charming, fatherly type with a nice line in dark secrets, which conveniently dovetail with the equally mysterious roots of Aiman’s daddy issues.

There’s not a single line of dialogue, casual situation, or random prop in Apprentice that isn’t ultimately aimed at turning the wheels of the contrived plot. While this unadulterated focus on narrative might have paid dividends if said wheels were turning faster, the film’s soporific pace only generates a sense of latent impatience for each heavily signposted payoff to arrive rather then delivering streamlined thrills. Aiman’s character is equally put together so as to be devoid of any feature that doesn’t tie into the story, a pure construct with such a limited range of actions and feelings that they can’t possibly convey the true complexity of the real-life dilemma at the film’s heart, namely the insidious fascination exuded by the death penalty. For a film theoretically critical of the harshness of Singaporean justice, it’s anyway peculiar how much attention is lavished on the execution procedure, with the tastefully darkened corridors, close-ups of ropes and pulleys, and dutiful explanations of the moral components of the process all veering closer to fetishism than condemnation.

Given its complete lack of non-essential components, there’s nothing to anchor Apprentice in the mind once the plot has run its course; it’s a film whose moral indignation is channelled so mono-dimensionally that it’s bound to be quickly forgotten. What’s harder to forget though is the thought of all the other, more memorable films it still managed to push out of the Cannes selection. Now there’s really something to be indignant about.

MIFF 2016 Review: Apprentice - Filmed in Ether Natalie Ng

After the success of Anthony Chen‘s Ilo Ilo in Cannes and at the 50th Golden Horse Awards, Singapore is back on the festival circuit with Boo Junfeng‘s prison drama Apprentice.

Apprentice follows the story of newly appointed prison guard Aiman (Fir Rahman), a soft-spoken loner who lives with his older sister Suhaila (Matsura Ahmad). He crosses paths with the white haired and quietly intimidating Rahim (Wan Hanafi Su), the Larangan prison’s Chief Executioner. When Aiman deliberately seeks Rahim out and approaches him to source for rope at a fishing supply store, the two hit it off and you see Rahim take on a paternal role to the parentless Aiman. Soon, Aiman finds himself “learning the ropes” as the apprentice to Rahim’s chief executioner. 

Aiman’s morbid curiosity with death row and Rahim’s work as the hangman turns out to be personal — or does it? The film deliberately keeps Aiman’s motives ambiguous. It is revealed fairly early on that Rahim is the man that hung Aiman’s father decades ago, but whether or not Aiman is after revenge or seeks redemption or penance from Rahim, it is not clear, and the film is better for it. It is clear though, that Aiman harbors a lot of anger, guilt and confusion and subsequently isolates himself as a result of all this emotional turmoil. Decades on, Aiman (and his sister) are still paying for the sins of their father, as Suhaila plans to move to Australia and in her own words, “escape from this place”.

The film deliberately keeps Aiman a cipher while still successfully exploring his psyche. There is the sense that Aiman’s isolation and role as a death dealer will eventually lead him to crack, but that is still left up to the audience to interpret. Does he numb himself the way Rahim does to carry out his job for years? Or will he snap in the near future? Tonally and visually, the film evokes Taxi Driver as both films explore isolation, although in different but successful ways.

Boo takes great care to humanise every character in the film, from the prisoners on death row to the executioners. He does not pick a side regarding the capital punishment debate, but rather chooses instead to focus on our own mortality and how we face death, both as a bystander (the executioner and the loved ones) and the subject (the inmate). He also fixates on man’s own fascination with something as dark and morbid as execution the same way we are curious about serial killers.

The film is a technical achievement. Benoit Soler, who also lensed Ilo Ilo, goes from the soft and minimalist look of that film to the dark shadows of Larangan prison, particularly as we head into the hidden world of Death Row. The choice to leave much to the imagination as the walk to the gallows is plunged into darkness is particularly effective and haunting. As Aiman heads off to work at the crack of dawn, the inky blues of the morning sky and the cold light of the street lamps at night that accompany him after work is captured by Soler’s camera, evoking ’70s films and once again brings to mind the world of Taxi Driver.

Editing by Natalie Soh is also top notch and effective, packing the film with as much as possible in a trim 100 minutes. A particular highlight that has to be mentioned is the sound editing. Like in horror films, in the absence of light, much of what triggers the imagination is sound, and the ominous clanging of the prison gates and bars is deeply unsettling. 

Although not a traditional thriller in any sense, Apprentice is tightly focused, its story and themes well executed — so to speak — and it keeps the tension level high, up to its very last frame. While it may not seem to tread new ground in exploring the repercussions of death and isolation on one’s psyche, and certain story threads come across as a tad convenient, it does choose to focus on the two groups of people that are often forgotten in these cases — the executioners and the criminal’s family, of which Aiman belongs to both. That final shot of the film that cuts away to leave more questions than answers is something perfect and haunting.

Film Review: Boo Jun Feng's The Apprentice - Wake Up, Singapore Sean Francis Han

The Apprentice is a story of Aiman, a young man who begins work at a Singapore Prison after finishing his bond as an army regular. Aiman’s fascination with state-sanctioned execution (which is later revealed to be because his father was executed) leads him to Rahim, the executioner. Through a series of events partially engineered by Aiman himself, Aiman is taken under the wing of Rahim who shows him the ropes (Rahim actually makes this pun in the film while mentoring Aiman).

The Apprentice is a marked departure from Jun Feng’s typical aesthetic. Notable films from him, such as Sandcastle and 7 Letters feature a signature sense of nostalgia — a downtempo appreciation of Singapore’s history and culture. The Apprentice stands out from Jun Feng’s filmography because of its unabashed sense of urgency and, as one would expect from a film about execution, darkness. The Apprentice is extremely thematically consistent, it examines the death penalty and little else.

In a country with little discourse on this divisive issue, The Apprentice is a welcome addition to Singaporean narratives. But beyond that, The Apprentice finds distinction as a rare gem in Singaporean artistic discourse because of how absolutely neutral it is. Through the course of the film, I was trying to figure out what ideas about the death penalty Jun Feng was trying to propose or prove. By the end, I had to conclude that there were none.

The Apprentice is a foray into “expository” film, a divergence from films like To Singapore with Love or Ah Boys to Men - films which are extremely ideologically coloured. In The Apprentice, Jun Feng sets up very real characters in a completely normal setting and allows the audience to watch how the events play out. There seems to be a deliberate attempt to remove all bias or personal agenda from the film. There simply doesn’t seem to be the stereotypical “bad ending” for the executioner or “happy ending” for his apprentice, something commonplace in cautionary tales like Wall Street or Vertigo.

The Apprentice is not only an important film for Singapore but stands out as a film that international film enthusiasts should take note of. When discussing the death penalty, statistics and ideology often make up the bulk of the discourse. Sociologists and statisticians posit the impact of the death penalty through the studies that are conducted on the topic, while philosophers and thinkers like Foucault and Camus discuss the underlying ideology behind state-sanctioned-execution. The Apprentice is the most concrete look at the emotive and psychological facets of the death penalty in the international catalogue of film I have seen to date and adds a very human touch to a discussion largely held between statisticians and academics.

“But what then is capital punishment but the most premeditated of murders, to which no criminal's deed, however calculated it may be, can be compared? For there to be equivalence, the death penalty would have to punish a criminal who had warned his victim of the date at which he would inflict a horrible death on him and who, from that moment onward, had confined him at his mercy for months. Such a monster is not encountered in private life.” —Albert Camus

The performances in this film were mostly impressive, seeing some powerful moments from leads Firdaus Rahman and Wan Hanafi Su. The consistency of the acting across the less important characters also made for momentous scenes. Crispian Chan who played Randy, just one of the men condemned to hang, gave a heart-shattering performance capturing the manic states of composure to panic to acceptance of a death row convict. Praise also has to be made for Jun Feng’s control of the medium, using complex shots sparingly and to Hitchcock-ian effect, while framing simpler shots beautifully and meticulously. And, perhaps this is just the film nerd in me, but the easter eggs in the film were simply delightful. Case in point: the name of the executioner, Rahim, means Mercy in Arabic — a central theme Rahim brings up each time he is questioned about the ethical paradoxes of his job.

In one of the most poignant scenes of The Apprentice, Rahim explains with a deadpan demeanour that if the “drop” of a hanging is too long the body will be decapitated — too short and the body will be left to struggle for air agonisingly. It’s that emotionless middle ground that Rahim operates on, and what makes The Apprentice immediately recognisable as Jun Feng’s masterpiece.

The On-line Citizen Dan Koh

Webs of Significance [YTSL]

'Apprentice': Cannes Review | Reviews | Screen - ScreenDaily Lisa Nesselson

Apprentice Movie (徒刑 | Singapore) Review | Tiffanyyong.com

Review: Apprentice dir. Boo Junfeng – bakchormeeboy

Apprentice – Review | F*** Magazine

FILM Review: Apprentice | ATMOS Karl Gan

Screen Anarchy [Eric Ortiz García]

At Filmnomenon [Eternality Tan]

Movie Review: APPRENTICE 《徒刑》by Boo Junfeng - Kpo Kia Mama

Prisonmovies.net [Eric Penumbra]

Apprentice review: Gripping |Geek Crusade Nicholas Yong

TIFF 2016: Apprentice Review | Dork Shelf Michael McNeely

Apprentice - Cannes 2016 Review - One Room With A View Nick-Evan Cook

The Hollywood News [Paul Heath]

User Reviews from imdb Author: shaunjmaher from Australia

User Reviews from imdb Author: GUENOT PHILIPPE (philippe.guenot@dbmail.com) from France

The Upcoming [Jasmin Valjas]

The 2016 Chicago International Film Festival, reviewed Andrea Gronvall from The Chicago Reader

'Apprentice': Cannes Review | Hollywood Reporter Boyd van Hoeij

'Apprentice' Review – Cannes Film Festival 2016 | Variety Peter Debruge

South China Morning Post [James Mottram]

Boo Junfeng's Singapore death penalty film stirs emotions in Cannes ... The Straits Times, May 16, 2016

Movie reviews: Executioner in Apprentice deserved more screen time ... John Lui from The Straits Times

If prison walls could talk: Boo Junfeng on 'Apprentice' | Showbiz ... Malay Mail Online

Review: In ‘Apprentice,’ Teaching the Fine Art of Execution Stephen Holden from The New York Times

Apprentice (film) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

SINGAPORE The death penalty: A hidden toll of executions - Refworld (pdf file)

Boorman, John

Retrospectives: John Boorman, Visionary of His Time Thessaloniki Film Festival

A desperado in the continents of Myth and a chronicler of adventures from the kingdom of Reality, John Boorman, in the fourteen films he has made from 1965 to the present, re-examines and renews the most important cinema genres, successfully reconciling his artistic vision with the filmgoer's desire to enjoy the show.

Boorman was born in Epsom, on January 18th, 1933, and even as a child, growing up in Sheperton, in a household dominated by women, next to the Thames and close to the famous film studios, he felt the irresistible fascination of the world of cinema. In order to enter this world, he followed a "conventional" path, which began in journalism, passed through radio and ended up in television. In 1956, he was hired as an apprentice film editor at privately-owned ITN, and the ten years of successful television work that ensued at various TV stations (Southern TV, BBC Bristol) constitute an invaluable preparation period for his work in film.

His first film, Catch Us If You Can (1965), uses the black and white energy of free cinema to illustrate the restless, mercurial and falsely euphoric "swinging" world of advertising and pop music. A much more ambitious and risky project was Boorman's first Hollywood production, Point Blank (1967), starring his close friend, Lee Marvin - a film which consciously attempted to renew the American gangster movie with a sensitive screenplay influenced by the works of Harold Pinter; a narrative structure inspired by Alain Resnais' journeys into the past; and an entirely original and artistic way of working with color.

His collaboration with Lee Marvin continued in the strange, poetic and, essentially, anti-war film, Hell in the Pacific (1968). However, in this case, deeming that this ironic micrography of war was not violent enough, the producers undertook the final cut. Furious, Boorman returns home and, far from Hollywood conventions, proceeds to make Leo the Last, starring Marcello Mastroianni, and goes on to win the award for Best Direction at the 1970 Cannes Film Festival.

In 1971, despite his success and the fact that he had settled in Europe, Boorman returns to the US. Determined not to risk losing artistic control over his films again, he takes on the role of producer and shoots Deliverance, his most consummate film to date, which masterfully combined adventure with horror, while, at the same time, expressing the filmmaker's concerns about the environment. In his next films, Boorman keeps moving back and forth between the US and Europe, each time testing the limits of a different film genre. Zardoz, in 1973, is a pessimistic philosophical fairy tale about the end of civilization, masquerading as science fiction. Exorcist II: The Heretic, made in 1977, is a painful adventure that breaks through horror film cliches and opens itself up to the savage beliefs and primitive atmosphere of African magic. The majestic historical epic Excalibur (1981), shot in the timeless landscape around Boorman's farm in Ireland, is the realization of a lifetime ambition: to make a film of the legend of King Arthur, the myth closest to the filmmaker's heart. Excalibur was Boorman's most impressive production to date.

Having completed the first cycle of his oeuvre, Boorman embarks on new adventures. In order to film the conflict between Western and native Indian civilizations in the ecological western The Emerald Forest (1985), Boorman traveled to the Amazonian jungle, the soul of our planet. Back in the UK, in the award-winning Hope and Glory (1987), he films a tender chapter from his family chronicles: the awakening of the artistic sensibilities of a boy who would grow up to become a filmmaker, against an absurdist World War II backdrop. The innovative, dramatic comedy Where the Heart Is (1990) brings him back to New York, but the unjust commercial failure of this very personal, visually artistic film about family ties and the liberation of young people at the end of capitalism, somewhat thwarts his creativity. A self-portrait on film, I Dreamt I Woke Up (1991), shows him at his farm, in Ireland, surrounded by his daily chores and fantasies, among neighbors and co-workers, as well as dreamlike images of his personal myths. His next cinematic expedition was to Asia, for the feminist political adventure Beyond Rangoon (1995), where the painful journey of catharsis of a traumatized American woman doctor gets caught up in real events during the democratic struggle against the military dictatorship in Burma, in 1988. The gripping suspense of this film is counteracted by the tranquil beauty of his short film Two Nudes Bathing (1995), where Boorman invents a story behind the making of the painting by the same name and, at the same time, produces an enchanting essay on the relationship between painting and eroticism.

In his next films, Boorman changes location, theme and images, and concentrates on the portraits of real people. In Lee Marvin, A Personal Portrait by John Boorman (1998), he says goodbye to a great friend and actor, to whom, at least to a certain degree, he owed his career in Hollywood. The General (1998), an award-winning, black and white social chronicle, tells the story of the life and times of Martin Cahill, a true Irish criminal/ popular hero of recent history. In his last film, escaping from real stories is combined with a surprise: a return to traditional film genres and a new journey to Latin America. The Tailor of Panama (2001) is a film version of John Le Carre's spy novel and is a story of lies and exploitation in a cynical, corrupt world, pulsating with eroticism and human vitality.

Filmbug Biography brief bio

All-Movie Guide bio by Rebecca Flint Marx

TCMDB profile from Turner Movie Classics

Screen Online Biography Kim Newman, Reference Guide to British and Irish Film Directors, from BFI

Film Reference extensive profile by Andrew Tudor

Guardian Article by Boorman That's all, folks, by John Boorman from the Guardian, September 6, 2003

Boorman, John They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

1998 Salon Interview Safe Haven, feature and interview by Charles Taylor from Salon, December 17, 1998

John Boorman
interview by Joshua Klein from the Onion A.V. Club, January 20, 1999

Mythology and Moviemaking: A Conversation with John Boorman by Paula Hunt, MovieMaker magazine, February 1999

Film Freak Central Interview Rich Man, Boorman, feature and interview by Walter Chaw, March 13, 2005

Telegraph's Top 21 British Directors of All Time

CATCH US IF YOU CAN

aka: Having a Wild Weekend

Great Britain (91 mi) 1965

Channel 4 Film

Eager to emulate the success of the Beatles' Hard Day's Night, rivals The Dave Clark Five had to move fast and produce this. Clark and his partners are caught up in the heady world of advertizing when a beautiful model-actress (Ferris) meets stuntman Steve (Clark) on a shoot and they decide to get away from it all. Along with four friends (surprise!) the lovers head off to an island paradise where all is well until their peaceful idyll is disturbed. Catch Us If You Can was Boorman's first feature, and he does an impressive job, despite his stars' distinct lack of acting talent.

Time Out capsule review

With this envisaged as a cash-in on the Beatles films, Boorman and playwright Peter Nichols were given a free hand, so long as the group and songs were interwoven into a 'musical'. Taking a landscape Boorman knew from his BBC documentary days - Bath and the west - he was able, in his first feature, to create a cockeyed vision of Britain through the attempt of angry young Clark and determinedly kooky Ferris to escape the fake world of advertising. The film doesn't always avoid glibness in its hedonistic aspirations and obvious satire, but Boorman's passionate eye and his circumscribing of the band's evident lack of acting talent remain impressive.

NY Times original review (Bosley Crowther)

DVDBeaver Gary W. Tooze

POINT BLANK

USA (92 mi) 1967 ‘Scope

Jigsaw Lounge (Neil Young)

Lee Marvin is the unstoppable Walker, cheated out of $40,000 and left for dead by his treacherous business partner and ex-wife. He’ll stop at nothing to recover his loot, leaving a bloody trail in his wake as he ploughs through the various levels of the shady Organisation in search of an elusive Mr Big. Countless British directors have headed west to Hollywood, but Boorman’s vision of America in general, and Los Angeles in particular, has never been surpassed. LA becomes a vital character in the plot, a tough, flashy background for the brutal machinations of Marvin and his prey, hovering between old criminal codes and a harsh new corporate world – much of the film’s black humour derives from the fact that Marvin’s opponents can’t believe he’s so steamed over such a relatively trivial sum of cash. Boorman pulls out all the stops, transforming a standard-issue gangster plot (disastrously remade as Mel Gibson’s Payback 30 years later) into a jagged kaleidoscope of imagery and sounds. This unashamedly arty approach runs the risk of self-indulgence and obscurity, but Marvin’s forceful central performance pulls everything into focus, supported by terrific turns from Angie Dickinson, John Vernon and Carroll O’Connor. Packed with memorable lines, scenes and shots, the no-holds-barred, perfectly paced Point Blank elevated mainstream cinema to a startling new level, setting a benchmark that almost all subsequent thrillers have struggled to match

Slant Magazine Nick Schager from Slant magazine

One of Lee Marvin's initial claims to fame was disfiguring Gloria Grahame's face with a pot of scalding coffee in Fritz Lang's The Big Heat, but even for cinema's quintessential thug, there was something more terrifyingly callous about his performance in John Boorman's seminal 1967 neo-noir Point Blank. With daunting broad shoulders, hard, searing eyes, and a face that looked like it had been carved out of iron, Marvin was an imposing goliath, and as he rises from the dead during the title credits of Boorman's tour de force, one becomes immediately aware of the actor's enormous physicality. As he stomps stoically and silently amidst Los Angeles' glistening high-rises with an enormous .38 pistol at the ready, Marvin's character seems almost inhuman; his one word moniker, Walker, and lack of dialogue for the film's first 20 minutes merely confirms the impression that he's less a man than an unbridled, indestructible elemental force. Long before Mel Gibson turned the character into an endearing, wise-cracking anti-hero in the pathetic remake Payback, Marvin's Walker was the cinema's ultimate unsentimental killing machine—chillingly determined, unfettered by pesky human emotions like love, sympathy, or remorse, and unwilling to halt the bloodshed until he had fulfilled his quest.

That quest, as Boorman spells out during Point Blank's masterful first few moments, involves reclaiming $93,000 that was stolen from him during a heist. Through a number of lightning-quick, elliptically-assembled shots, we witness Walker, along with best friend Mal Reese (a sniveling and exemplary John Vernon, in his first screen role) and wife Lynne (Sharon Acker) successfully intercept a clandestine money drop-off taking place on Alcatraz; when Reese finds that his share of the spoils isn't satisfactory, he and Lynne plug Walker full of holes in a dank, shadowy prison cell. Left for dead, Walker somehow manages to survive the ambush and, with a stomach full of lead, returns to San Francisco by floating along the treacherous Alcatraz currents on his back. A year later, a mysterious informer tells him how to find his wife and Reese, but as Walker makes clear, his motivations aren't revenge. He simply wants what's rightfully his: the $93,000.

If Walker isn't interested in the retribution most men would crave after such a betrayal, Boorman is similarly uninterested in merely replicating the style and tone of prototypical film noir. (After the 1965 British comedy Catch Us if You Can, Point Blank was the director's American film debut.) Influenced by the French New Wave's radical formal innovations, the European ennui of Michelangelo Antonioni's films, and the genre revisionism of Sergio Leone's spaghetti westerns, Boorman set out to make a thriller that looked and felt like nothing else before it, using widescreen Panavision cinematography, explosive colors, and a multi-layered soundtrack to re-envision the noir picture as highbrow Euro-art film. Whereas noirs generally boast a shadowy, expressionistic interplay between light and dark, Boorman casts most of his film in brilliant daylight and summery colors. Where noir creates a visual and thematic atmosphere of constriction and imprisonment, Boorman shoots everything in expansive widescreen that posits characters in oppressively open spaces and, when more than one person is on screen, at opposite ends of the frame. And instead of noir's typically convoluted narratives involving plenty of unnecessary exposition, Boorman's film is a model of silent visual storytelling that broke new ground in non-linear cinematic narrative construction.

What makes Point Blank so extraordinary, however, is not its departures from genre conventions, but Boorman's virtuoso use of such unconventional avant-garde stylistics to saturate the proceedings with a classical noir mood of existential torpor and romanticized fatalism. The action is set against (and within) a sunny corporate L.A. landscape characterized by its sterile, overwhelming enormity—situated in the corners of Boorman's off-kilter compositions, a colossal architectural or natural edifice weighing down upon his back (if not literally crowding him off the screen), Walker is denied sanctuary. Through odd camera angles and stylized compositions that position our hero as powerless and adrift amidst this malevolent, foreign metropolis, Boorman creates a tone of uneasy dislocation. Los Angeles seems more menacingly inhospitable in sunshine than at night, and this irony plays into the film's dichotomy between the old and new world. Just as classic noir's sinister darkness is replaced in Point Blank by creepy brightness, so has Walker's old-school criminal been replaced by the corporate villains who work their nefarious schemes on behalf of faceless financial entities (Reese has stolen Walker's money as a means of buying his way back into the ominous "The Organization"). For these conglomerates, "Profit is the only principle," and unlike yesteryear's two-bit crook (of which Walker is one), they do business in checks, not cash.

The film's pervading sense of disorientation is heightened by the flashback structure of the screenplay (adapted from Donald E. Westlake's novel by Alexander Jacobs, David Newhouse and Rafe Newhouse). Like Don Siegel's 1962 remake of The Killers (which also starred Marvin), Point Blank effortlessly jumps back and forth in time, but Boorman's oblique narrative, as opposed to Siegel's more conventional thriller, works on a somewhat subliminal level. The film feels refracted through its protagonist's mind, with chronological logic blurred by a narrative free association that finds particular sounds, colors and images subconsciously intertwined (a technique Steven Soderbergh would ape in 1999's The Limey). Reese, begging for his life, tells Walker to trust him, and the appeal conjures up the memory of the last time his former friend made such a plea. Walker sees a broken bottle of perfume in a sink, and the image of swirling red liquid immediately makes him recall being shot on Alcatraz (or is he foreseeing a nightclub brawl that has yet to occur?). Since the story is fluid and replete with detours and digressions, any easy interpretation is challenged by the script's tantalizing ambiguity.

Despite the film's reluctance to provide definitive answers on the subject, one can safely assume that Walker is fatally wounded during the film's opening scene, and that his recovery and search for the $93,000 is merely a deathbed fever dream. Boorman repeatedly hints at such a reading, from Walker's first meeting with his enigmatic benefactor on a boat circling the Rock (the tour guide's speech about the near impossibility of escaping the island fortress is intercut with the implausible sight of Walker floating his way back to civilization) to numerous scenes in which he's either framed by bar-like shadows (recalling the Alcatraz cell he was shot in) or told by someone that he should just "lie down and die." Marvin's understated performance only reinforces this interpretation—with his expressionless countenance and deathly silence, Walker resembles a walking corpse, charging toward his singular goal like a specter that must fulfill one last unfinished earthly task before gaining entry into the afterworld.

Noir protagonists are, in part, defined by their spiritual, emotional, and/or psychological alienation, and thus Marvin's impassivity—reflected in every one of his fractured conversations—pinpoints him as a man cut off from, and alone in, the world. When Walker finds his wife, he bursts into her house and, after tossing her aside, instinctively fires his mammoth revolver into her empty bed. It's a symbolic act of sexual violence aimed at purging himself of his love for Lynne, but the gesture is an empty reflex rather than the by-product of pent-up feelings—as his muteness during their subsequent conversation conveys, he's incapable of forming even the most basic human connections, much less experiencing passion, kindness, or misery. When Walker is repeatedly slapped by Lynne's sister Chris (Angie Dickinson), he stands there and takes it; when she's done, he methodically straightens his suit, walks over to the couch, and turns on the TV to listen to an actor talk about "erotic inertia." Later, when he abandons Chris to finish his mission, she asks him "Hey, what's my last name?" His response ("What's my first name?") heartbreakingly sums up the irremediable isolation that both Walker and those around him are doomed to endure.

Though Point Blank is rife with existential malaise, it is also one of the most ferociously sexy crime movies ever made. Boorman shoots violence with more than a hint of sexualized wickedness, and many of Walker's most brutal moments (bursting through Lynne's door and grabbing her around the mouth as he spins in a circle with his gun cocked and loaded; forcefully reaching between the legs of an Organization secretary in order to disconnect the office's alarm) have more than a hint of wanton salaciousness. Anything that doesn't feel impersonal in Boorman's world seems tainted by cheap luridness (such as the blood-red jazz club that Walker can't begin to comprehend), and it's to the film's credit that the director doesn't shy away from providing the tawdry kicks (guns, babes, sex, murder) that have always enlivened even the best noirs.

After killing virtually everyone who gets in his way (including old pal Reese, who meets an untimely demise plummeting naked from a hotel balcony to the street below), Walker kidnaps an Organization bigwig named Brewster (played by a roly-poly Carroll O'Connor) and finally sets about getting his money. But because he's already deceased and, therefore, the money really doesn't mean anything, it's unsurprising to find that, when the job is done and the loot is there for the taking, Walker—staring emptily at his prize while semi-cloaked in darkness—does nothing. For a film about a dead man engaged in a self-originating, self-perpetuating, and wholly meaningless pursuit of a relatively meager bounty, the final image of Walker receding into the enveloping darkness is a fittingly despondent conclusion to one of noir's most bleak, vicious and inventive masterpieces. Walker ultimately winds up just where he began, but after Boorman's Point Blank, noir would never be quite the same again.

Deep Focus (Bryant Frazer)

Turner Classic Movies Jeff Stafford

DVD Times Mike Sutton

culturevulture.net, Choices for the Cognoscenti Phil Freeman

CineScene.com (Chris Dashiell)

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

The Onion A.V. Club [Keith Phipps]

DVD Verdict [Patrick Bromley]

Movie Reviews UK Damian Cannon

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Bosley Crowther)

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

HELL IN THE PACIFIC

USA (103 mi) 1968 ‘Scope

iofilm.co.uk El Topo

At the height of World War II an American airman (Lee Marvin) and a Japanese soldier (Toshiro Mifune) find themselves stranded on an otherwise uninhabited pacific island.

The men stalk each other and finally face off on the beach. Each imagines killing the other, but neither acts on it. They play a game of cat-and-mouse for a while, each being alternatively helped and hindered by the four elements.

Eventually, the Japanese takes the American prisoner. The American escapes and turns the tables on his former captor. Then, in spite of advice in his army manual that, in a situation like this, one should dispose of the enemy, he frees the Japanese.

The two develop an uneasy modus vivendi and work together to construct a raft so they can escape.

The basic scenario, then, is an old and oft-repeated one. One need only look at The Defiant Ones or Enemy Mine to see that.

What makes Hell in the Pacific worthwhile is the way it is handled by the filmmakers.

Neither protagonist speaks the other's language and, deprived of subtitles or translations, viewers are placed in a similarly uncertain position.

With the dialogue reduced to a minimal role, the two leads have to convey meaning in other ways. Both are great physical actors but what impresses most here is their ability to suggest so much with little gestures - a furrowed brow here, a quizzical look there.

Of course, one cannot discount the contribution made by director John Boorman. Working with Marvin for the second time in two years and essaying some of his favourite themes - culture clash, the struggle between man and nature - his impressionistic direction, bolstered by Lalo Schifrin's evocative scoring, expertly conveys the alternately claustrophobic-agorophobic relationships between the two men and the environment.

If you're in the mood for something a little bit different, then Hell in the Pacific is a rewarding, thought-provoking experience, let down only by its ending. "Hell is other people" but "No man is an island".

Turner Classic Movies Paul Tatara

DVD Talk Glenn Erickson

Apollo Movie Guide [Erik Childress]

The New York Times (A.H. Weiler)

LEO THE LAST

Great Britain (104 mi) 1970

Chicago Reader [Jonathan Rosenbaum] (capsule review)

Perhaps the most neglected of John Boorman's films, and certainly one of the strangest, this 1969 feature stars Marcello Mastroianni as a withdrawn Italian aristocrat who has a voyeuristic relationship with the residents of the black London ghetto where he lives, until he eventually emerges from his cocoon. Written by Boorman and William Stair, the film also features Billie Whitelaw and Calvin Lockhart. Steeped in the syntax of the swinging 60s even more than Boorman's previous Having a Wild Weekend and Point Blank, the film looks dated today, but interestingly and revealingly; and it shows a kind of originality and verve that has been Boorman's stock-in-trade from the beginning.

Nerve.com [Bilge Ebiri]

As you might expect, the late 1960s and early 1970s gave us many films that indulged in dreamy scenes of hippy-dippy expressionism playing off the drug culture of the era. On one side you had movies like Joe Massot’s Wonderwall (1968), which didn’t really bother to tell any stories and grooved on their own stoned-out stylization. On the other, works like Michelangelo Antonioni’s classic Blow-Up (1966) tried to incorporate such indulgences into more traditional narratives. Perched somewhere between the two extremes is John Boorman’s Leo the Last, which, despite a Best Director award at the 1970 Cannes Film Festival, has rarely been heard of since.

The Leo of the film’s title is the last in a line of exiled Eastern European monarchs, played with submerged longing by Marcello Mastroianni. Our shy scion arrives in London, to a mansion-like family home that lies at the end of an impoverished cul-de-sac, a hotbed of poverty, thievery, rape, and various other social ills. While his father was reportedly a man of grand bearing and historical presence, an associate of the likes of DeGaulle and Churchill, Leo himself is not good around people. Though attended to constantly by servants, a socialite girlfriend (Billie Whitelaw), and shifty assistants, he would rather stay by his window and look through his telescope at the pigeons on the rooftops. Aloof, unable to connect with the world (“He feels nothing,” his people murmur behind him, like a Greek chorus), Leo is at once a symbol of both rotting privilege and bourgeois modernity: Bits and pieces of T.S. Eliot’s ode to alienation, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” regularly float by on the soundtrack.

While observing his birds, Leo becomes involved -- vicariously, of course -- in the desperate lives of an African family living in a crowded flat across the street. He spies on excitedly as the oldest daughter, Salambo (Glenna Forster-Jones) and her boyfriend Roscoe (Calvin Lockhart) execute an elaborate plan to steal a turkey from the local grocer. He watches helplessly as Salambo is almost raped by a local thug, which in turn leads to Roscoe’s arrest.

Drawn slowly out of his shell, Leo gradually becomes more and more involved with his neighbors, trying to help them by buying them groceries and finally intervening personally, when Salambo is driven into prostitution. (Her pimp, by the way, is played by a young Louis Gossett, Jr.) By inserting himself into the drama across the street, Leo manages to face down his own social neurosis. One could compare him to Jimmy Stewart's character in Rear Window, and it's hard not to think that Boorman had Hitchcock's film in mind when making this one.

On paper, this will seem impossibly bleak. But Leo the Last is not some gritty piece of neorealism. Boorman brings to his characters’ lives a lyrical grandeur that feels more like a piece of music than anything else. In fact the soundtrack, by Fred Myrow, is full of musical commentary on the goings onscreen: A scene where Roscoe tries to capture a bird with a net gives us the symbolic, haunting image of a man reaching for the skies while a voice sings, “Where do the hopes go/With all of the longings/You thought were lost?/But they’re only waiting/Up in the sky/For someone to find them.”

If this sounds almost painfully earnest, that’s because it is. But it’s all masterfully redeemed by Boorman’s ability to infuse even the smallest gesture with a unique poetic energy, a talent that had already served him well in Point Blank and would again in films like Excalibur and The Emerald Forest.

If it wasn’t so damned cinematic, Leo the Last could have probably made for an insane stage musical. It’s built almost entirely of setpieces, some of which feel more like avant-garde dance works than anything else. A hilarious scene where Leo’s family doctor tries to get the household to relax through nude water therapy is filmed largely underwater, where Boorman’s camera can focus lovingly on the subjects’ naked, gelatinous, hypnotically undulating rear ends. The finale, in which Leo and Roscoe lead the poor of the neighborhood against the barricades of Leo’s own mansion, feels as much like a grand theatrical finale as it does a cinematic climax.

But I fear I’m making Boorman’s film sound a bit too much like an opaque piece of avant-garde street theater and not enough of a real movie. Nothing could be farther from the truth. With Mastroianni’s performance as an anchor, Leo the Last is a thoroughly involving, heartbreaking little film. Plus, of all the directors to emerge in the 60s, I’m not sure anyone was better than John Boorman in melding the stylized, revolutionary aesthetic of the period into a narrative framework. I’d say he took it to an extreme in Leo the Last, but I’d be lying; he took it to its real extreme in Exorcist II: The Heretic and paid dearly for it. In Leo, one could say he found the ideal blend. The result is a fascinating time capsule that still makes for a compelling, heartfelt drama today.

The Spinning Image [Graeme Clark]

Time Magazine

New York Times (registration req'd) Roger Greenspun

DELIVERANCE

USA (109 mi) 1972 ‘Scope

DELIVERANCE (1972) Roger Westcombe from Big House Film

Deliverance casts a long shadow. Even people who’ve never seen the film have an awareness of it. It’s become part of the firmament, a cultural touchstone. Why has it cornered its own piece of turf and endured for so long, seemingly unchallenged?

In part it’s a mixture of timelessness and contemporaneity. Its characters’ journeys, to varying degrees thinly disguised searches for frontiers that are more internal than external, now seem universal, but at the time struck several topical chords. Novelist James Dickey’s ecological concerns are one, even if today (nature as the fallback position "because the machines are going to fail") they sound more survivalist, Unabomber-like.

Vietnam offered a handy metaphor, Deliverance warning its U.S. suburbanite audience against blundering into alien landscapes. And alternatively, its back-to-nature impulse was perfect for the rising tide of hippie ideology.

Deliverance is a cautionary tale. Venture where you ain’t meant to go and you’ll get burned, baby. Or worse. Lewis (the Burt Reynolds character) in particular is seeking, in untamed nature, a validating reflection of his own animus which he feels suburbia’s air-conditioned nightmare is trying to tame. The expedition only becomes a reluctant Heart of Darkness when they get far more than they bargained for. Seeking deliverance, they find a nightmare beyond their imagining.

Perhaps Deliverance’s resonance today is for a world where grotesqueries are increasingly commonplace and served up daily as media morsels. Don’t go there. Stick to the well-trodden pathways and forget any illusions about your inner reality. Yet it’s a far less conservative film than the expansive Easy Rider that was soon to inspire an entire generation (and forever forge Steppenwolf on the soundtrack as a cinematic cliché).

It’s the pessimistic message of Deliverance that has endured, without it ever being transformed into quaint ‘cultural artifact’ nostalgia. With its haunting imagery and spooking associations, Deliverance is one of those films that isn’t going to go away.

Turner Classic Movies Jay Steinberg

Slant Magazine Jeremiah Kipp

MovieJustice (Dan DeVore)

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson)

eFilmCritic Reviews Isobel Sharp

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Jon Danziger)

DVD Verdict Patrick Naugle

DVD Town (John J. Puccio)

George Chabot's Review

Apollo Movie Guide [Brian Webster]

Brian Koller, filmsgraded.com

Deliverance Movie Reviews and Sounds

Greatest Films - comprehensive analysis of classic US films Tim Dirks

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

ZARDOZ

Great Britain Ireland (105 mi) 1973 ‘Scope

Film as Art Danél Griffin

There comes a point when too many good ideas become rolled up into one really bad idea. Zardoz is a textbook example of this failure. On one hand, I have to applaud it for trying to jam-pack so many different, pseudo-philosophical ideas into a low-budget picture. On the other hand, I got so lost that the entire exercise quickly grew confusing, boring, and meandering. Still, I suppose that you cannot completely discount a movie that begins with a gigantic floating head made out of stone whose first line to his spandex-wearing worshippers is, “The gun is good, but the penis is evil.” Especially when you consider that this is the least bizarre scene in the entire movie.      

The movie stars Sean Connery as Zed, one of these spandex-wearing, floating head-worshipping nomads. At this point in his career, Connery was desperately looking for work—this was his post-Bond, pre-The Untouchables days in which his career was in limbo and he was trying to find his footing as an actor apart from his Agent 007 typecast. During this time, he made some very, very good pictures, among them The Man Who Would Be King, Robin and Marian, and Highlander. He also made some eye-rollers, such as The Sword of the Valiant, Outland, and Meteor. Of them all, Zardoz is the only one to feature Connery running around in red underwear and a long, braided wig through the course of the entire movie. Write that down—it might be a Jeopardy question one day. In the meantime, take a wild guess which one of the above lists this one ended up on.          

I’ll try to fit the plotline into one paragraph, but no promises on its coherency. So, Zed turns out to be part of a mining/grazing class in a post-apocalyptic world, created by a group of immortals to keep them busy and to blind them to the truth of their existence. These immortals, an evolved form of humans, live in celestial colonies, where they walk around in skimpy clothes, do not procreate, and communicate through telepathy, which was given to them through a magic “vortex” that keeps them alive and regenerative. The stone-head god, Zardoz, was manufactured by these immortals to force Zed and his people, who have no idea of the immortals’ existence, into hard labor. They are ordered to make bread for inebriate immortals who have chosen to live as outcasts and have been banished to eternal Alzheimer’s. This group now lives in an old folk’s home on the outskirts of the immortals’ city, where they sit around in tuxedos all day and listen to jazz (an existence so carefree I wonder why the other immortals see it as punishment). Zed stumbles upon the celestial people by “accidentally” falling into Zardoz’s head, and when the immortals discover him, they decide to experiment on him, to try to understand the nature of their more barbaric ancestors. Throughout all of these revelations, Zed remains wide-eyed and reserved, which I think has more to do with boredom on Connery’s part.          

There are plenty more plot twists and developments, but I think I’ve probably overwhelmed you enough. Zed turns out to be much more significant in the grand design than just a misplaced barbarian, but by the time the final revelations come, we’ve been too blindsided by the overall weirdness of the film that we’re not too concerned with what’s happening on screen. Though the film also contains some effective images, they don’t add up to anything except an exercise in meandering excess. For maximum entertainment, I would imagine that Zardoz is best viewed drunk; if someone wants to try that theory and contact me with the results, I certainly wouldn’t mind the read.          

Today, director John Boorman (of Deliverance, Excalibur, and, more appropriately, The Exorcist 2) admits that he overshot with Zardoz—that he tried to insert too many ideas and too many strange images and instead made a movie with little coherency or excitement. The 1970s hairdos also don’t help—surely by the time we have evolved into joyless immortals, we will have learned a more practical form of hairstyle. The dialogue is also a mess, with characters sputtering jaw-dropping lines that have no relation to anything else being said. My favorite, from Connery himself: “I have heard the voice of the turtle throughout the land. It beckons me.”          

It is impossible to deny that his film contains some fascinating ideas—among them, a world without sex, without love, and without war. Somewhere in the heart of Zardoz is an intriguing question about love and peace only coming about with war and violence, but you’ll be hard pressed to find it without watching the film with the director’s commentary track (which mainly consists of Boorman repeating, “Okay, now, this is what I meant with this scene…”) playing on your DVD. The rest of the film is so convoluted that you’re probably better off reading 1984 again for more focused discussions on similar themes or, better yet, watching that other Sean Connery/immortal movie.

DVD Times Review [Mike Sutton]

Zardoz Boorman’s metaphysical western, by Stephanie Goldberg from Jump Cut

Zardoz History and the death wish: Zardoz as open form, by Frederic Jameson from Jump Cut

Eccentric Cinema Review

DVD Savant Review Glenn Erickson

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Jeff Ulmer)

DVD Verdict [Brett Cullum]

Apollo Movie Guide [Scott Weinberg]

Scifilm Review Gerry Carpenter

Sci-Fi Movie Page (James O'Ehley)

The Spinning Image Graeme Clark

Bad Movies Review

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Nora Sayre)

THE EXORCIST II – THE HERETIC

USA (118 mi) 1977

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young] Bradford Fantastic Films Weekend

Has there ever been a more vexatious and generally troublesome series of films than The Exorcist and its sequels? William Friedkin's 1973 original had a notoriously "cursed" production, and so severe was the creative strife behind the scenes that two different versions are now in circulation - Friedkin's edit joined by the cut presented in accordance with writer William Peter Blatty's wishes and known as in the US as The Exorcist - The Version You've Never Seen (a title which is a right old mouthful) and in the UK as The Exorcist - Director's Cut (a title which is just plain wrong).

Perhaps still smarting from his experiences with Friedkin, Blatty himself directed the film version of Legion, the book he wrote as a sequel to his novel The Exorcist. Retitled The Exorcist III, this immediately ran into bother when the studio realised there weren't any exorcisms in the movie. Their solution was to shoot extra footage featuring Nicol Williamson, which was then shoehorned the picture's climax. More recently, Paul Schrader's prequel met even more severe disfavour with the moneymen, who hired Renny Harlin to come up with an entirely new film - and we now have both The Exorcist : The Beginning and Dominion : Prequel to the Exorcist knocking about.

But these travails are really rather small beer alongside the most painful episode in the whole Exorcist saga, John Boorman's The Exorcist II : The Heretic. As David Thomson eyecatchingly puts it in his Biographical Dictonary of Film: 

                Very long in the making, and apparently beset with occult hazards 
                (including a strange illness that nearly killed Boorman), it was
                laughed at by audiences, recut and withdrawn. Neither [Warner
                Brothers] nor the box office wanted it, and it is scarcely coherent.

The film has received a thorough kicking from critics ever since - some of whom have gone to exhaustive lengths chronicling its shortcomings. The BBC's Mark Kermode regularly and passionately describes it as "the worst film ever made," though this claim must be seen in the context of the fact that he regularly and passionately describes Friedkin's Exorcist as "the best film ever made." Not everyone has been so harsh, however. Thomson goes on to admit that "it has extraordinary moments of a metaphysical scope that reminded us of the director's lasting wish to film Lord of the Rings and the Arthurian legends."

Coming from the man responsible for Point Blank and Deliverance, The Exorcist - The Heretic is undoubtedly a severe disappointment. But it's nowhere near as dire as its reputation would suggest, and is certainly several cuts above Boorman's much later The Tailor of Panama. Admittedly, the script is a right old mess - Jesuit priest Fr Lamont (Richard Burton) is instructed by his church superiors to investigate the death of Fr Merrin (Max Von Sydow) during the exorcism of Regan McNeil (Linda Blair), events chronicled in Friedkin's The Exorcist.

Lamont's quest brings him into contact with Regan - now a sexually blossoming young adult - and also sends him on a bizarre, hallucinatory journey to Africa where he meets a scientist named Kokumo (James Earl Jones). It turns out that Kokumo was the child who, long ago, was exorcised by Fr Merrin. But what does all this have to do with locusts? Specifically, "the good locust"?

You probably won't be entirely certain of anything to do with The Heretic, even after the picture's histrionic finale - a clumsily tacked-on rock-the-house (or rather wreck-the-house) spectacular in which Regan's former nanny Sharon (Kitty Winn) meets a messy and overdue end. Overdue because (a) Sharon's character is very badly written, (b) she's dressed in howlingly dated seventies fashions and (c) Winn delivers a grating, stilted performance - perhaps forgiveable given the script's limitations.

Anyone in search of good acting in The Exorcist II will be sorely disappointed, despite the presence of heavyweights like Burton, Jones and Oscar winner Louise Fletcher. The latter is conspicuously wasted as Regan's therapist Gene, who spends most of the picture tinkering with a weird electronic gizmo known as the "synchronizer". Like much else in the film, this high-tech contraption makes very little sense.

But Boorman - who is reckoned to have essentially co-written the script with the film's "creative consultant" Rospo Pallenberg - is clearly not at all bothered about "making sense" in the normal, rational Hollywood terms. If nothing else, he's to be commended for trying so hard to come up with something so very different from Blatty and Friedkin's expertly constructed but clangingly mechanical thrill-ride.

Whereas The Exorcist is strong on thrills but low on 'soul', The Heretic goes in a very different direction. It's undeniably and frustratingly clunky at times - but there's a bizarre spiritual dimension to the enterprise that gives it an oddball atmosphere and integrity of its own: much closer to, say, Boorman's dreamily mystical version of Excalibur, or David Lynch's Dune (which so outraged fans of Frank Herbert's source novels), or Werner Herzog's radical take on Nosferatu.

These are examples of directors who see cinema not as a storytelling medium but as a semi-pagan rite: and while it's very easy to knock Boorman's hippy-trippy-dippy self-indulgence, his work before and since demands that audiences and critics should at least attempt to see The Heretic on its own outlandish terms and emphatically not in relation to either The Exorcist or any other example of mainstream 1970s horror.

Boorman's attempt to breathe life into Blatty's potboilerish original may be unwise, perhaps even foolish. But at times - the innovative locust sequences in particular - The Heretic quite literally takes off and breaks through into surreal, poetic, mind-bending new territory a universe away from the head-spinning, peasoup-hurling crassness of earlier, more 'coherent' and conservatively conventional horror blockbusters.

DVD Talk (D.K. Holm)

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Jeff Ulmer)

Classic Horror Kairo

SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

EXCALIBUR

USA Great Britain (140 mi) 1981

AboutFilm Carlo Cavagna

Many directors, at some point in their careers, come up with a project they are willing to risk everything for. James Cameron practically mortgaged his soul to make Titanic, and the result was the most successful movie of all time. More often the result is a film like Michael Cimino's Heaven's Gate or Kevin Costner's The Postman–critical and box office catastrophes from which the directors' careers would not recover. Even if the film is successful, like Francis Ford Coppola's Apocalypse Now, it can break something in the director–Coppola never again made an outstanding film.

Excalibur, a chronicle of the legend of King Arthur, falls somewhere in between Titanic and the titanic failures. Ambitious and soaring like Titanic, bloated like The Postman, and reasonably successful at the box office, Excalibur is a movie that director John Boorman had been wanting to make for twenty years. After finally persuading Orion Pictures to fund the project, Boorman put together a dazzlingly lavish production–the likes of which is rarely seen in live-action fantasy movies intended for adults.

Each single frame of Excalibur would make a spectacular poster. Fire and fog, peril and pageantry, sex and sorcery–cinematographer Alex Thomson films it all in lush, rich colors. His Oscar nomination was well-earned. The dramatic soundtrack, featuring music mostly by Wagner, is a perfect match to the extravagant visuals. Only a few of the special effects seem dated, and the costumes are gorgeous–though Mordred's golden plate mail and mask do look stupid. The plate mail in general is an egregious anachronism, as plate mail wasn't invented until centuries later–the knights should be wearing chain mail. But these are minor complaints.

There isn't much beyond the show, however. Indeed, if I weren't already familiar with the legend of King Arthur, I'd be hard-pressed to explain the plot. Characters come and go with little explanation. Key events are presented abruptly, without much connection to what has passed before and what will happen next. From our knowledge of the legend, we know, for example, that Lancelot (Nicholas Clay) goes into exile after his affair with Guinevere (Cherie Lunghi) is discovered. What happens after Arthur discovers the two lovers is a key part of the story–Arthur's jealousy, mixed with guilt over choosing to be king first and husband second, Lancelot's tortured decision to leave, Guinevere's flight to a convent.  But in the movie, Lancelot's disappearance is not explained, nor is his reappearance (poof! there's Lancelot!) explained at the final battle with Mordred (Robert Addie). Similarly, we have no idea that Guinevere has taken refuge in a convent until Arthur visits her there years later.

Boorman handles the episode of the Holy Grail particularly badly. Guinevere and Lancelot's unfaithfulness, Merlin's defeat by Morganna (a young, scantily clad Helen Mirren), and Morganna's sorcerous seduction of her half-brother Arthur (begetting Mordred) somehow lead to pestilence and famine. The only way to heal Arthur's broken kingdom is by finding the heretofore unmentioned Holy Grail. (Why is this Palestinian artifact in the British Isles? Who knows.) Arthur sends forth his knights, most of whom die, and a few minutes later a dozen or more years have passed, and it's time for Arthur (who has apparently spent the time in a semi-coma) to fight Mordred. Again, were we not familiar already with the legend, our reaction could only be this: Huh?

Even worse, there is little explanation of the characters' motivations. Why is Uther (Gabriel Byrne, in his first screen role) so smitten with Igrayne (Katrine Boorman) that within moments of seeing her he's ready to throw away his new kingdom for one night of lust? Why does Leondegrance (Patrick Stewart, not-quite-entirely bald) risk his life to accept a no-name boy as his king? Why do Guinevere and Lancelot experience love at first sight? Why does Nicol Williamson, who gives an otherwise note-perfect performance as Merlin, seem at times to be channeling the Monty Python boys? Why didn't anyone plead with Boorman not to cast his children Katrine and Charley (as boy-Mordred) in the movie? Is that Liam Neeson as Gawain? Yes, it is!

While it may not be part of the oral tradition through which Arthur's legend has been handed down, the psychological drama of the tale is almost as compelling as the age-old conflict between good and evil. But Boorman paints his characters' actions with the broadest of strokes, relying on our knowledge of the legend to fill in the holes in the narrative. There are many such holes. Too many.

The reason to watch Excalibur is for the grandiose spectacle of it. In fact, it's pointless even to bother unless you can see Excalibur on DVD, in widescreen format. Just don't think too hard about it. And don't let your young children see it, because this isn't The Hobbit. Excalibur is rated R (there is a PG version) for a reason–several reasons actually–violence, sex and nudity. And thank goodness for those things, because where would movies like this be without them?

Reel.com DVD review [Mary Kalin-Casey]

Salon.com [David Lazarus]

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

eFilmCritic.com (Brian McKay)

Scifilm Reviews Gerry Carpenter

DVD Verdict Rob Traegler

ToxicUniverse.com (John Nesbit)

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Mark Zimmer)

DVDTown [John J. Puccio]

Dragan Antulov

Helen Mirren Appreciation Society - Excalibur Elaine Matlock

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

THE EMERALD FOREST

Great Britain (110 mi) 1985 ‘Scope

VideoVista Steve Hampton

With marginally similar concerns to his earlier Zardoz, director John Boorman's mid-1980s' adventure is allegedly based on a true story and is altogether a rather less subtle effort than his SF opus.

Powers Boothe plays the American construction chief Bill Markham, who's overseeing the building of a dam project in the Amazon jungle, when his young son Tommy (William Rodriguez) is kidnapped and spirited away into the depths of the rainforest by a reclusive tribe known as the Invisible People. The natives are a primitive culture, living in close harmony with nature and able to blend into their 'paradise' of lush greenery.

The boy (missing from home for a decade) soon becomes part of the tribe. He is initiated into manhood by a rites-of-passage ordeal and, by the time that his father has finally located him, the white young man (a fine performance from the director's own son Charley) has been fully adopted by the tribe of Brazilian indians, to the consternation of his mother Jean (Meg Foster, famed for her startlingly beautiful eyes).

From the pivotal reunion scene, the movie shifts its emphasis to mysticism, with Markham's hallucinatory experience as an 'animal spirit' (we all have one, supposedly, and mine's probably a weasel), and later to straightforward Tarzan-style dramatics; as the tribe embark on a rescue mission to save their imprisoned women (from being sold into slavery) and a guerrilla attack on the dam that represents a threat to the Invisible People's home territory and philosophy of life.

Superbly photographed on location by French DoP, Philippe Rousselot (who also shot Boorman's autobiographical Hope And Glory, and more recently lensed Tim Burton's Big Fish), The Emerald Forest combines documentary realism with marvellously evoked fantasy (despite there being almost no overt supernatural or paranormal elements in the film!), and a stirring adventuresome narrative. It does have the weakness of an episodic structure, and sometimes the plot shifts are clumsily achieved. These are slight flaws however and may easily be overlooked in appreciation of such an engrossing movie.

Bright Lights Film Journal [Robert Castle]

Epinions [metalluk]

eFilmCritic.com (Brian McKay)

Dragan Antulov

Apollo Movie Guide [Brian Webster]

The New York Times (Holcomb B. Noble)

HOPE AND GLORY

Great Britain (113 mi) 1987

DVD Times Mike Sutton

John Boorman is one of cinema's greatest mythmakers, a director of vision whose films are wonderful to watch even while the dialogue makes you want to scream with laughter. Hope And Glory, a film about growing up during the second world war, is one of his finest achievements since it matches stunning visual flair with a strong narrative and a witty script that is just realistic enough to be convincing while also engaging in some inspired flights of fancy. This is a genuinely magical film which achieves the difficult balancing act of making war exciting, even joyous, without soft-pedalling the violence and death.

The hero of the film is nine year old Billy - a superb performance from Sebastian Rice-Edwards - who lives in suburban London with his parents and two sisters. At the start of the war he feels somehow let down that the most exciting things that happen are his dad signing up and his classes being interrupted by air raid warnings. His mother intends to have him evacuated to Australia - leading to Billy's complaint that "I'm going to miss the war and it's all your fault" - but relents at the last moment. Soon, the phoney war ends and the Blitz begins, but for Billy it's the chance of a lifetime to go wild, smashing up derelict houses, discovering the realities of sex and death and generally chasing around the increasing number of bombsites provided by the Luftwaffe.

The narrative develops as a series of familiar cliches of home front movies but given a twist by the freshness of perspective provided by Billy. Everything is seen through his eyes and this allows Boorman to play some variations on familiar tunes. The scenes of bombing are terrifyingly realistic, notably the moment when the glass blows in on the family, and there's a sense of immediacy to the devastation which has the ring of truth - householders mutely staggering around what is left of their homes, children facing the loss of a parent, ARP wardens trying to offer useless words of consolation. There's also a slightly absurdist humour on display which renews cliched concepts such as Billy's older sister losing her virginity to a Canadian GI and his mum having a rather ambiguous affair with his Uncle Mac. It's this off the wall humour which blossoms in the second half of the film when the family move to live with grandparents in the country and Billy adapts to a rural existence. Full of love and affection for the time and place, this is the most relaxed and charming work Boorman has ever done and he allows Ian Bannen to steal the whole film as the Grandfather most of us wish we'd had; gruff, taciturn, sentimentally generous and totally mischievous.

Most of the performances are just right. David Hayman is ideal as the annoyingly ineffectual father, Sammi Davies is fresh and inventive as the older sister Dawn and little Geraldine Muir has some great moments as Billy's little sister who tags along with him. Her description of sex is a wonderful moment. Sarah Miles does well as the mother, although she also has a slightly irritating 'fake' quality which is out of place. The film is held together by the newcomer Sebastian Rice-Edwards though, who is quite superb in a performance which promised big things for the future that never seemed to materialise.

The visual style of the film is sumptuous, as one expects from Boorman, with Phillipe Rousselot providing a nice range of looks for the different parts of the story. The first half, largely urban, is grey and overcast until the bombs fall when it's bright and almost magical in its range of light and colour, while the second half, rural idyll that it is, is nostalgic and spacious, with the lush greens of the riverside coming through beautifully. The joy of the film is in the way it turns war into a great big party to which Billy has received a special invitation and the visuals have a slightly dreamy quality - experience recalled in tranquility I suppose, but with a surprisingly sharp edge. Boorman has made better films, but he has rarely made one which is more purely pleasurable.

eFilmCritic Reviews Slyder

1987 was a tough year at the Oscars, especially for the Best Picture category: we had Bernardo Bertolucci taking us to pre-WWII China in the epic The Last Emperor; we had James L. Brooks and his usual cast of asshole characters sparkling up a love triangle with an underhanded critique of the news business in Broadcast News; we had Michael Douglas reaping a lot more than what he “sowed” into Glenn Close’s muff in Fatal Attraction (and I don’t mean babies); and we also had Nicholas Cage going after his brother’s soon-to-be-wife Cher in Moonstruck. And although The Last Emperor cleaned house and won Best Picture in the end, one always has to wonder about the ability of the Oscars to score a rightly winner. Opinions may go around and this is one of them since I side with a tale about a 7-year-old boy and his coming-of-age experiences during the beginning of WWII in London, England.

Hope and Glory for me was the best film of 1987, because it’s simply a unique tail of living during wartime told from a child’s point of view. Steven Spielberg tried the same thing with Empire of the Sun with mixed results, but Hope and Glory takes the cake with huge pluses depicting the war with a sense of bemusement, excitement and adventure in a social environment turned upside down. Writer/Director/Producer John Boorman, who based the film in his own autobiographical experiences, has been a filmmaker with an erratic career, capable of delivering such horrible stinkers (Leo the Last, Exorcist II, Where the Heart Is), exceptionally great flicks (Excalibur, The General, The Emerald Forest), and absolute masterpieces (Point Blank, Deliverance, and this gem), and this is arguably his finest film to date as well as his most personal.

Through the eyes of seven year old Bill Rohan (Sebastian Rice-Edwards) we enter the world as he saw it when England declared war on Germany in 1939 and we see how his family as well as his neighborhood is affected by it. His father Clive (David Hayman) who was a former soldier in WWI enlists again only to have a desk job in the end, his mother Grace (Sarah Miles looking very hot for a middle-age woman) takes on the tough task of looking after Bill and the youngest daughter Sue (Geraldine Muir), while the eldest daughter Dawn (Sammi Davis) starts her sexual awakening which would lead her to fall in love with Bruce (Jean-Marc Barr), a Canadian soldier stationed in London.

As the bombs begin to fall at the beginning of the infamous London Blitz, the film starts to map out Bill’s point of view of the war: going to the theater to see only the mere excitement battles of the war, hiding with his mom and two sisters in the shelter from the bombs, hating more his teachers rather than the Nazis since they pummel him and his fellow lads with anti-German propaganda and reciting math times tables with gas masks on, collecting shrapnel which is at times hot due to the recent use, and joining on a neighborhood child gang in order to escape the overwhelming female predominance at home and in the neighborhood. But as these scenarios start to pan out with remarkably spontaneous fashion, we see them with a sense of innocence, not necessarily laughing at the horrors of war but simply being in some sort of awe, a neutral fascination of seeing things but not understanding why they happen and in the process not knowing why do adults react to these things so feverishly and at times absurdly, all with an amusing, intriguing and at times picaresque sense of humor and adventure. At one point Bill tells his younger sister Sue about the surrounding adults: “Don’t worry; we’re not going to be like them when we grow up. We’re not like them now.” It develops a uniquely contrasting point to the folly of war and its depressing and horrific nature and its effects on family life.

A couple of memorable standouts come to mind like the “dogfight scene” in which the family witness an air battle (possibly the Battle of Britain) and in the process a German Messerschmitt is shot down by a British Spitfire while the German pilot parachutes to safety and lands in a victory garden right in Bill’s neighborhood; the aforementioned “school bomb drill” scene; the “German jam” scene which depicts the absurd paranoia over anything German; the scene in which Grace and Dawn fighting and making up sobbingly over Dawn’s newfound love which leads to an interesting subplot over Grace’s feelings about Clive and his best friend Mac (Derrick O’Connor) who used to be Grace’s lost love. Possibly the finest moments are approaching the third act of the film in which Grandpa George (Ian Bannen kicking ass all around), who is Grace’s father, makes his appearance. Grandpa George is colorful addition to the film since he’s disappointed at how his life has come about (having four daughters Grace, Hope, Faith, and Charity, all named after the virtues he lacks) as well as the world around him (“a curse upon you Volt, Amp and Watt"). But once he and Bill make the connection, the film’s message reaches its zenith.

The production values are great, with the film beautifully shot by Frenchman Philippe Rousselot with grey-tinted nostalgic colors, exceptionally directed and superbly acted, especially by Bannen, Miles, Davis and young Rice-Edwards. A special highlight is on young Geraldine Muir, whose comment on sex will make you laugh pretty hard.

In the end, this film is just kick-ass fun. Although not exactly a war drama, Hope and Glory is a nostalgic wake-up call into reaching back and recovering the humor and the glory of those glory days of civilization which were lost during the two great wars as well as a fascinating depiction of life in an inconvenient yet extraordinary time that once immersed in you just simply don’t want it to end; a true masterpiece that everyone must see.

Turner Classic Movies Paul Tatara

Manavendra K. Thakur

Epinions [metalluk]

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Jeff Ulmer)

Apollo Movie Guide [Brian Webster]

Washington Post [Rita Kempley]

Washington Post [Desson Howe]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Janet Maslin)

THE GENERAL A 95

Ireland (128 mi) 1998 ‘Scope

Fast paced, brilliantly edited, brutally funny film shot in Black and White ‘Scope, written by the director, featuring a performance by Brendan Gleeson that just explodes off the screen, portraying real-life Irish criminal Martin Cahill, a Dublin master burglar who rose from the tenement slums to become a legendary underworld figure who could steal anything. Believed to have stolen over $60 million, including one of the few original Vermeer paintings, hiding it for awhile in a cavern, even stealing Boorman’s gold record for the soundtrack to his film DELIVERANCE, apparently disappointed when he discovered it wasn’t made of real gold, and is seen in the film smashing it to pieces. The police inspector is played by John Voight, using his best Irish brogue. Cahill was many times caught, but never convicted of anything, but in this case, the IRA did what the police never could, suggesting only the criminal underworld can take care of its own kind, a mentality that goes back to Fritz Lang’s film M, where Peter Lorre is tried by the underworld because as a child molester, he was giving the legitimate world of crime a bad name. Killing Martin Cahill only elevated his name and his accomplishments to mythic proportions, lies were spread from people who reportedly knew him and what they got away with, leading to fictitious, legendary stories. According to the director, “Cahill was simply resentful of authority. His attitude was that the IRA was simply another institution, with rules, and he was such an anarchic sort that he just lumped them in with all the others.” According to the policeman who the John Voight character is based, “People like to think of criminals as a separate species, but they’re not. They’re just like us except they commit crimes.” This film takes great pains to present an accurate portrait of Martin Cahill, a wickedly competent individual who cleverly and methodically used violence and brutality at every turn until that violence turned against him, very much a reflection of the harsh and violent world we continue to live in. Van Morrison sings: “They can’t take that away, trials and tribulations, sunshine it looks like, it was once my life, when my message was just as sweet, it used to be so simple, it used to be my life...”

Planet Sick-Boy (Jon Popick)

John Boorman won the Best Director award at Cannes last spring for this beautiful portrait of real-life Irish mobster Martin Cahill (Brendan Gleeson, Braveheart). It begins like any other screen biography, with the notorious gangster meeting his maker on the eve of the 1994 I.R.A. cease-fire, and then flashes back to a young Cahill (brilliantly played by Eamonn Owens, The Butcher Boy) slowly becoming more and more involved in a life of crime. According to the legend, the musically minded boy confused the word "bugler" with "burglar" - and as they say, the rest is history.

Continuously hunted – and grudgingly respected – by his arch-nemesis, police inspector Ned Kenney (Jon Voight), Cahill rarely showed his face in public and is often portrayed, quite hysterically, with his face hidden by his hands, a book or completely shrouded by a hooded sweatshirt. He also had a very strange home life, sharing a home and children with both his wife (Maria Doyle Kennedy) and her sister (Angeline Ball)

Filmed entirely in black and white (but on color stock), The General is as lush and lavish as any multi-hued picture you will ever see. Of particular interest is a scene where Cahill pilfers a framed gold record off the wall in what appears to be a routine burglary. While that may not sound exceptionally remarkable, Boorman enjoyed a private chuckle as he was a real-life victim of the robbing Cahill, who stole the director’s gold record for Deliverance’s "Dueling Banjos."

The Onion A.V. Club [Joshua Klein]

Martin Cahill may be a modern-day folk anti-hero in Ireland, but he's not much of a player in contemporary American lore. Credit director John Boorman, then, with bringing a life like Cahill's to the screen with such acuity that it's easy to overlook the many familiar elements of his mobster movie. Filmed in black-and-white in the spacious Cinemascope format, The General opens with the death of its subject. Cahill, a sort of blue-collar Robin Hood who was responsible for a number of impressive heists (jewelry, art, etc.) in Ireland, made plenty of enemies in his lifetime, so when he was knocked off in 1994 by a miffed wing of the IRA, no one was really surprised. What Boorman does with The General is expose the complexity of Cahill's contrary life. A colorful crook if ever there was one, Cahill lived a comfortable life with his wife and his concubine-like sister-in-law. Though the charismatic, clever thief was not beyond bursts of extreme brutality, the inspired Brendan Gleeson plays him with such a ferocious focus that even after he nails one of his underlings to a pool table, he still exudes a deceptive affability. Boorman's decision not to use color can be seen as an effort to deglamorize a glamorous figure, or reflect the depressed state of Ireland's underclass, but ultimately the trick proves an overt bridge to such classic Hollywood gangster movies as Howard Hawks' Scarface. It's interesting to compare and contrast the rise and fall of Paul Muni in that film with the tragic, selfish end of Gleeson in The General, if only because Gleeson's portrayal of Cahill is never less than sympathetic. An impressively torn Jon Voight is also on hand as Gleeson's frustrated police nemesis, a childhood friend who must resort to Cahill's below-the-belt level to bring him down.

Village Voice (Amy Taubin)

Nitrate Online Eddie Cockrell

General, The (UK, 1998) Edwin Jahiel

culturevulture.net, Choices for the Cognoscenti Arthur Lazere

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson)

Philadelphia City Paper Sam Adams

The General -- A Film By John Boorman official site by Sony Pictures

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James Berardinelli's ReelViews

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Movie Magazine International Larry Carlin

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Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

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DVDBeaver Gary W. Tooze

Borcuch, Jacek

ALL THAT I LOVE (Wszystko, co kocham) A- 93

Poland (95 mi) 2009

This is a marvelously inventive indie style film made in Poland that examines the Russian presence in the homeland and the initial signs of support for Lech Walesa’s Solidarity Movement in 1981, as seen through the eyes of a bunch of high school kids that form a punk band. The subversive tone of the music itself gets the film off to a good start, as the band rehearses in an old abandoned railway car and just begins to realize that they’re pretty good. Janek (Mateusz Kosciukiewicz) is the son of a Navy officer (Andrzej Chyra) with a girlfriend Basia (Olga Frycz) whose father is a Solidarity supporter currently incarcerated and under investigation for inciting worker unrest, as strikes are breaking out across the country. Their households do not meet in the same social circles. But not to fret, Janek and his brother Straszek (Mateusz Banasiuk) don’t take school very seriously anyway and instead hang with their buddies drinking beer, flirting with girls, and playing music. When an attractive adult woman (Katarzyna Herman) in a nearby building complex known for her buxom figure hears Janek is an artist, her flirtatious glance shows she offhandedly takes interest, a theme that figures throughout the film. There are gorgeous piano interludes written by the director’s brother, Daniel Bloom, sublime poetic moments usually accompanied by nature landscapes which add a change of pace. Otherwise, the film has a 16mm, grimy, washed out, and colorless look in the wintertime featuring loads of snow, comparable to the dreary look in Romanian films, while the summetime shots burst with color and the vibrancy of the sand and sea. Cameraman Michal Englert keeps the energy level high with restlessly fluid camera movement, continually finding exquisitely composed shots, especially multiple kids in the same picture. Perhaps his most brilliant sequence is a shot of the boys hopping into the sea stark naked, frolicking in the waves, even featuring underwater shots, but when the camera surfaces, there is a layer of ice and the kids are playing ice hockey.

Initially Janek and Basia are typical teenagers, barely acknowledging they like each other, but when Basia refuses to see him after her father is arrested, believing Janek’s father was behind the arrest, Janek realizes he misses her. Janek’s father, however, is a decent guy, providing a solid performance throughout, where together the father and son visit a dying grandmother back on the family’s country farm, where her death is a study of understatement with a pitch perfect moment between father and son. Unlike other coming of age stories, Janek is not rebelling against his family, which are pretty supportive, but instead fights against a backdrop of government repression and the denial of freedoms under martial law. None of the kids see any future on the horizon. Egged on by his buddies, Janek approaches the neighbor woman who cordially invites him in and offers his sexual initiation. Life behind the Iron Curtain is looking pretty good, despite the gritty realism which shows tanks and soldiers with machine guns on the street contrasted against Janek and his band carrying their musical instruments. When they get a chance to play at a school dance, the band, known as ATIL, jumps at the chance, though Janek’s father needed to discuss their song lyrics with one of the teachers who was concerned about their overt references to “freedom and liberation,” which he claims are common themes in many of the books they teach in school. “What would you have me do, arrest him for high treason?” But when the buxom woman’s boyfriend, a Communist military officer, gets ahold of a demo tape, he shuts the performance down, claiming the songs were never cleared with the Party censors. As the band sits backstage mulling this latest turn of events, they decide to walk onstage and play warm up music only, thanking the audience, but they couldn’t play more. When someone in the audience yelled asking about their facial make up, as one member in the band was sporting a black eye, he yelled back “Commie cop!” The crowd immediately grows energized and ready for rock ‘n’ roll, so ATIL goes into a simmering rage against the establishment, belting out a completely subversive song and under the circumstances, the place goes wild. Of course, for every act there are consequences, and Poland was no different, but this is a fun, heartfelt movie that beautifully captures the complexity of a historical moment through the untamed energy of a few teenage kids.

Variety (Dennis Harvey) review

Winning Polish feature "All That I Love" lends a few unfamiliar wrinkles to some familiar coming-of-age tropes. Its protag is a high schooler with his own punk band in 1981, just as the Solidarity movement begins to seriously threaten communist rule. Deftly combining music, romance, politics and family drama, this autobiographical third feature by Jacek Borcuch ("Tulips") is a thorough charmer that should pick up admirers on the fest circuit, with hopes of sparking interest from distribs en route.

Eighteen-year-old Jacek (Mateusz Kosciukiewicz, a real find) is leader of a punk quartet whose members include floppy-haired blond guitarist Kazik (Jakub Gierszal), whose father regularly beats him. Jacek has his own problems at home, as his rebelliousness clashes with the conformity necessitated by his father's (Andrzej Chyra) position as a military police officer. Dad is especially nervous these days because workers strikes and Solidarity's increasing influence have unsettled the status quo, prompting real fear that the Soviets might invade to impose order.

Meanwhile, Jacek has typical teenage concerns: getting gigs for his band, rendezvousing with a g.f. Basia (Olga Frycz), and spying with his mates on the sexy older neighbor (Katarzyna Herman) who eventually provides his sexual initiation.

When the neighbor's humorless government-flunky husband takes jealous note of this liaison, he retaliates by attempting to shut down the band's appearance at the school dance. This sparks a spontaneous protest that has the whole class moshing for Solidarity. (Refreshingly, the pic's songs are early Polish punk classics right out of a 1981 ramalama punk songbook.)

Apart from a couple of stereotypical moments of Beatle-esque high spirits (running and jumping at the camera, etc.), "All That I Love" avoids cliche, despite similarities to a thousand prior coming-of-age stories. Adding unexpected depth is a poignant midpoint digression in which father and son travel to a dying grandmother's bedside; we realize that despite their superficial conflicts, Jacek's relationship with Dad remains a warm and close one.

Perfs are sound all around, assembly smart with just the right gritty edge.

Camera (color), Michal Englert; editors, Agnieszka Glinska, Krzysztof Szpetmanski; music, Daniel Bloom; production designer, Elwira Pluta; costume designer, Magda Maciejewska; sound (Dolby Digital), Tomasz Dukszta, Bartlomiej Wozniak. Reviewed at Sundance Film Festival (World Cinema, competing), Jan. 23, 2010. Running time: 98 MIN. 

Bordwell, David – film historian

davidbordwell.net : home David Bordwell’s Website on Cinema

David Bordwell - Cognitive Film Theory

Manohla Dargis on film historian David Bordwell Manohla Dargis from The New York Times, April 23, 2010

By Chuck Stephens School’s Out? Never!: David Bordwell Keeps Working the Room, including an interview from Cinema Scope

By David Bordwell Back Page: Against Insight, from Cinema Scope

David Bordwell - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Borgeaud, Pierre-Yves

YOUSSOU N’DOUR: RETURN TO GORÉE (Retour à Gorée) A- 94

Switzerland Luxembourg Senegal (110 mi) 2007 Official site

The horrible reality about slavery was that it was a condition of commerce, buying and selling human beings. To that end, for over 300 years 20 to 100 million of among the best and brightest blacks in Africa were transported across the globe where 30 % died in transport on the slave ships while others were separated from their families and sent to different countries. Is it any wonder that today Africa continues to suffer from a perception of backwardness? This question could just as easily be asked of blacks in America today, wondering why other immigrant groups seem to advance economically ahead of blacks who historically lag behind. This question and this inter-continental connection lie at the heart of this film, yet it’s a surprisingly tender road documentary accentuating music. Grammy-winning Senegalese singer Youssou N'Dour noticed the connection between the percussive music played at the docks of Dakar, his hometown, and Mardi Gras music in New Orleans, or a spiritual connection about slavery that perhaps only American gospel singers can capture, but more importantly realized that jazz is a product of slavery, that African descendents in America invented an improvisational form of music that he traces back to his own African roots, claiming African music similarly defies form and relies heavily on an improvisational component. An idea spawned at the Cully Jazz Festival in 1999, he decided to re-arrange some of his own songs giving them greater vulnerability and emotional expanse through jazz. To that end, his arranger extraordinaire, blind Swiss pianist Moncef Genoud, wrote some arrangements for what they called “the project, the Return to Gorée,” recalling the history of the slave trade through music, eventually performing a live concert on Gorée Island where it all began in the “Maison des esclaves” or slave houses from the slave era days, a symbol of their last breath of freedom before they walked through the “Door of No Return” and were shipped across the ocean on slave ships. While not a concert film, this has a more relaxed, almost conversational style that instead focuses on time spent during the rehearsal sessions.

Simply put, N’Dour chooses some great musicians, as they are among the best in the world, but more importantly, each is attuned to the righteousness of their mission which is as much a spiritual journey, elevating the quality of the music heard throughout the film, as N’Dour travels to America with Genoud to seek them out, heading first to Atlanta to work with the Harmony Harmoneer gospel singing Turner brothers. Rehearsing together, while the intricate voices sound superb, immediately they discover a cultural rift, as N’Dour is a Muslim entering a Christian church for the first time, so when they start singing about Jesus, it doesn’t fit the song “My Hope Is in You,” where “you” refers to the next generation. The Turners are a bit stunned when they’re asked to stop using Jesus, something they don’t take lightly, but in the interest of “the project,” there’s a higher purpose than one’s own feelings. In New Orleans, we meet one of the originators, Idris Muhammad, who calls himself one of 8 percussionists growing up in his family which accounted for developing his own style early, who at the age of 15 played on the 1956 Fats Domino smash hit “Blueberry Hill,” later converting to Islam in the 60’s. He does an exquisite job describing the origins of the music of Mardi Gras and its multiple jazz rhythms, where the hypnotic percussive beat drives the second liners, a traditional dance style in New Orleans that traces its origins to the infamous Buddy Bolden. In New York they pick up perhaps the most surprising choice, Pyeng Threadgill, the daughter of A.A.C.M. jazz composer Henry Threadgill and choreographer Christina Jones. Known for advocating diverse vocal styles, she is perhaps the most subtle addition as she supplements N’Dour’s own vocal lead and is genuinely amazed at his superb improvisational vocal technique. In New York, they also pick up bassist James Cammack, who along with Muhammad both currently work with Ahmad Jamal, a pianist long admired by Miles Davis for his use of space and texture, precisely what N’Dour is looking for. More importantly, in a flash back to the 60’s, they briefly add the fiery poetry of New Jersey poet laureate Amira Baraka, who invites them all to his home. N’Dour treats this invitation as an honor, as if being invited into the home of an African chief, viewing Baraka and his intellectual curiosity and interest in Africa since the 1960’s as an integral part of “the project.” The jam session with Baraka is one of the dramatic high points of the film, as his words are spot on, nearly shouted at first: “At the bottom of the Atlantic ocean there is a railroad made of human bones, black ivory, black ivory,” following the path all the way back to their origins using words that are finally whispered: “Africa, Africa.”

When they travel to Europe, they pick up Austrian guitar phenom Wolfgang Muthspiel, Luxembourg trumpeter Ernie Hammes, and French harmonica player Grégoire Maret, all of whom add musicianship, brilliant technique, and multiple layers of texture. When this entire group rehearses together, adding bits and pieces of N-Dour’s sweet voice, the result is nothing less than phenomenal. The final leg on their tour is Dakar, where N’Dour is in his element. Rather than feature the dance-like Senegalese rhythms of N’Dour’s pop songs which endear him to the local population, this is a softer, much more contemplative style that might aptly be described as hushed, where every sound is meticulously crafted. If CD’s were selling outside the theater, I’m sure they would sell out, as there is a singularly distinguished, heartfelt tenderness to this music filled with eloquent, impressionistic colors so quietly underplayed, so by the time N’Dour’s voice soars above it all with intricate, soulful riffs, it’s nothing less than inspiring. The focus on Muhammad in the film is always rewarding as he’s a lion of a man, whether joining the drumming of the local djembe players in Dakar, offering a prayer afterwards, or buying a barracuda for dinner during a seaside visit next to rows of empty fishing canoes that line the beaches at night, where the man who actually caught his fish was pointed out. The film is surprisingly moving and powerful on so many different levels, most of it amazingly personal, though it doesn't address the controversy raised about the truth or fiction of that Door of No Return which may be more symbolic than historical, as historians claim the shore is too rocky for ships and the majority of the slave traffic flowed through the Senegal and Gambia Rivers, suggesting the story is a myth fabricated by Joseph Ndiaye, a Gorée Island slave house curator who was given a position of prominence in the film, elevated to the level of a griot, an all-knowing grandfatherly historian who reveals the ugly details of what happened here, where it’s hard to imagine the personalized inner reactions of the visiting black Americans who are themselves descendants of slaves. Especially poignant is the scene where the gospel singers break out into song right there on the spot at the Door of No Return, singing “Return to Glory,” where it’s as if time stops and death is put on hold until they’re finished. It’s a miraculous moment catching everyone by surprise, as it appears completely spontaneous and utterly appropriate. But Joseph Ndiaye will go on spending the rest of his life revealing the history of the slave trade, publicly denouncing it in multiple languages, as if bringing the wrath of God upon us all, while Youssou N’Dour offers angelic whispers of hope as light as moonbeams that gently guide us into a more harmonious future.

African, African Diaspora video DVD Caribbean Black video kirikou Winner of the Best Documentary at the Pan African Film Festival

Youssou N'Dour, the internationally renown Senegalese singer decides to give a Jazz concert on the island of Gorée to commemorate the humanity of those who started their journey in life as slaves in the New World and created, against all odds, one of the most important and celebrated musical expressions in the world. Following Youssou N'Dour as he travels to various cities in Europe and the USA to recruit talented musicians is a treat, as the viewer is exposed to many intense moments of musical and spiritual communion. With the participation of musician and writer Imamu Amiri Baraka, pianist Moncel Genoud, and drummer Idris Muhammad, among others, Youssou N'Dour: Return to Gorée is a film that galvanizes the Global Black Experience in a unique way.

Return to Goree France in London

The Grammy-winning Senegalese singer Youssou N'Dour takes us on a musical journey in the footsteps of slaves. Guided in his mission by his friend, the blind pianist Moncef Genoud, Youssou N'Dour travels across the USA from Atlanta to New Orleans, and then from New York on to Bordeaux and Luxembourg, performing his songs, which are transformed, immersed in the culture of jazz and gospel. Transcending cultural divisions and rehearsing with some of the world's most exceptional musicians, Youssou N'Dour prepares to return to Africa, bringing a jazz repertoire of his own songs to perform a concert in Goree. Goree is an island off the coastline of Senegal and sits at the crossroads of the centuries-old trade route connecting Europe and West Africa, Christianity and Islam, infamous as a former centre of the Atlantic slave trade, from where many Africans were deported to the Americas.

Two Musical Road Movies Facets Multi Media

A musical road movie, Youssou N'Dour: Return to Gorée follows Senegalese singer Youssou N'Dour's epic journey tracing the trail left by slaves and the jazz music they invented. Youssou N'Dour's challenge is to bring back to Africa a jazz repertoire of his own songs to perform a concert in Gorée, the island that today symbolizes the slave trade and stands to commemorate its victims. From Atlanta to New Orleans, from New York to Bordeaux and Luxembourg, the songs are transformed, immersed in jazz and gospel. Transcending cultural divisions and rehearsing with of some of the world's most exceptional musicians, Youssou N'Dour is preparing to return to Africa for the final concert. Directed by Pierre-Yves Borgeaud, Switzerland/Luxembourg/Senegal, 2006, 35mm, 90 mins. In English and French with English subtitles.

Montage: GFF Review: Youssou N'Dour: Return to Goree - by Emma J ... Emma J Lennox

“At the bottom of the Atlantic ocean there is a rail road, made of human bones; black ivory, black ivory” The potent words of American poet, Amiri Baraka are a powerful example that nothing can begin to comprehend the history of slavery, suppression and inhumanity like music, poetry, community and love. Youssou N'Dour discovers all of these on a journey which takes him around America and back to his native Senegal on a mission to reunite the black diaspora with its history.

Goree is the infamous island off the coast of Dakar which was used as a departure point for the slave trade for America and Europe. It's House of Slaves, built in 1784 still stands to this day and remains testimony to the sad history and ravaged African west coast. Yet triumphantly it is in the ruins of these cramped quarters that N'Dour has planned a concert uniting Americans with Africa, jazz with mbalax, and the present with its past.

On search for the talent who will bring different elements to the musical experience, N'Dour picks up gospel singers in Atalanta, and jazz musicians in New Orleans and New York city. The individuals he meets have their own personal histories to consider, as well as that of the music they perform. A diegesis of black music is explored in analytical and historical context with discoveries of some rhythms starting in Senegalese tradition and winding up in the streets of New Orleans' Mardi Gras. Percussionist Idris Muhammed has played for hundreds of musicians from Sam Cooke to Herbie Hancock and his expertise on rhythm is unparalleled, but even he seems to have a spiritual awakening on visiting Dakar and hearing the local djembe players.

There is ecstatic excitement when the various musicians are finally brought to their destination concert, in particular the three gospel singing Turner brothers who see it as a kind of 'homecoming'. Early on there is some tension when N'Dour insists that the brothers don't add a Christian perspective to his songs and an uncomfortable moment follows when the Moslem N'Dour enters the Atalanta church to perform. The Turners' journey to Goree, however, creates perhaps the most poignant scene in the documentary when they are given the tour of the House of Slaves. Standing by a portal which opens directly onto the vast ocean and the Americas beyond, they sing in harmony 'Return to Glory'. Amidst the stone walls which were used to house captured Africans for centuries this song somehow breaks down the fortress with their strength of voice and resolution. To see and hear these three proud African-Americans belting out gospel in the confined icon of the slave trade seems like victory.

The music is beautiful, not just because of the strength of the performances but because they are still amplified and resonate with hardships and the hope of overcoming it. The pain of a people has been distilled over centuries into keyboards, strings and vocal chords which continues to emote in neighbourhoods and communities world wide and is palpable here in the cinema auditorium. The power of music to unite is Return to Goree's central message, but the power to move is its welcome effect.

User comments from imdb Author: Supercargo from Sweden

It is a Frank Zappa axiom that "music journalism is people who can't write interviewing people who can't talk for people who can't read." If you ever needed proof that musicians can't talk, this is the film for you. Repeated attempts at profundity stumble over themselves to end up in monosyllabic comments delivered in awestruck voices: "Wow." (Thank you, Idris Muhammed.) This film is pretentious but, while much of the pontificating from Youssou N'Dour and his gang of merry men (and one token woman) grates, the music saves the day.

The main idea behind the film (what I take to be the main idea, dredged out of the inarticulate commentary) is interesting. To gather a group of musicians from America and Europe and take them on a journey through the different styles of music that grew up in and out of slavery, back to their roots in the music of West Africa, and a concert in the old slave fort of Gorée off the coast of Senegal. We are treated to gospel, blues, jazz and variations of these, including some fantastic drumming both in New Orleans and Senegal. There's also a good deal of N'Dour's own compositions.

Sadly, that's another weakness. It's never entirely clear what N'Dour himself wants to achieve. To some degree, the film appears to be an exercise in self-promotion on N'Dour's part. He wants to play his own music, jazzed up to some degree and performed in the company of a bunch of musicians he admires. He's clearly a little embarrassed by this and early in the film obtains the blessings of the Curator of the Gorée museum.

The clash between the different agendas shows through in several other places. For example, somebody obviously felt that it was not possible to tell the story of black music without involving a gospel choir, but N'Dour and most of his mates are Moslems (a point made repeatedly throughout the film). The whole early sequence involving the black Christians is uncomfortable and then they disappear from the story until the close harmony group (the only black Christians who can hold a tone?) turn up in Dakar at the end of the film. (To be fair, they turn up triumphantly and perform the best piece in the film.) If the story of black music needs to nod in the direction of gospel, why not also in the direction of Latin America? Where are the black musical influences from the Caribbean and Brazil? Samba? Reggae? Then there's Europe. Here the black diaspora doesn't seem to have produced any musicians of calibre, since N'Dour chooses to draft in Austrian guitarist and a trumpet player from Luxemburg. Are they in the team just because N'Dour has played with him before? What I personally found most irritating, though, was the long sequence which tried to recreate a kind of 60s beatnik/black power/Nation of Islam cultural happening in the New York home of Amir Baraka (a.k.a. Leroi Jones). Hearing people talk about the importance of "knowing your history", and then in the next breath perpetuating ignorance. Why do so many African-Americans believe that taking an Arabic name is an assertion of their African roots? And why do they think Arabic Islam is so much more admirable than European Christianity? Who do they think established the trade in African slaves in the first place? The film doesn't have much to say about the situation in West Africa today beyond the platitude that "present conditions" are a consequence of all the brightest and best having been shipped away for 300 years. The Senegalese appear to be a poor but happy, musical gifted folk, friendly and welcoming, respectful of their elders (and not above fleecing the visiting Americans in the fish market). Is this ethnic stereotyping or just my imagination? There is no comment on the armed guard that N'Dour and the camera crew seem to need in the opening sequence as they walk through the streets of Dakar.

There is also a strong implication in the film that the slaves who were taken from Dakar came from Dakar. The similarity between the folk drumming style of New Orleans and the folk drumming style of Senegal is cited in evidence. The last thing the slaves heard before they were shipped away was the drumming of their homeland, bidding them farewell. Except, of course, that by and large, the slaves shipped from Dakar did not come from Dakar. They were captured or traded from the interior by the coastal Senegalese and sold to merchants of whichever European power currently held the Gorée slave fort. The people of Dakar are not the descendents of Africans who escaped the slave trade, they are just as likely – more likely – to be descendents of the people who sold their black brethren into slavery and exile.

The two agenda's clash again in the final part of the film. There are two separate endings. On the one hand, the concert which N'Dour and Co have been rehearsing and preparing along the way and which they deliver in the courtyard of the Gorée slave fort. The other end comes when the Harmony Harmoneers sing the spiritual "Return to Glory", in the seaward doorway of the slave fort. This is deeply moving, even if it is hard to believe the performance is quite as spontaneous as it appears.

This is a film that is flawed. Unclear of the story it is trying to tell and tugged in different directions. Irritating, confusing, beautiful and emotional by turns. Watch it (listen to it) for the music and the feeling, but don't expect enlightenment or intellectual rigour.

User comments from imdb Author: emmanuel-55 from Switzerland

I am the person who initiated the project of this film, I am the co-scenarist and co-producer. I would like to answer to some "Supercargo" 's comments. Sometimes, people expect too much of a film. This is obviously what happened to Supercargo when watching "Return to Goree". It was not our intention to talk about reggae and Caribbean music for instance, as it would need a whole film in itself. As well, to present where the people living in Dakar come from would need an other film, etc. We just followed Youssou N'Dour and Moncef Genoud on their quest for new musical arrangements, meetings with other musicians and a certain form of spiritual quest. About the Harmony Harmoneers song in the "Door of no Return" : it was totally unexpected, we didn't even know that they had composed a song and frankly, still today I don't know if they had prepared it or if they improvised it there, on the moment. About the so called "guards with guns" that Supercargo mentioned : Youssou was victim of a serious attempt to his live about 20 years ago, in Dakar. He has two body guards with him when he goes somewhere. They don't have guns, never. The only people with guns can be policemen. There was some of them on Goree Island the day we went there with Youssou at the beginning of the journey, and as you can imagine, they were, as many people, attracted by the cameras. That's all. We never had anybody with guns with us during the whole period of shooting in Senegal, USA, Luxembourg and back to Senegal (five weeks). About what Idris says : I totally disagree with Supercargo : Idris was saying much more with symbolic gestures, attitudes and with his silence than with words. And this is something people can feel in the movie, I believe. All in all, these five weeks turned to be a incredible spiritual experience. I was there all the time. It was great !

The Seattle Times: Nation & World: Senegal Slave House's past ... John Murphy from The Baltimore Sun, July 27, 2004

GOREE ISLAND, Senegal — Standing in a narrow doorway opening onto the Atlantic Ocean, tour guide Aladji Ndiaye asked a visitor to this Senegalese island's Slave House to imagine the millions of shackled Africans who stepped through it, forced onto overcrowded ships that would carry them to lives of slavery in the Americas.

"After walking through the door, it was bye-bye, Africa," says Ndiaye, pausing before solemnly pointing to the choppy waters below. "Many would try to escape. Those who did died. It was better we give ourselves to the sharks than be slaves."

This portal — called the door of no return — is one of the most powerful symbols of the Atlantic slave trade, serving as a backdrop for high-profile visits to Africa by Pope John Paul II, President Clinton and his successor, President Bush, and a destination for thousands of African Americans in search of their roots.

More than 200,000 people travel to this rocky island off the coast of Dakar each year to step inside the dark, dungeonlike holding rooms in the pink stucco Slave House and hear details of how 20 million slaves were chained and fattened for export here. Many visitors are moved to tears.

But whatever its emotional or spiritual power, Goree Island was never a major shipping point for slaves, say historians, who insist no slaves were ever sold at Slave House, no Africans ever stepped through the famous door of no return to waiting ships.

"The whole story is phony," says Philip Curtin, a retired professor of history at Johns Hopkins University who has written more than two dozen books on Atlantic slave trade and African history.

Although it functioned as a commercial center, Goree Island was never a key departure point for slaves, Curtin says. Most Africans sold into slavery in the Senegal region would have departed from thriving slave depots at the mouths of the Senegal River to the north and the Gambia River to the south, he says.

During about 400 years of the Atlantic slave trade, when an estimated 10 million Africans were taken from Africa, maybe 50,000 slaves — not 20 million as claimed by the Slave House curator — might have spent time on the island, Curtin says.

Even then, they would not have been locked in chains in the Slave House, Curtin says. Built in 1775-1778 by a wealthy merchant, it was one of the most beautiful homes on the island; it would not have been used as a warehouse for slaves other than those who might have been owned by the merchant.

Likewise, Curtin adds, the widely accepted story that the door of no return was the final departure point for millions of slaves is not true. There are too many rocks to allow boats to dock safely, he says.

Curtin's assessment is widely shared by historians, including Abdoulaye Camara, curator of the Goree Island Historical Museum, which is a 10-minute walk from the Slave House.  

The Slave House, says Camara, offers a distorted account of the island's history, created with tourists in mind.

But when the respected French newspaper Le Monde published an article in 1996 refuting the island's role in the slave trade, Senegalese authorities were furious. Several years ago at an academic conference in Senegal, some Senegalese accused Curtin of "stealing their history," he says.

No one is quite sure where the Slave House got its name, but both Camara and Curtin credit Boubacar Joseph Ndiaye, the Slave House's curator since the early 1960s, with promoting it as a tourist attraction.

Ndiaye is famous in Senegal for offering thousands of visitors chilling details of the squalid conditions of the slaves' holding cells, the chains used to shackle them and their final walk through the door of no return.

"Joseph Ndiaye offers a strong, powerful, sentimental history. I am a historian. I am not allowed to be sentimental," Camara says.

That said, Camara believes Ndiaye has played an important role in offering the descendants of slaves an emotional shrine to commemorate the sacrifices of their ancestors.

"The slaves did not pour through that door. The door is a symbol. The history and memory needs to have a strong symbol," Camara says. "You either accept it or you don't accept it. It's difficult to interpret a symbol."

Some tour books have begun warning visitors about the questions surrounding the island, including Lonely Planet's West Africa guidebook, which concludes: "Goree's fabricated history boils down to an emotional manipulation by government officials and tour companies of people who come here as part of a genuine search for cultural roots."

None of the controversy appears to have diminished the island's attraction as a tourist destination. The ferry that carries visitors from Dakar to the island is regularly packed with tourists and school groups.

At the Slave House, the visitors' book is crowded with entries by tourists expressing a powerful mix of anger, sadness and hope at what they've experienced — no matter if it is fact or fiction.

"The black Africans will never forget this shameful act until kingdom come," penned a visitor from Ghana.

"Through the Door of No Return" Simon Robinson from TIMEeurope, January 27, 2004, also here: Through The Door of No Return - TIME

RFI Musique - - Live creation - Youssou N’Dour and the Retour à ... Eglantine Chabasseur

Youssou N'Dour: Return to Goree - africanfilm.com

Youssou N'Dour

The Door Of No Return. - Goree Island Black History Trail

Slave-trade and its consequences Senegal Online

Senegal - Culture & History - BlackSeek

CNN - A Bridge to Africa - Senegal Andy Walton

TimeOut Chicago  Trevor Johnston from Time Out London

Door of No Return - Goree Island, Senegal | The News is NowPublic.com State of New Jersey resolution apologizing for slavery

Bench of Memory at Slavery’s Gateway Bench of Memory at Slavery’s Gateway, by Felicia R. Lee from The New York Times, July 28, 2008, at Fort Moultrie on Sullivan’s Island, S.C, Toni Morrison led the procession dedicating her “bench by the road,” honoring the memory of slaves who arrived there

Door of No Return - Goree Island, Senegal pictures from scenery ...

The Door of No Return - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Gorée - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Pyeng Threadgill - Home

YouTube - Return To Goree's Solos (2:59)

YouTube preview (6:00 mi)

Bornedal, Ole

NATTEVAGTEN (Nightwatch)

Denmark (107 mi) 1994

Time Out review

Danish writer/director Bornedal exploits the peculiarly horrifying and portentous atmosphere of a hospital mortuary to the full in this classy psychological thriller. While law student Martin (Waldau) moonlights as a nightwatchman at the city's hospital morgue, a sex killer stalks the streets, leaving behind a string of scalped female bodies. Martin has barely started his new job when one of the victims is brought in and laid out between the serried ranks of corpses. The sly insinuations of Chief Insp Wörmer (Pilgaard) increase his edginess, as the policeman implicates first his old friend Jens (Bodnia) and then Martin himself in the murders. Tightly scripted, with just a drop of wicked black humour, the film delivers creepy hints of necrophilia, visceral shocks and heart-racing suspense. The one unconvincing note is the parallel between these murderous events and rehearsals for an amateur theatrical production of Mephisto. Otherwise, this is the kind of superior genre movie-making where the eerie fluttering of moths in a glass lampshade is as chilling as the screaming, hysterical violence that follows.

Deep Focus (Bryant Frazer) review [D+]

The first indication you get that this movie might suck comes in the very first scene, when, just as a television report makes mention of a brutal stabbing, someone knocks over a bottle of red wine. This sort of club-footed imagery could be quaint if it weren't for the director's irritating use of cheap, incidental shock tactics (Boo! Just kidding) to get a rise out of viewers. For a movie that flirts with prostitution, mutilation and necrophilia, Nightwatch is dispiritingly timid. By the time truly weird things start to happen, the movie has already worn out its welcome.

The story, promisingly enough, concerns a law student (Martin) who takes a job as a night watchman in a morgue. Every night, he must steel himself to patrol the corpse storage room, up an aisle in between a half-dozen bodies on gurneys, with blue toes sticking stiffly out from under white sheets. The audience shares Martin's apprehension, and weird stories about corpse abuse and reports of a serial killer on the loose (one of the bodies is wheeled into the morgue on Martin's shift) add to an aura of perversity and dread.

Unfortunately, we also have to put up with a standard-issue buddy story. Martin's pal Jens is a free, vulgar spirit and a practical joker. The two have girlfriends (who are fairly incidental to the plot until one of them becomes a damsel in distress), but naturally each of the men understands things about the other that their lovers never can. The character development that this secondary plot involves pays off toward the end of the film, when Martin begins to wonder just who the killer might be, but by then your eyelids may be dropping. The film-festival crowd I saw it with (Chicago) seemed to love the movie, but the twists and turns that so entranced them are the same sort of meaningless whodunit tease that gave Basic Instinct a reason to live. Eeny-meeney-miney-mo, pick a killer by the toe ... but I digress.

Director Ole Bornedal has infused a few of the early scenes with an admirable tension, but undercuts that atmosphere as he struggles to set up the story's complex denouement by repeatedly dwelling on the relationship between Martin and Jens. And one truly disconcerting sequence involving a missing body is thrown away and never explained or alluded to again. The first unremarkable hour is almost redeemed by the climax, which is undeniably exciting and in which one of the leads is forced to figure a most unsavory way out of a brutal dilemma. Still, the final scenes borrow heavily and without inspiration from the recent history of Hollywood action films. Certainly it's a kick for buffs of the macabre to see a reasonably intelligent, well-acted film (with subtitles!) set among so many corpses, but as far as the possibilities of the horror film, Nightwatch is treading strictly shallow waters.

VideoVista review Gary McMahon

Danish director Ole Bornedal's Nightwatch (aka: Nattevagten) initially received a somewhat low-key art house-based release, at least in the UK, and only attained its small cult reputation as a genuinely unsettling, original and intelligent serial killer film when it was released on VHS not long after. In 1997 the same director mounted a Hollywood remake, starring Ewan McGregor and Nick Nolte, a slightly compromised yet still successful project, which was also somehow ignored, despite a brilliant performance from Nolte.

I remember reading about the original film in genre magazines like The Dark Side and Shivers, and when I finally managed to obtain a (very expensive) copy, I was impressed with what I saw. Instead of the typical gore and knee-jerk scare scenes associated with such material, Bornedal concentrated on creating mood and tension, dragging the audience through a plot which even now progresses at a relatively stately pace for a genre film.

Martin (Nikolaj Coster-Waldau), a young law student, gets a night job as a security guard at the local hospital, where he is required to make rounds and check up in every room, including the morgue. Vaguely dissatisfied with his life, he is convinced by his friend Jens (Kim Bodnia) that they each must challenge the other to carry out increasingly risky tasks. The loser, it is decided, will forfeit his freedom and marry his girlfriend. Jens' long-suffering partner is a novice vicar, and their relationship is troubled by his constant erratic behaviour. Martin, however, loves Kalinka (Sofie Grabol), a fellow student, and sees the risk worth taking as he intends to marry her anyway.

Meanwhile, a serial killer is abroad, scalping and sexually violating the corpses of his female victims. Inspector Wormer (Ulf Pilgaard) is heading the case to catch the killer, and takes Martin into his confidence whenever he brings the bodies of the latest victims to the morgue. Wormer is a tortured man; he tries to think like the killer to catch the killer, and this is clearly taking its toll. Martin is enthralled by the case, and unwittingly becomes involved, and even implicated.

These two storylines converge is a way that is clever and legitimate, and Martin is slowly drawn into a web of deceit and murder from which there seems no escape. Along the way we have some brilliantly executed scenes: the room full of eerily lit tubs containing body parts, the nerve-wracking tour of the night-time hospital given by the creepy former night-watchman, an ironic case of mistaken identity that proves a major plot point. This is all good stuff, and very well executed by Bornedal, who shows an eye for detail and an almost Hitchcockian willingness to wring tension from the slightest of moments. A sense of unease and decay - physical, mental, moral - permeates the whole film, and there is a heavy momentum to events that pulls the viewer ever deeper into the escalating mystery. Themes of necrophilia and underage prostitution are handled so well that they avoid the risk of being distasteful and add to the film's sombre air of dread and decay.

Exemplary acting, direction, art-direction, and screenwriting, all add up to create a unique film, both terrifying and blackly humorous, that should be regarded as a must-see for anyone interested in a fresh and different approach to familiar material.

Film Freak Central dvd review Walter Chaw

DVD Outsider Slarek

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

DVD Verdict Erick Harper

Cinescape dvd review Andrew Hershberger

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Dale Dobson) dvd review

Eye for Film (Daniel Hooper) review [2/5]

Goatdog's Movies (Michael W. Phillips, Jr.) review [3/5] also seen here: Movie Vault [Goatdog]

Movie Reviews UK review [4/5] Damian Cannon

Mondo Digital

Variety (Leonard Klady) review

The New York Times (Stephen Holden) review

NIGHTWATCH

USA (101 mi) 1997 ‘Scope

Time Out review

Ewan McGregor straight to video shocker! Danish director Bornedal was tempted by Miramax to remake his stylish 1994 chiller with American accents, and despite a screenplay credit to Steven Soderbergh, that's just what he's done. If it isn't shot-for-shot, it's near as makes no odds. McGregor is the law student who takes a job working nights as a guard in the city morgue, just as a psycho killer starts terrorising the community, and falls suspect himself. Creepy atmospherics and lots of dead meat make for a tense opening, but significant problems soon surface: McGregor's friendship with misogynist daredevil Brolin is not only a glaringly contrived red herring, but also effectively precludes our sympathy. Nice guys just don't allow themselves to be jerked off by hookers in public - not in America; and there's a nasty whiff about the treatment of women - dead or alive - that goes beyond grisly genre requirements.

Philadelphia City Paper (Sam Adams) review

Watching Ole Bornedal's English-language retooling of his 1994 Danish feature Nattevagten is like spending too much time in a swanky nightclub: the atmosphere's intriguing, but after a while you start craving more than finger food. Bornedal is not to be outdone when it comes to ambient creepiness, but like David Lynch's Lost Highway, Nightwatch tries to pass off a hodgepodge of misogynist clichés as weighty archetype. A number of prostitutes have been murdered in grisly fashion, and Martin (Ewan McGregor), a law student moonlighting as a night watchman at a morgue, finds himself on the wrong end of a frameup. The idea is for us to wonder who the real killer is, but Bornedal's too interested in wrapping trees in plastic and trapping moths in light fixtures to bother suggesting more than a pair of culprits: either Martin's reckless, whoremongering friend (Josh Brolin), or the detective assigned to the case (Nick Nolte). Like Lynch's movies, Nightwatch champions romantic (and mostly sexless) love as the only escape from a world where men are violent sexual deviants and women their helpless victims. In other words, not a great date movie if you're looking to score.

Deep Focus (Bryant Frazer) review [D]

With the U.S. release of Nightwatch, Deep Focus comes full circle. The very first review I wrote for the Internet was dashed off after I trekked halfway across Chicago, in the rain, to see a film festival screening of a little Danish horror movie that looked promising. That movie was Ole Bornedal's Nattevagten, and it disappointed me so much that I dashed off a bitter review, hoping simply to warn others away from it should it begin a regular U.S. theatrical run.

Well, Nattevagten never showed in U.S. theaters, mainly because Miramax, no doubt stoked from the enthusiastic reception given the film by festival audiences, bought up the remake rights and quashed the original. They then had Steven Soderbergh -- not one of my favorite auteurs -- give Bornedal's scenario the once over, and handed the film back to the director to remake. Reservations about Soderbergh aside, it sounded like a good enough idea to me. With the suddenly inescapable Ewan McGregor in the lead and Patricia Arquette brought on board as The Girlfriend, I actually found myself looking forward to the remake.

Alas, Bornedal mounted the new version of Nightwatch as a scrupulous remake of the original. The sets, the camera angles, the incessant flickering of lights are all literal carry-overs from the previous film. As such, you may as well browse my old review to get a handle on what's wrong with the new film. Miramax, who got pretty much what they bargained for, seemed embarrassed by the result. Trailers for Nightwatch screened in front of the first Scream in 1996. Inexplicably, the film was pulled from the release slate and then rescheduled again and again over the course of the next 15 months, finally getting dumped on the marketplace in mid-April, no man's land in your local multiplex.

So in this case, I can point back to my original review and say, "I told you so."

Martin (McGregor) is a struggling college student who becomes the night watchman at a campus morgue in order to pay the bills. His story, which becomes intertwined with a police inspector's search for a serial killer of prostitutes, should be the uneasy crux of the film. Instead, there's a whole 'nother story inside this story -- a tedious buddy movie about the relationship between Martin and his distasteful friend James (Josh Brolin). James has a predilection for 17-year-old prostitutes, you see, and his actions are just shady enough to suggest ... well, call him a suspect.

The new stars have no juice whatsoever. McGregor seems to be having trouble with his American accent, lapsing into Trainspotting mode in a couple of scenes. Arquette is incredibly bland as Martin's girl Catherine, and can be seen just sort of standing around the set as though waiting for some direction. Nolte's somnolent inspector, meanwhile, is as cadaverous as anything in the morgue. The uniformly stilted performances seem to be in part the result of some awkward cutting -- even ace film editor Sally Menke (Pulp Fiction, Jackie Brown) can't seem to make uniform sense of what she has to work with.

The movie also founders for want of some real characters to place in peril. At one point, Catherine crawls across broken glass in an attempt to save her life, but we don't care -- she's just "the girlfriend." The only female character who fares any better is a prostitute named Joyce, who gets iced in the setup to what's easily the movie's best sequence. Sordid and devious, this stomach-turning incident hints at what a scary and disquieting experience Nightwatch could have been, if it had been tightened up and invested with just a little more wit and humanity. Instead, the film's climax is a distended shadow of just about every other mad-slasher-and-coeds film that ever showed up on pay cable in the middle of the night.

Images (Gary Johnson) review

SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review review [4/5] Richard Scheib

DVD Verdict (Erick Harper) dvd review

Salon (Charles Taylor) review

The Onion A.V. Club [Joshua Klein]

ReelViews (James Berardinelli) review [2/4]

Movieline Magazine review Stephen Farber

Dragan Antulov review [4/10]

Movie-Vault.com (Arturo García Lasca) review

Matt Prigge review [2/4]

Urban Cinefile review Andrew L. Urban and Louise Keller

The Cavalcade Of Schlock [Brian J Wright]

Michael Dequina review [2/4] also seen here: Eyepiece.com [Michael Dequina]

Entertainment Weekly review [D+] Lisa Schwarzbaum

The Globe and Mail review [2/4] Liam Lacey

The Boston Phoenix review Peter Keough

Austin Chronicle (Marc Savlov) review [2.5/5]

San Francisco Examiner (G. Allen Johnson) review

San Francisco Chronicle (Mick LaSalle) review

Los Angeles Times (Jack Mathews) review

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [2/4]

The New York Times (Stephen Holden) review

I AM DINA

Sweden France Norway Germany Denmark (125 mi) 2002 ‘Scope

User comments from imdb (Page 2) Author: Thomas Honoré Nielsen from Ho, Denmark

Incoherent is the word I feel best describes my experience with this movie. Ole Bornedal simply wanted too much and accomplished too little in a movie jam packed with events but no background to explain them. I would have preferred he had left out a few and dwelled more on the characters. Apart from an intimidating Dina, who is portrayed brillantly by Maria Bonnevie, most other characters pop up and disappear without much focus on their inner mechanics. Most are simply treated as props. I must say, however, that Bjørn Floberg as Dina's father does an excellent piece of acting in bringing the character so much anger and ill feelings.

The locations and the craftsmanship of the movie in general, is admirable. Beautiful settings and what many have described as postcard like sceneries. A movie that could have touched its audience but failed nonetheless.

Many have criticized the choice of language in this movie but I really don't think it did much harm, hearing a bunch of Nordic actors (and a French) speak English. Perhaps some of them might have been more comfortable speaking their mother tongue and thus acted more naturally, but who knows?

Film Freak Central review Travis Mackenzie Hoover

Most literary/historical pictures try to impress you with their good taste and restraint. Not I Am Dina. This is a film that leaps off the screen, grabs you by the lapels and slaps you repeatedly until you agree that, yes, you are watching a motion picture and not some glorified episode of "Antiques Roadshow". As such, ithurtles through time at a breakneck pace, leaps frantically from episode to episode, and drips with a vivid style all its own. And while it eventually becomes too exhausting for its own good, it sends you reeling long enough to make it at least a qualified success.

Who, may you ask, is Dina? She's the nineteenth-century daughter (played by Maria Bonnevie) of a stern patriarch who has never forgiven her for accidentally killing her mother when she was a child. This, naturally, has had an adverse effect on her emotional life, and between visions of her protective mother she grows to be a defiant and passionate young woman.

Unfortunately, this is a man's world, and her bitter father marries her off to a much older business associate (Gerard Depardieu); but when he dies of gangrenous leg (with a little help from a mindful Dina), she inherits his land and property and become lady of the house. This sets the stage for Leo Zjukovskiij (Christopher Eccleston) to come in and steal her heart; who's to mind if he's an anarchist plotting revolution?

That's the short version. In reality, I Am Dina's plot is ennobled by the world "convoluted" and as such features much incident, family intrigue, shouting, and lots and lots of sex. Death by a cauldron of lye? Yes. Snobbish rapist in-laws? Check. Raising of children with the help? Better believe it--Dina packs several lifetimes into her stay on film, and director Ole Bornedal (both versions of Nightwatch) captures it all brilliantly. The heated bodice-ripping of the narrative finds its equal in Bornedal's style: not only does it receive some sensuous, lip-smacking cinematography by Dan Laustssen, which heightens the physicality of the heroine's rampage across the screen, but its editing style helps it race from episode to episode instead of quietly observing. This makes one appreciate the action instead of the costume--the film is happily concerned with the intensity of the narrative, meaning that the "civilized" genre of the costume drama is merrily chucked out a stained-glass window.

Alas, the film does that job a little too well, and by the end of this breakneck film, I was pining for a bit of quiet reflection on its heroine's lust for life. When moral issues are raised, they're never truly answered--matters such as Dina's bearing of children with a stable-hand and then ignoring the child are barely touched upon, and her misogynist class-bound son-in-law is a little too obvious to be anything other than a straw man. There's also the matter of the bet-hedging involved in Dina's conception: she's shrewdly designed as part-feminist heroine and part-male-masochist fantasy girl, and never develops a personality beyond her assertiveness and frequent naked flesh. Good films temper their bodies with their souls, but I Am Dina doesn't have one--just a sexy technique and subject that gets the party started.

DVD Talk (John Wallis) dvd review [2/5]

Movie House Commentary Tuna

Variety (Gunnar Rehlin) review

The Globe and Mail review [3/4] Ray Conlogue

JUST ANOTHER LOVE STORY (Kærlighed på film) B+ 90

Denmark (100 mi) 2007 ‘Scope

“A beautiful woman and a mystery. Isn't that how any film noir starts?” —Jonas (Anders W. Berthelsen)

Since the mid 90’s, Danish films have undergone a revival on the world’s stage, producing some of the most prominent directors working today, such as Lars von Trier’s THE KINGDOM (1994), BREAKING THE WAVES (1996), DANCER IN THE DARK (2000), and DOGVILLE (2003), Thomas Vinterberg’s THE CELEBRATION (1998), Soren Kragh-Jacobsen’s MIFUNE (1999), Lone Scherfig’s ITALIAN FOR BEGINNERS (2001), Susanne Bier’s BROTHERS (2005) and AFTER THE WEDDING (2006), Joachim Trier’s REPRISE (2006), not to mention Lucas Moodysson in Swedish/Danish co-productions, while Henrik Ruben Genz’s recent TERRIBLY HAPPY (2008) features an oddball style, abstract realism mixed with dark humor along with breathtaking visuals that, while made after this one, is somewhat reminiscent of early Coen brothers. What all these films have in common are intelligent scripts and expert direction laying the foundation for some extraordinary performances, oftentimes by unheralded or non-professional actors, and this film is no exception, though it features some of the best actors working in Denmark today. While JUST ANOTHER LOVE STORY may not be as original, it has a rollicking good time retreading genre ideas through a film noir filter, opening with a narrator whose sardonic humor introduces three possible openings, each one nastier than the next, before incorporating all of them into a noir thriller, occasionally veering into absurdist humor, but always grounding an unusual love story in that melancholy gloom that one might associate with the land of Hamlet.

Anders W. Berthelsen is Jonas, a happily married man with two children and a wife Mette (Charlotte Fich), whose bedside charm is reminding her of their lifelong routine where they’ve probably made love over 2000 times. Working as a forensic photographer, he is intimately familiar with working with corpses, who become secondary characters that literally inhabit the canvas throughout this film, sometimes in the most outrageous manner, most often naked, just lying around like still lifes providing a macabre backdrop (including the strange use of a hacksaw) to some of the more emotional scenes in the film. When it is established that he’s too cheap to get a decent car, his car, with his family in it, stalls on the highway, causing another car to veer around it into oncoming traffic with disastrous consequences. The driver, Julia (Rebecka Hemse), survives, but falls into a coma. When Jonas goes to see her in the hospital out of personal guilt, she’s in intensive care where only immediate family is allowed, so when he arrives in her room, her profoundly depressed family immediately responds to his presence by assuming he’s her boyfriend Sebastian that she’s been telling them about, as they’ve been traveling together through Southeast Asia. They place all their hopes on his shoulders, urging him to kiss her, as that may do her some good, which after some hesitation he willfully performs, which miraculously brings her back to life, but she’s lost most of her sight and nearly all of her memory. Jonas all too willingly assumes this fantasy role of Sebastian, bypassing the truth in the process and neglecting his own family who suddenly hardly seem to matter any more as he’s become transfixed by his regular visits to the hospital which have a startlingly positive effect on Julia’s improving health. Once she’s well enough to return home to her family’s palatial estate, there are smiles all around toasting Jonas (as Sebastian) and their good fortune, but Julia has severe memory relapses which play out like dream sequences, which frustrate her as all she sees are fragments of her past, not able to make much sense of it, though there appear to be frequent scenes of violence. At the family’s prodding, they urge just the two of them to visit their beach cottage at a remote seaside location.

[An interesting note: Julia’s mother, played by Ewa Fröling, was a member of the children’s Ekdahl family in Bergman’s FANNY AND ALEXANDER (1982)] Bornedal gets exquisite performances from literally everyone involved and plays with various narrative threads, moving forward and back, using flashbacks of Julia’s affair with Sebastian (Nikolaj Lie Kaas), using saturated colors at Angkor Wat to provide an exotic locale as the place where they first fell in love, a stunning contrast to the horribly dark images she’s having the hardest time recalling. The audience is treated to bits and pieces as well, where much of her past remains shrouded in mystery and murder, as Sebastian is reported to be murdered in Hanoi, the victim of some foul drug smuggling deal gone wrong, but Jonas’s friends at the police keep feeding him leads that suggest Sebatian may still be alive, all of which reaches an ominous climax at the same time Julia has a premonition about Jonas (not knowing the man she knows as Sebastian is really Jonas), when there is suddenly a loud knocking at their cottage door. This is a humorous play on identity that becomes deadly serious, as Julia’s flashbacks and just the slightest return of her vision become more illuminating at the exact hour of this visit. The repeated banging at the door have a Macbethian tone of foreshadowing and dread, as absolutely nothing good can come of it, yet the morose mood of doom is everywhere in the air. Like a bewitching hour, all that’s past becomes present, and all that’s disguised falsely is suddenly naked and exposed. But what will come of this? As the writer, director, and 2^nd unit assistant cinematographer, Bornedal has his hand in nearly every aspect of this film, an admittedly morbid, but stylishly murky affair that blends fantasy and reality into the same universe until a fissure erupts with the foul odor that smells of something rotten in Denmark, a cyclical affair that ends as it begins, with possibilities pulled from a not so distant past that reverberate like echoes into the darkly receding future.

"The play's the thing

Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King."
- William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 2.2

"And then it started like a guilty thing
Upon a fearful summons."
- William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1.1

"Foul deeds will rise,
Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes."
- William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1.2

"This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man."
- William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1.3

"Something is rotten in the state of Denmark."
- William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1.4

"The devil hath power
To assume a pleasing shape."
- William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 2.2

"Confess yourself to heaven;
Repent what's past; avoid what is to come."
- William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 3.4

"And where the offence is let the great axe fall."
- William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 4.5

"I am justly killed with my own treachery."
- William Shakespeare, Hamlet 5.2

Electric Sheep Magazine Pamela Jahn

Another Nordic find was Ole Bornedal’s Just Another Love Story, a grippingly complex and stylish contemporary noir thriller from Denmark, in which a police photographer finds himself emotionally entangled with a comatose young woman injured in a car accident that also involved himself and his family. Developing into an obscene, twisted romance, the story remains powerful and well-calibrated throughout, turning into a shocking, nerve-racking riddle played out with a brutal relish for the grotesque in the final part.

Just Another Love Story JR Jones from The Reader

A stable family man (Anders W. Berthelsen) is involved in a terrifying multicar crash, and paying a hospital visit to another driver left comatose by the accident (Rebecka Hemse) he's mistaken by her relatives as her new boyfriend. When she comes to, her memory is gone, and the visitor is too smitten with her to end the charade. In its voluble mix of accident trauma and infidelity, this 2007 Danish feature by Ole Bornedal is highly reminiscent of Susanne Bier's superb Open Hearts (2002), and in fact shares one of that film's main actors (Nikolaj Lie Kaas, who shows up here as the woman's real boyfriend). After a while, though, the two movies diverge: Bier was interested in probing her anguished characters, whereas Bornedal, best known here for the Ewan McGregor thriller Nightwatch, steers his mistaken-identity story in a more generic direction. In Danish with subtitles. 100 min.

The Onion A.V. Club (Noel Murray) review

In his films Nightwatch and The Substitute, Danish director Ole Bornedal established his attraction to the intersection of the fantastic and the everyday. Whether it's a morgue worker accused of murdering prostitutes or a sixth-grade class convinced that their new teacher is an alien, Bornedal enjoys placing ordinary people in absurd situations, then calibrating the outlandish until it becomes plausible. In Bornedal's latest film, Just Another Love Story, Anders Berthelsen plays a crime-scene photographer who grudgingly tolerates a family life devoid of adventure and low on sexual passion. After a distraught Rebecka Hemse sideswipes Berthelsen's car on her way to a horrific crash, he visits her in the hospital, where her family assumes he's her boyfriend. When Hemse comes out of her coma with amnesia, Berthelsen continues the deception, only to discover that impersonating Hemse's lover can be a dangerous hobby.

Bornedal has claimed that Just Another Love Story was inspired by guilt over his own marital infidelity; as a result, the movie plays as a simultaneous apology, justification, and self-flagellation. Bornedal takes pains to depict Berthelsen's wife as a sweet, loving woman, if maybe a little too preoccupied with kids and social responsibilities to understand that scheduling sex twice a week (down from a more spontaneous five times a week) is killing her husband inside. And Bornedal makes his hero a kindly, sympathetic gent who fills Hemse in on the fake details of their life together as though trying to correct every mistake he ever made.

Just Another Love Story is enjoyably moody in the early going, and it develops into a decent Hitchcockian thriller at times. But in spite of some stylish sequences—such as Hemse's slow-motion crash, in which the glass splintering from her windshield makes her car look like the interior of a snow globe—the story follows too narrow a path, dead-ending in typically nihilistic art-film violence. (This would be the self-flagellation.) The movie is better when Berthelsen is suffering through his wife pestering him about toilet paper, or when a medical examiner is holding up a human brain and explaining the biological origins of the love impulse. In those places, Just Another Love Story is more unsettlingly ruminative, asking whether any romance—mundane or movie-ish—is worth the effort

User comments from imdb Author: CountZero313 from Japan

Bornedal fashions a satisfying and stylishly shot thriller-romance out of material both familiar and unlikely.

When forensic photographer Jonas is involved in a car-crash he meets badly injured Julia, and falls for her instantly. In a scene that stretches credulity, Julia's family take him for Sebastian, Julia's lover met on a tour of Southeast Asia. Jonas plays along, and the drama is stretched when Julia awakes from her coma conveniently blind and afflicted with amnesia. Julia, the impressive Rebecka Hemse, starts to remember a less-than-rosy side to the affair with Sebastian...

The strengths of the film are the acting by the main players and the all-too-human interaction between them. When Jonas confesses to his friend that he has fallen for Julia, his friend, in a quite startling moment, asks if he can have Jonas' wife. When Sebastian does finally show up, a quite chilling dinner scene enfolds.

The thriller elements are where the film is weakest, with far too many of the plot devices forced through. Sebastian (Nikolaj Lie Kaas clearly channeling Billy Zane in Dead Calm) stalks the hospital in a wheelchair and bandages, looking like an extra from The Mummy. The disguise is elaborate to say the least, considering the people he is hiding from do not know what he looks like. At a quite crucial moment when Sebastian is at his most threatening, Anders inexplicably opts to go for a drive, leaving Julia alone with her own personal monster. It is a clunky set up for Anders to make a horrific discovery in the boot of the car, and Sebastian to begin the final phase of his plan for Julia.

But while the thriller element is less than convincing, there is a wonderfully observed nuanced romance here. Not Anders and Julia, but Anders and his wife Mette. Charlotte Fich is superb as the discarded spouse. The moment when Anders comes clean, during a supermarket excursion, is a delicious mix of comedy and tragedy. The film's over-elaborate opening set-up is some what ameliorated by ending on the failed marriage storyline. Anders strays, Anders comes home, Anders gets his comeuppance. That simple thread alone makes this film worth watching.

User comments from imdb Author: Thauseef Ahmed from United States

This movie is everything that reminds me why I love movies. I came across it unwittingly as I stood outside a remote movie hall in New York and was drawn to its English title, "Just Another Love Story". One glance at the poster told me it was anything but that. A man, stands with a gun drawn over a dead man in a pool of blood. Time wasn't wasted. Tickets were bought. Seats occupied.

The movie begins like promised with a series of numbered love scenes. Except that it was hardly love. It begins with the protagonist's narrative of how it all ends and then we are thrown into his life, abruptly as we come in terms with the brutality of what he does, boring mundaneness of how he lives and how he is suddenly, unwittingly drawn into a passionate love, an exotic fantasy and a forbidden life that he claims as his own.

And as we follow him through a sensory overload of events, we are both repulsed and strangely attracted to his actions. The guilty pleasure of enjoying something really despicable. There is always a woman, the protagonist says, and there is one here. One, we are as much mesmerized with, as is the protagonist. Cleverly written, the characters often dwell in the intricacies of metafiction. A woman and a mystery are the ideal ingredients of a movie, one of the characters says sarcastically. A good shot, says the protagonist in another scene which is a classic film noir shot if any ever is.

The background score is brilliant, alternating between a slow haunting acoustic guitar, to a symphony of sorts as we move through the protagonist's life. The script is fresh and pulsating with energy as we laugh one second and are repulsed the very next. If a movie can make you grimace, laugh and bite you nails with apprehension and wonder at the intelligent sharp exchange of dialog, it is one that has managed to make its mark. This particular movie has surpassed the mark.

Acting by the lead characters is ace. The confrontation scene between the protagonist and his opposite number is fletched out stunningly. Fragments of each life are shown to you, and as you put everything together and move towards what is a stunning climax, you realize somewhat surprised, that this movie is exactly what it promised to be.

Just another love story.

Salon (Andrew O'Hehir) review (excerpt)

After years of covering the indie-film beat, I'm pretty well convinced of the dogma that drives the business: The audience for art-house films is still out there, no smaller or larger than it ever was. But it's carved up differently, and the demands on its attention are far more various than they were in the days when reverent big-city throngs lined up for the latest Bergman or Fellini flick.

Basically, the movies that are most daring and strange -- and often the most extraordinary -- don't get much of a shot. They have to stop off in a few theaters on the way to video-on-demand or DVD, because otherwise people like me don't pay attention and the public never hears about them at all. But outside the world of movie bloggers and their readership (hi, guys!), even films that might have provoked furious debate 20 or 30 years ago will just come and go, momentary blips on a bewildering radar screen.

Consider the cases of two movies about adultery, the Danish thriller "Just Another Love Story" and the Mexican rural drama "Silent Light," pictures that were rapturously received on the 2008 festival circuit. Whatever their virtues and flaws, they're both arresting and accomplished films that evince a visionary sensibility, reject ordinary storytelling forms and seek to take the viewer on an unpredictable journey. I'd recommend both to any serious film buff. Both are getting quickie releases in Manhattan theaters this week, with some wider release (but not much) to follow. If you don't live in New York or L.A., very likely your next chance to see them will be in your living room. So it goes these days.

As you may have surmised, the title of writer-director Ole Bornedal's "Just Another Love Story" is meant to be ironic. Bornedal has made a bloody, showoffy, self-mocking noir, the kind of movie that presumes nothing good ever comes of two people falling in love. It's narrated by Jonas (Anders W. Bertelsen), whom we see in the opening shot lying prostrate in the rain on a Copenhagen street, evidently bleeding to death. A blond woman arrives to moan and shriek over him, but he isn't impressed. "The woman," he tells us in tones of resignation. "There's always a woman."

Actually, the blond shrieking woman isn't the woman. Instead she's his long-suffering wife, Mette (Charlotte Fich), whom he abandoned some months earlier to go live with the sultry and mysterious Julia (Rebecka Hemse), renegade heiress to a publishing fortune. You see, it's no wonder Jonas finds himself dying in the street, since he's violated at least three of the cardinal rules of the film-noir universe: Never leave your wife for the Other Woman; never take the suitcase that doesn't belong to you; and never pretend to be someone you're not.

Punishment awaits those who break those rules, of course, and Bornedal's task is to make all those forbidden fruits completely irresistible to Jonas and bring him full circle, from dying in the street to upstanding family man and back to, well, dying in the street. "Just Another Love Story" is a monumentally implausible tale told with a bravura array of flashbacks, flash-forwards, dream sequences and slo-mo incidents, and involving a beautiful woman suffering from both amnesia and blindness, an undead boyfriend, a mysterious fellow wrapped in mummy-style bandages, and a suicide pact in a Hanoi junkie hotel.

When Jonas' piece-of-crap car stalls out on the highway, with wife and kids aboard, Julia swerves to avoid it and nearly dies in a head-on collision. She's just arriving from Frankfurt, where she got off a plane from Vietnam, where she was fleeing a poisonous relationship with a boyfriend named Sebastian (Nikolaj Lie Kaas), whom she met in Asia. But her super-rich family have never met this mysterious paramour, and when Jonas shows up at the hospital to check on the comatose Julia, they all assume that he's Sebastian. Within minutes he's been assigned to kiss her and murmur in her ear, bathe her naked body with a loofah glove, and accept a blank check tucked into his pocket by Julia's publishing-magnate papa.

Look, I said it was ridiculous. Of course when Julia wakes up she can't see anything and doesn't remember the real Sebastian anyway (who has reportedly been murdered in Hanoi) and, hey, Jonas has gotten kind of bored with life with Mette and the kids anyway. Work all week, shop on Saturday, have some friends over to dinner -- why not chuck all that away and shack up with blind, ultra-rich amnesia-babe, anyway? As you have figured out by now, there are many reasons why not, and those all come together in a crashing finale.

You could call "Just Another Love Story" nothing more than an exercise in style, but A) Bornedal's got style to burn and B) that's not quite fair. Beneath all the dazzling cinematography, propulsive score and overcommitted acting, I found this movie an affecting, mordant comedy about male midlife crisis in its most extreme form. As Jonas observes to his best friend -- who's eager to get his paws on Mette, if Jonas doesn't want her -- his own behavior makes him sick. Which doesn't mean he can stop.

Reel.com review [2/4] Chris Barsanti, also seen here: Filmcritic.com Movie Reviews

Eye for Film (Maryam Ghorbankarimi) review [3.5/5]

GreenCine Daily [Aaron Hillis]

Slant Magazine review Joseph Jon Lanthier

CompuServe (Harvey S. Karten) review

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young] Gothenburg Film Festival report

Quiet Earth projectcyclops

Village Voice (Nicolas Rapold) review

Cinematical (Eric D. Snider) review also seen here: The Land of Eric (Eric D. Snider) review [B-]

ScreenwritersLeague.com

IFC.com [Alison Willmore]

Picture Show Pundits [Ray Bonilla]

Variety (Justin Chang) review

Time Out New York (Anna King) review [3/6]

Time Out Chicago (Hank Sartin) review [4/6]

San Francisco Chronicle (Walter Addiego) review [3/4]

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [3.5/4]

New York Times (registration req'd) Stephen Holden

Borowczyk, Walerian

Borowczyk, Walerian from World Cinema

Borowczyk studied fine art and worked in lithography and poster design before turning to animation. His first films, made with Jan Lenica, revealed a bizarre and dark vision with a satirical edge influenced by surrealism. The success of Dom / House (1958) launched his European career and in 1959 Borowczyk moved to France. Here his macabre wit came to the fore in films like Renaissance (1963). Switching to live action, Borowczyk made impressively original features, especially Goto, l'île d'amour / Goto, Isle of Love (1969) and Blanche (1961). Films such as Contes immoraux / Immoral Tales (1974) and La Bête / The Beast (1975) established Borowczyk as something of an "eroticist," but subsequent features moved to sexploitation, using material largely unworthy of his talents.

—Ania Witkowska, Encylopedia of European Cinema

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson] on the Walerian Borowczyk Collection

Walerian Borowczyk, master Polish animator turned softcore surrealist, we barely knew ye. Dead at 82 last month, Borowczyk was widely considered an international master (he warranted a 1981 entry in David Thomson's infamously insulated Biographical Dictionary of Film, when Chantal Akerman, Mikhail Kalatozov, Mikio Naruse, and Stan Brakhage did not) but was rarely screened, and few media mouths in the English- speaking world knew enough to sing him an elegy. Truth be told, he was never an easily digestible figure, and the later (and most easily found) live-action films were overtaken with a witty salaciousness that seems risibly dated today. But he is always mentioned as an influence on the Brothers Quay, even if his earlier postwar shorts—like Les Astronautes (1959), co-directed with Chris Marker and the sole sample of the filmmaker's earlier stop-motion work in this box set—were the obvious source-well for Terry Gilliam's subsequent achievements with archival images, 2-D movement, and perspectival gaggery. The box otherwise contains Borowczyk's first feature, Goto, Island of Love (1969), an absurd and free-associative parable (starring the ethereal Mrs. Borowczyk, Ligia Branice, star of Marker's La Jetée, later remade by Gilliam!) about a fascist royal government on a secluded island that dissolves due to lust and betrayal. Composed flatly in an ancient factory like a tabletop animation but peopled by humans, Goto may've presaged the Quays' Institute Benjamenta in style and Gilliam's Brazil in thrust. Also included are The Beast (1975), which explodes out a Grimm-style black-forest legend-cycle of maidens and horny beasts with an endless parade of faux phalluses and monstrous ejaculations, and Love Rites (1988), Borowczyk's final film and a modern tale of lusty obsession (starring Mathieu Carriére) that comes in two lengths ("director's" and "complete"). Trailers, essays, postcards.

Mondo Erotico: The films of Walerian Borowczyk official website

All-Movie Guide bio by Nathan Southern

TCMDB profile by Turner Classic Movies

Senses of Cinema Article (2001) Rich and Strange: An Introduction to the live action features of Walerian Borowczyk, by Joe Ruffell

Senses of Cinema Article (2005) Walerian Borowczyk's Heroines of Desire, by Scott Murray

Walerian Borowczyk, the Orchestrating Angel art exhibition intro by Maurice Corbet, Annecy Museum Curator

Turner Classic Movies Jeff Stafford reviewing the Walerian Borowczyk Collection

Walerian Borowczyk Collection Michael Den Boer from 10kbullets

Mondo Digital reviews 5 Borowczyk films

Borowczyk, Walerian They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

THE ASTRONAUTS (Les Astronautes)

France (14 mi) 1959 co-director: Chris Marker

KQEK DVD Review [Mark R. Hasan]

Cult Epics' DVD - part of the branded Walerian Borowczyk Collection - includes a booklet with brief but informative liner notes by Rayo Casablanca, a printed filmography of Borowczyk's lengthy career, and original promo art (which, like much of Borowczyk's striking film posters, plays up the boobery with a sprawled female figure).

Having begun his film career in 1946, Borowczyk made a number of animated, live action, and mixed media shorts before exclusively remaining in the feature film field, and the DVD includes one of his award-winning shorts, made in collaboration with Chris Marker (who also designed the striking Beast booklet, reproduced in Cult Epics' limited 3-disc edition). Astronautes, from 1959, is a witty short that follows the creation of a spaceship and the astronaut's exploration and inter-stellar encounters, using a mélange of film stills, optical effects, and cutouts. Stylistically recalling the later work of Monty Python's Terry Gilliam, the short's humour and absurd assimilation of objects to create actual space travel also includes some dual-language text (in English and French), and an appropriately trippy electronic score by Andrzej Markowski.

According to Casablanca 's notes, Borowczyk was considered one of Europe pre-eminent animators before he 'unleashed' the shocking ideas in The Beast. Better known to a select few as a cult director of weird softcore erotica, the release of Goto and Astronautes should begin a re-examination of the director's work, and hopefully start a trickle of more Borowczyk animated classics that remain largely unavailable on DVD.

The Walerian Borowczyk Collection includes Goto, Island of Love, Love Rites, and single-disc edition of The Beast, plus four postcards featuring images from the three films (which are also available separately).

The Evening Class [Michael Guillen]

RENAISSANCE

France (10 mi) 1963

User comments from imdb Author Mozjoukine (Mozjoukine@yahoo.com.au) from Australia

Renaissance was one of the remarkable shorts which made Borowczyk the darling of he heavy weight critics in the sixties. They were hard pressed to justify this stand when he turned into a career soft porn director but that is another story.

This one is a black and white stop motion one reeler in which the objects in a room reconstitute themselves after what we realise is an explosion. Dolls, furniture and assorted objects. It is not hard to make out an argument for this as the point of departure for the work of Jan Svankmajer and the Brothers Quay. The scratch and rustle sound track is another clue.

The technique is impeccable and the amount of work involved (shooting backwards ?) must have been extraordinary.

GOTO, ISLAND OF LOVE (Goto, l'île d'amour)

France (93 mi) 1968

Time Out

Borowczyk's first live-action feature was simultaneously a brilliant debut and a seamless transition from his earlier animation-based work. The story is a simple fable of the destructive force of passion: on a mythical island, the beautiful wife (Branice) of the weak ruler Goto III (Brasseur) is shown to be unfaithful by his chief fly-catcher, Grozo (Saint-Jean). But Grozo's own infatuation for her leads to tragedy. Borowczyk's highly stylised direction, with consciously flattened images, and objects rendered as animate and as significant as human beings, is well complemented by the imperious Brasseur and the extraordinary beauty of Branice. The sudden flashes of colour in a very monochrome context, and the soaring use of a Handel organ concerto, further consolidate a true 'art' film, in the sense that everything is composed and designed to create a wholly imagined - yet tangible - world.

Walerian Borowczyk Collection Michael Den Boer from 10kbullets (excerpt)

Goto the third is a sadistic dictator who rules of the people on the remote island of Goto. Criminals are used as a form of entertainment with the winner of the death match given their freedom. Grozo who’s crime was stealing another mans binoculars is forced to fight for his life against a man who has committed multiple murders. Grozo life is spared by Goto’s wife Glyssia and he is given the job of taking care of Goto’s dogs and catching all the flies on the island. Grozo who has become infatuated with Glyssia also has a desire to rule of the island of Goto.

Walerian Borowczyk with Goto Island of Love smoothly makes the transition from animation to live action features. Borowczyk directs the film with a silent film like quality as most of the action and compositions are a typical in their execution. Goto Island of Love is tame when compared to his later films, still there are many instances like the near naked women in the bath house or Glyssia and her lover making love in a horse stable that allude to themes he would further explore in later films. The films black and white photography perfectly complements Georg Friedrich Handel’s classic compositions. Grozo obsession with power and Glyssia leads to a powerful and tragic ending. Overall a mesmerizing film that filled with poetic images and a compelling story that is engaging tell the final moments.

Turner Classic Movies Jeff Stafford reviewing the Walerian Borowczyk Collection (excerpt)

This was the first live action feature Borowczyk directed after working as an animator for more than twenty years (his first short was Mois D'aout in 1946). Filmed in black and white with occasional, almost subliminal bursts of color, the movie is pure theatre of the absurd. The storyline resembles one of Shakespeare's revenge dramas and immerses us in an alternate universe where the social structure is determined by the strange whims of Goto III, the island's dictator. The central character, Grozo (every character's name in the film begins with 'G"), is a treacherous lowlife who is saved from the guillotine by Goto III's beautiful wife Glyssia (played by Ligia Branice, Borowczyk's wife) but put to the test in gladiatorial combat. He survives and is rewarded with the coveted position of official dog walker, fly-catcher and boot-cleaner for the island. But Grozo hungers for greater riches and plots his ascension to the throne in order to possess Glyssia, eliminating her lover and any opposition along the way. The victory proves to be a hollow one, however, in the film's unexpected climax which reveals the dark turn of events as a cruel joke.

Goto, Island of Love is directed in a droll deadpan style and evokes the early years of silent filmmaking with static but visually striking tableaux. Occasionally Borowczyk will break the spell and interrupt the narrative flow with an unexpected tracking shot or a close-up of the odd detail - a trunk full of rotting apples, stuffed birds behind a glass case, a detail of a woman's lace corset. It's no wonder Borowczyk is often compared to a museum curator with his artistic eye for detail. The blatant sexuality of his later features is relatively subdued here with only a few fleeting scenes of female nudity but a sense of the perverse is always lurking just around the corner. And there is a dark sense of humor at work that is comparable to the absurdist shorts Roman Polanksi, Borowczyk's fellow countryman, produced in his youth such as The Fat and the Lean (1961) and Two Men and a Wardrobe (1958). As for the hard-to-pinpoint historical period, it might be the late nineteenth century but could also be some post-apocalyptic world where Mad Max would be at home. The deceptively somber mood is further enhanced by a classical music score - Handel's Concerto No. 1 - that transforms the lunacy into a mock-tragic opera. Admittedly, it's not for everyone but those willing to take the plunge will discover a renegade work of art. As an added treat, the disc contains the unconventional French trailer for Goto, Island of Love which includes some scenes not in the film and the animated short, Les Astronautes, which Borowczyk collaborated on with Chris Marker (La Jetee, 1962) in 1959. The latter film, with its unusual mix of cutouts, photographs and optical effects, was clearly an influence on the work of Monty Python's Terry Gilliam as well as the Brothers Quay and Jan Svankmajer. We can only hope that in the near future someone will release a DVD collection of Borowczyk's animated shorts including Renaissance and Les Jeux des Anges.

Monsters At Play Gregory S. Burkart

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson)

KQEK DVD Review [Mark R. Hasan]

Channel 4 Film

Mondo Digital reviews 5 Borowczyk films

The New York Times (Howard Thompson)

BLANCHE

France (92 mi) 1971

Time Out

In this remarkable film, Borowczyk, through his commitment to ambiguity (notably in his framing, which forever denies the foreground/background opposition) and his belief in almost entomological observation, transforms his 13th century characters - a foolish old Baron, an overproud King, a lecherous page and a stupidly handsome lover, all of whom are in love with and/or lust after the simple Blanche, the Baron's young wife - into tragic figures caught up in a dance of death over which they have no control. In exactly the same way, the castle and its decor, photographed by Borowczyk as though it were living and its inhabitants were mere dolls for the most part, is seen as the backdrop to a happy fairytale, and at the same time as the root of all evil, as rooms and bizarre machines are opened and set in motion.

User comments from imdb Author missyamerica18 from Connecticut

Though fans of European cinema are most likely to remember the erotic art films of Walerian Borowczyk, "Blanche" purposely avoids explicit sexuality. In fact, the film is a tragic tale of love and lust sans the nudity and sex.

(The only nude scene takes place at the very beginning when Blanche is getting out of her bath.)

The plot concerns the Blanche, the young wife of a much older lord, and the tragedy that is the offspring of 4 men's love for her. Her stepson (a very handsome young man) is pure of heart and is madly in love with her. When he expresses his feelings toward her, she refuses to return them out of loyalty to her husband. Thus, Blanche is a very naive and dedicated woman. However, when the king and his page arrive Blanche is faced with their affections for her...

The story avoids the cliché "happily ever after" ending. In fact, the only survivor in the whole tale is the king. What begins as a light and airy tale ends on a bleak note.

Fans of Borowczyk or European cinema in general should look this film up. It isn't a very fast paced or action filled tale, but the story is very well structured and effective. It is a shame that films aren't made in this vein anymore.

Walerian Borowczyk: Blanche Derek Malcolm from the Guardian

Walerian Borowczyk, if remembered at all nowadays, is recalled for the wrong reasons. He has been regarded in this country as a pseudo-cultured pornographer ever since The Beast, which ends with a sexual encounter in a forest between something that looks like a well-hung ape and a woman, was shown at the National Film Theatre to a pretentiously horrified audience. The film then came out commercially, minus most of the coupling, thanks to the censor of the day.

It is true that Borowczyk, a Polish film-maker who has a small museum of historic erotic implements, seems to have spent his last years in France, working in the soft-porn genre. But if it is indeed true, as the novelist Vladimir Nabokov says, that the letter "s" is the only difference between the cosmic and the comic, especially as far as sex is concerned, some of us are right to regard him as a precious talent. Indeed, David Thomson, in his Biographical Dictionary of Film, calls Borowczyk one of the major artists of modern cinema.

Born in 1923, he started off as an animator of pinpoint delicacy and the kind of surreal edge that reminded one of Dada and Luis Buñuel considerably more than Walt Disney. When he went into features there was the same eye for miniaturist detail. If his most infamous films were Immoral Tales and The Beast, his most famous were Goto, Isle of Love and Blanche. Both are classics of their kind, starring Ligia Branice, his wife and collaborator.

My favourite is Blanche, which also contains one of the last performances on film of the great Michel Simon. When I showed it to a class of students who had never heard of Borowczyk or Simon, the film completely up-ended them. Admittedly, it is weird enough to make them sit up and pay attention, and the musical score, just about the first to use period instruments, would almost certainly be fashionable if put on record today.

Blanche is set in 13th-century France where Simon, who must have been well over 80 at the time, plays an almost senile baron with a simple but beautiful young wife (Branice) who everyone, including the King, lusts after. There is a lecherous page and a handsome but rather vacant lover too, and the film is a kind of fairytale dance of death where tragedy is probable, even if a happy outcome isn't entirely out of the question.

Almost the whole film takes place in the Baron's castle, where the king comes to stay. And its winding stone staircases, gloomy corridors and rooms full of bizarre decor and mechanical devices are as important as any characters in the film. Once again, every tiny detail is made to count double.

Blanche, who climbs naked out of her bath early in the film, has a pet white dove in a cage, which is almost her alter ego as she flutters round her admirers, half frightened and half fascinated. She is a creature made for trouble and it isn't a total surprise when she is bricked into one of the castle walls.

Borowczyk's art, which often looks like a carefully animated painting, and has the pessimistic urge one associates with Franz Kafka, is invariably about sex, love and death - the ape in The Beast eventually dies of pleasure. But his eye is so sharp and his ironic sense of humour so audacious that even the worst of his films, such as Emmanuelle 5, are worth something. The best inhabit a world you are unlikely to forget.

IMMORAL TALES (Contes Immoraux)

France (103 mi) 1974

Chicago Reader (Dave Kehr)

Walerian Borowczyk's 1973 collection of erotic myths is more cerebral than sensual, although it contains some very elegant images. A former animator, Borowczyk has trouble getting beyond the polished surfaces and clever conceits of his stories. His best film, Story of a Sin, avoided the trap of superficiality by adopting an ironic mode. Here, he seems entirely too sincere--and more than a little dull.

Time Out

Made between Blanche and Story of Sin, Immoral Tales takes Borowczyk's celebrated eye for erotic representation about as far as it can go. The result, which is Borowczyk's slightest and most commercial offering to date, has provoked wildly differing responses: great pagan art or ultimate softcore? In one sense it hardly matters: although cool and stylised in approach, the film displays the most sustained erotic content yet seen publicly in this country. Four episodes - three stories of women from history, plus a contemporary Surrealist text - explore manifestations of feminine eroticism in relation to various taboos: a cosmic initiation, a religious ecstasy, incest and a bloodlust. There is nothing to censor as such, because everything is controlled through atmosphere and suggestion. Objects, even decor, are invested with an erotic tactile quality. The story of Countess Bathory, for example, who bathed in the blood of murdered girls, is predominantly a visual catalogue of liquids on flesh.

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

For a time Walerian Borowczyk was a cult name, although is less so today with his seeming retirement from filmmaking. He is the only director of erotic films whose work, to one's knowledge, has screened at film festivals. The Polish-born Borowczyk started out as a lithographer. After moving to France, Borowczyk branched out as an animator, making a number of often surreal shorts. But it was with his move to live-action film that Borowczyk began to gain distinction, making works of arty erotica beginning with Goto, Island of Love (1968) and continuing through the likes of Blanche (1971), The Beast (1975) - which was originally made as an episode of Immortal Tales, The Story of a Sin (1975), The Streetwalker (1976), Behind Convent Walls (1977), Lulu (1980), Dr Jekyll's Women (1981) and The Art of Love (1983). But the most famous of all Borowczyk's works was this portmanteau film of erotic tales.

What strikes one about Immoral Tales is just how good a film it is. When sexuality is usually displayed on screen it comes either with the unglamorous and cheaply shot, unromanticized rawness of the porn market or else the feigned, sweaty pantings of a topless Hollywood star a la Basic Instinct (1992) or Showgirls (1995). The artiest US porn ever heads toward is the glossy, airbrushed erotica of Zalman King. And so to see a film that actually puts the beauty back into erotica is not only striking but also unusually stimulating. Moreover there is a surprising lack of guilt in Borowczyk's nudity. Usually when Hollywood stars undress there is supposed to be something covertly titillating about it, whereas Borowczyk's cast undress with a complete lack of self-consciousness. There is a sense of completely natural unforcedness about what is on screen.

As with any portmanteau film, the episodes vary in effectiveness. The best of these are the first two, especially La Maree. La Maree is genuinely stimulating right from its concept to its imagery - the symbolic contrast between surf and orgasm, the play of power roles between the male and female cousin - to its intensely erotic images - the girl performing fellatio on the male as he lies on the sand, and most provocatively of all simply a closeup wherein his finger caresses and penetrates her mouth. It is the most satisfying and complete episode. Therese Philosophie is also excellent, even though the print seen here appears to have had the rape sequence, which the episode originally culminated on, cut. Like La Maree's connection of surf and orgasm, Borowczyk here makes a symbolic connection between divine passion and sex - with a teasing provocativeness we see Charlotte Alexandra stroking and caressing the ornamentation in the church, the pipes of the organ, and kissing a wooden doll she finds in the attic, all a little longer than is entirely innocent. The Lucrezia Borgia segment is the weakest of the four. The episode is little more than a parade of irreverent anti-church images - a nude woman posing in papal robes, a cleric stroking an erection beneath his robes. At most it seems to suggest the anti-church irreverence of a Luis Buñuel translated into erotica. But the story doesn't really build to any particular point.

Erzbet Bathory is the episode whereby the film is usually cited in genre reviews. It is of course based on the 16th Century legend of the real-life Blood Countess Elizabeth Bathory who notoriously bathed in the blood of virgins in the belief that it would make her more youthful. (The Countess Bathory story is often cited as a basis for vampirism). Around the same time as this the Countess Bathory story inspired several other film versions - Countess Dracula (1970) and Daughters of Darkness (1971), while the Countess also appeared as a character in Paul Naschy's Waldemar Daninsky series. Although unlike these other films, Borowczyk's interpretation of the legend is non-fantastic (and in so doing is actually much more historically accurate to the real Countess Bathory story). The episode is brief but nevertheless effective. Borowczyk makes striking contrast between beautifully artistically posed, almost painterly scenes of the young teenage girls lined up in the countess's bedroom and showering, and between the countess bathing in their blood. The episode culminates in an orgy in the countess's bedroom, through which the Countess (played by Paloma Picasso, Pablo's daughter) moves with elegant aloofness as they tear her clothes from her, she exiting the room nude but gracefully untouched as behind her her swordsperson draws their sword and screams are overlaid. Unlike the previous segments the erotica is tinged with a touch of nastiness, although Borowczyk is far too tasteful an eroticist too make the contrast too shocking.

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Mark Zimmer)

Oggs' Movie Thoughts

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

Apollo Movie Guide [Dan Jardine]

FilmFanatic.org

Channel 4 Film

Dr. Gore's movie reviews

Mondo Digital reviews 5 Borowczyk films

THE STORY OF SIN (Dzieje grzechu)

Poland (130 mi) 1975

The Story of Sin Tony Rayns from Time Out London

Like Borowczyk's earlier Blanche, this traces the misfortunes that befall an erotic innocent when she tries for love in a world dedicated to repressing or exploiting it. The source here is a turn-of-the-century Polish novel, and Borowczyk films it (with absolute period fidelity) as a full-blooded melodrama, carrying his audience off on swings of emotion, alternately rapturous and harrowing. At the same time, though, he invests it with countless reminders of his own background as the most idiosyncratic of contemporary surrealists: by bringing décor and design to the same prominence throughout as the physical action (incidentally 'eroticising' many of the objects that appear), and by framing the story of Eva's amour fou with precise descriptions of the religious, moral and economic factors that conspire to thwart it. His control of everything from his attractive cast to his speed-of-thought editing is unassailable. The result is passionately intense, and extremely entertaining.

User comments Author: david melville (dwingrove@qmuc.ac.uk) from Edinburgh, Scotland

Anyone who thinks of Walerian Borowzyk as a purveyor of upmarket smut for the wet raincoat brigade (Immoral Tales, The Beast, La Marge) is in for a shock if they see Story of Sin. A tragic 19th century romance, based on a Polish literary classic, it's in the grand 'woman destroys herself for love' tradition of Tess of the D'Urbervilles, Anna Karenina or Madame Bovary...although our heroine Ewa (Grazyna Dlugolecka) has a more eventful life than all three of those ladies combined! The sheltered daughter of an impoverished and decaying noble family, she moves from illicit passion with a married man to infanticide, prostitution and murder.

Yet if the details of Ewa's story are sensational, Borowczyk's handling of them never is. The sex and nudity are brief and oblique - all the more powerful for being conveyed in sharp flashes of visual poetry. At their first meeting, Lukasz (Jerzy Zelnik) glimpses Ewa's corset as it hangs, discarded, on a bedpost. In one night-time encounter, the couple make love in a horsedrawn cab, lit by bursts of lightning from an oncoming storm. In the most famous image, Ewa lies alone on her bed - her naked body strewn with rose petals from a bouquet Lukasz has sent in secret. Reminders, if any are needed, that Borowczyk has the most ravishing erotic eye this side of von Sternberg.

For both these directors, the censorship imposed by a Puritanical regime - the Production Code in 30s Hollywood, Communism and the Catholic Church in 70s Poland - forced overt sexuality off the screen and into the (well-trained) imagination of the audience. Rather than focus on boobs, bums and 'money shots,' Borowczyk suffuses his whole screen with stifled eroticism and tragic passion. Most likely his masterwork, Story of Sin not only evokes memories of Sternberg and Ophuls, but can sit comfortably on the classics shelf beside them.

And nary a masturbating nun or ejaculating monster in sight...

Story of Sin, The Michael Den Boer from 10kbullets

Eva has fallen in love with the new lodger Lukasz Niepolomski who has moved into her parents place. Their brief affair is quickly ended when he is unable to get a divorce from his wife. They are later reunited when he is wounded during a duel. Eva stays with him and nurses him back to health. Lukasz goes to Rome to once and for all finalize his divorce so that he can finally be with Eva. While in Rome his is imprisoned and when Eva hears about this she rushes to be by his side. When she arrives she soon discovers that his has already left. Eva spends the next few years traveling around Europe looking for Lukasz.

The Story of Sin is loosely based on Stefan Zeromski novel Dzieje grzechu. It is hard to believe that the same person that directed this poetic period drama would later direct in the same year the borderline pornographic film The Beast. The subject matter in Story of Sin is in line with the rest of the films Walerian Borowczzy directed except for one major difference and that is the subtle and not pervasive way in which the story is told.

The film is filled with lush photography and long languid shots that are rarely interrupted by kick edits. The films strongest asset is actress Grazyna Dlugolecka who made her acting debut in the film as Eva. Her transformation from a naïve young woman into a victim who has lost all of her self worth is heartbreaking and tragic. Through out the film her character meets several shady men who make promises to her that they never planned to keep.

The plot starts off slowly and it doesn’t really start to pick up steam tell about half way through the film. Outside of the lead actress Grazyna Dlugolecka the rest of the cast feels like they are sleep walking through their roles. Despite being one of Walerian Borowczzy’s more accessible films The Story of Sin is not one of his stronger films as its struggles at times to find its direction.

Channel 4 Film

The infamous Walerian Borowczyk directs this steamy tale of the abuse and corruption of an innocent young girl, based on an early 20th Century novel proscribed by the Catholic church

In the early 1970s, thanks to an accomplished collection of short films and the critically acclaimed Goto: Island Of Love Walerian Borowczyk was fêted as one of the most promising directors from behind the Iron Curtain. Less than 10 years later he was regarded as little better than a smut peddler, thanks to a series of poor quality exploitation flicks like Behind Convent Walls and La Marge.

The Story Of Sin is a philosophical morality tale, a lavishly arranged costume drama and one of his least pornographic films, but it did little for his reputation. This was not so much because of its content, but because of lurid allegations emanating from lead actress Grazyna Dlugolecka, who was seemingly bullied and exploited by the director almost as much as the character she portrayed. Her vague but sordid allegations leave an indelible print on the work, not least because her powerful, emotional and ultimately degraded performance is the highlight of an otherwise patchy work.

The episodic narrative, based closely on a novel by Polish author Stefan Zeromski described by Borowczyk himself as "so bad it's interesting", follows Ewa (Dlugolecka), the innocent daughter of an aristocratic family fallen on hard times in 19th Century Poland. Her mother wants her to be a fanatical Catholic, but Ewa can't help falling in love with the family lodger Lukasz (Zelnik), even though he's married.

Ewa becomes "a victim of circumstance" as a series of misunderstandings leads Lukasz to take another wife. A tragedy involving infanticide, prostitution and murder unfolds. Because of her naivety, Ewa is misled and abused by a series of unscrupulous men until she becomes a bawdy parody of her formerly chaste self.

It's both a melodramatic and unlikely tale, and Ewa's recurrent bad decisions are not only frustrating, but also unbelievable (even allowing for the fact that she's caught up in amour fou). The fractured screenplay hops from year to year and country to country confusingly, and several sequences are testament to generally unsatisfactory storytelling.

The film is a failure - but no less fascinating for it. Borowczyk and his cinematographer Zygmunt Samosiuk's rigidly composed shots are unusually beautiful and the way the actors are treated as marionettes - often seeming to be less significant than the clothes they wear and the objects around them - is, for all its strangeness, an effective approach to such a lush costume drama.

Dlugolecka's performance is remarkable in its power and sincerity (even if the script fails to round out the character she plays). She helps create several memorable moments: a hysterical fight between Ewa and her mother, a tormented infanticide scene and, most famously, Ewa's fleeting moments of abandoned lust. Though it may be difficult to believe in the process that brings about Ewa's eventual collapse into self-loathing and prostitution, there's no doubting the rawness of Dlugolecka's portrayal, making this one of Borowczyk's most effectively shocking films, even if it is one of his least sexually explicit.

Verdict
A visually splendid but frustrating (and occasionally boring) costume drama that ably demonstrates the great talent of its director, cinematographer and leading lady - while failing to do any of them justice.

DVD Times Anthony Nield

Movie Gazette DVD review [Anton Bitel]

The Spinning Image (Steve Langton)

The New York Times (A.H. Weiler)

THE BEAST (La Bête)

France (92 mi) 1975

Time Out

Once upon a time, in the 18th century, a beast lived in the woods of an aristocratic estate. And this beast, possessed of a giant phallus and an insatiable lust, set upon the beautiful young lady of the house. But the lady was of an even greater sexual appetite, and laid the beast to eternal rest. Two centuries later, the tale of the beast would return in the dreams of an American heiress contracted to carry the male descendant of the same crumbling aristocratic family... Borowczyk's all-out assault on social conventions and repressed desires, an outrageously ironic blend of French farce and surrealist poetry, can be seen as signposting both the peak of his sexual fables (Blanche, Immoral Tales) and his subsequent decline into ephemeral soft porn. Its shameless shuffling of equine couplings, pederastic priests and priapic black manservants earns it nul points for political correctness. But seen from its own amoral perspective, aided by Borowczyk's remarkable sense of framing and rhythm, La Bête is that rare achievement, a truly erotic film.

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

In full command, Walerian Borowczyk promptly stakes his turf -- a Voltaire quote (troubled dreams and fleeting madness) segues into an erect horse cock. Equine fucking is documented outdoors, while wily old Marcel Dalio nourishes his "morbid fear of womanhood" in his wheelchair inside the chalet; the family fortune has long dissipated, so patriarch Guy Tréjan invites a lissome heiress (Lisbeth Hummel) to marry his son (Pierre Benedetti). Benedetti's taken out of the barn, sheared, and baptized into the human world, while Hummel rides in swathed in furs and carnal curiosity: both are newborn creatures, he forced into society and she catapulted into the animal realm. Dalio waits in vain for a call from the Vatican, banquet preparations take the servant away from the boss' horny daughter, who in frustration straddles the bed rail and rides away to completion; dinner is out of Eraserhead, for, as the wizened priest sighs, "we suffer the laws of nature, alas." Hummel is a sunny gal, who believes that nature is serious but not tragic and that champagne doesn't change the cosmos -- she becomes fascinated by the mysteries of the place, principally an ancestor's fairy-tale dalliance. Dissolve to Borowczyk's stupefying centerpiece, harpsichord tinkling competing with animalistic roars as a bewigged maiden (Sirpa Lane) is ravished by The Beast, a furry behemoth with a raging hard-on (the intense erotic wackiness is punctuated impishly with a snapshot of a snail crawling over her dainty shoe). Lane takes to the critter's geysering ejaculations and drains it of cum and life. Flashback? Dream? A deleted segment from Immoral Tales? In any case, bestial bluntness has unchained desire from civilized machinations, and at the chateau the heroine diddles herself with the rose originally employed by Tréjan to seal monetary matters. The beast's heritage is finally uncovered, though the movie is itself a missing link, bridging Cocteau with the gonzo porn of Perverted Stories, illuminating not only La Belle et la Bête but also Charles Perrault, the Brothers Grimm, and King Kong. Beauty killed the beast, Borowczyk says, and erotic poetry freed the screen. With Elisabeth Kaza, Roland Armontel, Hassane Fall, and Pascale Rivault.

Film Monthly (Barry Meyer)

Once upon a time in the 18th century a mythical hairy beast is said to have roamed the dark woods of an aristocratic estate nestled in the French countryside. One day, the tale goes, this legendary giant beast (and that's meant in a wink-wink kinda way), with an insatiable lust, sets upon the lady of the house, the beautiful young Romilda (Sirpa Lane in her notorious debut), corrupting her after she naively wanders into his dwellings. Two centuries later, Lucy Broadhurst (Lisbeth Hummel), an American heiress betrothed to an impoverished male descendant of the once noble family, arrives at the old crumbling estate.  After hearing the legend of the beast in the woods, Lucy is beset by terrifying, erotically charged dreams, which lead her to uncover the dark secret of the fabled beast.

The Beast is a notorious cult movie that is so wickedly vulgar, so wildly perverse, that you almost seem embarrassed for having seen it... almost. Walerian Borowczyk's nefarious retelling of the oft told tale of Beauty and the Beast had been available only via heavily censored released versions or edited together pirated tapes, since it was notoriously banned for a quarter century.  This banishment probably was due to the films morals-shattering glimpses of rape, boy-happy priests, copious faux ejaculate shots, masturbation with a rose, a wig, feet, and even a bed post, horse sex, bi-racial sex, death by sex, and most heinous of all - bestiality!  (Well... implied bestiality, actually, which is made very apparent once you see that the "beast" is man in a Bigfoot/wolf outfit). But, by today's standards, The Beast's subject matter may seem fairly tame in comparison (just check out the filthy adventures of Harold & Kumar, and the ejaculate and piss gags in American Pie), though still some of the content in this thirty-year-old film could cause you wince, or at least draw out a "what the..." comment from the most jaded film viewer. 

Borowczyk's The Beast is all together vulgar, audacious, witty, provocative and even amusing.  At times it's an absurd sex farce, attuned to one of Benny Hill's naughtier segments, while other times it's a gothic horror tale pitting a nubile young woman against an unseen dark force, and even an allegorical fairy tale with ample symbolic imagery for those viewers who are hip to art references (Henry Fuseli's Nightmare), literary cues (Voltaire), Freud's dream analysis, and even Bigfoot sex flicks.  To be more succinct, you've gotta see it to believe it.

For Borowczyk enthusiasts who've only ever seen the censored versions of this erotic masterpiece, or simply for the curious cult movie fans, Cult Epics has released it's definitive presentation of The Beast on 3 discs, including a brand new Widescreen (16x9) transfer with optional French and English dialogue, two hours of Behind The Scenes footage and interviews, stills and lobbycard galleries, and the rare rediscovered "Complete Version" with close to an extended 30 minutes of sumptuous storylines.

Jigsaw Lounge (Neil Young) : "would make even Dirk Diggler blush"

Now that British audiences can finally see it as its director intended, The Beast emerges as the bizarre missing link between respectable European arthouse movies and their disreputable ‘adults only’ cousins. Borrowing as much from the anti-establishment traditions of Luis Bunuel as it does from the Emmanuelle series (to which Borowczyk ended up contributing), it’s a real one-off: a bracingly enjoyable romp that manages to combine aspects of melodrama, horror, farce, satire, porn and broad humour. This isn’t a picture to be watched with a straight face – though clearly the work of a serious, skilled film-maker, Borowczyk has gone on record as saying it’s “really more of a comedy than an erotic film,” and there are plenty of moments when even the loftiest of audiences will have trouble containing their giggles. Most of these derive from the appearance of the eponymous beast, played by a man in a not-very-convincing bear-type outfit and equipped with a ‘member’ that would make even Dirk Diggler blush.

The beast appears in the weird sequences that are partly flashbacks, partly dream sequences, partly the product of a young woman’s over-active imagination – it’s never made clear which, just as the title could easily be translated as ‘The Fool,’ possibly a female fool. Lucy Broadhurst would fit such a description – she’s a slightly dizzy “English” girl (Lisbeth Hummel’s accent is a thing of wonder) who turns up with her straight-laced aunt at a sumptuous French chateau to meet her future husband, Mathurin (Pierre Benedetti). It’s a marriage arranged by Mathurin’s father Pierre (Guy Trejan), in accordance with instructions left in a rich relative’s will - Mathurin must marry a girl from Lucy’s family before a certain date, and the wedding must be blessed by Mathurin’s uncle, a Cardinal – though Pierre’s machinations meet resistance from his father, the elderly, wheelchair-bound but resourceful Duc de Balo (Marcel Dalio). As Lucy gets to know her bizarre future in-laws, she discovers a family legend involving Romilda (Sirpa Lane) a female antecedent from 200 years ago, who was supposedly attacked and raped by a mysterious beast from the forests, drawn out of his lair by the ‘proximity of Mercury’ in the heavens. But the beast got a lot more than he bargained for…

It’s completely crackpot stuff, of course, but there’s rarely a dull moment as the scandalous revelations pile up. The ‘notorious’ sex stuff does, it must be said, become somewhat repetitive – we keep getting very similar shots over and over, with diminishing results, but the anti-clerical, anti-aristocracy, anti-bourgeois satire remains as fresh and surprising as ever. It’s a classic farce framework, with everything hinging on the climactic arrival of a hyper-important visitor – the Cardinal – but Borowczyk breezily pushes the form into dazzlingly unexpected new areas, skating over the occasional over-complexities of the plot (presumably disentangled more thoroughly in the original Zeromski novel) and pushing back the boundaries of taste with a marvellously off-hand matter-of-factness, while simultaneously lampooning Cocteau’s poetic forties classic version of Beauty and the Beast…

There’s symbolism everywhere you look – or, more precisely, everywhere you’re allowed to see, as the camera constantly seems to be peering around slightly-closed doors and through windows. And there’s enough material here for endless analysis – the beast himself can represent just about whatever you want him to, from the oppressed working-class, to the unrestrained libido, to the degeneracy of the ruling class, to the blundering patriarchy, whatever. But it’s doubtful whether there’s really as much substance as such readings would seem to imply – as with the Pasolini’s roughly contemporary Salo, to which The Beast would make a fine compantion piece, the emphasis is on sensation, and just seeing how far the imagination can go. Unlike Salo, however, The Beast is a delight rather than a gruellingly cathartic ordeal, a delirious blast of shameless movie excess.

DVD Times Michael Brooke

Images Journal James Newman

Kinocite

Turner Classic Movies Nathaniel Thompson

VideoVista Richard Bowden

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Mark Zimmer)

Monsters At Play Lawrence P. Raffel

Plume-Noire.com [Fred Thom]

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

Exploitation Retrospect Crites

Movie House Commentary Johnny Web

DVD Talk (Matt Langdon)

Bright Lights Film Journal Gary Morris

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

KQEK DVD Review [Mark R. Hasan]

The Spinning Image (Graeme Clark)

Turner Classic Movies Jeff Stafford reviewing the Walerian Borowczyk Collection

Walerian Borowczyk Collection Michael Den Boer from 10kbullets

Mondo Digital reviews 5 Borowczyk films

DVDBeaver.com [Per-Olof Strandberg]

IMMORAL WOMEN (Les Héroïnes du mal)

France (93 mi) 1975

User comments from imdb Author: MARIO GAUCI (marrod@onvol.net) from Naxxar, Malta

This is another Borowczyk compendium of erotica: the original title may translate to HEROINES OF EVIL, but the film might just as well be considered a sequel to his IMMORAL TALES (1974) – hence the similar moniker.

The first episode – featuring frequent Borowczyk muse Marina Pierro – is the longest and, in a way, most substantial: it’s set in Renaissance Rome, with the lusty (and perpetually nude) leading lady sexually involved with famous painters and church benefactors. However, the girl is revealed to be harboring motives of her own, as she proceeds to poison and rob her wealthy admirers for the sake of her true love! Worth noting here – apart, obviously, from the luscious Pierro’s classical beauty – is the period décor, especially the labyrinth in which Raffaello’s quarters are concealed.

The second episode is the most notorious and, consequently, gave the film its controversial poster – featuring a rabbit slowly disappearing under the skirt of a teenage girl (played by Gaelle Legrand). This segment is also a period piece, but it’s set in 19th century France – with the girl’s excessive fondness for her pet bunny (she likes to spread on the garden lawn stark naked and let the curious, furry little animal ‘explore’ her body!) falling foul of her condescending and slightly barmy family. She then visits the horny black butcher who supplies them with lamb chops (ostensibly to steal his carving knife) but he proceeds to ravage her, immediately regrets his selfish act and decides to hang himself – leaving the girl free to exact her bloody revenge on her oblivious sleeping parents. The latter event, then, subsequently becomes a bedtime story told by Legrand to her companions at the orphanage she ends up in!

The third and final episode, which has a modern-day setting, is the shortest – but also, possibly, the most outrageous: Pascale Christophe is a young married woman who’s abducted on a busy Parisian street by a small-time hood hidden inside a cardboard box! They move inconspicuously (i.e. the box moves!) through the crowd until they reach his van, from where he starts organizing her ransom. She goes to a phone booth to call her husband, all the while being in the criminal’s line of fire; the woman’s faithful Doberman senses that something is wrong and sets out in pursuit of her. Amazingly, the dog manages to locate the van by a river and savagely attacks the young man (who, at the time, was raping its mistress) as soon as he appears out of the vehicle…but the same thing happens when the husband finally arrives (both he and the criminal, screaming in pain, eventually tumble into the water). Apparently, the woman is unperturbed by all of this – and is merely overjoyed at her savior’s prowess!

IMMORAL WOMEN, therefore, provides many of Borowczyk’s typical ingredients – filmed in his traditional dreamy soft-focus and set to the equally familiar strains of a harpsichord/synthesizer-based score: sexualized objects, suggestions of bestiality, a depraved religious environment (which includes depicting Michelangelo as a neurotic homosexual given to liberating bouts of mud-slinging!), snooty bourgeoisie, etc. As was the case with IMMORAL TALES, the cumulative experience of the film is somewhat underwhelming and, at nearly 2 hours, decidedly draggy; such slight and fanciful pieces are, perhaps, best sampled individually! Even if Borowczyk started his career by churning out surrealist animated shorts, it seems to me that he did his most potent work when his themes were fleshed out to feature-length form (a case in point being THE BEAST [1975], whose bizarre centre-piece was initially intended to form part of IMMORAL TALES itself – but was ultimately given added texture by being framed inside a modern, and quite fascinating, morality play!).

Film Monthly (Derek B. Bates)

With their awesome powers combined, three short films form Immoral Women, a provocative and baffling film that provides audiences with the following insights into feminine psychology:

1. Women will murder men for fun and profit.
2. Women will murder their parents and servants as a symbol of their sexual maturation.
3. Women will allow their huge pet dogs to chew off the tender vittles of any man, be it a kidnapper or husband, and will watch with apathy as the pain forces them to roll into an awkward jump cut that lands them in a river, where they drown.

Good times all around in Immoral Women, now available on DVD!

The first and third stories are largely a waste of time, both in terms of erotica and in terms of cinema. Though the "immoral women" featured in them (Marina Pierro and Pascale Christophe) are attractive, each section gets too bogged down in their stories to be erotic. This would be fine if not for the fact that each story still manages to be both incoherent and plodding. The only entertainment derived from "Marie," the third story, is the bizarrely inappropriate Kraftwerk-esque theme music assigned to Marie's dog. "Margherita," the first story, tries to pad its runtime with awkward papal satire, even more awkward physical comedy, and an attempt at "art" by showing the way Margherita inspired Raphael Sanzio's later works. This would be a great sentiment if not for the fact that in the end, she poisons him to steal his money to share with her real lover. She also murders a banker. But hey, at least she's not Marie's dog, who has an affinity for biting off men's penises for no coherent story reason (okay, okay, the kidnapper deserved it--but why the husband?).

On the other hand, the middle story, "Marceline," tells one of the most disturbing stories I've ever seen. Unlike the other two stories in Immoral Women, this one reaches heights of complexity and dramatic intensity that make it almost brilliant. Too bad the subject matter is so vile and twisted it's hard to recommend in any form.

Marceline (Gaëlle Legrand) is a childish teenager (it's never said, but I think we're supposed to believe she's 15 or 16) in nineteenth-century France who spends the bulk of her time with a pet rabbit. This rabbit...how do I put this politely? She has trained him to lick her where it counts, and they maintain an alarming "secret" relationship until Marceline's parents decide it's time for her to grow up. Their servant/cook kills the rabbit, cooks it in a stew, and they all tell Marceline it's lamb. After Marceline has made a big meal of it, her father explains the manner in which they've traumatized her (clearly not for the first time).

Horrified, Marceline runs away to the slaughterhouse where the family gets most of their meat. I'm not sure why. I guess so she can run into a delivery boy who felt Marceline up at the beginning of the story. She asks to see the living lambs, so he takes her to their pen...and then rapes her. Viewers know a sex scene is coming (no pun intended), but anyone who thought it would be a horrifying, intense, suspiciously well-acted rape scene--seek help. Afterward, the delivery boy thinks he's accidentally killed Marceline; there's virginal blood everywhere, and Marceline has fallen asleep. The delivery boy tries to hang himself, then begs for help when Marceline awakens; instead of helping, she lets him die, then goes back home to kill her parents and frame the delivery boy for the crime.

This is 1970s European erotica, a token of a bygone era where pornography had story, character, and halfway decent (in some cases exceptional) acting. Sadly, this era has passed mostly because the stories are half-assed (in more ways than one!) and incoherent, the characters usually have one trait ("lustful"), and they usually become so focused on a story few viewers care about that there's little time left to be erotic.

One thing that makes the "Marceline" section so special is that nothing about it is remotely erotic--it's very sexual and contains excessive nudity, but it'll leave you more nauseous than aroused--and yet it tells a focused story with well-drawn characters. Disturbing as hell, yes, but it's using the "advantages" of erotica--excessive nudity and an ability to unflinchingly portray bestiality and rape--to underscore its story, rather than tossing in some T&A for the hell of it.

Perhaps the biggest complaint of these three stories is that two of the three of these "immoral" women are victims; in fact, aside from lying idly by while her dog chewed off her husband's johnson, Marie is a victim for every frame of her story. It's never made clear why she lets this happen or why she seems happy about it in the end; I'd call it a plot hole if the story was coherent enough to have holes. Marceline is a victim first of abusive parents, then of a terrorizing rapist of a delivery boy. Does it justify triple-homicide and accessory-after-the-fact to a suicide? One of the reasons "Marceline" stands out is that a case could be made to justify either side of that argument.

The only character who isn't a victim here is Margherita, the sultry and unpleasant minx who seduces and then murders two men for money. We never find out what motivates her, other than pure greed, which perhaps is enough. Perhaps a more accurate title is Immoral Woman Plus Two Victims of Horrific Misogyny.

All in all, if you want a movie to disturb you without remotely arousing you (despite what the back of the DVD box suggests), at least look at the "Marceline" section. The other two aren't really worth the time. Hell, "Marceline" will give you nightmares if you have any decency. Happy viewing!

DVD Talk (Ian Jane)

Movie House Commentary Johnny Web

KQEK.com DVD Review [Mark R. Hasan]

Inside Pulse [Joe Corey3rd]

Bloodtype Online [Ed Demko]

DVD Verdict [Rob Lineberger]

DVD Drive-In Casey Scott

Mondo Digital reviews 5 Borowczyk films

DVDBeaver.com [Eric Cotenas]

LOVE RITES (Cérémonie d'Amour)

France (100 mi) 1988

Walerian Borowczyk Collection Michael Den Boer from 10kbullets (excerpt)

Hugo (Mathieu Carriere) becomes infatuated with Myriam (Marina Pierro) a prostitute after seeing her one day on the subway. Hugo’s growing obsession for Myriam leads him down a dark path where ecstasy and pain are one in the same.

Love Rites has all the markings that we have come to expect while watching a Walerian Borowczyk seductive imagery and adult themes. At time some of the action in the film feels forced as the camera movements is not as subtle as Borowczyk earlier films. The story starts off slowly before finally coming together in the final act.

The strongest part of this film is its two leads Marina Pierro and Mathieu Carrière. Both give convincing performances that help elevate the films weak plot. Marina Pierro looks stunning in the film and she was the perfect choice for Myriam the black widow like seductress. Overall even though Love Rites is far from Borowczyk’s best work as a director it is still a fascinating swan song from one of cinema’s most unique filmmakers.

Reverse Shot Nick Pinkerton

Love Rites, Walerian Borowcyzk’s artsmut Brief Encounter from a short story by surrealist André Pieyre de Mandlargues, gets rolling with a chance frottage on the Paris Metro between bourgeoisie Hugo (the pert, dry, and very bland Mathieu Carrière) and streetwalker Miriam (Marina Pierro). She smoothes her lipstick over her mouth with a lively, rolled tongue; he brushes her thigh. Flirtation becomes conversation, and for a second, as these characters reveal life stories from opposite train platforms, cars flickering between them, the movie lifts off to an odd, engaging improbability, like something out of top-drawer Bertrand Blier. But the obtuseness of their rapport keeps up, fizzling flat when the principles are side-by-side. Hugo and Miriam talk past one another right across the city, through a rote sex scene, a perverse power role flip-flop—she rakes him with dagger-like nail extensions in a scene of unconvincing violence—and a rather uninspired, classically arthouse head-scratcher finale.

Italian actress Pierro (this was her fifth outing with Borowcyzk, though Jean Rollin’s Living Dead Girl is her shot at immortality) is consistently the most—often only—compelling image that the film has to offer; her odd, symmetrical beauty is narcotic where the rest of Love Rites is narcoleptic—or hypnotic, if you prefer. But if you can keep a straight face through Jean Négroni’s coital play-by-play, by turns lip-smacking and ontological, there is something pleasantly soporific about these soft-focus proceedings, though I say this as one who ranks Jess Franco’s Female Vampire the quintessence of the undervalued asleep-on-the-couch genre. Borowcyzk’s movie lets its attention wander plenty, leaving the narrative to go slack while following tangential objects, quotidian street scenes, an ex-con here, a pigeon there—why not?—and then a shutterbug Japanese tourist who occupies an alarming amount of screen time and speaks with a bizarre, sped-up voice, in a true “What the fuck?” moment.

Cult Epics, who recently gave Borowczyk’s great, gonzo La Bête a rather excessive three-disc treatment, load Love Rites with no excess of special features (Ooh, a photo gallery! Has anyone ever browsed one of these things?). Aside from that we get a double-sided presentation that offers alternate “Director’s Cut” and “complete” versions of the film (the difference in running time is about 10 minutes, the difference in content, negligible—Borowcyzk just whittles down the digressions), a fair-to-middling 1.66:1 transfer with clean sound, and liner notes by the enigmatic and appropriately Eurotrash-sounding Rayo Casablanco. The insert epitomizes the pitfalls of most writing from over-defensive acolytes of art-exploitation hybrids (Borowcyzk, Rollin, Andrzej Zulawski, et al), who always seem over-inclined to hitch their subject to some recognized artist or manifesto (De Sade, Artaud, The Story of O) in a bid for legitimacy. So we learn that “Like George Bataille, the father of postmodernism (?), Borowczyk incorporates sex into his work in an unflinching light. Sadly, this has led his work to be misconstrued as ‘pornographic.’” Sad only if you assume pornographic is a pejorative, and if you’ve got a monster chip on your shoulder about justifying your prurient tastes with a patina of pseudo-intellectuality. But then that’s a rather moot point—as porn, art, or erotica, Love Rites is decidedly minor.

Monsters At Play John Kostka

KQEK DVD Review [Mark R. Hasan]

Turner Classic Movies Jeff Stafford reviewing the Walerian Borowczyk Collection

Walerian Borowczyk Collection Michael Den Boer from 10kbullets

Mondo Digital reviews 5 Borowczyk films

Borzage, Frank

Film Reference DeWitt Bodeen

Frank Borzage had a rare gift of taking characters, even those who were children of violence, and fashioning a treatment of them abundant with lyrical romanticism and tenderness, even a spirituality that reformed them and their story.

Borzage arrived in Hollywood in 1913, and Thomas H. Ince gave him his first small roles as a film actor, gradually promoting him to lead roles and providing him with his first opportunities to direct. He usually played the romantic lead in Westerns and romantic melodramas with such Triangle players as Sessue Hayakawa (The Typhoon and Wrath of the Gods, both 1914) and Olive Thomas (Toton, 1919). The first really important feature he directed was Humoresque, written by Frances Marion from a Fannie Hurst story. It had all the elements which were later to stamp a picture as a Borzage film—hope, love, and faith in oneself and others in a world that was poverty-stricken and could be cruel. It won Photoplay Magazine's award as Best Picture of the year.

Borzage insisted that "real art is simple, but simplicity requires the greatest art," adding that "naturalness is the primary requisite of good acting. I like my players to perform as though there were no camera on the set."

Borzage did exceedingly well at Paramount's Cosmopolitan and at First National, where he directed two Norma Talmadge favorites, Secrets and The Lady. He then moved over to Fox, where, with the 1927 release of Seventh Heaven, he established himself as one of the best in the business. He directed two others with Janet Gaynor and Charles Farrell, Street Angel and Lucky Star. His The River of 1928, starring Farrell, is a virtual cinematic poem. In 1929 Borzage directed his first all-talking feature, They Had to See Paris, which starred Will Rogers, Fox's number one box-office star.

The year 1933 was probably Borzage's finest as a director, for he made three films which still rate as superb examples of the romantic cinema: A Farewell to Arms, from the Hemingway novel, with Gary Cooper and Helen Hayes; Mary Pickford's final and very best film, a re-make of the silent-era Secrets, which had originally starred Norma Talmadge; and Man's Castle, with Spencer Tracy and Loretta Young, a very moving romance.

There was a lasting tenderness about Borzage's treatment of a love story, and during the days of the Depression and the rise of Fascism, his pictures were ennobling melodramas about the power of love to create a heaven on earth. Penelope Gilliatt has remarked that Borzage "had a tenderness rare in melodrama and absolute pitch about period. He understood adversity." Outside of Griffith, there has never been another director in the business who could so effectively triumph over sentimentality, using true sentiment with an honest touch.

Borzage made four films with Margaret Sullavan that clearly indicated that she was the quintessential heroine for Borzage films: Little Man, What Now?, a study of love in the midst of deprivation and the growing terror in Germany; Three Comrades, in which Sullavan played an ill-fated tubercular wife; The Shining Hour, which featured her as a self-sacrificing woman; and The Mortal Storm, a moving film of the imminent battle with the Nazi forces.

Borzage also directed three other films during this time of stress that were extraordinary departures for him: Desire, a sleek romance in the Lubitsch tradition, starring Marlene Dietrich and Gary Cooper; Mannequin, co-starring Joan Crawford with Spencer Tracy, one of their best; and a drama that combined romance with effective disaster, History Is Made at Night, with Jean Arthur and Charles Boyer as lovers trapped in a Titanic-like explosion of violence. While in the case of Desire Ernst Lubitsch was producer, the picture features touches that are just as indicative of Borzage as they are of Lubitsch, for both were masters of cinematic subtlety. In the post-war period, it began to be clear that Borzage's career was on the wane. His best picture during this era was Moonrise.

All-Movie Guide bio by Bruce Eder

TCMDB profile from Turner Classic Movies

Frank Borzage Joe McElhaney from Senses of Cinema

Frank Borzage The Inner Sanctorum of Love: Frank Borzage, by Kent Jones from Film Comment, September 1997

Slant Magazine Article (2006) Flesh and Desire: The Films of Frank Borzage, by Dan Callahan

Frank Borzage: Strange Cargo & Till We Meet Again] Nick Pinkerton from Reverse Shot

Frank Borzage Michael Grost from Classic Film and Television

Borzage, Frank They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

Village Voice Article (2006) Tough Love, by Jessica Winter, July 11, 2006

San Francisco Chronicle Article (2006) Looking Back at an American Master, by G. Allen Johnson, July 23, 2006

Jean-Pierre Melville's 64 Favourite Pre-War American Filmmakers (Cahiers du Cinema, October 1961)

HISTORY IS MADE AT NIGHT B 86

USA (97 mi) 1937

History Is Made at Night is not only the most romantic title in the history of cinema but also a profound expression of [Frank] Borzage's commitment to love over probability. —Andrew Sarris, The American Cinema

Frank Borzage is notable for having won the first Best Directing Academy Award ever issued in 1929 for 7^th HEAVEN (1927), the year WINGS (1927) won Best Picture and SUNRISE (1927) won an Oscar for Best Unique and Artistic Production, winning his second Best Director award three years later for BAD GIRL (1931). Borzage, who began his career as an actor at age 13, was directing a decade later and also successful in making the transition between Silent era films and early talkies, absorbing the influence of F.W. Murnau, one of the most influential German expressionist directors in Hollywood, having emigrated from Germany in 1926, and both directors worked at Fox Studios. Known for his lushly visual romanticism where love triumphs over all, this film is no exception, though looking back at Depression era films, it’s always curious how in so many 30’s films the social reality is non-existent, where movies are an escapist fantasy, as this is a film exclusively about millionaires, where the lead characters make several trans-Atlantic ocean voyages and are awash in wealth, sipping vintage champagne, where money is never any object. If only we could all live like this, seems to be the prevailing thought, we should be so lucky. This is a tabloid romance of affluent socialites gone wrong, much of which takes place in the headlines, where wealthy shipping industrialist Bruce Vail, played by Colin Clive, the mastermind doctor in FRANKENSTEIN (1931), is facing a rocky marriage with his wife Irene, Jean Arthur, as he always jealously assumes she’s conducting affairs behind his back, becoming revengeful and spiteful, where his actions are anything but gentlemanly, showing underneath he’s a bit of a cad. So right off the bat, we realize she wants out of an over-controlling relationship and is asking for a divorce.

This small setback only seems to whet the appetite for more vitriol from Vail, who hires a slew of lawyers, detectives, and thugs to carry out his devious plots to get his wife back, no matter how underhanded and dishonorable, as all he cares about are results. When she’s in Paris, supposedly getting away from him, blackmail is the preferred modus operandus as he uses his chauffeur (Ivan Lebedeff) to sneak into her room and abduct her, holding her in his arms as the supposed “other guy” for onrushing photographers as a way of creating scandalous tabloid headlines. When Charles Boyer as Paul Dumond hears all the commotion, as he’s in the hotel room next door, he sweeps her off her feet in a gallant entrance through the window before making a clean getaway, all the while pretending to be a thief in front of the husband, returning all her stolen items in a cab ride afterwards. Of course it’s love at first sight, as Paul charms her in the way only a Parisian can, wining and dining her in the best French restaurant with music and flowing bottles of champagne, where the couple dances until dawn before reality sets in. Not to be outdone, the sinister Vail has decided the only way to get rid of the competition is to charge him with murder, actually killing his own chauffeur and blaming it all on this Frenchman who came in through the window. By the time Irene returns to her hotel, the police are everywhere and Vail has already alerted them to the dastardly deeds of a jewel thief, though he can plainly see Irene is wearing a necklace that was supposedly stolen. After the police are gone, he again blackmails his wife to return back to America with him to avoid charging her beloved Frenchman, an offer she apparently could not refuse.

Paul senses Irene is in trouble and heads for America to seek her out, easier said than done, as New York City is a thriving metropolis, and despite his best efforts, she’s nowhere to be found. So he and his partner Cesare (Leo Carillo), the greatest chef in France, set out to lure her into an infamous New York restaurant where Cesare is stirring up publicity with his authentic French fare until eventually, only in the movies, she walks in the door. What happens afterwards is a romantic take on the Titanic disaster, reunited and alone at last where nothing can apparently separate them, where they conjure up thoughts of running away to Tahiti and living a true fantasy life (Well, Marlon Brando did it), but instead return to Paris to clear Paul’s name after Vail pushes for his conviction. Yet there’s a strange and mysterious mood on the ocean voyage where they are engulfed under a fogbank and subject to the ominous sounds of the ship’s foghorns blasting continuously, complete with all the hysteria and mayhem after hitting an iceberg, where the special effects are pretty cheesy, but the panic-stricken mood is well captured, especially the montage of facial close ups. Love is never greater than when impending doom is near, and if there were ever any doubts in their lives, they have been swept away, as only their all-abiding love concerns them now. It’s all a bit convoluted, where the magic of their romance requires key plot resolutions, where the hand of God literally touches them, removing all obstacles, clearing the deck, so to speak, and allowing their love to prevail. It has a touch of Pressburger and Powell’s intoxicating romantic allure from A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH (1946), one of the greatest love stories ever made, but the narrative here is much more conventionally mainstream and lacks the unsurpassed originality of the British duo. Nonetheless, this would make an excellent New Year’s Eve movie, as it’s dripping with champagne, delectable gourmet food scenes, and the wondrous, delirious throes of love.

History Is Made at Night Review. Movie Reviews - Film - Time Out ...

A bizarre movie from Borzage, who invades the sophisticated territory of Lubitsch and Leisen - Paris hotels, cruise liners, impersonations, two-timing wives, jealous husbands - and turns it all into a romantic thriller, complete with an ending that recalls A Night to Remember. Jean Arthur's marriage to Colin Clive is on the rocks, and suave Boyer - a waiter who poses as a thief, later turning up as patron of a Manhattan restaurant - comes to her rescue. Emotions run high, implausibilities pile up, Borzage keeps the motor running, and the stars - especially the rather neglected Arthur, who is now a Carmelite recluse - are immensely watchable.

Chicago Reader [Dave Kehr]

Frank Borzage, the most radiant romantic sensibility of the American cinema, is represented here by one of his warmest, most perfect works (1937). Maitre d' Charles Boyer meets unhappy American Jean Arthur; he takes her for a late-night tango in a Paris bistro and the sign that they have fallen in love comes when she kicks off her shoes—she trusts him enough to dance barefooted. But Arthur has a husband, a sadistic shipping magnate (Colin Clive) who forces the lovers to separate; when they meet again, it's aboard an ocean liner, steaming on a collision course with an iceberg. Borzage uses every resource of mise-en-scene—lighting, camera movement, depth of focus, and cutting—to create a separate enchanted environment for his characters. It is melodrama, certainly, but melodrama played with so much conviction and exquisite sensitivity that all the viewer's defenses are destroyed.

CINE-FILE: Cine-List Ben Sachs

The quintessential Frank Borzage film, HISTORY IS MADE AT NIGHT is what most screenwriters seem to have in mind when invoking the romanticism of The Movies. The story takes place among the wealthy and in the bohemian paradise of what Ernst Lubitsch called "Paris, Hollywood." Hard social realities seem not to exist; all that counts is whether good-hearted people find love—a matter of life-and-death significance for Borzage. The film is most often remembered for its climax (inspired by the sinking of the Titanic)—a sequence that still generates tension and disbelief in equal measure. But there are moments of light comedy, melodrama, and slapstick just as grandly conceived: Indeed, few films better recreate how all emotions are felt more intensely upon falling in love. On the run from her jealous tycoon husband (Colin Clive, James Whale's Dr. Frankenstein), Jean Arthur shares an enchanted evening in Paris with maitre d' Charles Boyer. A spate of complications keeps the spirited couple from reuniting for more than a year; and when they finally do, it's on board that fateful ocean liner. The film contains numerous changes in tone more reminiscent of the early talkies than what Hollywood was regularly making at the time (though the nuanced cinematography, by David Abel and an uncredited Gregg Toland, looks forward to certain technical breakthroughs of the 1940s); given the fluidity of transition and the overall poetics, perhaps the 19th-century symphony would be a better point of reference than any film. The three leads, incidentally, were never better, so comfortable in their performances as to make all the narrative curveballs feel perfectly tenable. (1937, 97 min, 35mm Archival Preservation Print)

At the cinematheque: "History is Made at Night" (Borzage ... - Mubi Daniel Kasman

"Is it something like love?"

"It is everything like love."

No one in a Hollywood movie has cried in such agony as Charles Boyer does at the end of Frank Borzage's History is Made at Night (1937). Not until Tippi Hedron in The Birds, or perhaps Jimmy Stewart in some of his traumatic films with Anthony Mann do we find someone in Hollywood expressing so much pain. But that kind of agony is of a personal, inward driven pain—and perhaps something let loose after the Second World War—whereas Boyer in Borzage utters a cry of selfless pain. It is the pain of seeing love choose its own doom by committing itself fully to the destructive bliss of being together forever. In Borzage, as lovers unite, the world falls away; and for Boyer, in this most tragic of films, as lovers unite, the world sinks around them.

Yes—this is Borzage, the one man in Hollywood who really took love seriously, and when you watch his films you know it. History is Made at Night, one of Borzage's masterpieces, with remarkable self-awareness expresses a pathology of love. Jean Arthur, married to a psychotically jealous millionaire (marvelously played by Colin Clive as one of the classical era's most disturbingly believable villains), falls for Boyer, and within this triangle we see two great kinds of love, both obsessive: the transcendental which will sacrifice itself for the love, and the destructive, which will sacrifice anything else for that love.

So we see Clive's hands embrace Arthur's neck in a gesture as intimate as anything Borzage the fleshy, master erotic has ever directed, except it suggests only murder; and the gesture is repeated immediately before the first of the film's several devastating sacrifices, when Boyer caresses Arthur's jaw, fondly imagining what she looked like as a child. Would you send a ship filled with thousands to the bottom of the sea for the sake of your love, or could you rather send yourself to the bottom of the sea for the life of a single, beloved soul? This is what is at stake in History is Made at Night, and really, could anything more important be asked by a film? Borzage, rightly, is the greatest romantic of the cinema.

Self-Styled Siren: Charles Boyer in History Is Made at Night (1937)

French stars, as film historian David Shipman has noted, don't translate well. Some never quite catch on, like Simone Simon. Others, like Danielle Darrieux, loathe the place and barely try. Nowadays even the tireless promotional efforts of Messrs. O'Reilly, Limbaugh and their ilk, to whom the French have become a sort of all-purpose homme de paille, haven't given French actors an opportunity to break into the screen-villain racket the way the Brits have. Over the years most French actors have chosen to work on their side of the Atlantic, with perhaps the odd submission to criminal misuse in something like Green Card as an income supplement. The biggest exception was and remains Charles Boyer.

The Siren believes what made the difference for Boyer, more than his talent or those eyes that photographed so beautifully, was his incredible chocolate ganache of a voice. Even the admittedly hilarious Pepe le Pew, conceived as a take-off on Boyer's seductive turn in Algiers, doesn't really diminish the impact. When Boyer speaks, you melt.

In History Is Made at Night, the bizarre but endearing 1937 Frank Borzage movie, Boyer acts opposite Jean Arthur, another player with a celebrated voice. Their scenes are something to hear, this duet of a throbbing French bass and the American whose vocal line someone once called "a cross between Donald Duck and a Stradivarius." Arthur plays the abused wife of a shipping magnate (Colin Clive), who is some kind of evil even by our sadly expanded 21st-century standards. This is a man capable of trying to sink an ocean liner just to kill two of its 3,000 passengers--his wife and the man she loves. Arthur loves Boyer, naturellement. He plays a head waiter who can attend to the needs of his snooty patrons, protect a gentle old man in his employ, and mix the perfect salad dressing.

Borzage, the great romantic, gives the movie a completely two-tone effect. When Clive is on screen, the melodrama is played to the hilt. When Boyer is around, things sparkle, the jokes fly, Jean Arthur tangos in her negligee. It is an odd combination, with the potential to give the viewer whiplash, but it works.

The Siren can't discuss Boyer without mentioning another of his gifts: his incomparable way with a hat. In History, Boyer's impeccable brim is at just the right angle to convey menace, when he punches out a thug menacing Arthur; newfound love, as he goes to meet her after their first night together; bewildered hurt, when he finds she is married. No one wore a hat like Boyer, no, not even Bogart.

History Is Made at Night | Peter Bogdanovich

One of my favorite movie titles is also, as Andrew Sarris has said, probably the most romantic title in pictures, and names a film directed by an Italian-American from Salt Lake City who is responsible for several of the most intensely affecting love stories ever made: Frank Borzage’s 1937 European triangle tale, HISTORY IS MADE AT NIGHT, starring France’s biggest American screen star, Charles Boyer, and Frank Capra’s “favorite actress,” Jean Arthur, the story is set in Paris and on a doomed ocean liner—-inspired by the Titanic calamity. (Surely someone involved with Jim Cameron’s Titanic saw this, because there are certain sub-plot similarities.)

With soft-focus dexterity, Borzage (pronounced Bor-zay’-gie) guides the piece from light-comedy romance—-between a high-class Parisian maitre d’ and an unhappily married American lady—-into deep-dish melodrama, as the woman desperately tries to get away from her maniacally possessive husband. As usual with Borzage, it is the complete sincerity of his belief in true love as having the power to triumph over everything, including death and probability, that helps give the picture such charm and intensity.

Equally responsible is the extraordinarily personable quality of the two stars. History is Made at Night was one of Charles Boyer’s first successes, released the year before he became enshrined in every impersonator’s act with the line, “Come wiz me to ze Casbah,” which Boyer (as Pepe le Moko) sort of said in 1938’s Algiers. (His persona also inspired Chuck Jones’ amorous cartoon skunk, Pepe le Pew). After this, Boyer’s superb performances in popular pictures like Leo McCarey’s comedy-drama Love Affair, or John Stahl’s weepy When Tomorrow Comes, propelled the Frenchman to the upper ranks of American stardom. In 1944, he was nominated for the Best Actor Oscar for his brilliant portrayal of a suave murderer in George Cukor’s suspenseful Gaslight. Working almost continually until his suicide in 1978 at age 81—-two days after the death of his beloved wife—-Boyer appeared in at least two other masterworks: Ernst Lubitsch’s final romantic comedy, Cluny Brown (1946) and perhaps Max Ophuls’ greatest achievement, the tragic love story, Madame De...(1953).

John Ford was not only the first to cast Jean Arthur in a movie (1923’s Cameo Kirby), but the first to cast her in the kind of average girl-next-door light-comedy role (1935’s The Whole Town’s Talking) she would play throughout most of her subsequent career. By the time she did History is Made at Night, Frank Capra had made her his archetypal heroine in Mr. Deeds Goes to Town (1936), solidifying the image with his Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939). Her raspy voice became as famous as Boyer’s deep-toned French accent. She was Oscar-nominated as Best Actress for George Stevens’ war-time comedy The More the Merrier (1943), and concluded her picture career in Stevens’ acclaimed 1953 Western, Shane.

Frank Borzage (1893-1962) reached the peak of his prestige at the transition from silent to sound with two Academy Awards as Best Director: for one of movies’ most popular love stories, Seventh Heaven (1927), and for the early talkie, Bad Girl (1931). Beginning his career as an actor at age 13, he was directing a decade later, making his first important film at age 27 with Humoresque (1920)—-a romance, of course. Although Borzage continued working until the late 1950s, his most valuable sound decade was the 1930s, which included his emotional version of Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms (1932) with Gary Cooper and Helen Hayes, the Depression-era classic Man’s Castle (l933) with Spencer Tracy and Loretta Young, the Ernst Lubitsch-produced romantic comedy Desire (1936) with Cooper and Marlene Dietrich, and his last successful romance classic, The Mortal Storm (1940), with Margaret Sullavan and James Stewart. If any one title could represent the ardent, passionate world of Borzage, it’s either History is Made at Night or Seventh Heaven--that special place reserved only for lovers.

History Is Made at Night - Turner Classic Movies Sean Axmaker

Classic Movies Digest: Review: History Is Made At Night (1937) Rupert Alistair, also seen here: History is Made at Night 1937 - TCM CLASSIC FILM UNION Blog post

Frank Borzage: History Is Made at Night | Reverse Shot Nick Pinkerton, Summer 2006

History is Made at Night | Senses of Cinema Brian Darr, September 2009

History Is Made At Night || 1937 || Jean Arthur & Charles Boyer ... Mildred Fierce

CriterionCast | On the Hulu Channel: Frank Borzage's History is ... Scott Nye

Slant Magazine [Dan Callahan]

Schizophrenic Incident: History Is Made at Night | The House Next ... Vadim Rizov from The House Next Door

Cinema Sights [James Ewing]

Noir and Chick Flicks: History Is Made at Night (1937). Dawn Sample

Another Old Movie Blog: History is Made at Night - 1937

Howard Casner: HISTORY IS MADE AT NIGHT (1937)

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

Tonight's Movie: History is Made at Night (1937) - Laura's ... Laura’s Miscellaneous Musings

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

TV Guide review

THREE COMRADES

USA (98 mi) 1938

Slant Magazine [Dan Callahan]

“Can't producers ever be wrong?" asked F. Scott Fitzgerald, famously, to wisecracker MGM man Joseph L. Mankiewicz. "Oh Joe! I'm a good writer, honest!" Fitzgerald's sweetly passive-aggressive egoism guaranteed that the making of Three Comrades, a tale of three friends and their dying female mascot in Nazi-era Germany, has gained some notoriety in literary circles. It's one of the few films where Fitzgerald received a screenplay credit, but a lot of his published script was rewritten by Mankiewicz, the film's producer. Fitzgerald's screenplay reads well on occasion, but it's lumpy, distended, and enamored of the fake-toughness that marked the work of his contemporary, Ernest Hemingway. A lot of Mankiewicz's changes in regard to dialogue were for the better, but the movie still suffers from his interference. It's weighed down with that suffocating MGM look and Robert Taylor's singularly unappealing leading man, yet it winds up being a beautiful film, even an unforgettable one, because of the work of Frank Borzage and Margaret Sullavan.

Sullavan won the New York Film Critic's prize for her role here, and it was deserved: if Ernst Lubitsch's The Shop Around the Corner stands as her best movie, then this is certainly her best performance. She brings the film to life gradually, delicately, making full use of Fitzgerald's wistful little poeticisms, and dying like nobody has ever died on screen before or since. Borzage seems to huddle with his actress as they pull off a miracle from within this most brutally limited studio context. As it goes on, they create a sense of winter approaching, of kindness for its own sake, of the feverish sexiness of having one last fling before your lungs collapse. Sullavan imbues everything with her special, exhausted glamour, but Borzage asserts himself strongly in a scene of revenge near a church: the film suddenly comes alive during this quiet, tense sequence, which is not in Fitzgerald's script. Borzage's sense of spirituality lifts the final moments where Sullavan dies into a realm of sublimity, especially when he switches to an extreme high angle as she gets out of bed to walk to her window. Three Comrades is a compromised film in many ways, but Borzage, Sullavan, and Fitzgerald form a powerfully poetic trio creating untouchably lyrical "termite" art from within a factory setting.

Classic Film Guide (capsule)

Hollywood Social Problem Film Jeremy Butler from Jump Cut

THE MORTAL STORM

USA (100 mi) 1940

The Mortal Storm Jaime Christley from Slant magazine

Frank Borzage's The Mortal Storm begins with the following voice-over: "When man was new upon the earth, he was frightened by the dangers of the elements. He cried out: 'The gods of the lightning are angry, and I must kill my fellow man to appease them.' As man grew older, he created shelters against the wind and the rain, and made harmless the force of the lightning. But within man himself were elements strong as the wind and terrible as the lightning. And he denied the existence of these elements because he dared not face them. The tale we are about to tell is of the mortal storm in which man finds himself today. Again he is crying, 'I must kill my fellow man!' Our story asks, how soon will man find wisdom in his heart, and build a lasting shelter against his ignorant fears?"

Following this voiceover (spoken while the screen fills with storm clouds), the film opens to Germany's mountain country, a snowbound landscape that is not blasted, or hellish, brutal, or inhuman. It's plush and familiar, hinting at hot chocolate and a Christmas eternal. Against this backdrop, the transformation of nearly all of the young men into Hitler youth (except, that is, Jimmy Stewart's Martin Breitner), and the way they treat those who won't follow them, is a relentless irritant, corroding the hitherto warm and inviting atmosphere of the mountain village. One day the Nazis are everywhere and everything, brutally masculine, arrogant, and capable of easy and sudden violence, but the natural landscape remains the same.

Then a switch occurs. Romance becomes the irritant and, effectively, Borzage positions his romanticism—the recurring image here is that of the last boy and girl in the world in love—as a contribution to Hollywood's anti-fascist crusade. It's his speck in Hitler's eye, and the film is predicated upon the idea that the mote will somehow be swept away: tragedy. It's a symbolic martyrdom, and a narcissistic one, since his romanticism is so characteristically Borzagean—it's him against the Hitler youth, or David versus Goliath, except David knows he's going to lose, but for a good cause: glowing, transcendent love and faith in humanity. This is love and death, Borzage style. Margaret Sullavan is sacrificed upon the altar of tragic inevitability.

Borzage doubles the tragic doom of the dainty, husky-voiced Sullavan with the broader tragedy of the young men who fell for Hitler. The final exchange between the three turned youths—college guys who started the picture no less full of vim and vigor than the beer-guzzling frat boys in an Ozu silent—shows them broken and doomed by the news of the death of their girl. The one who shot her cries "duty!" and consequently seals his own fate. Another mumbles, "Freya dead." Their youth dies with her, and their childhoods are fully behind them as their involvement with Nazism moves from a youthful destruction fantasy to an adult world of choices and consequences.

The final two or three minutes of The Mortal Storm are infused with nostalgia (memory) and hope. But neither emotion is gratuitous or easy—both are hard-won, all the more moving since they have been tested against cruelty, narrow-mindedness, and hate. (A Borzage film builds a dialectic of emotions rather than ideas.) But along with these emotions is a deceptively complex tapestry of images and sounds that illustrates the film's ultimate meaning, a tapestry in which each of the elements has a meaning and power unto itself, as well as a power derived from its juxtaposition with all of the other elements.

Borzage's establishes a space free of human characters (Robert Stack is offscreen, the camera is his gaze) as his camera moves from interior to exterior (Borzage cuts from a staircase suggesting ascendance to a shot of footsteps slowly being covered in snow, which traces the line of a character making a journey), from architecture to nature, from those who have chosen ideology over love to those who have chosen the reverse. On the soundtrack is the young man's footsteps, interwoven with remembered dialogue that covers a number of the film's bases: happier times, Martin's philosophy of free thinking, and a speech about carrying a torch as a metaphor for the passing of wisdom from the older generation to the younger one (this is after Borzage has shown a group of young people betraying their elders), and finally, a speech from the Bible wherein a traveler is assured that a spiritual torch is superior to a real one.

MOONRISE

USA (90 mi) 1948

Time Out

Perhaps Borzage's greatest film, Moonrise, a brooding tale of a murderer's son (Clark) driven to violence by others harping on his past, is the perfect answer to those critics who have derided Borzage as a 'mere' romantic, a mere celebrator of the magic of love. Deeply melancholic, the film (from a novel by Theodore Strauss) creates a sense of physical reality with its low key lighting and harsh compositions that Borzage's lovers on the run cannot defeat: their 'Seventh Heaven' in an abandoned mansion is only temporary.

Chicago Reader [Dave Kehr] (capsule review)

Frank Borzage's last masterpiece (1948) and one of his best-known films, although in many ways it's atypical of his work. Made on a middling budget for Republic Pictures--the studio of serials and cowboys--the film adopts a rich and elaborate expressionist style; with its shadows and tension-racked frames, it resembles no other film in the Borzage canon. The social conflicts that plagued Borzage's spiritually attuned lovers in earlier films here become psychological ones, as a young man (Dane Clark) fights to overcome his "bad blood"--his father was a convicted killer. Still, the Borzagian principle of transcendence applies, expressed through a complex mise-en-scene centered on circular camera movements. The earlier, disappointing Smiling Through (1941)--with its image of a blocking, ever-present past--seems a rough draft for this final achievement. 90 min.

All Movie Guide [Bruce Eder]

In 1945, with World War II drawing to a close and another upheaval in the habits of moviegoers in the offing, Republic Pictures head Herbert J. Yates recognized that the market for the B-Westerns, action films, and comedies that had kept the studio humming since the mid-'30s was in danger of drying up. He decided to mount some prestige productions and sought out the talents of major directors, writers, and producers who thought in terms of something more substantial than Roy Rogers capturing rustlers. That led him to director Frank Borzage, and culminated with Moonrise, the most expensive movie ever made by Republic up to that time, but one that was worth every penny. Arguably Borzage's finest directorial effort and the most hauntingly beautiful movie ever issued by the studio, Moonrise is filled with delights at just about every level that it is possible to enjoy in a movie -- John L. Russell's cinematography is some of the finest you'll ever see in a black-and-white movie, and his work, coupled with that of editor Harry Keller, achieves a quality of elegant visual lyricism that often flows like poetry, never more so than in the movie's extraordinary opening montage. Additionally, the movie offers Dane Clark in one of the most sympathetic roles of his career as Danny Hawkins, a young man who has been hounded and tormented all of his life because of his father dying on the gallows. Danny isn't perfect, and he has his mean side and his self-destructive side, which we get to see in painful close-up perspective, but he's also as kind and gentle as circumstances and his intelligence allow, and that's considerably more than all but a handful of the other characters in this movie could say. Gail Russell also slips effortlessly into an almost impossibly written role as Gilly Johnson, a schoolteacher who befriends and then falls in love with Danny; the part is written almost too sweet to be true, but Borzage lucked out in getting Russell, whose natural gentleness allows her to seem totally convincing in most of the more difficult aspects of the part.

There are also a brace of unexpected and unusual characterizations and portrayals throughout the rest of the movie: Rex Ingram in one of the best roles of his career as Mose, a retired railroad brakeman who happens to be the most well-read man in the town of Woodville and possibly the entire county, and the man most conscious of his place in the universe, a philosopher and a sage whose wisdom transcends the racial divide that separates him from the rest of the town; Allyn Joslyn, who normally played comedy roles, portraying County Sheriff Clem Otis, who is more thoughtful and articulate than anyone around except maybe Danny; Ethel Barrymore as a backwoods matriarch, in a brilliant and totally unexpected scene; Harry Morgan as a sympathetic deaf-mute, the complete opposite of the sinister mute character that he portrayed in The Big Clock that same year; and Charles Lane, barely recognizable as a mysterious man in black.

Not everything about the movie is perfect, despite its visual and acting splendors. Dane Clark's portrayal of Danny is marred by his distinctly urban accent and vocal inflections, which make his use of the phrase "I reckon," intended to show Danny's backwoods origins (which are essential to the plot), very awkward; and Russell's almost burlesque Southern accent in a very important scene not only doesn't seem like her voice but appears very obviously to have been looped in, as she's facing away from the camera for most of the scene. Those flaws in writer/producer Charles F. Haas' script -- based on Theodore Strauss' novel -- prevent Moonrise from achieving quite the classic status of which every other aspect of the movie makes it seem worthy; but for all of those problems, there are still many layers of delights and haunting beauty, as well as impending tragedy lurking not far from the surface. Even composer William Lava, never a front-ranked musician in Hollywood outside of the action genre, rose to the occasion here, delivering an inspired score in a heavily orchestrated, highly melodic mode more often associated with Max Steiner.

Frank Borzage: Moonrise | Reverse Shot Nick Pinkerton from Reverse Shot, Summer 2006

Dead Man Walking in Frank Borzage's Moonrise Rose Capp from Senses of Cinema, February 2004

“The Moral of the Auteur Theory”: Frank Borzage's Moonrise (and ... “The Moral of the Auteur Theory”: Frank Borzage’s Moonrise (and Theodore Strauss’ Source Novel), by Holger Römers from Senses of Cinema, 2004

mardecortesbaja.com :: SOME OF THE MOONRISE February 8, 2010

Borzage Predicts Many Innovations in Camera Techniques and Methods (pdf format)

Filmmonthly.com [A.K. Rode]

Film Noir of the Week Steve-O

Big House Film [Roger Westcombe]

New York Times (registration req'd) A.W.

Bosch, Carles and Doménech, José Maria

BALSEROS B 86

aka: Cuban Rafters

Spain (120 mi) 2002

Outstanding subject matter, not always edited well, as it was filmed for Spanish television, following the lives of 7 Cubans who attempted to ride makeshift rafts to America following their dreams. But once here, as the filmmakers follow up 5 years later, most were shattered by what they discovered, as once they left, they could never return to their children and their families that stayed behind - very ironic, since the filmmakers incredibly have easy access in both countries.  Wonderful upbeat music provides a positive energy, and there's a very warm Cuban spirit captured in this film. 

Balseros Ed Gonzalez from Slant magazine

125,000 refugees, among them my own family, left Cuba in early 1980 as part of the Mariel Boatlift. Since then, several books have been written about the mass exodus. Jose Szapocznik's Coping with Adolescent Refugees: The Mariel Boatlift dealt with the problems young "marielitos" encountered in America after suffering through this man-made political disaster. David Engstrom's Presidential Decision Making Adrift and Mario Antonio Rivera's Decision and Structure analyzed at length the cause of the Boatlift, its political ramifications and its effect on U.S. refugee policy. But works like Joe Morris Doss's recently published Let the Bastards Go: From Cuba to Freedom on God's Mercy and Carlos Bosch and José María Doménech's new documentary Balseros (Cuban Rafters) are much grander humanist statements because they give a particularly human face to the horror of two separate Cuban refugee debacles.

In 1994, an especially disgusted Fidel Castro would open Cuba's doors for a second time in less than 15 years. Cuba was hit hard by the fall of communism in Russia and the dictator allowed "undesirables" to leave his island nation should they prefer the freedom of the United States. Bosch and Doménech only casually address the stain this fiasco would have on the Clinton administration and how deliberate an act of political terrorism it was on Castro's part. The filmmakers are less concerned with the politics of the situation than they are with how a group of oppressed Cubans used this window of opportunity to escape their island prison. Bosch and Doménech were reporters for Spain's TV3, the first station to arrive in Cuba after the "balseros crisis" broke out. What could have been a simple five-minute segment on the crisis has become a two-hour celebration of Cuban perseverance.

Balseros begins with a shot of a woman boarding a ferry in Cuba. An officer passes a hand-held metal detector over her body. "I only have sadness in my heart," she says, a statement that lingers in the mind way past this devastating film's final credits. But there are those who still cling to Castro despite the fact that he has left his people with nothing but the cold metal of resentment in their hearts. Bosch and Doménech focus on the struggles of seven rafters: Guillermo Armas, Rafael Cano, Méricys González, Oscar Del Valle, Míriam Hernández, Juan Carlos, and Misclaida. All of them struggle with leaving their families behind or reuniting with family members who left before them. One woman must whore herself to afford the inner tubes and canvas that will build the raft that may or may not succumb under the unpredictable force of the waters between Cuba and Florida.

The film's most emotional image is that of a group of rafters who successfully evade detainment in Guantanamo Bay Naval Station by the U.S. Navy but must sail past the remnants of other rafts devastated by the force of the Atlantic Ocean. For me, the power of these images are perhaps more immediate, because these are the stormy, shark-infested waters where relatives went missing in 1994 and where others were rescued from in 1980 after their boats went under. It's difficult not to think of this exodus on a biblical level. As a child, I would hear stories about how my grandmother would pray to La Virgen de la Caridad, Cuba's patron saint, and her afro-Cuban variant Yemayá—so the ocean wouldn't swallow us whole or that our boat wouldn't be taken over by the criminals that Castro would maliciously force to rub shoulders alongside innocent families.

This is why idols of La Virgen de la Caridad holding her protective hands out above boats filled with refugees can be found in many Cuban homes. Bosch and Doménech maintain a strong presence both in Cuba and in the United States and ensure that Balseros has a strong sense of past and present. As much as they understand the symbolic struggle of Cubans trying to escape their island home's political and economic suppression, they also observe how these frequently naïve individuals must negotiate the complex reality of American capitalism. Indeed, there's a bittersweet humor in seeing the refugees misspell state names (Con-ect-tucky) and refer to the objects inside a dinky hotel room as "pretty things" to their relatives in Cuba. And then there's the sad irony in seeing Miriam Hernandez's reunion with her daughter prolonged simply because she filled out her application wrong without ever being told of her mistake.

Some stories end happily (Guillermo reunites with his wife and daughter in Miami), others do not (Misclaida continues to prostitute herself, this time in Albuquerque). Resentment then for America's false promises is as familiar as resentment for the despotic nation these people left behind. This is par for course and the filmmakers neither defend nor admonish those who become embittered toward the United States, and as such Balseros remains remarkably even-handed. Oscar Del Valle moves to New York City and then to Pennsylvania and forgets his family because his nostalgia for his past is too overwhelming. But the filmmakers repeatedly reinforce the notion that Cubans must never forget this struggle, because no matter how difficult it is, it's this act of remembrance that empowers us and forces us to trudge forward.

Bouchareb, Rachid

INDIGÈNES (DAYS OF GLORY) B 87

France Morocco Algeria Belgium (128 mi) 2006

A sweeping epic on a grand scale, the strength of which is the political relevancy, as French-Algerian relations are under tense scrutiny after two week-long riots touched off frayed nerves around the country last year. Unlike Michael Haneke’s CACHÉ, which explores the psychological damage done from the unseen, hidden elements of racism which contaminate even the educated and well-intentioned, this film openly displays the blatant disregard for North African and French colonial soldiers who fought in the French army during World War II, who were asked to shed blood for France in fighting the Nazis, and were promised equality from none other than General Charles de Gaulle, but to this day these same men have not been given historical recognition for their efforts and are still fighting to obtain full pension benefits, which remain in a state of permanent suspension. The French title is much more interesting, as it’s suggestive on two contrasting fronts, indigenous people from Africa and indigenous pure-blooded French.

The opening makes it clear where this film is heading, as the French are rounding up recruits in the North African Muslim communities, and these men, praising the liberation of France right alongside Allah, are sent to the front lines in Morocco, Italy, and France, a homeland none of them have ever seen. There’s an interesting mix of color and black and white film, usually for historical reference points, and a highly effective inter-weaving of personalities that makes each of these men stand out in our eyes, as we come to know them under the worst of circumstances. It’s a grandiose attempt to set the record straight, to show evidence of a tremendous sacrifice, that uses a glorified war film to prove their heroism, where even some among them realized they would have to sacrifice ten times, a hundred times as much as the French-born before they would earn their recognition, which typifies the patterns of racist inequality that exist in our own history as well, even during this same war. Using Arabic music throughout to reinforce cultural identity, there’s nothing subtle about where this director’s heart lies, but the emotions are not overplayed. While conventionally structured, beautifully shot in ‘Scope by Patrick Blossier, the film pays tribute to these men when they were alive, while the country they fought and died for would prefer that the ghosts of the past remained buried. Winner of the Silver Hugo at the 2006 Chicago Film Fest.

Milos Stehlik at Cannes from Facets Multi Media (link lost)

A terrific film this morning in the competition: DAYS OF GLORY by Rachid Bouchareb. Bouchareb's LITTLE SENEGAL, his previous feature, was pretty terrific, and this is much more ambitious, and still current. Arab young men who were recruited by the French to fight the Nazis and used by them. Until today (the end credits explain) the pensions to these soldiers in the former French colonies are suspended and have not been paid despite the tremendous sacrifice that these men paid. The film is conventionally structured, but very well done, without overplaying the emotions. In its depiction of racism, it is strangely contemporary, and the situation is not that different from the American military's attitude toward African-American soldiers in the same war.

Days of Glory [Indigènes] Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

Conventional, yes. Bound in the thick rhino-hide of genre, absolutely. And yet, Bouchareb can be forgiven on two counts. One, he is using cinema not only as a social-justice pulpit but as a kind of time machine, making exactly the kind of film that would have been made about the Arab battalions back when it should have been made. Not only did France forget these heroes; classical Hollywood and the golden ages of Gaumont and Pathé forgot them as well. (And naturally, Bouchareb's decision to tell this story, in this utterly familiar manner, is a calculated political intervention into the present. Duh.) But the other virtue of Indigènes is that is a skillful, compulsively entertaining war picture, made by a consummate craftsman. Why are we demanding more? (Who'll demand more from Clint Eastwood, when Flags of Our Fathers uses the exact same conventions to tell a story everybody knows, and one that flatters the Allied forces at our present less-than-heroic juncture?) The coda admittedly, is quite unnecessary, but Mike D'Angelo correctly countered my objection by noting, "Those kinds of movies do that." Yes, they certainly do.

Cannes #7: A real movie » Roger Ebert at Cannes

CANNES, France – At last, on Day 9 of the Cannes Film Festival, an old-fashioned real movie, with a beginning, middle and end, characters, a story, and a powerful message. Is Rachid Bouchareb’s “Indigenes” a drama about French troops from the colonies of Northern Africa, too traditional to win the Palme d’Or?

The film begins as poor Algerians and Moroccans volunteer to join the Free French army and defend the “homeland” none of them have ever seen. It follows them through one battle after another, through the burning sands of Morocco and the freezing winters of northern Italy, to a lonely outpost in a French village where their heroism is dearly paid for.

All the time, they are promised they will be “remembered,” but a French censor blocks all correspondence with the French girls they have net, a French Algerian officer argues their case but is essentially racist, and they are giving their lives for a “homeland” that wants them to return as quickly as possible to the Muslim nations of their birth. The human stories of the individual soldiers become enormously important to us.

After the screening, we journalists gathered as always in the area where our mailboxes hold daily piles of press releases. There was a kind of amazement in the air. We included Tony Scott of the New York Times, Lisa Schwarzbaum of Entertainment Weekly, Ken Turan of the Los Angeles Times, and Michel Ciment, the best-known French film critic. We were all smiling at having seen a “real movie” –- remembering the pleasures of traditional craft and storytelling.

“It is the kind of movie the French have forgotten how to make,” said Ciment. “We can make art films and silly sex comedies, but this is what I call a Saturday night movie for real moviegoers. Not great art, but great moviemaking.”

High praise, but higher still came from Ken Turan: “I stayed right until the end.” This statement has to be put in context. Turan’s long-standing policy at all film festivals is to see the beginnings of as many films as possible, perhaps eight or ten a day. “I want to get an overview of the whole festival,” he explains. He’ll see the complete film in Los Angeles when it opens. All the publicists know “it doesn’t mean anything bad when Kenny leaves after 30 minutes.”

“You are still here!” I said.

“I really got wrapped up in it,” he said.

“I can see the ads now,” I said. “Four stars – Ebert! I stayed right until the end! – Turan.”

Worldview - Days of Glory Milos Stehlik from National Public Radio Worldview

Days of Glory, one of the five nominees for Best Foreign Language Academy Awards, recently ranked as Number 65 – pretty near the bottom – of the boxoffice charts. Perhaps if it had star value – Clint Eastwood, Brad Pitt - more people would be going to see it. For those who stay away, it will be a loss. Few films still pack the kind of tight-wound emotional punch and have as strong an incentive to tell a story from history which has not been told, an injustice which should be righted.

It’s also too bad that Days of Glory had to be renamed from its original French title of Indigenes – “the natives.” The derogatory term was applied to the soldiers from the former French colonies who were pressed into service in defense of “la France” during World War II, and reflects more closely the spirit of the film.

The soldiers from Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria and elsewhere in North Africa suffered discrimination both during the fight in which they proved valiant and after the war ended.

It’s obvious that Days of Glory was an important personal project for Rachid Bouchareb, the French filmmaker and producer of Algerian ancestry, and for his collaborators. The conventionally-plotted but moving and emotionally powerful film centers on a group of men who are recruited to fight for liberty, equality and fraternity and humiliated in small ways. African and Arab soldiers are denied fresh tomatoes in the mess hall. African troops fight without getting leave like the French soldiers. They are passed over for promotions.

The four men at the center of Days of Glory are Messaoud, an ace marksman who falls for Irene, a beautiful Frenchwoman, when his unit arrives in Provence, Rassir, a Berber peasant who joins the Army for the money he needs to marry off his younger brother Larbi, and Said, a Moroccan peasant who leaves to fight like his own father did, during World War I.

What makes Days of Glory such a knockout is that it’s a war film which focuses more on personal details and character rather than on battle scenes. Perhaps the most contradictory of them is the unit’s French commanding officer, Sgt. Martinez, a pied noir. He uses Said as his personal valet, but he turns on him viciously when Said discovers that Martinez’s mother was an Arab. But Martinez also defends his men’s loyalty to his superiors and lobbies for their promotion. Yet when a French officer is given the promotion which Abdelkader deserved, Martinez watches the injustice silently.

Silence, acceptance of humiliation and invisibility are the gifts with which France rewards the soldiers. After a tough battle in which the African soldiers beat a German battalion in the mountains, we see a car full of French officers driving by, celebrating the victory. The soldiers who paid with their valor and blood during the battle are made invisible.

Other moments in the film are no less affecting. When a German plane drops thousands of leaflets, written in Arabic, promising the indigenes equal treatment if they desert and cross over to the German side, Said picks up the paper but – we realize - he can’t read. Abdelkader explains the offer to him, and then crumples and throws the paper to the ground. Said picks up the crumpled flier, and stuffs it to fill a hole in his boot.

The film ends with a flash forward to 2004 – as the aged Abdelkader visits the graves of his comrades, now buried in Alsace. A title card tells us of the continuing injustice. On the eve of France granting independence to its African colonies in 1959, the pensions for the soldiers from North African countries were frozen. By 2006, these ageing soldiers –80,000 of them – were being paid a pension which was 1/3 of that paid to non-African veterans. The French parliament voted to restore full pensions to the veterans in 1992, but never appropriated the funds.

After French President Jacques Chirac saw Days of Glory with his wife at a preview screening, she asked him to respond. On the opening day of Indigenes in France, the full pension to the surviving veterans was restored.

Clearly, even this bit of gratitude for the enormous valor and sacrifice of the indigenes in liberating France, is perhaps not enough and long overdue. But the release of the film has sparked other controversy. The film was accused of trying to re-write history by depicting all the French officers in a negative light. “It coincides with a national headache and takes place in a political context of an all-encompassing feeling of repentance,” wrote one online commentator. And the national newsweekly L’Express asked this question on the cover: should we be ashamed to be French?

In a touching moment in Days of Glory, when the soldiers arrive in a village in Provence, Said tells a pretty young girl, “I free a country. It’s my country. Even if I’ve never seen it before.”

BFI | Sight & Sound | Unknown Soldiers: Days Of Glory Ali Jaafar from Sight and Sound, April 2007

World Socialist Web Site Joanne Laurier

Days of Glory Olivier Barlet from Africultures

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LONDON RIVER

Algeria France Great Britain (87 mi) 2009

London River | Chicago Reader JR Jones

A heart-wrenching performance from Brenda Blethyn sustains this 2009 drama by French writer-director Rachid Bouchareb (Days of Glory, Outside the Law). She plays a good-hearted but narrow-minded widow from the Island of Guernsey who grows worried about her daughter in London following the July 2005 terror attacks on the subway and bus system. Arriving at the young woman's flat, she discovers to her horror that the daughter was romantically involved with a French Muslim classmate and may have died alongside him in the Tavistock Square bus that was blown apart by a suicide bomber. Playing the young man's father, Burkinabe actor Sotigui Kouyate maintains a stoic facade as the British woman recoils from and finally accepts his kindness; her character arc seems more admirable than credible, though like many of our 9/11 dramas, the movie drives home the anguish—and anger—of family members who searched in vain for the missing. In English and subtitled French.

London River | review, synopsis, book tickets, showtimes ... - Time Out Wally Hammond

Elisabeth (Brenda Blethyn) is a nervy, bilingual widow and smallholder living on Guernsey, and Ousmane (Sotigui Kouyaté), an ageing, solitary French-domiciled Muslim African and forester. Two people worlds and cultures apart, brought together in London in the immediate, tense aftermath of the July 7 2005 bomb attacks. As a frenetic Elisabeth criss-crosses the hospitals and police stations of Islington searching for her student daughter, her path constantly crosses  that of Ousmane who is on a similar quest to find his long-estranged son. It soon transpires that their respective offspring were a couple: are they dead or alive, possible victims or even, unthinkably, perpetrators?

There’s awkwardness and truth in equal measure in the first British-based film from French-Algerian Rachid Bouchareb, director of ‘Days of Glory’. The film is as interested in the effects of catastrophic events on people’s behaviour and the possible fallout it might cause for multicultural relations as it is in the specific events of the 7/7 tragedy.

There’s a sense of representative caricature in the characters of ‘London River’, made more obvious by the primary contrasts and plot contrivances Bouchareb favours. That is mitigated, however, by the calm overall tone he adopts, the objectivity of his long-shot location work and the expanding emotional space he allows his two main protagonists. Elisabeth’s trajectory from ignorance to knowledge; from her (our?) initial xenophobia – ‘This place is absolutely crawling with Muslims!’ – to greater understanding through the processes of intimate contact takes an age to lift off. But in the film’s latter stages, Blethyn’s heart-on-the-sleeve acting style finally combines with the marvellous Kouyaté’s watchful intelligence and frail dignity to moving effect.

London River | Reviews | Screen Jonathan Romney from Screendaily, also seen here: London River

Brenda Blethyn and Malian actor Sotigui Kouyate are the affecting duo at the centre of London River, Rachid Bouchareb’s spare, astute drama about how conflict can sometimes draw people together. The film world is currently flooded with global-themed dramas about people from different walks of life finding their destinies linked, but Bouchareb’s film is an exemplary specimen of this strain, a tender-but-tough piece of realism that is also in the premium class of London dramas, from Blow-Up on, made by visiting film-makers. Timely and universal themes, plus emotional directness, should ensure healthy sales potential alongside solid audiences at home in the UK, while festivals should come knocking.

After his commanding reinvention of the World War 2 epic in Days Of Glory, Bouchareb returns to a smaller canvas, persuasively channelling the British-realist mode of Ken Loach et al. Mainly (and plausibly) French-language despite its UK setting, the film is set against the background of the July 2005 London bomb attacks. In Guernsey, churchgoing widow Elizabeth Sommers (Blethyn), who runs a small farm, hears the news about the bombs and starts to worry about daughter Jane, a student in the city.

Also concerned is Ousmane, an elderly African forester working in France, who sets out to find his long-estranged son Ali. Both characters arrive in the Haringey/Finsbury Park area of North London, and make inquiries in different directions - Elizabeth going to the police and adding Jane’s photo to the hundreds of ‘missing person’ notes posted after the bombing, while Ousmane is helped by a sympathetic Muslim community leader (Bouajila).

A piece of photographic evidence unites the two searchers, and although Elizabeth initially gives Ousmane a suspicious brush-off, the two prove to have more in common than either had imagined.

Dramatically spare, the film avoids the expected cliches about racial and cultural misunderstanding. Elizabeth’s wariness when exposed to London’s multi-ethnic world is concisely described, her Guernsey background setting her up convincingly as a middle-Englander who has had little exposure to other races. She is frazzled at meeting possibly her first Muslims and uncomprehending when she learns her daughter was studying Arabic - ‘I mean, who speaks Arabic” - but her confusion is subtly portrayed, without targeting the character as a racist.

Very much downplaying the part, slowly building the character of Elizabeth as she discovers the complicated new world around her, Blethyn offers her strongest lead performance since Secrets And Lies. Meanwhile, veteran Kouyate - who worked with Bouchareb in 2001’s Little Senegal - is a stately and immensely commanding presence, interacting with tender empathy in his scenes with Blethyn. Other Bouchareb alumni Bouajila and Roschdy Zem make their presence felt, as does Francis Magee as a policeman. TV footage is used to sharp effect, and unspectacular North London locations, shot in downbeat realist mode by Jerôme Almeras, build up an authentic sense of place, suggesting Bouchareb has more than done his homework. Armand Amar’s crisp, jazzy score is another considerable plus point.

Filmleaf [Chris Knipp]

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Review: 'London River' A Gentle Current Pain, Anger & Acceptance ... Kevin Jagernauth from The Player

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London River - - Movies - New York - Village Voice Michelle Orange

Rachid Bouchareb: my film about the 7/7 London bombings | Film ... Stuart Jeffries interviews the director from The Guardian, July 6, 2010

Rachid Bouchareb review | Little White Lies Tom Seymour interview from Little White Lies, July 14, 2010

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London River | Film review | Film | The Observer - The Guardian Philip French from The Observer

London River Peter Bradshaw from The Guardian

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OUTSIDE THE LAW (Hors La Loi)

France Algeria Belgium (137 mi) 2010

Hundreds protest as 'anti-French' Outside the Law is screened Mark Brown at Cannes from The Guardian, May 21, 2010, which includes a photo gallery: Cannes: police, protests and platforms

There were protests from hundreds of people and beefed-up security at the Cannes film festival today for the first screening of an unflinching dramatisation of French atrocities against Algerians.

Rachid Bouchareb's Outside the Law is in competition for this year's Palme d'Or but it has been condemned by some politicians (even before they had seen it) as historically revisionist and "anti-French."

Earlier today, as it received its first screening, police were out in force as about a thousand people protested in Cannes, some of them members of the far-right National Front. Cinema-goers were frisked as they entered the Palais des Festivals and water bottles confiscated.

Bouchareb, a French-Algerian auteur, said he was dismayed by what he saw as an ill-informed fuss. "I'm surprised because this film is meant to open a calm debate, not a battleground. We need to lance the abscess, we need to have a calm debate about what happened so that we can move on to something else."

One central scene is a recreation of the Sétif massacre in 1945, where French soldiers and policemen are seen gunning down hundreds of innocent, panicking Algerians. There are also scenes in Paris when Algerian suspects are beaten up and murdered by the police. It would be hard to deny that any of that took place.

But there are also scenes where you flinch at the ruthless zeal of the Algerian independence movement, the FLN.

The bloody battle for Algerian independence is still a hugely sensitive subject for some French people.

One of the most vocal politicians against the film is a deputy in the national assembly, Lionnel Luca – a member of Nicolas Sarkozy's UMP. He condemned the film as "anti-French" even before seeing it and is angry that French television channels are among the many funders of the film.

One demonstrator, a war veteran and former French senator Jacques Peyrat, today told Reuters: "What we want to make clear by demonstrating is that it is intolerable that public money from France can be used to sully the French army and France's action in Algeria."

The mayor of Cannes, Bernard Brochand, also a member of the UMP, was reported to be organising a ceremony for the French victims of the Algerian war of independence.

Bouchareb was at pains to point out that his film is a drama, albeit one centring on events that provoke painful memories. It has a Godfather or Once Upon A Time in America feel to it and Bouchareb admits he was trying to create "a sort of western."

The film opens in 1925, when an Algerian family are given three days to leave their land because a French colonist now owns it. It then follows three brothers – played by Jamel Debbouze, Roschdy Zem and Sami Bouajila – who survive the Sétif massacre and eventually end up, with their mother, in France.

One is an intellectual, one a fighter and one a wheeler-dealer. The first two become leaders in the FLN while the third pursues his dream of creating the first Algerian boxing champ.

It reunites some of the cast and crew who were in Bouchareb's Oscar-nominated 2006 movie Days of Glory, which dramatised the terrible discrimination suffered by North Africans fighting for France in the second world war. That film touched a nerve, shaming the French government into finally paying pensions to north African war veterans.

Today there was warm applause at Outside the Law's screening. It put itself firmly in the running for one of the awards to be given out on Sunday evening.

Outside The Law (Hors La Loi) Mike Goodridge at Cannes from Screendaily

A fascinatingly under-documented period of recent history - the armed Algerian resistance movement within France in the 1950s - gets a slick gangster movie-style movie treatment from Rachid Bouchareb in Outside The Law. Reuniting much of the talent from his 2006 Cannes prize-winner Indigenes including the three main actors - Jamel Debbouze, Roschdy Zem and Sami Bouajila - the film is handsomely produced and always watchable even while the clichéd story built around the history threatens to derail it.

Critics looking for a companion piece to The Battle Of Algiers will be scornful of the formulaic conventions adopted here, but that audience-friendly melodrama will help it reach a wider French audience when it opens on Sept 22. Chances of success at home are especially high since the film has already sparked a furious controversy from right wing politicians, historians and war veterans over its content and issues of historical accuracy. Indeed security was tight at the Cannes screenings today with a ramped up police presence, body searches and confiscation of water bottles.

International sales could also benefit from the storm of media attention and the portrait of the Algerian struggle for independence; Bouchareb has called it the second of an Algerian trilogy and it could be an arthouse success overseas along the lines of Indigenes or other recent hot button movies such as The Baader Meinhof Complex or Gomorrah.

There is no doubt that French nationalists will struggle with the portrayal here of French oppression, from the massacre of at least 8,000 Algerians at Setif in 1945 to persecution on the ground in France and the establishment of a police-backed terror group called The Red Hand to battle the Algerian terrorists. But if Bouchareb opts for a too-simplistic good guys (Algerians) and bad guys (French) approach, he has to be applauded for tackling a sensitive subject which is still avoided in France - that of 132 years of French rule in Algeria and the bloody battle for independence that ended in 1962 with French defeat.

The movie opens with the eviction from his land on French orders of an Algerian man (Ahmed Benaissa), his wife (Boudraa), their three sons and two daughters. It then skips forward to the peaceful demonstrations of May 8, 1945, in Setif where thousands of Algerians marched to demand greater civil rights and French soldiers opened fire. The father of the family is killed as are the two daughters; one of the sons, Abdelkader (Bouajila) is arrested and taken to a prison in Paris, the other Said (Debbouze) pledges to take his mother to France to be near him. The third son Messaoud (Zem) is fighting on the French side in Indochina.

Once in Paris, Said and his mother set up home in an Algerian shantytown in Nanterre and Said starts to make a living as a pimp and low-level crook; once out of prison Abdelkader continues in the resistance movement, gradually climbing up the ladder of the FLN, he is joined in the struggle by Messaoud.

Abdelkader and Messaoud begin to take increasingly violent actions, killing members of the rival MNA party and policemen who are known to torture Algerians. They raise millions of Francs to fund the war effort and sabotage factories and fuel dumps. But eventually a former colonel from the French army called Faivre (Blancan) gets on their trail and the three brothers’ destinies are sealed.

The tone is more like The Godfather than a heroic WWII resistance movie or rousing historical epic (Malcolm X, Michael Collins) and Bouchareb spends a lot of screen time showing how the covert organisation is built up, murders committed and revenge taken in true Corleone style. As the leaders of the gang, Zem and Bouajila are fine and occupy the natural centre of the film while Debbouze’s character, the club owner and boxing promoter, is marginalised. Boudraa offers the much needed female presence and warmth as their long-suffering mother.

Dave Calhoun Dave Calhoun at Cannes from Times Out London, May 22, 2010

Rachid Bouchareb’s ‘Outside the Law’ (‘Hors-La-Loi’) is a fierce historical tale with Jean-Pierre Melville’s 1969 resistance film ‘Army of the Shadows’ written all over it. Even more sweeping and provocative than his 2006 film ‘Days of Glory’, which honoured the contribution of North African troops to the liberation of France in 1944, Bouchareb’s latest film is a fictionalisation of the origins and campaign of Algeria’s National Liberation Front (FLN), the movement that waged a campaign of violence in France and Algeria in the run-up to the country’s independence in 1962. It’s a big and bold film and one whose reserved passion and stately style sweeps you along with it.

The background of ‘Outside the Law’ may be historical - we move from 1925 to 1962 over the film’s two-and-a-bit hours - but Bouchareb adopts a strident perspective by inventing the characters of three Algerian brothers, who we first meet as they’re thrown off their land as children in the 1920s. We jump to May 1945, when on the same day as France was celebrating the end of war, a conflict broke out between police and protestors in the Algerian town of Sétif, leading thousands of deaths. Bouchareb’s argument is that this was a colonial massacre - we watch as scores of men are gunned down in the streets – although this episode has caused the most amount of debate prior to film’s Cannes screening, with some arguing that Bouchareb has laid the blame for deaths too squarely on the French authorities. Whether or not Bouchareb’s emphasis is skewed, surely the point is that it was events such as these in Sétif that politicised young men who would later become armed underground fighters? If the perception was of a massacre rather than something more nuanced, that’s a valid perspective for the film to take in describing the development of its characters.

Among the chaos at Sétif, we again meet Saïd (Jamel Debbouze), Messaoud (Roschdy Zem) and Abdelkader (Sami Bouajila), now adults and living in the town with their mother. Time moves on again and the family is fractured: Saïd moves to Paris with his mother, moving into a shanty town in Nanterre and earning a living on the shady streets of Pigalle; Abdelkader is arrested in Algeria and ends up in a French jail; and Messaoud goes off to fight for France in Indochina.

The film takes flight and fully enters Melville territory in the late 1950s, when we settle into a period when Abdelkader becomes a leader in the Paris branch of the FLN, Messaoud joins his brother in the resistance movement and the less political Saïd graduates from running prostitutes to running his own cabaret club and promoting boxing fights. It’s the cold lack of glamour of Melville’s 1969 film about the French resistance that Bouchareb successfully co-opts as Abdelkader becomes a steely underground operator, prepared to turn on other Algerians – and perhaps even his family – if it’s for the good of the movement. The tone is sweeping and epic. The effect is to tie these brothers’ experiences into the wider French-Algerian experience of men co-opted by colonialism but treated as an underclass both in Algeria and France and pushed to violent extremes at a time when traditional politics was failing them. 

Bouchareb’s aim is to shed light on the individual passions, conflicts and backgrounds behind the collective action of the FLN and his invention of these three brothers offers a very successful way of encapsulating a variety of experience. In French political terms, Bouchareb is striving to reclaim the work of the FLN as a movement as honourable and as necessary as the wartime resistance, which is why his referencing of ‘Army of the Shadows’ is more than a stylistic choice: it’s a plea for the Algerian experience to be seen in a similar context and for the FLN’s agents to be acknowledged as facing personal choices just as tough and conflicted yet vital as anyone who fought in the resistance.

As a thriller and drama, it’s a marked improvement on ‘Days of Glory’. The performances are terrific (topped by Bouajila as Abdelkader) and the dialogue manages to encapsulate various debates without feeling preachy or false. It’s an impressive achievement as an engaged entertainment and a powerful rallying cry for a nation to think more deeply about its colonial past and the ancestry of many of its citizens.

Guy Lodge at Cannes from In Contention, May 22, 2010

Fabien Lemercier at Cannes from Cineuropa, May 21, 2010

Charles Ealy at Cannes from Austin 360 Movie Blog, May 22, 2010

Cannes Film Festival 2010: Day 10 – Outside the Law, Boxing Gym, Hahaha, and Tender Son—The Frankenstein Project Matt Noller at Cannes from The House Next Door, May 22, 2010

Cannes 2010. Rachid Bouchareb's "Outside the Law" David Hudson at Cannes from The Auteurs, May 22, 2010

Analysis: France's Algerian wounds Jan Repa from BBC news, November 2, 2004

France-Algeria ties still strong Aidan Lewis from BBC News, December 3, 2007

Cannes protest over Algeria film BBC News, May 21, 2010

Cannes Film Festival 2010: 'Outside the Law' causes a stir Kenneth Turan at Cannes from The LA Times, May 21, 2010

Controversial Cannes entry probes France’s colonial history in Algeria Jenny Barchfield from KTLA News, May 21, 2010

JUST LIKE A WOMAN B- 80

France Great Britain USA (90 mi) 2012

European directors coming to America have a mixed record, especially those on the arthouse or independent film circuit, as they bring with them a different sensibility that doesn’t always translate well on the screen, often initially ignored and misunderstood by American filmgoers. Certainly from a sociological point of view, Europeans aren’t shackled by the same history and bring not only fresh insight but a sense of openness into the racial and cultural divisions that tend to separate us. Call them visionary, if you will, as these are certainly unusual glimpses of America.

Michelangelo Antonioni’s Zabriskie Point (1970) comes to mind, considered a huge financial flop at the time, now viewed as a beautifully abstract, experimental, ballet-like homage to violence, where his picture of America consisted of vintage automobiles, giant street billboards, radicals, police violence, capitalist cronies, endless desert landscapes and discontented youth, conceiving images that remain unique to cinema, an unforgettable image of out of control violence that remains a symbol of America, and a powerful reminder of what America exports around the world.

Wim Wenders’ HAMMETT (1982), something of an oddity, an homage to noir films and pulp fiction, was another critical and commercial disaster, initially shot as an introverted, location-based character study where a writer disappears into his own fiction, but demands by American producer Francis Ford Coppola for protracted re-shoots while making wholesale cuts of the original film only led to a protracted fallout between the two artists. By the time the film hit the screen, only 30% of Wenders’ footage allegedly remained, while the rest was re-shot by Coppola himself as the executive producer.

Mira Nair’s MISSISSIPPI MASALA (1991), a film where the Indian director reportedly received substantial pressure by financial backers to cast a white in the lead role. This is a sociologically edgy, multi-layered, and unconventional romance set primarily in rural Mississippi, gently probing the difficulties of a relationship between a black American and an Indian immigrant, still regarded for its poignant interracial observations.

Bruno Dumont’s 29 PALMS (2003), shot on the fly in Death Valley and the Joshua Tree Desert in a landscape resembling Antonioni’s Zabriskie Point, the first of Dumont’s films to be set outside his native Bailleul, France, and remains his most divisive work to date, exquisitely photographed with a master’s eye for composition, featuring a sexually charged, but bored and loveless couple adrift in the American desert, but make no mistake, this is confrontational cinema of the highest order.

Wong Kar-wai’s MY BLUEBERRY NIGHTS (2007), where the unusual casting choice of American singer Norah Jones seems to have faded from our memories, as the Hong Kong director never seemed to find his footing on American soil, lacking his customary depth and any real emotional involvement, but the film still demonstrates his trademark cinematography and stylized visualization.

Paolo Sorrentino’s This Must Be the Place (2011), a weirdly elusive and strangely intoxicating road movie of the American west, as seen from an often amusing European vantage point. The Italian director is one of the most original visual stylists working today, where his kinetically inspiring visualizations hold the key to the film, using the desolate emptiness of a desert landscape encased in wintry snow as a place that may as well be the end of the world, creating a highly impressionistic Americanized landscape and a revelatory road to redemption.

But the film this most resembles may be Louis Malle’s Alamo Bay (1985), a French director normally known for his subtlety and tender observations, but instead offers a particularly heavy handed illustration of American racism, showing how Vietnamese refugees transported to a particularly impoverished poor white region in southern Texas are subjected to hatred, open racial hostility, and unending violence. While it’s a fictionalized recreation of true events, his clumsy depiction of ethnic strife feels overly contrived and awkwardly staged, missing the natural rhythm and grace of his earlier films.

In a similar manner, Rachid Bouchareb, a Parisian born director of Algerian descent, whose earlier films DAYS OF GLORY (2006) and OUTSIDE THE LAW (2010) are somewhat strident historical observations recalling the 20^th century clashes between Algerian and French cultures, yet his films are a strangely contemporary depiction of racism. This film also has a clumsy, overbearing, painting by the numbers feel to it, feeling overly cliché’d, not to mention a host of other problems, yet there is something oddly compelling to be found if viewers stick around for the finish, as the film has a killer ending, changing the entire complexity of the film.

A blend of Americana with the Arab world that combines anti-Muslim bigotry with sexism, the film takes place in Chicago following the routine life patterns of two distinctly different women in their 20’s, Marilyn, Sienna Miller, a free-thinking receptionist at a small computer repair firm, and Mona, Golshifteh Farahani, Best Actress winner at the Iranian Fajr Film Festival at the age of 14 for Dariush Mehrjui’s THE PEAR TREE (1998), also starring in Asghar Farhadi’s ABOUT ELLY (2009), a more reclusive, arranged bride from Egypt who is married to her husband Mourad (Roschdy Zem), where both live with his hostile and overbearing mother, Chafia Boudraa, while running a corner mini mart grocery story. In a running parallel of racist anti-Arabic taunts, while the store has “Go home Sandniggers” painted on the window by vandals, Mona receives endless insults and threats of replacement from her vicious mother-in-law, complaining she’s damaged goods because after five years she can’t get pregnant, considered a fate worse than death in her culture. In order to have time away from her, Mona takes evening belly dancing classes, as does Marilyn, an aspiring professional dancer with hopes of entering a Santa Fe dance contest.

In quick order, both undergo major upheavals in their lives, where Marilyn loses her job and finds her layabout husband in bed with another bimbo, while Mona finds herself under a barrage of insults from Mourad’s mother, inadvertently mixing up her heart medicine, discovering her mother-in-law is not breathing in the morning, sending her away in an ambulance. The oppressive situation literally buries both women in their own personal anguish, where both end up on the run in Marilyn’s convertible car heading for Santa Fe, where Marilyn hopes to turn her life around, dancing in several restaurants and bars along the way to earn a little spare cash. Initially there’s nothing whatsoever subtle about Bouchareb’s direction, holding the bigotry and male dominated oppression in our faces, where the differing cultures take some getting used to, also the not so likeable characters, as well as the situations, where they’re dancing in redneck bars that inevitably explode into drunken mayhem, causing quick exits into the night.

But once they’re out on the road, away from the hassles of an urban environment, the largesse of the landscape slowly starts to intrude, where the characters aren’t as rushed or in a state of nervous anxiety, feeling a newly discovered sense of freedom. While the pastoral stops along the road may seem intentionally idyllic, setting up their tent alongside small lakes or in the middle of a majestic plateau, an odd place to see women belly dancing under the stars, and even the director himself seems to overemphasize exposure of the female anatomy, where liberation may also be viewed as objectification, their lives, however, remain in turmoil, especially when Mona reveals what she’s escaping from. While the film bombards the viewer throughout with overwrought melodrama, initially the two actresses feel too lightweight, unable to adequately project the crushing weight of the world they’re carrying on their shoulders. But as the film slows to a near crawl, where we witness the last of a series of seemingly unending, racially tinged atrocities, the oppressive tone of the film shifts, no longer moralizing or force-feeding the audience, having gotten that out of the director’s system, shifting to a greater use of abstract visualization, becoming a haunting tone poem of quiet reflection. The somber tone at the end is stunning, beautifully realized in a montage of America that finally feels genuine and sincere, the first part of a planned Arab-American trilogy.

JUST LIKE A WOMAN Facets Multi Media

Just Like A Woman stars Sienna Miller (Factory Girl) and Golshifteh Farahani as two women who meet as they journey from Chicago to New Mexico, both escaping broken marriages. Iranian actress Farahani plays an Arab immigrant fleeing her marriage in Chicago, while Miller plays a woman who leaves her cheating husband to pursue a secret passion for belly dancing. From an outsider's perspective, they have little in common, one a receptionist at a computer repair company, the other a mini-mart-owning Algerian immigrant. But both Chicago women yearn to break free of their troubled home lives, and when fate intervenes, their paths intersect in this free-spirited road movie in the vein of Thelma & Louise.

Making his English-language debut, French-Algerian director Rachid Bouchareb (Days of Glory, Outside the Law) presents a slice of Americana, detailing the ways in which the United States interacts with the Arab world.

Just Like a Woman Peddles Feminist Empowerment ... - Village Voice Nick Schager

A multicultural mini–Thelma and Louise but far duller than that description implies, Just Like a Woman peddles feminist empowerment with one-note didacticism. In a world full of men who are either unfaithful, unsupportive, or simply predatory scumbags, Marilyn (Sienna Miller) and Mona (Golshifteh Farahani) abandon Chicago for the open road, Marilyn having lost her job and been betrayed by her deadbeat husband, and Mona wanted by the cops for having accidentally killed the orthodox mother-in-law who hated her for being infertile. On a journey to Santa Fe where Marilyn plans to audition for a belly-dancing troupe, the two shake their hips for cash at local dives while dealing with the same types of intolerant creeps they left behind at home. Director Rachid Bouchareb's film vainly tries to offset its all-men-are-dogs message by having its protagonists encounter a few helpful fellows. Yet there's no complication to the proceedings, just one attractively shot scene after another in which Marilyn and Mona find strength and resolve through joint opposition to the rampant sexism (and anti-Muslim bigotry) that greets them at every turn—as well as via bouts of bikinied sunbathing and swimming in which the camera gawks at its leading ladies just the way the cretinous guy villains would.

Just Like a Woman: movie review | review, synopsis ... - Time Out David Fear

Marilyn (Sienna Miller) is stuck with a deadbeat spouse, a dead-end job and dreams of being a belly dancer. Mona (Golshifteh Farahani) is an Arab immigrant made to feel guilty over having not given her husband (Roschdy Zem) a child yet. Unexpected unemployment, infidelity and accidental matri-in-law-icide find this Chicago twosome hightailing toward Santa Fe, where an audition offers Marilyn a brighter future. You can see several narrative off-ramps that Rachid Bouchareb’s drama might take: a Thelma & Louise–like road movie about female empowerment; some Full Monty–ish cutesy-quirk involving liberation through hip-shaking; or a vehicle for a starlet whose looks distract from her talent (how does one solve a problem like Sienna?) and who believes that a dowdy turn will establish her thespian bona fides.

So imagine your relief when Just Like a Woman only cherry-picks elements from each, forgoing formulas in favor of the sort of gentler character study the Franco-Algerian filmmaker excels in. (See the criminally neglected London River.) Only the drifting, observational structure he’s set up here never really gels; Bouchareb gives his actors room to roam, but you still get only skin-deep sketches instead of flesh-and-blood women. Worse, when clichés do start popping up—those phone calls back home, an unexpected if convenient act of violence—the overall loosey-goosiness makes them stand out that much more. Movies genuinely attuned to the nuances of female bonding are regrettably rare; so, it seems, are ones that know how to make good on their promise without breaking just like a little girl.

Just Like a Woman Movie Review 2 : Shockya.com Karen Benardello

Contending with the important issues of cultural differences and self-importance and identity can be a difficult process for many women in an ethnically diverse city. Finding their rightful place in society while also achieving their personal goals and dreams is the strong motivating factor that drives the two diverse female lead characters in the new drama ‘Just Like a Woman.’ While the two women, Marilyn and Mona, come from different cultures and have diverse motivations, aspirations and expectations placed on them, they bond over the fact that they’re searching for at least one meaningful relationship as they search for financial stability.

‘Just Like a Woman’ follows the newly laid off secretary Marilyn (Sienna Miller), whose day becomes even worse when she arrives home early and unexpectedly finds her aloof husband George (Tim Guinee) having an affair in their bedroom. The affair is the last straw that pushes her out of their marriage. She sets out to leave Chicago and travel to Santa Fe, at the advice of her bellydancing class teacher. Marilyn is eager to finally go after her dream by auditioning for a leading bellydancing company in New Mexico.

On her way out of Illinois, Marilyn picks up the Egyptian-American Mona (Golshifteh Farahani), an acquaintance who works at the local convenience store she regularly shops at. Desperate to get away from a messy legal situation involving her husband, Mourad (Roschdy Zem), who owns the deli where she works, and his domineering mother (Chafia Boudraa), Mona happily travels with Marilyn to Santa Fe. The two escape their unhappy marriages and learn about friendship and what it truly means to be happy.

‘Just Like a Woman’s production designer, Petra Barchi, effortlessly created unique settings that emphasize the struggles that both Marilyn and Mona are forced to overcome, as well their goals and aspirations they’d like to realize. Barchi cleverly created a simple, unadorned trailer for Marilyn and George to live in that’s void of any true personal or sentimental belongings, which echoes the emotional distance that has increasingly grown between the two. Mona’s house, which she shares with Mourad, often appears dimly lit and cramped with her mother-in-law’s presence and belongings. The confined house stresses Mona’s continued feelings of being ruled by her mother-in-law’s overbearing ways.

But once Marilyn and Mona embark on their liberating journey to Santa Fe together, Marilyn’s free-spirited convertible car and the openness of the camping grounds where they spend their nights truly reflect the womens’ need to find their own identities and freedom. They no longer feel restricted by what their husbands and jobs expect of them, and liberatingly spoke of their individual dreams. Barchi cleverly used each location to her advantage to showcase the womens’ goals, from having them set up their own tents in park forests and deserts, to having them practice their bellydancing in the picnic area of a campground that was in full view of the other campers.

The film’s costume designers, Mahemitie Deregnaucourt and Laura Darner, also creatively showcased Marilyn and Mona’s desire to create their own identities by dressing the two women in drastically transformative clothing. Marilyn was initially shown not always caring about her appearance, as she worked in a warehouse, and would continuously wear dark, drab clothing to match her environment. While working at the deli and at home with her husband, Mona would always dress in mundane outfits that covered her as well. But as soon as the two women started traveling together so that Marilyn could embark on her ambition to become a professional bellydancer, they took on temporary dancing jobs to make money along the way. Deregnaucourt and Darner dressed the two characters in flashy, sequined costumes that drew attention to their bodies, showing how they instantly felt freed from the domestic problems that were preventing them from achieving their goals.

‘Just Like a Woman’ innovatively chronicled the drastic transformation of its two female lead characters, who courageously made the decision to leave their mundane lives that held no chance of improvement, in order to achieve their dreams. Their growing friendship and drive to go after what they truly want was effectively told through the film’s memorable visuals, including the creative production design by Barchi and the glitzy costumes created by Deregnaucourt and Darner. Not only did the visuals creatively emphasize the drama’s important message that people should take a chance to go after their dreams, but also showed how important true close friendships can be in life.

IONCINEMA [Nicholas Bell]

JUST LIKE A WOMAN  Frank Swietek from One Man’s Opinion

Just Like a Woman Movie Review : Shockya.com Brent Simon, also seen here: Shared Darkness: Just Like a Woman

'Just Like a Woman,' movie review - NY Daily News Elizabeth Weitzman

User Reviews from imdb Author: Ordinary Review (theordinaryreview@gmail.com) from Switzerland

Interview with composer Eric Neveux   William Kelly Milionis interview with the French composer from The Examiner, July 8, 2013

Just Like a Woman: Film Review - Hollywood Reporter John DeFore

Movie review: 'Just Like a Woman' - Los Angeles Times Amy Nicholson from The LA Times

'Just Like a Woman' Follows Sienna Miller Across the Plains ... The New York Times

Boulting, John

BRIGHTON ROCK

Great Britain (92 mi) 1947

Greene Pastures David Denby from The New Yorker

Few good writers have been adapted with greater frequency or distinction than Graham Greene, and the 1947 version of his novel “Brighton Rock” (screening at Film Forum June 19-25) is one of the strongest of these films. The picture, set amid the forced gaiety and furtive carnality of the British sea resort, is dominated by the young Richard Attenborough, who plays Pinky, a teen-age gangster in a suit and rakish hat. Greene, a Catholic writer, believed literally in sin, Hell, and redemption, and Attenborough, silent, calculating, pale, and unblinking (his eyes were a great acting tool), offers one of the cinema’s most convincing embodiments of paranoia and violence. Adapted by Greene and Terrence Rattigan and directed by John Boulting (part of the brother team that later made comedies), “Brighton Rock” combines religious themes with the sordid desperation of petty gangsters. There are some classic sequences and a fine performance by Hermione Baddeley as the raucous old music-hall performer who is on to Pinky’s bad intentions.

Brighton Rock at Film Forum Vadim Rizov from The Village Voice, June 17, 2009, also here: The Village Voice [Vadim Rizov]

If nothing else, 1947's Brighton Rock marked the first time Graham Greene was pleased by an on-screen rendition of his work—but it's much more than a Third Man dry run. A seedy noir, equal parts concealed-camera atmosphere and tense set pieces, director John Boulting's adaptation primarily concerns itself with the last days and maneuverings of young psychopath Pinkie Brown (Richard Attenborough, before the suffocating kindliness and prestige projects). Pinkie wants to be a big-business bookie, but pre-war Brighton ("thankfully no more," the opening titles assure us) already has its kingpins. Pinkie can't stop himself from committing quite unnecessary murders, but he's not as sharp as he thinks; notably, buffoonish-looking drunkard/music-hall entertainer Ida Arnold (Hermione Baddeley) has his number, and spends most of the movie trying to get people to listen to her. More Dickensian than usual for Greene, there's colorful, larger-than-life supporting players aplenty, and the location shooting is even stronger than in Rialto Pictures' last British exhumation, It Always Rains on Sunday. The demerits are slight: Boulting strains too visibly for "art" status with some overly pushy compositions, and Greene's got his usual monomaniacal fixation with Catholic guilt and redemption—though here, for once, it's worked into the plot, and rather neatly at that.

BFI Screen Online Tony Whitehead Show full synopsis

When Brighton Rock (d. John Boulting, 1947) was retitled Young Scarface for its American release, the implication was clear. Here was a British thriller in the tradition of the American gangster movie, a genre dating back to such durable classics as Little Caesar (US, d. Mervyn LeRoy, 1930) and the original Scarface (US, d. Howard Hawks, 1932).

American gangster movies emerged out of the 1930s Depression, a time of power struggles between organised crime leaders vying for control of illicit or unobtainable commodities. The British tradition arose from the similar black marketeering and 'spiv' culture of wartime and post-war rationing and deprivation. Although the film's preface announces its location as a Brighton "in the years between the two wars... now happily no more", the clothes and mannerisms of Pinkie's gang place them very much within the familiar archetype of the wartime spiv.

Graham Greene's novel had been written in 1937, towards the end of the Depression. John Boulting was initially attracted by the way it so vividly evoked a sense of place: "The setting was not a backdrop; it was one of the characters." The Boultings' film uses its locations equally well, richly depicting the town's bar rooms, racetracks, cafés and boarding houses, and benefiting from Harry Waxman's superb, atmospheric cinematography.

A contemporary Daily Mirror reviewer accused the film of "false, nasty, cheap sensationalism". However, most critics then and since, have warmed to the realism of the setting, noting how the homeliness of the tea shops and the seaside pierrot shows perfectly complements the menace of the gangsters' activities, their rivalry with other groups and internal conflicts.

It is a contrast also encapsulated in the two leading performances. Richard Attenborough and Hermione Baddeley had already appeared in a stage version of the novel, as had William Hartnell, who plays Pinkie's henchman Dallow. Attenborough's astonishing performance as perversely puritanical teenage gang leader Pinkie has an edgy intensity which is counter-pointed by Hermione Baddeley's warm and vibrant portrayal of touring player Ida.

Brighton Rock was not the only new and distinctive British crime movie to appear in the immediate post-war years, but the fine contributions of its participants, both behind and in front of the cameras, have made it the most memorable. It remains the most celebrated antecedent of later works like The Criminal (d. Joseph Losey, 1960), Get Carter (d. Mike Hodges, 1971) and Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (d. Guy Ritchie, 1998).

Bitter Candy Graham Fuller from ArtForum, June 19, 2009

THE TITLE OF THE SUPERB British thriller Brighton Rock (1948) derives from a long, hard, sticky pink candy. With the word BRIGHTON imprinted across its length, the confection is a kind of civic talisman sold at the seafront of the southern English town that was once a mecca—part regal, part seedy—for London day-trippers. Graham Greene and the playwright Terrence Rattigan wrote the screenplay, though Greene said his original treatment was the basis for the film. It was based on his metaphysical 1938 novel, in which it’s implied that an informer is killed when a stick of the phallic candy is rammed down his throat.

Given the censorious climate of the time, Greene, the director, John Boulting, and his producer brother, Roy, naturally had to avoid the blatant double entendre, but the fraught sexuality of the novel crept into the film’s story. Repulsed by physical intimacy, the sadistic young gangster Pinky (Richard Attenborough) twitches with disgust when his besotted bride, Rose (Carol Marsh), embraces him.

Tense and puritanical, Pinky was probably influenced by the gynophobic priest and writer Baron Corvo and informed by a boy who tormented Greene at school. Having inherited a gang of inept racetrack “spivs,” Pinky murders the informer and spends the rest of the movie trying to avoid a blowsy middle-aged entertainer, Ida (Hermione Baddeley), who has pledged to bring him to justice. Learning that Rose, a waitress, stumbled on evidence that could convict him, Pinky marries her—they’re both Roman Catholics, both underage—and leads her toward hell. Although the movie depicts Brighton’s masses at play in the sun, its true world is that of film noir—of shadowy staircases, of a rain-swept pier at night, of a racetrack where thugs cut Pinky’s face and try to kill a harmless old member of his crew.

Brighton Rock was the first novel in which Greene wrestled with Catholicism. He achieved this through a dialectal examination of good and evil, represented by Rose and Pinky, on the one hand, and right-over-wrong, which steadfast Ida recognizes as the only moral truth, on the other. But the film censors weren’t prepared to allow even a subtextual morality play, and the script was “slashed to pieces,” Greene later complained, before production. The notion of “mortal sin” is present, however, and the petrified Rose uses that phrase when Pinky insists she commit a damning act.

The most famous change from the novel was the softened ending, which Greene wrote himself. “I am completely guilty,” he later said of the scene in which Rose is led to believe in Pinky’s love. There’s an ambiguity in that moment, as the farsighted viewer will perceive. Is Rose granted salvation, or is the “worst horror of all,” as Greene wrote in the book, merely suspended?

Goatdog's Movies [Michael W. Phillips Jr.]

Film Noir of the Week Jay M.

moviediva

Turner Classic Movies [Jeremy Arnold]

Film-Forward.com Kent Turner

Britmovie

Epinions [metalluk]

The Auteurs Glenn Kenny

Film Noir of the Week John Chard

Filmcritic.com Chris Cabin

Dennis Schwartz also seen here: If you have any kind of feel for noir films, this one is in the don't miss category.

Read The Full Empire Review » Ian Nathan

DVD Outsider [Camus]

DVD Times Noel Megahey

Blu-rayDefinition.com UK Blu-ray [Brandon A. DuHamel]

Film 365 (Blu-ray) David Beckett

Screenjabber.com [Blu-ray]

MovieMuser.co.uk [Mike Martin] Blu-Ray

Bina007 Movies [Caterina Benincasa]

Edinburgh U Film Society [Stephen Cox]

Epinions [Stephen O. Murray]

Bearded Freak - A-Z capsule review

Brilliant Observations on 2122 Films [Clayton Trapp]

The Incredible Suit

John Boulting's BRIGHTON ROCK Starring Richard Attenborough ... Film Forum

FilmFour.com

Variety.com [Variety Staff]

Brighton Rock' then and now Wally Hammond from Time Out London

Time Out New York [Keith Uhlich]

Brighton Rock - Film - Time Out Chicago Ben Kenigsberg

BBCi - Films Jamie Russell

Guardian/Observer

The story behind Greene’s classic Jeremy Lewis from The Daily Telegraph, January 21, 2011

DVD: Brighton Rock (1947) (PG) - Reviews, Films - The Independent Ben Walsh

The Screen's Seduction of Graham Greene, in Films Like 'Brighton ... Terrence Rafferty from The New York Times, June 12, 2009

DVDBeaver.com Blu-ray [Gary Tooze]

The New York Times > Books > 'Brighton Rock' Jane Spence Southron book review from The New York Times, June 26, 1938

Brighton Rock (1947 film) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Bourdieu, Emmanuel

GREEN PARADISE (Vert Paradis) C 73

France (88 mi) 2003

The filmmaker is the son of the famous French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu and holds his own graduate degree in philosophy. He has previously worked with fellow filmmaker Arnaud Desplechin, with whom he collaborated for several screenplays, and he is part of a group of young intellectual French filmmakers known as the “Rive Gauche,” which includes Desplechin, Jeanne Balibar, Mathieu Amalric, Denis and Bruno Podalydès and Emmanuel Devos. That said, they were no help to him on this film, which lacked any sense of cinematic style or cohesion throughout. A young sociologist from Paris returns to his childhood countryside home to tape interviews with old friends, supposedly surveying the problems of bachelorhood. What he does instead is reopen a can of worms, re-instigating age-old problems from his youth that had all but been settled, but now become the focus of the town’s attention once again. While the actors were terrific, particularly the always-hesitant Denis Podalydès and the always-beautiful Natasha Règnier, who, the last time we saw her was flying out of a window in DREAMLIFE OF ANGELS. This is mostly a dark and somber film of missed opportunities, with occasional humor, where the screenplay is replete with characters taking the wrong road, where we, the viewers, can see the possible consequences that lie before them, but the characters themselves haven’t got a clue. What supposedly should be a tense, suspenseful story filled with plot twists instead turns out to be a complete disappointment, as plotlines just disappear altogether and the supposed tension is never released; the story just ends on a flat note. Also, of note, this film has the worst musical film score ever, something out of Masterpiece Theater for television that just bores the audience to death with its overwrought seriousness.

POISON FRIENDS (Les Amitis Malefiques)

France (103 mi) 2006

Poison Friends (Les Amitis Malefiques) Lee Marshall in Cannes

The theme of young male friendship gets a vigorous though hardly ground-breaking workout in Poison Friends, French screenwriter Emmanuel Bourdieu’s second directorial outing, which opened Critics‘ Week at Cannes. Though the protagonists are already at university, this still qualifies as a coming-of-age movie, which (not for the first time) shows how rejecting false masters, and learning to identify true ones, is part of the process of growing up.

Timeless in its best sequences, dated in its worst, the film has good dramatic bone structure but lacks a certain punch. The cast will ring bells only with audiences on home ground, where Poison Friends can expect to do respectable business somewhere in the middle of the homegrown top 10. Overseas prospects are shakier.

Set at an unnamed Parisian university that closely resembles the Sorbonne, Poison Friends is essentially the story of Eloi Duhaut (Malik Zidi), the university-age son of a famous writer mother (Dominique Blanc), though the script nicely smokescreens, for a while, the fact that Eloi is the hero of the piece.

The film ‘s dark centre - though one wishes he were darker - is Andre Morney (Thibault Vincon), one of those student legends (we‘ve all met them) who comes on as a nihilist intellectual giant but turns out to be a fake. But Eloi and another impressionable young arts student, Alexandre (Alexandre Steiger) are impressed enough to become awkward disciples of their anti-Christ fellow student, who in reality is just a smarter version of the school bully.

In the process they go along with Andre‘s cruel exclusion of the Judas of the piece, Edouard (Thomas Blanchard), who is guilty, in the master ‘s eyes, of the ultimate crime: creative scribbling - which can only add to the sum total of unnecessary writing, Andre ‘s main bugbear.

With his Jim Morrison looks and instant ability to quote any fashionable thinker or writer, in order, as often as not, to put him down, Andre seems more a child of the deconstructionist 1980s than the relativist 2000s. Only a few tell-tale signs - like the latest version of the Mac operating system - inform us that we are indeed in the present day.

Poison Friends is a small film, but also, for most of its length, a well-crafted one. The parabola (the weak become strong as the strong one becomes weak) is neatly played out, and the four young actors are all good, with Thibault standing out in his role as a riven, angry contradiction: a self-hating egoist, a girl-hating lothario, a writer-hating literary critic.

Gregoire Hetzel ‘s romantic piano-and-strings classical score racks up the timeslip factor, the sense that we are in a period as mythically remote as the scenes from Racine which budding actor Alexandre keeps rehearsing. Visually, cramped interiors dominate, a feeling emphasised by the use of the Scope format not as a wide breathing space but as a vice, pinching characters at the top and bottom of the screen.

It‘s a shame that the end takes on a didactic tone, flashing the script messages too insistently. This is solid material, but one wonders what it might have become if it had been darkened down by a director like Cedric Kahn or Jacques Audiard. As it is, the stakes of the dangerous master-disciple game are never raised quite high enough.

Poison Friends J. Hoberman from the Village Voice

Poison Friends, written and directed by Emmanuel Bourdieu, is a literary film about literary pretensions. Elusive, arch, and very French, Bourdieu's second feature (which had its local premiere at the 2006 New York Film Festival) presents a clique of oversophisticated Paris university students—all passionately involved in articulating themselves. The first day of classes, Eloi (Malik Zidi) and his friend Alexandre (Alexandre Steiger) come under the spell of the charismatic André (Thibault Vinçon), a classmate who delivers an impromptu disquisition on "necessary writing" that amazes the sullen lecture hall and prompts the formidably dyspeptic professor (comic actor Jacques Bonnaffé) to pronounce him brilliant.

A mischievous, androgynous, ridiculously self-assured know-it-all, given to quoting Karl Kraus (people write "because they are too weak not to write"), André assigns himself the responsibility of managing his hopelessly impressed disciples' academic (and amorous) careers. Alexandre's theatrical aspirations are diverted from playwriting to acting; the indecisive Eloi, who has ambitions to write fiction and whose mother is a well-known novelist, is steered toward undertaking a dissertation on James Ellroy. ("He's the great one," André declares with a soon familiar tone that brooks no disagreement.)

André is a cop as well as a mentor. He takes it upon himself to harass another student who has had the effrontery to publish a short story. But even as this bullying meta-writer manipulates his followers in a scenario of his own devising, events take a turn beyond his control. The professor rejects André's thesis and André apparently departs Paris for Berkeley, leaving his two followers to carry on the legacy.

Bourdieu wrote two of Arnaud Desplechin's trickiest movies— My Sex Life . . . or How I Got into an Argument and Esther Kahn—and Poison Friends manages a similar tightrope act. The movie is largely unclassifiable—at once a psychological study, an exceedingly dry comedy, and a moral tale in which stories are purloined and frauds perpetrated.

Poison Friends's humor derives in part from the seriousness with which the principals take both their vocations, as well as André's confident pronouncements: "Trust me, shallow modernism is in." So is the art of the bluff. Not for nothing did this movie open the International Critics' Week (and win its grand prize) last year at Cannes; Poison Friends may be all talk, but it's cut like an action flick.

Poison Friends Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

Bourdos, Gilles

RENOIR

France (111 mi) 2012

Renoir Allan Hunter at Cannes from Screendaily

The bright Summer sunlight of the Cote d’Azur cast a golden glow over Renoir, greatly enhancing the appeal of an impeccably crafted, tenderly felt traditional period piece. Dramatising a defining moment in the lives of Pierre-August Renoir and his young son Jean, the film offers a tasteful, sensitively handled production that should readily appeal to an older demographic and to the arthouse audience who have supported similar works down the years from Camille Claudel to Seraphine.

Christa There’s flame-haired Andree appears at Colette’s in Cagnes-sur Mer during the Summer of 1915 and remains to model for the elderly Pierre-Auguste Renoir (Michel Bouquet). Although painfully infirm, Pierre-August is determined to continue painting and Andree is both a fresh source of inspiration and a woman who wins his heart.

Renoir’s son Jean (Vincent Rottiers) has been badly injured in combat, almost losing his leg to gangrene, and returns to Colettes to convalesce. He too falls under the spell of Andree, her ambitions and especially her passion for the cinema that he will eventually come to share.

Described by director Gilles Bourdos as a ” Mediterranean Eden”, Colettes is depicted as a place of rural sanctuary where the cares of a world at war are not expected to intrude. Bourdos tentatively strays into Terence Malick territory as he revels in the sensuousness of the way the wind rustles through a field of wild grasses or water gently laps at feet as people stroll along a seashore.

This is a film of warm visual allure as evening feasts unfold by the glow of camp fires, houses are lit by oil lamps and lazy picnics recreate all the colours and life in Renoir’s painting The Bathers.

The heart of the film is the complex relationship between father and son. Pierre-Auguste may be haunted by the loss of his younger wife and fearful of what might befall two of his sons serving during World War 1, but painting is still his life. Faithful servants carefully tend to his gnarled hands, twisted in agony with arthritis. ” Pain passes, ” he asserts. ” Beauty remains.”

The 21 year-old Jean seems adrift with ” neither dreams, nor ambitions” and a father whose reputation weighs heavily upon him. Filmmaking seems the unlikeliest medium in which to express himself especially when one character snootily declares: ” cinema is not for us French”.

Michel Boquet is a striking physical match for Renoir and gracefully balances his grumpy frailty with a sense of the appetite for life that still rests within his weary bones. Vincent Rottiers is considerably more dashing than the real Jean Renoir but his baby-faced looks merely adds to the sense of a young man in the shadows of his legendary father.

Christa Theret invests Andree with enough volatility to suggest why she would beguile both of the Renoirs and perhaps why she would  eventually die poor and forgotten in the same year that the celebrated Jean Renoir died in Hollywood.

Bourguignon, Serge

TWO WEEKS IN SEPTEMBER (À Coeur Joie)

France Great Britain (96 mi) 1967

User Reviews from imdb Author: bonfirexx from United States

Wonderful, engrossing film, which does not hold much promise, as regards substance, in the early stages. About one-third of the way through the film, it begins to expand in scope from a superficial study of Bardot's burned-out marriage and love life, and a seemingly frivolous trek from Paris to London for Bardot and cohorts who are on a modeling assignment, to a complex, detailed unfolding of how life becomes complicated when one encounters social temptation, which blossoms into genuine passion, on the road.

Bardot displays a multi-faceted screen talent, as she personifies beauty and allure, to go with emotion and vulnerability, as she becomes entangled in the biggest crisis of her life - developing feelings and involvement with a man who is not her controlling, dispassionate husband, and who actually takes his attraction for Bardot to fever pitch. This brings Bardot to the threshold of major decision time, and she, seemingly, is overwhelmed and rendered indecisive by her dilemma.

This film represents a departure from the many Bardot films which stereotype and caricature her as a flirtatious, shallow "sex kitten." In fact, there is no stereotyping and little comedic humor in evidence, here, as Bardot takes on a serious role with remarkable ease and professionalism, making one wish she had been challenged to this extent, in her earlier films. Or was she just too young, prior to 1967, when, in her early 30's, she fulfilled the considerable talent and promise of her youth?

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson) reviewing the 5-film Brigitte Bardot Collection, also seen here: Turner Classic Movies

1967's Two Weeks in September (À coeur joie) is a hollow trifle depending wholly on Bardot's charm. She's Cecile, a Parisian model bored with her marriage to the dependable Philippe (Jean Rochefort). On a week's modeling job in London Cecile falls for Vincent (Laurent Terzieff), a guy who hangs around the fashion shoot. They indulge in a three-day fling in Scotland before Cecile is forced to choose between the men in her life.

Director Serge Bourguignon goes for pretty pictures and not much else. The modeling theme shows Bardot in a variety of fashions, photographed quayside on the Thames and at the zoo. Future director Michael Sarne is the photographer. Scotland is tapped as a photogenic location, complete with James Robertson Justice in a kilt, showing the lovers to an abandoned castle. Thiis time using his own voice, Justice brings breakfast to their bed of hay. Vincent and Cecile exchange weak dialogue about love and take turns hugging Vincent's Basset Hound. Cecile wonders out loud why she can't just have two men in her life. The deepest line in the film is Cecile's advice to her husband: "Women are like children. You should never make them a promise you can't keep." The flighty Cecile is contrasted with lions in the zoo, and her lovemaking cries are compared to the seabirds outside of the Scottish castle. The literal translation of the French title is roughly, "A Happy Heart."

BFI | Sight & Sound | DVD review: Brigitte Bardot 5-Film Collection (0) Tim Lucas, December 2009

CRITIC'S CHOICE; New DVDs Dave Kehr from The New York Times

Bouzereau, Laurent

ROMAN POLANSKI: A FILM MEMOIR

Great Britain (90 mi) 2011

Roman Polanski: A Film Memoir Mark Adams at Cannes from Screendaily, also seen here: Mark Adams

Laurent Bouzereau’s Roman Polanski: A Film Memoir offers a fascinating glimpse into the complex and often controversial life of director Roman Polanski, culled from some 20 hours of conversation filmed at Polanski’s Gstaad estate during his house arrest at Zurich’s film festival in 2009.

The film – which had a ‘secret’ world premiere at the Zurich Film Festival last year – has a Special Screening in Cannes, and while unlikely to spark headlines, it is a gripping film biography of an intriguing, challenging and talented filmmaker. The film should be a regular at film festivals, cinematheques and on television and could also intrigue distributors who might be handling Polanski back catalogue.

While blending extracts, interviews and archival footage, the core of Roman Polanski: A Film Memoir is made up of footage shot by Polanski’s longtime friend and former producer Andrew Braunsberg, who was instrumental in convincing Polanski to agree to the interview. And while the subject hanging over the film was always bound to be his sexual encounter with 13 year-old Samantha Geimer in 1977 and subsequent flight from US authorities, the film’s most powerful and interesting sequences come when dealing with his early years.

Using footage of the Warsaw Ghetto from World War II blended with material from his films, the film tackles the harrowing and tragic circumstances of his childhood. It is tough stuff, and while providing no excuses does help draw attention to events that helped shaped the person he would become.

There is no denying that Polanski has had a fascinating life and seeing him talk about the killing of his wife Sharon Tate in 1968 by followers of Charles Manson when she was eight and half months pregnant makes for moving testimony, and while the film’s structure is pretty straightforward in the way it tackles his film career, his output is never less than impressive in terms of subject matter and content.

When it comes to the incident with Geimer that the film has an additional edge, though it also means he covers ground he dwelt on in Marina Zenovich’s 2008 film Roman Polanski: Wanted And Desired, which essentially follows his argument that the ‘judge was out to get him’. It is interesting enough that he feels there was a conspiracy, but only really scratches the surface regarding an incident that will continue to haunt his career.

Peter Bradshaw at Cannes from The Guardian, May 16, 2012

Laurent Bouzereau's film about Roman Polanski is not merely a documentary, but a full-length, wide-ranging interview with the man himself, carried out by his long-time friend and producing partner Andrew Braunsberg. The prospect of Polanski speaking about the extraordinary events that shaped his life is mouth-watering; Braunsberg's questioning is intelligent and sympathetic and Polanski can be a wonderful raconteur.

But perhaps inevitably the film founders on the issue of the Samantha Geimer affair, the 1977 charge of unlawful sex with an underage girl, on account of which he fled the US and still cannot enter that country or those likely to extradite him. The movie is not evasive exactly, but reticent, emphasising the moral equivalence of Geimer's and Polanski's suffering at the hands of a prurient and intrusive press over the past decades.

The film is very coy about the legal settlement with the victim and Polanski really does not talk about how and why he committed the crime or how he really feels about it now. He may consider silence, or near-silence, something to which he now has a right, but this makes for an unsatisfactory and questionable moment in the film.

But he is fluent, passionate and moving about his childhood wartime experiences in Occupied Poland. His mother died in the Nazi death camps; he himself fled the ghetto as a boy after watching his father being marched away. His father survived, and re-married - something which strained the relationship between father and son.

As if this was not enough, Polanski's wife Sharon Tate was murdered in their rented California house by the Charles Manson gang, and Polanski had to endure press speculation that he was somehow culpable - a louche LA lifestyle was to blame, or perhaps his film Rosemary's Baby inflamed the assailants. And then, eight years later came the Geimer case which merely confirmed the whispers.

Bouzereau's film is strongest in elucidating the effects his life has had on his movies. Before this, I didn't realise how closely the 2002 film The Pianist was based on precise childhood memories of the Krakow ghetto. It is the film he says he is proudest of now. That may perplex admirers of his (surely superior) works Chinatown and Rosemary's Baby. But those films were created by a dark, troubled, brilliant film-maker - a persona replaced, here, by a more statesmanlike figure who prefers to revisit an historical era of childhood which, however tragic and horrifying and traumatised, appears more important, and is the one in which his own innocence was absolute.

AFP Associated Foreign Press, May 16, 2012

DAILY | Cannes 2012 | Laurent Bouzereau’s ROMAN POLANSKI: A FILM MEMOIR » David Hudson at Cannes from Fandor, May 16, 2012

David Rooney at Cannes from The Hollywood Reporter, May 16, 2012

Boyle, Danny

Screen Online Profile BFI

Danny Boyle was born on 20 October 1956 in Bury, Lancashire. After theatre work for the Joint Stock Company and Royal Court (where he was artistic director between 1982-7), Boyle moved into television, directing feature-length episodes of the popular detective series Inspector Morse (ITV, 1987-2000) and the well-received drama series Mr Wroe's Virgins (BBC, 1993). In 1993, he teamed up with producer Andrew Macdonald (grandson of screenwriter Emeric Pressburger) and doctor-turned-writer John Hodge, to direct his first feature film, Shallow Grave.

This low-budget (£1.5 million), mordant and cynical thriller, laced with elements of black humour, was an instant success. Yet despite the film's visual accomplishment and assured pacing, some commentators expressed reservations regarding Boyle's handling of character. Ronan Bennett spoke of "the freezing and cruel emptiness at the film's heart. The absence of any character to sympathise or engage with made it hard to find an emotional response as the unpleasant, greedy trio destroyed themselves and each other." Boyle, however, remained unconcerned: "I've spent a lot of my career building up plausible characters, which intellectuals find rewarding and interesting. But the public doesn't give a fuck."

The Boyle/Macdonald/Hodge team's next venture was an adaptation of Irvine Welsh's cult novel Trainspotting (1996). Supported by innovative marketing, the film was a smash hit. Visually imaginative and assured, the film also made excellent use of a contemporary pop soundtrack, but was again populated by largely unsympathetic characters.

A Life Less Ordinary (1997) was the team's first American venture. Boyle's observation that "It's about time we got some flak... Everyone has been too fair to us up till now" proved prophetic. This tale of a redundant cleaner who kidnaps his former boss's daughter and then, helped by the intervention of two guardian angels, falls in love, left audiences and critics puzzled and unmoved.

This was followed by another literary adaptation, this time of Alex Garland's popular novel The Beach. Despite having Leonardo DiCaprio in the lead, the film received only a moderate reception. Many of those who had read the book felt disappointed, while those who had not were left wondering what the fuss was all about.

Boyle returned to the UK and directed two films for BBC Television, Vacuuming Completely Nude in Paradise (tx. 30/9/2001) and Strumpet (7/10/2001). 28 Days Later marked his return to feature filmmaking in 2002. Part-zombie horror, part-eco-thriller, this story of a rogue virus taps into contemporary concerns over the environment, genetic modification and bio-terrorism. Shot on digital video, the film has Boyle's usual visual flair but again received a mixed reception. It seems that he may need 'plausible characters' after all.

—Martin Hunt, Reference Guide to British and Irish Film Directors

All-Movie Guide bio from Rebecca Flint Marx

TCMDB profile from Turner Classic Movies

Filmbug Biography

Britmovie Biography

Boyle, Danny They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

indieWIRE Interview by Wendy Mitchell

Mumbai rising Alkarin Jivani interviews Boyle from Sight and Sound, February 2009

Telegraph's Top 21 British Directors of All Time

SHALLOW GRAVE

Great Britain (92 mi) 1994

Time Out

When their mysterious new flatmate suffers a fatal overdose, David, Alex and Juliet (Eccleston, McGregor and Fox) find a fortune in bank notes stashed in his room. They quickly resolve to keep the money, but nothing comes for free, and the price here involves not only dismemberment and burial, but the trio's trust, sanity and friendship. This impressively assured, highly accomplished British feature doesn't dwell on moral niceties, but goes straight for the gut. John Hodge's screenplay has the kind of unrelenting forward momentum and close-to-the bone sense of purpose which sees you safely through a good many logical minefields, even if nagging question marks occur in retrospect. Given that most of the action takes place in the flat, it's remarkable how agile and invigorating Boyle's direction is. As the friends fall out, the movie loses some of its black comic edge, perhaps, but only to gain in sheer, back-stabbing, bloody-minded mayhem.

Washington Post [Hal Hinson]

Initially, "Shallow Grave," British filmmaker Danny Boyle's mostly passable thriller about the trio of Glasgow flat-mates, looks as if it might succeed merely on the obnoxiousness and impudence of its main characters.

At the beginning of the film, Juliet (Kerry Fox), David (Christopher Eccleston) and Alex (Ewan McGregor) are in the process of interviewing candidates for their extra room, and from the probing brutality of the questions, it seems their real purpose is to demean and embarrass the applicants. Once these brats find someone "hip" enough to share their space, the new guy moves in, shoves his suitcase under the bed and promptly drops dead from a drug overdose.

The shock here comes not simply from the splayed nude body of the man on his deathbed, but also from the coolness of the roommates' response. They know almost nothing about their new family member, so they check his suitcase for identification and discover that it's stuffed full of money -- more money than any of them has ever seen.

For Alex, the question of whether they should keep the dough is a simple one: This is found money, money from heaven, and they would be fools to pass up a chance to live the life of their dreams. It's easy; all they have to do is ditch the body -- cutting off the corpse's hands and feet to eliminate finger- and footprints, and destroying its jaw to foil the use of dental records -- and the money is theirs. For equally obvious reasons, David and Juliet aren't so keen on the idea. But after allowing the body to lie around for a day or so, Juliet starts to come around. And once she agrees, David joins in too.

At this point, the noose of Boyle and screenwriter John Hodge's story should tighten, but instead the movie seems to slacken and lose shape. After the actual disposal of the body is accomplished, paranoia and fear start to consume the group. When a couple of thugs arrive to claim the missing money, the price of their actions becomes clearer. In response, David, who until now had been the most reluctant participant, goes semi-berserk, barricading himself in the attic, where the money is hidden.

As it turns out, he has as much to fear from his so-called friends as he does from outsiders. The problem, though, is that these developments seem altogether too routine to keep the movie together.

Boyle, who has an impressive reputation for his work on British television, has a lithe, energetic style, and he keeps the picture moving at a brisk clip. His characters, too, are young and fresh and promisingly rude -- especially McGregor's Alex -- but they become less and less interesting as the movie progresses. By its conclusion, just about everything intriguing in the film has evaporated.

Deep Focus (Bryant Frazer)

There's a guaranteed audience these days for the "sophisticated thriller." In genrespeak, that's the movie with a self-consciously twisting and turning plotline, overtly intelligent characters, and a calculated streak of nastiness allowing the viewer to feel truly decadent, giggling along with the filmmakers. Shallow Grave is such a movie, a British import about a trio of flatmates who conspire against their own better judgment to take advantage of someone else's ill-gotten gains. When I saw it, with a "sophisticated" crowd on Manhattan's upper west side, the folks to the left and right of me were swept up in the movie, cackling evilly or burying faces in hands when the proceedings on-screen became particularly gruesome. No doubt about it, this movie is a manipulator and a crowd pleaser.

Incredibly, some trendy reviewers have been comparing Shallow Grave to Quentin Tarantino's films, as though the director of Pulp Fiction somehow invented the stylish thriller. Rubbish. Shallow Grave owes its existence pretty much in its entirety to the films of Alfred Hitchcock, which it apes shamelessly. It's a canny imitation, and the director has done enough homework to know what kind of homage works and what's just stupid (the movie is fiercely intelligent). But intelligence alone doesn't completely compensate for Shallow Grave's shortcomings. Perhaps overconfidence leads this film to count on its audience being so delighted by each new odd camera angle and unexpected revelation that it becomes lazy in terms of showing us anything truly surprising.

The film opens with a crazy high-speed tour of city streets, set to a thumping high energy soundtrack. It resembles nothing so much as Shinya Tsukamoto's cautionary horror fable Tetsuo, and it's hard to understand why the film takes such a hyperkinetic approach during its opening credits. Things slow down from there, as we settle in for a study of three characters sharing an apartment -- Alex (Ewan McGregor), David (Christopher Eccleston), and Juliet (Kerry Fox). The casual cruelty of these characters is established immediately, as they interview and humiliate potential roommates. Alex is the most outgoing of the three, with the loosest tongue. David is shy and retreating, while the smart and sensible Juliet (whose boyfriend is conspicuously absent) functions as the apex of a very repressed sexual triangle. They finally settle on a strange fellow named Hugo (Keith Allen), an apparently well-off writer who pays his first rent in cash. But soon, Hugo is a corpse, and the suitcase of money he leaves behind in his bedroom is too much of a temptation. What if, Alex wants to know, the three of them dispose of the body and keep the money?

That's probably the first 10 minutes. The rest of the movie springs out of that proposition, as the situation becomes more and more precarious and the riches bring out the worst in everybody. The ensuing shenanigans are both intense and wickedly funny, and it wouldn't do to spoil them here. It's very easy to place yourself in these roles, and the triumph of any thriller is that the audience feels the fear and isolation of the characters. But while one character's complete transformation is essential to the storyline, it's wholly unbelievable. The sexual dynamics (which pivot on Juliet's status as an object of desire) are intriguing and well-handled, but Boyle's relentless homage to Hitchcock (odd camera angles, snickering gallows humor, and shots lifted wholesale from Vertigo and Psycho) wears thin. It's more than a little disappointing when the credits finally roll, because we hope for more from this clever thriller. But perhaps it's to the director's credit that we really do want to spend more time with these rather unpleasant people, feeding ravenously, vicariously off of their actions.

Scott Renshaw

Movie Vault [Arturo Garcia Lasca]

eFilmCritic.com (Rob Gonsalves)

James Berardinelli's ReelViews

Dragan Antulov

Crazy for Cinema

Britmovie

Austin Chronicle [Adrienne Martini]

Washington Post [Desson Howe]

Los Angeles Times (Peter Rainer)

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Janet Maslin)

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

TRAINSPOTTING

Great Britain (94 mi) 1996

Time Out

A shocking, painfully subjective trawl through the Edinburgh heroin culture of the 1980s, Irvine Welsh's cult novel is hardly an obvious choice for the team who made Shallow Grave. Yet the film's a triumph. Audaciously punching up the pitch-black comedy, juggling parallel character strands and juxtaposing image, music and voice-over with a virtuosity worthy of Scorsese on peak form, Trainspotting the movie captures precisely Welsh's insolent, amoral intelligence. Amoral, but not unthinking, and certainly not unfeeling. Nihilism runs deep in this movie, emotion cannot be countenanced, only blocked off by another hit, another gag, but the anarchic, exhilarating rush of the highs can't drown out the subsequent, devastating lows - these are two sides of the same desperation. Danny Boyle's intuitive, vital, empathetic direction pushes so far, the movie flies on sheer momentum - that and bravura performances from Bremner's gormless Spud, Carlyle's terrifying Begbie and, especially, McGregor's Renton, who supplies a low-key, charismatic centre. This may not have the weight of 'Great Art', but it crystallises youthful disaffection with the verve of the best and brightest pop culture. A sensation.

Mike D'Angelo

First of all, let's see if I can't maybe (grunt) turn down the (urgh) Hype-o-meter just (umph) a tad. There, that's better. Contrary to what you may have heard, Trainspotting, the new film from the producer/writer/director trio who made the equally overrated Shallow Grave last year, isn't especially exciting or revelatory; the amount of sober journalism devoted to it in recent weeks ("Does it or doesn't it glorify heroin?" seems to be the stupid question on everyone's lips) amuses me no end, because the film is about as profound and incisive as The Birdcage. It's an energetic, well-acted, grandstanding piece of fluff, which coasts pleasantly for long stretches on an enjoyable streak of black humor and a terrific soundtrack (though it's far too dependent on the latter for both its energy and what little emotion it manages to provoke). Modest virtues, these, but worthy ones; unfortunately, they're largely undone by Danny Boyle's relentlessly "clever" direction, which apparently thrills plenty of other people but leaves me utterly cold. Trainspotting is certainly flashy, but it's flashy in an overbearing, irritating way that isn't particularly expressive; Boyle seems obsessed with making every shot "interesting," without considering whether an oblique angle or rat's-eye view has any meaning in the context of the scene. ("Hey, wouldn't it be cool if we turned the camera sideways for this shot of Renton walking down the street?!" No, not really.) This is the "hey, look at me!" school of filmmaking; such films can be exhilirating when made with intelligence and skill (cf. Blood Simple), but are more often just annoying exercises in empty style. Trainspotting is cranked up to eleven, and is consequently getting plenty of attention, but it ain't signifyin' much, and would have been more entertaining at half the volume. What I'm trying to say here is: Feedback.

BFI Screen Online Paul Clarke

The cult success of Shallow Grave (1994) meant that the next project of the Figment Films team - Danny Boyle (director), Andrew Macdonald (producer) and John Hodge (writer) - was keenly anticipated. They had received plenty of offers, both domestically and from Hollywood, but wanted to maintain their independence.

Macdonald was the first member of the team to be seduced by Irvine Welsh's novel, Trainspotting. Welsh, sceptical of London bigwigs, had rejected many previous offers but the boyish Scottish charm of Macdonald and Hodge persuaded him to relinquish his baby - under the proviso that they didn't take the "Ken Loach semi-documentary approach."

By the mid-1990s, drugs had well and truly permeated everyday middle-class life. After the media uproar and youth embrace that had greeted the Ecstasy/Acid House relationship, people had realised that drugs weren't confined to the realms of the impoverished and socially excluded.

Of course, Trainspotting deals with heroin rather than Ecstasy but it was this social environment that allowed a film without an overtly moralistic approach to drugs to be made. Trainspotting also encompasses the mentality of the acid culture - drugs-for-fun, hedonism and deliberate youthful rebellion. The links between heroin abuse and the club scene are made more obvious when Renton (Ewan McGregor) visits a London nightspot. Surrounded by thumping house music and anxiously dancing punters, he finds empathy: "In a thousand years there'll be no girls and no guys, just wankers," a thought he finds rather appealing.

Trainspotting takes a pragmatic approach to drug use, capturing the exhausting, intensely uncomfortable daily routine of a group of heroin addicts. They stay together because of this common goal and it is not an attractive sight. Nonetheless, Boyle combines the macabre with the comical, and blurs the boundaries between realism and fantasy - notably in the scene where Renton to retrieve a lost suppository plunges through the 'worst toilet in Scotland' and into a deep blue abyss.

Heroin is an escape for the protagonists - both from the responsibilities of life and from the restricting paths society has mapped out for them. Trainspotting does not glamorise drug abuse, but still manages to force us to look at the reasons behind it. Renton's narration confirms his hatred of the mundane existence Britain offers and the film's power lies in its ability to make us question the values we have been taught to hold dear - materialism, career, marriage, children. Are these dubious aspirations after all?

Scott Renshaw

Nihilism does not equal art. I want to get that point out of the way, because it appears to be a widely-held belief that critics feel exactly the opposite. People note the praise lavished upon films like NATURAL BORN KILLERS, KIDS and SEVEN and conclude that there is some conspiracy among the film cognoscenti to force bleakness down the collective throat of the viewing public. While I can speak for no critic but myself (I admired SEVEN, but not NBK or KIDS), I believe that the common thread is actually daring. Film-makers dealing with unpleasant subject matter are almost forced to be inventive to keep the audience watching. Others, if they choose, may praise TRAINSPOTTING for its squalor; I prefer to praise it for the invigorating perspectives of a writer and a director with ideas and the ability to convey them.

The ostensible hero of TRAINSPOTTING is Mark Renton (Ewan McGregor), a young man in Edinburgh who, as his opening monologue announces, has chosen "not to choose." Instead, he has chosen to remain perpetually high on heroin with his friends Spud (Ewen Bremner) and Sick Boy (Jonny Lee Miller), unemployed and uncaring. Though he attempts to go straight on occasion, he always returns to his one and only love, even when discouraged by non-using friends like Tommy (Kevin McKidd) and Begbie (Robert Carlyle). It is only when he is caught shoplifting that Renton is forced to go cold turkey, and to confront every unpleasant reality of his life.

TRAINSPOTTING, a smash hit in Britain, has received a great deal of comparison to A CLOCKWORK ORANGE, both of them tales of amoral youth with a likeable, philosophically inclined first-person narrator. It is a connection director Danny Boyle obviously doesn't discourage, since one scene is set in a nightclub styled after CLOCKWORK's Korova Milkbar, and he is going for a similar kind of social criticism. Though Renton begins the film with a rant against materialism and suburban values, it is always clear that his heroin habit has nothing to do with protest. In one memorable scene, Spud goes to a job interview required by social services if he is to remain eligible for unemployment, and he is forced to do his best to make sure that he doesn't actually get the job. They are unapologetic leeches, but Boyle and writer John Hodge (adapting the novel by Irvine Welsh) also show the hypocrisy of those who criticize Renton, each with his or her own addiction problem: Begbie is a drunkard, Tommy smokes, and Renton's mother takes Valium. No one is clean; it's all a question of degree.

But if there is one thing Boyle does masterfully, it is showing exactly how brutal this particular degree can be. The users' relationship with the drug might be romanticized -- including a scene in which Renton feels himself sinking into the floor -- there is nothing romanticized about the effects of heroin addiction. Boyle's most effective scenes show users literally wallowing in their own filth: Renton as he rumages through a toilet to find the heroin suppositories he just lost, eventually being swallowed by the bowl; and Spud waking up in a strange bed to find a rather disgusting mess. In some of these scenes there is a comic edge, but Boyle counters them with some absolutely chilling moments, including a tragedy for which the only response anyone can think of is to get high again, and a nightmarish detox hallucination by Renton which is guaranteed to have you squirming. With a virtuoso's skill, Boyle is able to take viewers deeply enough into the experience of heroin users that they can see both the horrible toll the drug takes and the sensation which makes it all worthwhile to them.

TRAINSPOTTING's third act, focusing on a heroin deal which interferes in Renton's attempt to live a straight life, is something of an unfortunate side trip, as the film loses much of the urgency it had done such an exceptional job of building. It does give Robert Carlyle's hair-trigger psychotic Begbie a showcase, but the whole episode feels like padding in a much edgier film. There is one thing that sub-plot does quite a good job of demonstrating, however, and that is how truly meaningless drug friends can be to each other; once they're not high, the lads in TRAINSPOTTING are ready to screw each other over in a moment. It also provides a perfect comic coda for Renton's stab at respectability, because it's clear he doesn't have the moral fiber for it. That actually shows what a neat trick Boyle has pulled off: he has made a moral film without moralizing, even though it might not look like one on the surface. Bleak may not always be beautiful, but in TRAINSPOTTING it is necessary to make the point, a point as sharp as a needle in the arm.

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A LIFE LESS ORDINARY

Great Britain USA (103 mi) 1997

Time Out

Not a complete write-off, the first US venture by the Trainspotting team is still a misfire. A screwball comedy, set in Utah, with a contemporary twist, it aims for a liberating sense of anything goes, but falters on a fantasy element that doesn't play. McGregor is Robert, a whimsical Scot, stuck in a menial job in an American corporation. Sacked, dumped and evicted in the same day, he abducts the boss's daughter Celine (Diaz), who soon takes the kidnapping in hand just to spite her dad. Meanwhile, the private detectives gunning to get her back, Hunter and Lindo, are in fact angels on a mission to ensure the couple fall for each other. Love through jeopardy is their game plan. McGregor is charming, a hopeless soft touch, easily outclassed in the brains department by the mercurial Diaz (a real livewire who jump starts the movie more than once). They make an attractive couple, doing very nicely, thanks, without the Almighty's contrived interventions - gratuitously violent scrapes which lurch the film into forced, mostly unfunny black comedy and even animation. The Coens meet Frank Capra - a mismatch made in heaven.

The Onion A.V. Club [Keith Phipps]

Two angels (Holly Hunter and Delroy Lindo) receive the assignment of bringing together two unlikely lovers, romantic Scottish janitor Ewan MacGregor and hardened heiress Cameron Diaz. Complications follow in the form of a bungled kidnapping plot, a bungled bank robbery, and a flaming shitbag of other screwball romance clichés. Director Danny Boyle and company vacillate between remaking, again, It Happened One Night and, with their angels, bringing the sensibility of Wim Wenders to the multiplexes. Either way, it doesn't work, and while it looks like it might have been fun to make—everyone seems to be doing his or her own thing in the best tradition of so many other failed movies that seem to have been created to satisfy the collective and individual vanities of all involved—it's not very fun to watch. What the normally reliable MacGregor does here can best be described as an impression of Dana Carvey doing an impression of Ewan MacGregor; what the normally reliable Hunter is attempting to do with her cattishly chaw-happy cherub, God only knows. At the very least, this film should hush those who insist that Diaz has talent beyond visual appeal, but it's unfair to single out her relatively minor offenses when there's so much else to hate about A Life Less Ordinary, an embarrassment for all concerned.

Salon.com [Stephanie Zacharek]

GLORIOUSLY EXCESSIVE, PASSIONATE and messy, "A Life Less Ordinary" is the kind of picture that's becoming more and more of a rarity in the landscape of American movies: a love story with a hard-on. If Hollywood is giving the public what it really wants -- and I don't believe it is -- then we're a nation of moviegoers who like our action movies hard and our love stories soft, with no in-between. And that's a drag -- because what is love, if not essentially a blood sport?

"A Life Less Ordinary" is a quintessentially American romance -- a movie with lots of action, gunplay, general mayhem and plenty of wide-open spaces, but also with an intimacy between its two central characters (a boy and a girl, naturally) that seems to infuse, like perfume, the very air they breathe. These are lovers who are willing to take a bullet for each other: You can't get much harder than that.

This very Hollywood movie has been made by a bunch of temporarily transplanted Scots: director Danny Boyle, screenwriter John Hodge and producer Andrew Macdonald were the brains and the heart behind "Trainspotting." If you've ever given directions to a tourist in your own hometown -- say, pointed the way to a historic building that you pass daily but haven't given a thought to in years -- you understand how sometimes it takes an outsider to unwrap the magic that surrounds you every day. "A Life Less Ordinary" is a movie made by "tourists" in the best sense of the word: Boyle, Hodge and Macdonald share the impulse (if not the poetry) of the directors of the French New Wave, who held up a mirror to the American mythos of guns, romance and Coca-Cola so we could see its beauty anew ourselves.

And if that's just a fancy way of saying that Boyle and his team recombine clichés in a new way, it helps to remember that some of the best things in life are combinations of ordinary things: sand and surf, hydrogen and oxygen, vodka and tonic. Boyle certainly isn't in the same league as the New Wave directors -- his approach is more manic, more driven by pop culture's slickness and energy than its poignancy -- but his love for the classic conventions of American movies is never in doubt. In fact, "A Life Less Ordinary" teems with it -- it's a show of bravado, a challenge to young American filmmakers who make flashier, fancier movies that aren't nearly as vital.

If Boyle literally does open his picture by introducing us to a girl and a gun -- when we first meet Cameron Diaz as Celine, she's coolly setting up to shoot an apple clean off the head of one of her servants -- it's only the first of his stylish matchups. Boyle pairs oddball little details the way he pairs off unlikely lovers: angels who talk tough and pack iron; a black leather jacket worn with a kilt; a drab karaoke bar that doubles as a dazzling, movie-dream dance floor; a silly, tossed-off line of dialogue dovetailing with one that stops you cold. It's easy, Boyle seems to be saying, to go through life thinking you know what to expect, but it's never wise -- and it's never fun.

"A Life Less Ordinary" starts out as a warped little fairy tale (the opening scene takes place in heaven, which is a retro police station decorated all in white), evolves into a tale of lovers on the lam who don't yet know they're lovers and ends up as an affirmation that true love sure kicks ass. The story revolves, like a washer on the spin cycle, around spoiled-but-lovable rich girl Celine and down-and-out janitor Robert (Ewan McGregor), who meet when Robert, angry that he's been replaced by a robot, storms into Celine's daddy's high-rise office to demand his job back. Hapless Robert accidentally shoots Celine's father in the leg -- it's Celine who slides the gun across the floor to him -- and flees with her as his "hostage."

Robert's never kidnapped anyone before: He brings Celine to a dilapidated cabin, ties her to a chair and tenderly tucks a blanket under her chin. (Later, he cooks her a plate of steak and potatoes.) Celine, who was kidnapped when she was 12, teaches him the ropes, showing him how to bellow his demands into a pay phone. Before long, the two have become partners, setting off on an odyssey of car chases and shootouts that's made even more dangerous by the two tough-talkin', gun-totin' angels -- played with sly, ruthless wit by Delroy Lindo and the marvelously unhinged Holly Hunter -- who've been assigned by top-dog angel Gabriel (the ubiquitous and wonderful Dan Hedaya) to make sure that Celine and Robert fall in love. Hunter and Lindo practically get the pair killed in the process -- they'll stop at nothing to complete their mission, knowing that love usually has to clonk people on the head before it takes.

The movie starts out so effervescent and bracing that you find yourself waiting for the big tone shift: When is all the exhilaration and kinkiness going to turn into a nightmare (as it does in Jonathan Demme's "Something Wild," which "A Life Less Ordinary" somewhat resembles)? But Boyle's tone-shifts happen in the flutter of an eyelash, not at any midway point in the movie. Like a suction-cup toy that makes its way down a wall by flipping itself over over and over, "A Life Less Ordinary" swaps moods frequently and easily. The goofy romantic bliss of a first kiss gives way to a terrifying premonition. And what a kiss! When Celine and Robert pull apart, a string of saliva, lit up like the shining filament of a spider's web, connects them for just a second. It's a moment of poetry that not only acknowledges the messiness of sex, but revels in it.

Between its action-packed fervor and its ever-changing moods, "A Life Less Ordinary" isn't a completely sure-footed movie: Sometimes you feel it slurring a little, like a car careering out of control on an ice patch. But wonderful actors turn up in oddball roles everywhere you look: Maury Chaykin as a creepy yet strangely cherubic mountain man, Stanley Tucci as Celine's smarmy orthodontist ex, Tony Shalhoub as the owner of a diner who gives Robert a loony pep talk about love. And there haven't been any love stories this year that tap into a major artery the way "A Life Less Ordinary" does. It's the movie's leads who wield the scalpels: Celine isn't as sharply written as Robert, but Diaz carries off her role with impishness and style. With her apple cheeks and knowingly shit-eating grin, she's the kind of girl you just know would roll a drunken sailor if she came across him on the street. Yet there's vulnerability all mixed up with her insouciance. When she's separated from Robert -- emotionally if not physically -- you can see the lovesickness in her eyes. As she arches her lissome neck, her eyes wander; they're not at home unless they're seeing him.

And given McGregor's boyishness and lanky, butterfingered charm, it's easy to see why. Robert is a mystery figure in some ways: We never find out what, with his thick Scottish burr, he's doing in the United States, or why he wears hideous things like those liquidy nylon photo-print shirts, or why he's done up in a shaggy '70s Scooby-Doo haircut (which, somehow, McGregor manages to eroticize, possibly one of the minor miracles of late-20th century cinema). None of that matters. McGregor -- suggesting awkwardly that he and Celine leave their creaky cabin for a "date," or singing "Beyond the Sea" to her in a karaoke bar -- burrows straight into the movie's soul. When Robert tries to explain to Celine, in a sputtering rush, that she keeps appearing in his dreams ("I was on a game show, and my life was in danger. My life was in danger, and you saved it. My heart was beating so fast, and it stopped. I was just about to die, and you saved it."), his feverish openness stops the movie momentarily in its tracks. Those strange lines hang in the air like colored smoke -- they're dream logic, they're not intended to make sense (until the end of the movie), but McGregor makes them feel urgent and meaningful anyway. In his topsy-turvy universe, Robert is sure that the traditional roles are going to be reversed, that this time, it will be the girl who saves the boy. All you need for a movie is a girl and a gun. The boy worth saving is optional, but in "A Life Less Ordinary," he's the thing that completes the picture.

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THE BEACH

Great Britain (119 mi) 2000 ‘Scope

The Beach Anthony Lane from the New Yorker

A cautionary tale for travellers, in which Richard (Leonardo DiCaprio) arrives in Thailand, learns of a mythical beach, and makes the elementary mistake of trying to find it. He and his companions swim to Paradise, and soon human malevolence is running high, thanks to the tensions among the happy campers who live by the water. There is the scary Sal (Tilda Swinton) and the charming Françoise (Virginie Ledoyen), both of whom already have boyfriends, and both of whom hit on Richard. (Someone should have explained to them that a crush on DiCaprio is not exactly an unprecedented emotion.) The film skitters along nicely for the first half; from then on, it grows dark and deadly, as Richard—and sometimes the images on screen—start to go mad. (When the whole thing briefly turns into a video game, are we meant to ponder the crowded horrors of Western consciousness, or merely to be annoyed?) The director is Danny Boyle, the screenwriter is John Hodge, and the producer is Andrew Macdonald; together they made "Shallow Grave" and "Trainspotting," and you wonder whether they were wise to quit the Scottish turf they know so well. This movie, which was adapted from the bestselling Alex Garland novel, wants so badly to be a cult that it forgets to be any good.

Brilliant Observations on 1173 Films [Clayton Trapp]

Mythical Altamont for a generation that didn't have one. Alex Garland strings his lines obviously enough to follow, but clouds the areas where they connect to objective reality: the result is that, for me, it feels like he's talking about the counterculture and hard drugs a lot, while pictures of pretty beaches and people roll by. It's not just a '60s road tale pasted onto a 21st century setting though, in fact it's not that at all, though there are definite connections and it probably helps to have both frames of reference. Part of what's going on is an explication on how far the youth of today have to go to get outside the mainstream-smoking pot and shacking up aren't exactly revolutionary activities any more. To the extent that we're talking counterculture exposé there's precious little sociology and no politics, which makes things easier to follow even while it runs the risk of offending those who gave the most. Danny Boyle plays flash enough to be hip without going off the cyber-end, to very appropriate musical accompaniment, virtually none of which will be identifiable by anyone born before 1984. It's Leonardo DiCaprio's show of course, more because he's the lead than because he buries his support. In fact the entire cast is impressive: Virginie Ledoyen as the winsome French girl who was always better off with the entirely admirable Guillaume Canet; Tilda Swinton as the aging matriarch presiding over what's generally benevolent anarchy, Robert Carlyle as a broken lunatic named after a cartoon, and an assortment of entertaining fringe characters. DiCaprio's descent into madness is fascinating, reminiscient of Robert De Niro in The Deer Hunter even before the closing scenes, if not quite of that historic magnitude (don't blink after he loses the girl, because he goes fast-of course I guess some folks do).

Village Voice (Amy Taubin)

Explaining what drove him to get rich quick, Seth cites the example of the former child actor whose price is now $20 million a picture. The Beach is barely a movie, but it does prove that Leonardo DiCaprio suffers the elements in some small way for his money and his art. Why else would he leave the comforts of the Mercer Hotel to run around the jungles of Thailand for six months? But however you look at it, this is an ill-chosen project. Adapted from Alex Garland's beach-read of a novel, the film plays like a combination of The Blue Lagoon and a video game. In fact, it literally turns into a video game three-quarters through when DiCaprio, all alone in the jungle, must elude a band of dope farmers armed with AK-47s and machetes. The star has a flair for action, but the wrong skin for a beach bunny. Perhaps it was the sunblock in his makeup that causes his face to look so curdled.

The Beach was directed, written, and produced respectively by Danny Boyle, John Hodge, and Andrew Macdonald, the team that gave us the overrated Shallow Grave and Trainspotting. Caught between a star and an anxious studio, they opted for making as bland a film as possible. Still, the bummer tone of the novel comes through right up until the last shot, which undermines any meaning the film might have had. The Beach is not a total waste of time thanks to Tilda Swinton's performance as the mad, power-driven den mother to an international colony of twentysomething travelers. Swinton looks like a scary but gorgeous praying mantis. When she seduces DiCaprio, she really seems to eat him alive.

culturevulture.net Tom Block

An internationally famous young star, a story rife with dramatic possibilities, and a natural setting that appears fit for only gods to inhabit – The Beach has all of these assets, and it squanders them one by one like a salesman drinking on the company’s dime. Director Danny Boyle and screenwriter John Hodge (working from Alex Garland’s novel of the same name) have concocted an epic for pipsqueaks, a fairy tale for people who already believe in fairies.    

Richard (Leonardo DiCaprio) is a disaffected 20-something who’s traveling through Thailand. In a lazily written voiceover narration, Richard tells us that he’s in search of experience, something intense enough to sweep away the cobwebs that come from living in a cushy high-tech society. His chance comes when a strung-out man in his hotel (Robert Carlyle, in a small part) tells him of a secret island paradise located in the Gulf of Siam, and gives him a map showing the way there. Richard convinces two other hotel guests – a lovely French tourist whom he’s smitten with (Virginie Ledoyen) and her boyfriend – to join him. The trio makes its way to the island, where they find a land that’s straight out of a Cheech and Chong hash dream: a marijuana field that covers the acreage of a midsize airport, a lake that’s hidden to the outside world by a ring of jagged mountains, and a group of amiable misfits who live along its beautiful beach. The people refer to their colony as "the Beach," and their leader is a strong-willed pragmatist known as Sal (Tilda Swinton).    

You know it’s not your normal secret society when Richard and his friends are accepted almost instantly into the clan. The film becomes a summer idyll, as Richard kills a shark, finds himself being seduced by the Beach’s most desirable women, and takes daily dips in the lake. But as in all dystopic fables, the good times come crashing down. Instead of unraveling due to an organic clash of personalities or philosophies as, say, an Aldous Huxley might have had it, the Beach falls apart when the outside world intrudes thanks to a wholly unmotivated action on Richard’s part. The second half of this movie is a real drag, consisting mostly of Richard’s exile to a little scenic overlook, where he descends to a state of primal being. ("Primal" being a relative term here: mostly he skulks around the brush wearing a headband, in one of the movie’s many blasphemous allusions to Apocalypse Now.) Unsurprisingly, Leo’s status as the world’s leading box-office draw helps to snap Richard back to reality by the end.    

The fun of taking in stories about imaginary societies, whether it’s Lost Horizon or 1984, lies in the detailing given to the fictional world’s values and customs, and what they reflect about our own reality. But what is this Shangri-la that Leo has stumbled into? In this case, Paradise means that a walk-on player has to cook your dinner while you play volleyball on the beach. We aren’t ever given any meaningful information about the Beach’s underlying philosophy; we aren’t even told whether it stands for anything beyond its own self-preservation. Nobody ever comments on the sad fact that the Beach’s inhabitants are still hamstrung by all of society’s sexual hang-ups. (The women all keep their tops on in this island paradise, there isn’t a gay couple in sight, and Sal’s boyfriend is so threatened by Richard’s presence that he crushes the newcomer’s testicles with his beefy fist.) Is time still a concept on the Beach? How do these people resolve serious disputes? Didn’t any of them ever want to have a kid, and how was the idea greeted when they brought it up?    

It’s even hard to see what the attraction of the Beach is beyond its setting. The inhabitants, far from being the rootless visionaries and adventurers you’d expect to find in such a place, seem flaccid and superannuated, like the kind of people who keep hanging out on their college campus years after they’ve graduated. (They don’t even have interesting faces.) They’re so intellectually barren, and such a bust in their relationships, that when Sal tells them, "We have so much here to inspire us," your eyes wander around the screen to see what it is she’s talking about. Could she mean the bamboo tool shed? And at the end, after everything has fallen apart, there’s no sense of loss, no feeling that a noble experiment has failed. It’s just time to go back to the mainland.    

This feeling – that nothing of any real importance is at stake – permeates every corner of the movie. Danny Boyle, in particular, has not covered himself in glory. With Shallow Grave and Trainspotting, he wrestled away the title of "Looking Good But Going Nowhere" from such formidable opponents as Sam Raimi and David Fincher. In The Beach his style is downright schizophrenic, a jarring back-and-forth between conventional directing and post-modern whimsy, and in the end nothing works. Boyle doesn’t know how to build emotion in what are supposed to be the story’s big moments, his action scenes lack snap and clarity, and his idea of a love scene is a slow-motion striptease set amongst a field of luminous plankton. Meanwhile, he coughs up a steady stream of tony camera angles and arty effects, such as turning Richard’s run through the jungle into a video game, that shatter what little atmosphere he’s managed to cobble together.    

More important is Leonardo DiCaprio’s apparent decision to retire from acting. He was simply phenomenal in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape? and This Boy’s Life; raw and instinctual, he was the greatest young actor we’d seen in years. But here, in his first starring role since Titanic, he looks like he’s been devoured by his heartthrob status. He has the same self-aware look in his eye whether he’s being harassed by peddlers on a Bangkok street or collapsing on the sand after a taxing swim. He’s a bag of jokey tics and poses, and his tics are the focus of every scene. The Beach doesn’t deserve anyone’s best effort, but how does DiCaprio expect to maintain the respect of anyone besides teenyboppers if he keeps this up? He’s all of 25 years old, and he already looks like he’s thrown in the towel.

BFI | Sight & Sound | The Beach (2000) Xan Brooks from Sight and Sound, March 2000

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Britmovie

Review a book review by Elizabeth Schmidt from Providence Phoenix

The Beach another book review by Steven Kelly from The Richmond Review

Beach nut Sue Wheat’s interview with author Alex Garland from Salon, February 11, 2000

Philadelphia City Paper review by Cindy Fuchs also seen here: PopMatters (Cynthia Fuchs)

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28 DAYS LATER B 86

Great Britain France (113 mi) 2002

Time Out

The streets of London are terrorised by blood-crazed maniacs - nothing new there then. Except that those same streets seem so preternaturally quiet. Twenty-eight days have passed since the Rage virus was unleashed; four weeks which have decimated the population. When Jim (Murphy) awakes from a coma it's as if he's still in the throes of some frightening fever dream: Robinson Crusoe in Piccadilly Circus. Survivors Selena (Harris) and Mark (Huntley) bring him up to speed. They haven't seen another living human being for days, they say. The unliving come out at night. An apocalyptic psychological horror film, shot on DV and peopled with newcomers, this marks a sharp volte face for the globe-trippers behind The Beach. Barely conceiving of a world beyond Britain, this is a very insular movie, but none the worse for that. Profoundly indebted to George Romero's zombie trilogy, but brusque and brutal in comparison, it clicks on urban alienation, social paranoia, viral and bacterial terror, pollution and contamination, but homes in on the idea that the greatest threat may be fear itself. Danny Boyle has got his edge back.

The Onion A.V. Club [Nathan Rabin]

Television veteran Danny Boyle began his filmmaking career with the double bang of Shallow Grave and Trainspotting, but continued it with a whimper (The Beach, the disastrous A Life Less Ordinary, the aborted Alien Love Triangle). Boyle's latest film, 28 Days Later, follows a similar pattern, getting off to a terrifying start before devolving into gory bloodshed and ham-fisted allegory. The script came from Alex Garland, who wrote the novel on which The Beach was based, and while those two films are miles apart in terms of budgets and genres, they have surprisingly similar themes. Each dissects a makeshift society that's set apart from the rest of civilization, and that crumbles due to the cruelty inherent in human nature. In The Beach, the society in question was a utopian island community that rapidly became a dystopian nightmare. In 28 Days Later, it's a group of survivors of a horrific virus that devastates the U.K., and possibly the rest of the world. After Cillian Murphy wakes up in a hospital, he ventures out into an eerily still London in which a handful of uninfected survivors strive to stay one step ahead of zombie-like disease carriers. Murphy travels through the wreckage with tough-talking Naomie Harris before joining forces with a girl and her gentle father (a touching Brendan Gleeson). Later does a lot of things right, which makes its third-act missteps even more frustrating. Cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle, who recently shot Lars von Trier's Dogville, makes inspired use of digital video, using its blurry, voyeuristic intimacy to convey the disorienting horror of a world where death and disease hover like a ghostly fog. The film similarly concocts a terrifying new subset of zombies that are sleeker, faster, and more ferociously primal than their often lumbering ancestors. Boyle and Garland wisely use their frightening monsters sparingly, which allows them to retain their shock and novelty: The infected never hang around long enough for the audience to get used to them. But while Later maintains the same sort of restraint for much of its duration, it casts that restraint aside during a bloody, over-the-top final act that diminishes the film's scary poignancy. Like his makeshift societies, Garland's tantalizing set-ups tend to unravel in unsatisfying ways.

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

A young bicycle-courier named Jim (Cillian Murphy) awakes in hospital after an accident to find London deserted. As he wanders the abandoned streets, he discovers Britain has been ravaged by a mysterious virus that turns its victims into crazed psychotics. Among the few survivors remaining uninfected are street-wise Selena (Naomie Harris), and father-and-daughter duo Frank (Brendan Gleeson) and Hannah (Megan Burns). Drawn by a radio announcement, the quartet make their way across country to the north-west, dodging the infected at every turn. But surprises lie in wait at their destination…

An unashamedly derivative but reasonably engaging entry into the well-worn post-apocalyptic genre of sci-fi horror, 28 Days Later reunites director Boyle with Alex Garland, the novelist behind The Beach. This is Garland’s first script written directly for the screen, and it shows – as well as various distracting basic plot-holes (where are all the rats?) the story too closely follows to its countless forebears in books and movies, especially John Wyndham’s original Day of the Triffids novel, with a resulting air of over-familiarity and predictability. No less damaging is the clunky dialogue – the hapless Harris seems to get all of the worst, most awkwardly expositional lines.

After a couple of badly-received TV movies, this is director Boyle’s first cinema feature made using Digital Video cameras – along with legendary ‘dogme’ cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle, he comes up with some striking images of the city and the country. And the new medium proves surprisingly well-suited to what becomes, after the strikingly slow and eerie empty-London early stretches, a surprisingly fast-moving, intermittently gory thriller.

The latter stages, in which Jim and co meet a troop of soldiers under the patrician control of Major West (Christopher Eccleston), at times even recall the thick-ear, squaddies-v-monsters pleasures of Dog Soldiers. But this is a more accomplished picture than that rough-and-ready crowdpleaser – Boyle and Dod Mantle show an unexpected flair for action sequences that, if nothing else, keeps things moving along all the way up to a joltingly sudden, bracingly downbeat final freeze-frame… Except, sadly, it isn’t actually the end. Garland and Boyle tack on a limply optimistic coda, filmed on conventional celluloid, and it represents a crucial, fatal loss of nerve.

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson]

To every creatively frozen, summer-movie ice age comes a little heat lightning, and these gray dog days it's Danny Boyle's 28 Days Later. On one hand a seat-o'-pants digital-video quickie designed for blunt trauma, and on the other a veritable index of classic genre-stuff, Boyle's film creates an acute sense of movie-viewing danger. You're never sure that what you'll see will be completely safe and blockbustery. Because it's cut-rate, star-free (supporting players Brendan Gleeson and Christopher Eccleston are as close to marquee names as it gets), outlandishly edge-conscious, and 100 percent British, the movie has a frontier charge built in. It's no landmark—it's too derivative and, finally, tasteful—but unassuming ticket buyers may be spot-welded to their seats with an unfamiliar intensity.

Screenwriter Alex Garland literally drops in the name of the film as an intertitle following a disastrous animal lab liberation in which eco-activists release virally infected chimps into the world. Four weeks later, naked nobody Jim (Cillian Murphy) wakes up in a hospital to find London an empty maze of post-apocalyptic silence, wreckage, and broodingly useless landmarks. It doesn't take long for him to stumble upon a dozing mob of the "infected"—essentially, George Romero-style cannibal zombies, distinguished by their red contact lenses, body-snatcher screech, and rigor-mortis-free speed—or to be rescued by Mark and Selena (Noah Huntley and the redoubtable Naomie Harris), a pair of no-nonsense vigilante humans brimming with exposition.

England, it seems, has been wholly evacuated; exactly how far beyond its shores the plague spread is a matter of conflicting rumor. It hardly matters—the scenario quickly boils down to Dawn of the Dead hack-or-be-chomped. The jittery social collapse in Night of the Living Dead, Romero's first Dead film, is conveniently hopscotched, but even so, that seminal nightmare's upcoming teen re-remake is now rendered altogether moot. Returning after the H-bomb crater of The Beach to an ultra-cheap guerrilla moviemaking he'd never actually experienced, Boyle allows the digital fuzz to despoil powerful post-apocalyptic tableaux, as if the film itself were news footage, and offers up only fleeting glimpses of historically suggestive imagery (an inert Payloader full of gray bodies is a mere reflection in a passing car window). He also overemploys the ubiquitous Saving Private Ryan shutter-strobe effect during action scenes, using its eye-upsetting tumult to economically disguise the fact that very little of the flesh-rending and limb-hacking is actually on-screen. (This technique is also forgiving to drooling zombie actors.) The subjective approximation of a hysterical, head-shaking frenzy, it's a presumptuous strategy that gets under your skin anyway.

It's a shame Boyle and Garland took only what was easy in Romero (the ecstasy of shopping in an unpoliced world, the unambiguous joy of mowing down subhumans) and didn't dig for metaphoric frisson. Romero had Vietnam and post-industrial consumerism; what do Boyle and Garland have? The threat of instant infection—Gleeson's jovial dad meets a decidedly outrageous fate, seen from the inside of a falling drop of blood—only evokes itself. Pick your virus. There's nothing as transgressive in 28 Days Later as the Night of the Living Dead moment in which a newly resurrected child zombie eviscerates and cannibalizes her own mother, or, for that matter, Night's final evocation of mid-century Alabama. Garland's script has the kernel of an idea in the third act, when the survivors find Eccleston's army brigade holed up in a country mansion, ready to restart the human race. As in Romero's severely underrated The Crazies, the dread of military enforcement outweighs the fear of what it's meant to control. For Naomie Harris's wary, fierce machete-maiden, the prospect of being a jarhead concubine and gunpoint baby factory makes the landscape of man-eaters look reasonable.

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MILLIONS B 83

Great Britain (97 mi) 2004

Very stylish, with plenty of directorial flourish, but the story is too contrived and predictable, and ultimately lacks any emotional punch. Two young brothers, ages nine and seven, the younger has visions of Roman Catholic Saints while the older is much more practical, find a huge bag of stolen money thrown off a nearby train. The younger thinks it was from God and wants to give it all to the poor, while the older likes impressing his schoolmates. When a low-life thief starts snooping around looking for the money, the boys face a crisis. In films like this, no one ever talks to one another, instead, they always have to face danger alone. Never for a second did I suspect any foul play would ever come to these boys, as the story is so drenched in black and white morality. And while there are some clever and fanciful bits, such as how the film weaves bicycle-riding Mormons into the story, none of this was ever really going anywhere when there was so obviously a message to preach. Great to look at, and well acted, told from the point of view of the children, but not much of a story.

Bright Lights Film Journal Robert Keser

In Millions, maverick director Danny Boyle forsakes the marauding zombies of his surprise hit 28 Days Later, turning to hirsute medieval saints who visit a wide-eyed suburban youngster. Instead of the digital video grunge suitable for his horror film, Boyle builds a fairy-tale ambience with the dynamic comic-strip style he used in Shallow Grave, hyper-saturating the colors and sharply delineating the edges, then pinballing suddenly between extreme angles. The title exaggerates the contents of a mysterious bag flung from a passing train onto the boy’s cardboard box playhouse, but the parcel does contain several hundred thousand pounds, and there’s a deadline to spend it before the UK converts all cash to Euros. Some sequences, such as an extended school Nativity play and the child’s fantasy visitations from the great beyond, may well test the sucrose tolerance of some viewers, not helped by a hastily sketched villain and a last-minute rush to resolve the plot, but Boyle’s attention to the performance of pint-sized, freckled Alex Etel largely succeeds, and he manages to soft-pedal the tale’s New Age vapors, ending on a pleasing lesson that with wealth comes the responsibility to fund good works.

Exclaim! [Melissa Mohaupt]

A G-rated feel-good comedy by Danny Boyle, starring two innocent children, with no sex, violence or profanity? Really? Yes, the bewildered message board reports by fans of Trainspotting and 28 Days Later are correct. Boyle exposes his soft, gooey centre in Millions, an uplifting fantasy caper that brilliantly substitutes heroin addicts and plagues with huge amounts of heart without sacrificing any of his askew and original visual style.

England is on the verge of switching to the Euro and the British Pound is about to become obsolete. Anticipating the large sums of money coming through the train stations in order to be changed, a massive heist is executed. Soon after, nine-year-old capitalist Anthony (Lewis McGibbon) and seven-year-old philanthropist Damian (Alexander Etel, who’s adorable) come across a gym bag, which literally lands in their lap, filled with £229,320 (which Anthony would be quick to tell you is exactly $533,175 CDN).

Deciding not to tell their widower father (James Nesbitt) about their newly acquired loot, they realise they need to spend all this cash in a big hurry. Anthony wants to buy property, or failing that, a lot of toys. But Damian, still coping with their mother’s death, thinks God has sent the money for him to give to the poor. His imaginary friends — visions of various saints throughout history who give him advice (including Claire of Assisi, the cigarette-smoking patron saint of television) — assure him he’s on his way to being blessed. But first he has to make sure the scary robber that’s threatening him can't get the booty.

Frank Cottrell Boyce’s (24 Hour Party People) witty script resorts to sentimentality only in appropriately small doses. Millions is still as quirky and irreverent as Boyle’s previous films, and because it’s filmed through the eyes of children, it has an exuberance that’s infectious.

The Village Voice [Ed Park]

Danny Boyle's Millions is not what we'd expect from the Trainspotting and 28 Days Later director. It's essentially a gentle, kid's-eye parable: A motherless, saint-hallucinating young boy, Damian (Alex Etel), finds a Nike bag stuffed with ill-gotten gains—hundreds of thousands of pounds sterling—which he endeavors to distribute to the needy, a group that proves hard to come by. (He treats a pack of crunchy save-the-world types to pizza, and leaves cash for the electronics-deprived Mormons down the block.) Contaminating his plan is slightly older brother Anthony (Lewis McGibbon), who splurges on gadgetry and urges Damian to invest in real estate, and the knit-capped man (Christopher Fulford) who menacingly demands his loot back. A further wrinkle: Britain is about to switch from pound to euro, meaning that everything must be spent—or converted without drawing suspicion.

The plot trigger of cursed discovery suggests A Simple Plan and Stand by Me. As the altruistic, freckled Damian, Etel mostly stays on the right side of the adorable/annoying line. Damian's the opposite of his namesake from The Omen, siding with the angels instead of the lord of darkness. Saints Clare, Peter, Francis, Nicholas, and Joseph all make appearances, advising our young hero. It's a logical flight of fancy—how to explain the mind of a child who wants to give rather than get?—that still feels contrived.

Some Boyle fingerprints are discernible early on. When Damian and Anthony visit the lot where their new home will go up, the timbers sprout and walls materialize in a time-lapse fantasy, which turns out to be the real thing. And the bag of dough, when first seen, is startlingly unidentifiable, leaping across the landscape as though equipped with rockets.

The Onion A.V. Club [Tasha Robinson]

What would happen if the two beleaguered kids from Mike Newell's charming 1992 fable Into The West got their hands on a huge pile of money? That's not quite the official concept behind Millions, the latest from 28 Days Later director Danny Boyle, but it comes remarkably close to describing the film's dynamic and tone. Millons' Alexander Etel and Lewis McGibbon are middle-class British kids instead of starving scions of an Irish minority group, but their contentious-but-close relationship makes them seem like Into The West's child protagonists in better circumstances, as does the plot, in which seemingly supernatural forces help them reconnect with their father and each other after their mother's death.

Millions begins with the kind of colorful fantasy sequence that lent sparky life to Boyle films like Trainspotting and The Beach, and it continues with an appallingly funny segment in which 9-year-old McGibbon teaches his 7-year-old brother Etel that by mentioning their mother's recent death, they can extort all manner of gifts from guilty, uncomfortable adults. (When the moralistic Etel asks if this is "completely honest," McGibbon bitterly retorts, "Completely dead, isn't she?") But the film doesn't hit its stride until a sack of money falls from the sky onto Etel's head. After counting the loot, which comes to more than 200,000 pounds, McGibbon insists that they keep it secret, lest the government demand a cut, but he nonetheless proceeds to purchase high-tech toys, buy himself a cadre of followers at his new school, and start looking into real estate. Meanwhile, the more religious Etel clumsily attempts to share his bounty with the poor. With the mandatory changeover from pounds to euros fast approaching, the boys have to spend the money before it becomes worthless, but its previous owner is operating on the same schedule, and his ruthless efforts to retrieve the cash throw a threatening note into what's otherwise a sweet, almost-straight-faced family drama.

Millions completely lacks the grimy adult edge of Boyle's other films, but its complexity marks it as something more than a children's caper: Etel struggles with morality, his responsibility to himself and his family, and his affirming but alienating fantasies about interacting with saints. Meanwhile, his father and brother undergo their own, more subtle struggles. That subtlety is one of Millions' many assets: A little broad comedy keeps things perky, but the kids' excellent, restrained acting and the low-key script by The Claim screenwriter Frank Cottrell Boyce hold the whole sprawling project together, from weepy revelations to silly fantasy-saint sequences. Much like Into The West, Millions stars kids and boasts kid-friendly content, but its concepts and execution are appealingly grown-up.

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SUNSHINE B 84

Great Britain (108 mi) 2007

A mixed bag, as stylistically, there’s a lot to like in this film, where Danny Boyle’s superb build-up of suspense and eye-popping production values are first rate, but whoever allowed Freddy Kreuger on the set just as the film was ratcheting into overdrive in the final act is responsible for one of the most disastrous, dive-bombing endings in recent memory. Didn’t someone pick this up during initial audience previews? The entire mood of the film is ultimately undone by its own choices, which turns an exquisitely designed, character driven space adventure into an absurd zombie-like thriller, deteriorating into a second rate ALIEN. Set 50 years in the future, the sun is dying, creating ice age conditions on earth. In an attempt to jump start the sun back to full strength, the earth sends a space mission to fly directly into the sun, Icarus I, loaded with a gigantic nuclear bomb that they hoped would re-ignite the star. However, that mission failed, as they fell out of contact seven years ago and are now presumed lost. Icarus II sets out on the exact same course and is billed as the last vestige of hope for mankind. The audience is spared the scientific details and suffice it to say, that mammoth yellow gaseous sphere called the sun dominates both the set design and the psychological intrigue, like a mysterious Twilight Zone episode, as the closer they come to their target, the less scientific the mission feels, as the veneer of logic and rationality gets tossed out the window due to a sudden change of unexpected circumstances that throws them all for a loop, challenging or perhaps redefining their sense of what it is to be human.

There’s a great deal of sympathy for this crew, a mixture of men and women from around the globe, as the ferocity of the sun becomes an unknown factor, its lurking presence looming out the window having an unusual effect on the crew, where one admits the surface of the sun is all she ever dreams about.

“Only dream I ever have,” she says, “Every time I close my eyes, it’s always the same.” Another can’t stop himself from exposing himself to the maximum amount of sun exposure, literally bathing in the light, despite the destructive effects this has on his skin. But the crew also gets inexplicably skittish, occasionally turning on one another, rationalizing that this is a mild case of cabin fever, but there appears to be something more. Adding to the overall sense of creepiness is their dependant use of a HAL-like computer that operates the ship, which they speak to in conversational tones as it politely identifies them by name. The sound of the mechanized voice has the effect of lulling us to sleep before all systems go haywire, which, in effect, is what happens, though not in any way we might have predicted ahead of time. Instead, the sun exhibits a mysterious unseen force that seems to have a strange effect on each and every one of the crew members, like something out of Zurlini’s DESERT OF THE TARTARS (1976). The editing and buildup of suspense never lags, as the audience is continually kept off balance, enhanced by tiny subliminal images that creep in and out of the picture from time to time, and by the last minute change in flight plans that they’re forced to make, which has disastrous ramifications.

The end is a muddle of misdirection, explicitly designed to up the ante into a state of panic and delirium onboard the ship, including a few oddly chosen freeze frames that make one wonder if there’s not technical problems in the booth, but instead it seems to play games with the audience, toying with our expectations, even cheating a bit with the narrative, as if all is fair when the end of the earth is at stake. But this propped up, artificially exaggerated sense of danger undermines everything that came before, where the danger emanated from the sun, from this mysterious unseen unknown, which after all, is what space exploration is all about. It’s a humbling experience, as the knowledge we carry into space is vastly inferior to whatever created such an infinite universe in the first place. The last thing we expected onboard the ship as it rears into the end stage of its mission is criminal sabotage, unleashing the exact same kind of criminal behavior that gets people sent to prison every day here on earth. Somehow space is supposed to offer greater dangers than the ones lurking around any street corner. This in effect trivializes the awesome power of outer space that has been built up by some expert work by the director and his art designers. Unfortunately, it’s like letting the air out of a balloon, and despite the heightened anxiety of the big finale, the film fizzles to a close, much of it seen from the claustrophobic vantage point of a guy locked inside a space suit, witnessing horrors through the limited view of his visor. Only through the most outlandish maneuvers does this ship finally slip into the billowing fires of its final destination. Tense, well-made, with a great look to it, but ultimately something of a disappointment.

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Dazzling, occasionally nuts and entirely gripping, Danny Boyle's philosophical thriller (you read that right) is set in an indefinite but not far-off future where the sun is dying and humanity's only hope is a far-fetched plan to detonate a massive explosion in the heart of the star. Aboard the Icarus II (whose creators either had a wicked sense of humor or failed mythology), a group of scientists led by Cillian Murphy's blue-eyed bombmaker hurtle toward the sun, protected by a shield that looks like an enormous golden contact lens. The mission goes askew, as it must, beginning with psych officer Cliff Curtis' mounting obsession with bathing himself in scorching sunlight (or as much as his body can take), and culminating in a rendezvous with the corpse of the first Icarus, inaugurating a hairpin third-act curve that goes down rough but is worth swallowing whole. With a script by Alex Garland (28 days later..., The Beach), the movie has some of the operatic overreach of The Fountain, but it's an invigoratingly taut and tense experience, cranked up by whomping sound design and a visual scheme that keeps you constantly on your toes. Working heavily with metaphors of vision (Murphy's character is named for legendary war photographer Robert Capa), Boyle shows far more than he tells, leaving the audience to puzzle rewardingly through.

Seattle Post-Intelligencer [Sean Axmaker]

A blazing, golden sun slowly fills the screen. As our perspective shifts, the image becomes even more breathtaking. It's the prow of spaceship, a high-tech heat shield that could be an ancient Aztec tribute to the sun god, and it's hauling (in the words of nuclear physicist Cillian Murphy) "Eight astronauts strapped to the back of a bomb. My bomb."

The initial premise of "Sunshine" -- the sun is dying and mankind has put all hope in a desperate effort to reignite our star with a nuclear payload of galactic dimensions -- is more fantasy than science fiction, powered by nonsense physics similar to such sci-fi adventures as "Armageddon" and "The Core."

Where director Danny Boyle ("Trainspotting," "28 Days Later") and writer Alex Garland take this idea, however, is something else entirely. "Sunshine" is a visionary odyssey with a grace and awe and visual scope that calls to mind Stanley Kubrick's "2001: A Space Odyssey" for a new millennium, with echoes of the industrial grunge and crew friction of "Alien," the greenhouse ecology of "Silent Running," even the unraveling sanity of "Dark Star."

The scientists and engineers of his international crew are no superheroes and the gravity of their mission puts them under inhuman pressure. Some escape in isolation (pilot Rose Byrne and biologist Michelle Yeoh), some bliss out in the infinity of space (psych officer Cliff Curtis, perhaps in need of counseling himself), and one (engineer Chris Evans) responds with good old American directness: he throws a punch at Murphy.

A bare outline of the plot reads like a space-adventure thriller with end-of-the-world stakes and a hint of celestial spirituality, and the haunted spaceship twist in the third act is pure B-movie madness.

Boyle and his cast set the controls to the heart of the sun and drive the interstellar pilgrimage beyond the dubious science and rickety story line with magnificent imagery and a gravity that pulls you in to the immediacy of their ordeal and the gripping urgency off their mission.

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

Easily one of the most remarkable-looking - and sounding - British productions for many years, the latest collaboration between director Boyle and scriptwriter Garland (after The Beach and 28 Days Later) is essentially a fairly straight cross between Event Horizon and The Core, with nods to Alien, Solaris (both versions) and Pitch Black along the way. As this jumbled ancestry indicates, Sunshine doesn't seem to know which branch of sci-fi it belongs in: external scenes of stately, rather trippy, Kubrickian grandeur and interior-set sequences of talky Stanislaw-Lem-style philosophising sit somewhat uncomfortably along plot developments that nod to the cheesiest of bargain-basement straight-to-video fare.

The decidedly implausible, hole-ridden plot puts a new spin on topical climate-change issues: in the near future, the sun has started to show premature signs of impending death, plunging the world into perpetual winter. An increasingly desperate mankind sends a spaceship (Icarus II) containing all of the world's fissile material (protected by a vast shield seemingly constructed of all the world's gold), which is to be propelled into the heart of the dying star in order to effect a kind of cosmic 'kick-start.' A multi-racial, multinational, (mostly) model-pretty crew (including Cillian Murphy, Chris Evans, Michelle Yeoh and Rose Byrne) are tasked with delivering the payload, only to be diverted when they receive a distress signal from the ship (Icarus I) sent on an identical mission several years before, and long presumed lost...

Sunshine sets out its stall with admirable economy and minimum fuss, gradually building tension and atmosphere as hazards intervene and on-board frictions mount. And while the Icarus II's mission becomes one disaster after another, the course plotted by Boyle and Garland proceeds much more smoothly, the pair knowingly ticking off (and often tweaking) various genre conventions as they go. Problems only arise, indeed, during the third act: Garland - having exhausted his list of hand-me-down spaceship-mishap perils and realising he's got too many characters still left breathing - take a disastrous, near-fatal mis-step. He brings into play a homicidal stowaway - a naked, demented, knife-wielding slasher (played by Mark Strong) whose villainously delusional/theological dialogue recalls Sam Neill during the bonkers latter stretches of Event Horizon - while his full-body solar-exposure burns give him an unfortunate air of Freddy Krueger on occasion.

Not that we ever get an especially good look at this chap - as the climax approaches, Boyle abandones the impressively steely control that's marked the Sunshine's earlier stretches in favour of stylistic overload: flashy editing abounds, with artsy freeze-frames and increasingly berserk camerawork. The actual finale is - fortunately - executed with sufficient chutzpah to end proceedings on a definite high, although, like much of what's gone before, it's objectively rather absurd. As with the sun itself, so with Sunshine: basking in the glow is a pleasure, but you shouldn't even think of examining it too directly...

Salon.com [Stephanie Zacharek]

In Danny Boyle's "Sunshine," a group of eight astronauts -- each with a specific function, from knowing how to tame a freaked-out cooling system with a monkey wrench to tending a self-sustaining "oxygen garden" -- hurtle toward the sun in a small capsule attached to a bomb. Stars die all the time, and now the sun is dying too: The earth, in response, grows cold and dark. The mission of the Icarus 2 -- there was, of course, an Icarus 1 before it -- is to jump-start the ailing sun by firing a massive grenade straight at it. And the wonder of it all is that Boyle makes you believe, for a while at least, that it actually could work.

"Sunshine" -- its script is by Alex Garland, who also collaborated with Boyle on the elegiac zombie thriller "28 Days Later" -- is one of those unapologetically cerebral space-exploration sci-fi movies that's both boring and compelling at once, the heir to pictures like "2001" and Tarkovsky's "Solaris." But it's a movie divided: The picture's first half is languidly terrifying, a somber, chilly march toward oblivion, and the actors -- most notably the movie's star, and its heart, Cillian Murphy -- make us feel the import of that mission. Although there's a chance the ship will be able to deliver the "payload" -- the not-so-vaguely pornographic term assigned to the missile -- and scoot away from the explosion before it can destroy them, the crew has accepted that Icarus 2 is essentially a suicide mission. When the crew members learn they'll be reaching their destination seven days earlier than expected, Murphy's Capa, the ship's physicist, tapes a message to send back to his parents. He poses against a glittery green background and begins his restless patter ("I hope you're proud of your son. Saving mankind. And so on"), doing four or five takes before he hits it right. "If you wake up one morning, and it's a particularly beautiful day, you'll know we made it." And then the cryptic kicker: "See you in a couple of years."

That faux-cheerful sign-off may be the most chilling moment in "Sunshine," a modest remnant of everyday life in the face of its potential extinction. There are times when "Sunshine" (shot by Alwin H. Kuchler) feels like a movie not made on Earth: At its best it has a detached, lost-in-space quality reminiscent of the haunting beginning of "You Only Live Twice," in which an astronaut's lifeline is clipped -- but very slowly, like a kind of torture -- sending him floating off into space. The ship itself is a compact nest of lonely-looking warrens and chambers; Mark Tildesley's production design is restrained and austere, and its lack of extravagance only makes the setup more convincing. Boyle takes care with the details, allowing us to hear the groaning of the ship: Even though it's made of metal, we hear it expanding and contracting, like the wooden ships of old. And during the most dangerous parts of the mission, when crew members need to leave the ship, they don puffy gold lamé spacesuits, the sort of thing Paco Rabanne might design for the Michelin Man.

Boyle doles out plenty of eerie touches: We hear staticky distress calls from ships that have long disappeared; we catch glimpses of the faces of a dead crew in brief blips between frames, like the subliminal cues -- split-second flashes of naked women and such -- that supposedly cluttered advertising in the 1960s.

But as gifted a filmmaker as Boyle is -- in addition to the exhilarating "Trainspotting," he made one of my favorite oddball pictures of the 1990s, "A Life Less Ordinary" -- he can't sustain the mood of dread he builds in the movie's first act. Slowly, "Sunshine" begins to creak under the considerable weight of its own pretensions. The movie's climax should be swift and horrifying; instead, it's belabored and lumbering. The story gives us a clear villain, and it doesn't need one -- isn't the betrayal of the sun enough? The first half or so of "Sunshine" made me feel queasy and unmoored, as if time were in danger of stopping at any moment. By the second half, it seemed simply that time was dragging its heels on the way to stopping: The movie's hypnotic spell had been broken.

That's a shame, because the actors here do fine work. Chris Evans, as the ship's mechanic, Mace, is both more surly and livelier than he is in the "Fantastic Four" pictures; Michelle Yeoh, as the biologist Corazon, has little to do but still manages to be a vital presence; and Rose Byrne, as navigator Cassie, has an air of delicate hardiness that suits the picture beautifully. She's like a Victorian heroine misplaced in time.

But the picture would be nothing, an incomplete Venn diagram, without Murphy. His eyes, that impossible blue, could be the result of a recessive alien chromosome, but he's so dutiful and so troubled that it's clear he's painfully human. Murphy pulls off the near-impossible task of making saving Earth look like something you just do without thinking: Maybe that has something to do with his lanky, teenagerish frame, or the way his hair looks inherently resistant to combing. His preternaturally youthful quality is deeply touching here, but it also makes me want to fast-forward 20 years, and then 40, to see what kind of old man he'll become. Much of what's affecting about "Sunshine" comes from looking at this character's face and knowing he might not make it there.

PopMatters [Cynthia Fuchs]

The Village Voice [Nathan Lee]

The House Next Door [Peet Gelderblom]

Sunshine (2007) Bryant Frazer from Deep Focus

Oggs' Movie Thoughts

The Science Fiction, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

ReelViews (James Berardinelli)

Slant Magazine [Jeremiah Kipp]

Sunshine Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

Scott Mendelson

Flipside Movie Emporium [Rob Vaux]

Film Freak Central Review [Walter Chaw]

Cinephile Magazine [Richard X]

eFilmCritic.com (Peter Sobczynski)

eFilmCritic.com (Erik Childress)

Empire Magazine [UK] Olly Richards

Time Out

Austin Chronicle [Marrit Ingman]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

New York Times (registration req'd) Manohla Dargis

SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE B+ 91

Great Britain USA (120 mi) 2008 ‘Scope co-director: Loveleen Tandan

Perhaps the feel good movie of the year, this is an improbable fairy tale drenched in the visceral physicality of lower class realism from the crowded streets of Mumbai, India shot with a keen eye by the hyperactive camera movements of cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle. At times unflinchingly brutal, where opening torture scenes make one suspect political overtones, but this is instead a romantic adventure story about the trials and travails of two young brothers and a young girl, known as The Three Musketeers, who early on lose their parents and must fend for themselves as street orphans. As we follow their exploits, we see that even the harsh world around them can be exploited to their advantage, as they become master beggars and thieves, even stealing the shoes of visitors at the Taj Mahal. At an early age they are used to being chased by the police and develop a defiant attitude towards authority, which is affectionately shown as kids are seen racing through the back alleys of busy streets flaunting their freedom, scenes that eloquently portray a city bursting with life. While Azharuddin Mohammed Ismail as young older brother Salim and Ayush Mahesh Khedekar as young Jamal are charming together with their incessant positive spin on life, but as they grow older, it gets more dangerous when they become exploited by powerful men. Always, it seems, they have to escape from someone.

Suspected of cheating, the story is told through flashbacks, where 18-year old Jamal (Dev Patel) withstands all roughshod police methods and sits calmly in a chair and revisits his life circumstances to a police inspector (Irfan Khan) that explain why he was able to answer all the questions correctly on the “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire” quiz show. As an uneducated street orphan known as a “slumdog,” his TV appearance draws unprecedented ratings due to the sheer improbability of his feat. Each new flashback is initially amusing, simply by the inventive style of the film, before the deprivation of his world sets in. Interwoven within the interrogation and his TV appearance are serial chapters of his life revealing yet another harrowing adventure where the answers to the questions figure prominently in the outcome. Continually overcoming all odds, his life’s mission appears to be finding and rescuing the little girl he grew up with, Latika, who grew up to become a stunningly beautiful woman, Freida Pinto, the model-like Rosario Dawson of Bollywood. The film largely succeeds because of the director’s enthusiastic brashness adding to the sustained energy level of the film, the emphasis on realism, and the extremely appealing musical soundtrack written by A.R. Rahman. All of this creates a sumptuously beautiful movie experience adding the color and beauty of Bollywood to the fast action, quick cut editing, helter skelter pace of Western films. In terms of adding a level of complexity to the human condition, the audience is largely treated to realistic glimpses into a marginalized world that we would otherwise rarely get to see and is largely a success for the sheer thrill of it all. While the realism is not embellished, the imaginary fantasy aspect of the storyline is, accentuated at the end by an exhilarating ZATOICHI-like dance number over the end credits.

The Onion A.V. Club (Tasha Robinson) review

Danny Boyle is an accomplished stylist whose films (Trainspotting, 28 Days Later, Sunshine, etc.) always bear distinctive visual stamps. But style often overtakes substance in his movies, leaving the impression that his hapless characters are rattling around inside a Rube Goldberg world of wild visual setpieces that confine and control them. Boyle's latest, Slumdog Millionaire, is no exception: Its story leaps about wildly in time and space and, as if afraid that his viewers might get too complacent with a merely fractured timeline, Boyle splinters it, adding split-second memory-images and flash-forwards into scenes to shake them up further. The story is sometimes less about the characters than about how they're framed within a gloriously composed shot or a furiously jumpy scene. And yet Slumdog Millionaire features the simplest story Boyle has ever told, which may explain why its many pleasures are so pure.

In the present day, protagonist Dev Patel is an 18-year-old menial worker at a Mumbai telemarketing center, and an unprecedented game-show success who's reached the final stage of India's Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? But because he's an uneducated young "slumdog" who shouldn't have the necessary knowledge to win, he's suspected of cheating, and packed off to the local police station for torture, mockery, and accusations. With a hard-to-believe calm reserve, he explains how he knew all the game show's answers to date: Each one of them tied into a significant moment in his ghastly hard-knock life. As the film explores these traumatic moments in flashbacks, they merge into a surprisingly sweet love story that draws in the brother and the young girl who shared his formative experiences.

Slumdog Millionaire is an unabashedly swooning romantic fairy tale, a love letter to the bright colors and outsized complications of India's cities, its storytelling, and its cinema. It takes place in Boyle's usual deterministic world of contrivance and coincidence; it's no surprise that Boyle seized upon Vikas Swarup's bestselling book Q&A as something he wanted to adapt to film. But for all the darkness Patel encounters along his road, Slumdog is a relentlessly positive, joyously sentimental adventure, best summed up in the breathtaking Bollywood-esque dance number that arrives over the closing credits. Boyle's eye for beautiful images and fast-driving sequences is as sharp as ever, but here for once, they pen his stars into experiences they might have wished to avoid, but that lead them exactly where they want to go.

Movies | From "Slumdog" to hero | Seattle Times Newspaper Moira Macdonald

"Slumdog Millionaire" director Danny Boyle visited Seattle last week. The exuberant Manchester native, whose breakthrough was his 1996 indie hit "Trainspotting," talked about his instant connection to the "Slumdog" script, about the challenges and joys of filming in the vast city of Mumbai and about getting a "Millionaire" set built from scratch.

On the screenplay: "[The script] arrived out of the blue, and I said, 'Oh my God, I don't want to do that.' They said it was about 'Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.' I thought, 'No way am I going to make a film about "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire."

"But the [screenwriter] was Simon Beaufoy, who had written 'The Full Monty,' one of my favorite films. I thought, I'll read a few pages and then at least I can write to him and say, 'Lovely to read your script, not really my cup of tea.' But I was lost after 10, 15 pages. I was like, 'Yup, I'm in.' I hadn't even finished it. It's a wonderful place to make a decision actually, before you get to the end. It's made for you, the decision. You're sort of hijacked by the idea."

Filming in Mumbai: "There's too many people, not enough water, not enough anything. But it works. I mean, somehow there's a pattern. You can't read the pattern, and if you think you can you're foolhardy, but it does work. ... Everything's there you could ever need. Just an extraordinary place, one of those places mankind has designed to make the most intense experience of what it is to be a human being. Like New York used to be. I remember visiting New York in the '80s; it had that effect on me. It said, you will never be the same person again, coming through the city. Mumbai's a bit like that."

Bollywood Central: [Bollywood, India's legendary film industry, is based in Mumbai.] "People there love the movies. If there's a chance to be in one, they'll look in the camera. They're not shy about taking the opportunities. We just went with it. If you watch ['Slumdog'] carefully, there's lot of people looking into the camera. That's going on all the time, but there's no point in getting upset about that, it'll just drive you mad.

"There's a bit [in the film] where a security guy says, 'No filming here, get that camera out of here.' We left that bit in, because it's just so Mumbai, you know. You've got to leave the city in there, otherwise it's not true. The city just will not be excluded."

On the set of "Millionaire": "We went there, and I saw the show being recorded. I said, 'Can we use this set?' They said, 'No, we've put away that set now, we'll build you another one.' I said, 'That doesn't make sense; shouldn't we get the other one out of storage and just re-erect it?' 'No,' they said, 'it's cheaper to build you another one.'

"[There were] hundreds of carpenters, building things. They all sleep on the set. They're not good at getting up in the morning, the crews — they'll work any time of night for you, but not in the morning. You turn up in the morning, and there are hundreds of carpenters fast asleep on the set, it's just bizarre. Everything's like that, everything's got a little story."

Why Slumdog Could be 2008's Best Picture Logan Hill from New York magazine

Slumdog Millionaire is a low-budget R-rated movie shot entirely in India with no stars, filmed partially in Hindi, and based on the TV show Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. It’s also a transcendent love story that has swept up festival awards and critics’ raves on its way to becoming a legitimate Academy Award contender for Best Picture. If Slumdog, opening November 12, pulls off one of the greatest upsets in Oscar history, it will be because:

A. It’s the ultimate Danny Boyle film.
B. New Mumbai is the old New York.
C. It’s the Obama to Dark Knight’s McCain.
D. It is written.

Consider your final answer:

A. It’s the ultimate Danny Boyle film.
When Manchester, England’s Boyle broke out in 1996 with his hallucinatory Trainspotting, it wasn’t just a bug-eyed mockery of Glaswegian heroin addicts. It was a scorching rejection of conservative Thatcherite Brits who wasted their lives watching “mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows.” Mostly though, it was cinematic smack for a new generation of counterculture film junkies.

Boyle is now a 52-year-old father of three, and he’s still searching for the next cinematic rush. Given his stylistic preference for hysterical realism and his noted distaste for game shows, the idea of making a film about what even Slumdog’s screenwriter, The Full Monty’s Simon Beaufoy, merrily admits is “the most spirit-crushing game show of all” left Boyle cold. “When my agent said, ‘It’s a script about Who Wants to Be a Millionaire,’ I almost didn’t read it,” he says, all spiky hair and excitable gestures, rocking back and forth in a posh Gordon Ramsay restaurant. “The only reason I did was because it had Simon’s name on it. Then fifteen pages into it, I had no doubt.”

The first fifteen pages, loosely based on the novel Q&A by Vikas Swarup, start at a gallop and break into a sprint: A call-center tea servant named Jamal (Dev Patel, of the BBC’s Skins), raised in the horrific slums of Mumbai (a.k.a. Bombay), has made it to the final round of India’s Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. But before he can answer his final question, he is escorted from the building, arrested, and tortured by the police—because no “slumdog” (as slum kids are referred to in India) could possibly know the answers.

The game show is just a device—a familiar frame for Westerners (the film’s mostly in English, but essentially a foreign feature). The real tale begins during Jamal’s interrogation, when he explains how he knew the answers—triggering a breakneck series of flashbacks that take him from age 7 to 13 to 18. It’s a neo-Dickensian race through a brutally violent and corrupt modern Mumbai. But difficult as it gets for the characters, the film doesn’t “moralize about India or try to reform it,” says Boyle. “You just get thrown in the deep end.”

Fans of Trainspotting will remember a particularly vivid scene involving a toilet. And it was a toilet again that nailed Boyle’s interest in the Slumdog script.

Scrappy young Jamal gets locked in an outhouse as everyone in his slum runs to greet a visiting Bollywood star. The only way out? Jumping into the fetid hole beneath him. Jamal, the unstoppable dreamer, plows through the crowd covered in excrement, and scores the only autograph. “Oh, God, what a scene!” Boyle raves. “He’s got this dream—and all this shit to get through. That’s Jamal, right there.”

It’s nearly impossible to draw a through-line from one Boyle film to the next, because his films are so diverse. But watching Slumdog, you see flashes of everything he’s done before: the technical madness of Trainspotting, the gleeful romance of A Life Less Ordinary, the fast-paced, digital-video grit of his zombie flick 28 Days Later, his warm touch with amateur kid actors, explored in his underrated drama Millions—even the grand gestures that defined his two big-budget misses: the Leo DiCaprio soul-searcher The Beach and his sci-fi movie Sunshine.

“The degree of difficulty—it’s an amazing achievement,” says Fox Searchlight President Peter Rice, now pushing Slumdog in six-plus Oscar categories. “To go into the slums of Bombay and come out nine months later with this virtuoso movie. Like, ‘Where did that come from?’”

Boyle has never done well with big budgets: “A huge amount of money precludes risks,” he says. So after spending three years with Sunshine, he relished the absurd challenge of leading a skeleton crew into a place he knew nothing about.

Boyle says he’s always been “hooked on the kind of adrenaline you get in cities,” and has said that he’d love to make a film that’s “as mad and crazy and heartbreaking” as Apocalypse Now. In Mumbai, the filmmaker, as producer Christian Colson has said, “found a place that’s more Danny Boyle than he is.”

B. New Mumbai is the old New York.
With 13 million people living on top of one another, Mumbai is the biggest city in the world, home to the most prolific movie industry and some of world’s most dramatic contrasts.

“You imagine Scorsese in the seventies. You imagine what it must have felt like—that everything’s an opportunity,” raves Boyle, leaning into his argument, fingers flashing, as if animating the city in the air. “You go there, and it’s buzzing. The extremes you get are incredible! You cannot believe what you’re getting on film because you don’t go anywhere that’s boring. The city’s just exploding somehow. Destroying itself and re-creating itself at the same moment—the buzz you get off it!”

The buzz! Vibrated! Pulsed! Exploding! Destiny! Serendipity! Vivacity! Bang! Rhythm! Movement! Boyle didn’t storyboard this film, but if he had, you imagine it would look like something by Stan Lee—full of pows and bangs and blasts of color. To capture the insane energy and sordid beauty of Mumbai, Boyle and 28 Days Later cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle skipped Bollywood’s elaborate studios and hit the streets: Using a prototype system, they packed hard drives in backpacks and used handheld lenses that made them look more like tourists than film crews. They shot 80 percent of the film in digital video—sneaking through crowds and into off-limits locales for some spectacular shots. They got kicked out of the red-light district, a gangster’s hideout, and the Taj Mahal.

“In Mumbai, the long routes take forever, so everyone takes the shortcuts through these dirty lanes and alleys,” says actress Freida Pinto, who plays Jamal’s love interest, Latika. “That’s exactly what the camera does, too, so you reach your destination so much faster.”

About midway through Slumdog, the soundtrack is thumping and the camera is whiplashing through the city’s streets, when suddenly a policeman shouts at the screen, “No filming!” Another director might have cut that moment, a ruined shot. Boyle left it in. “That’s what it was like!” he trills. “You leave it in the film because you can, because it breaks the wall. Because there are no walls anyway when you’re there. You can pretend there’s this fourth wall or pretense, but there isn’t.”

Likewise, the film combines unstaged street footage with pure gaga romance: “Realism is the foundation of everything I do,” he says. “If you’ve got that as a base, you can push as hard as you can so it stretches as much as possible.”

C. It’s the Obama to Dark Knight’s McCain.
At the Envelope, the Los Angeles Times’ Oscar blog, the lead contenders for Best Picture are currently David Fincher’s Benjamin Button (reported budget of $167 million), Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight ($185 million), and Slumdog Millionaire (just $13 million). It’s one of the most lopsided races in history.

But these days, anything seems possible. And the early favorite, Christopher Nolan’s box-office goliath Dark Knight, may soon seem dated, imagining as it does a fearful war-on-terror Gotham, in which an idealistic leader is crushed. With Oscar nominations announced two days after Obama’s inauguration, will such a dystopic vision be embraced? As Rice points out, cinema has always been the ultimate escapism during tough times, and Slumdog’s optimistic romance—coming as it does on the heels of desperate times—seem curiously timely. “In its underdog status and its message of hope in the face of difficulty,” says Searchlight COO Nancy Utley,” “the movie is Obama-like.”

D. It is written.
By nature, most directors are control-freak egomaniacs—but when Boyle arrived in India, he let go. “If you believe in serendipity, and they do in India, it’s the only way,” he says. “You can’t just go in with your normal approach. You’re not going to conquer it or control it.”

When professional kid actors seemed too polished, he cast kids straight from the slums: “As soon as we did, it was, like, bang! The door doesn’t just open, it smashes open.” He took copious notes from local casting director Loveleen Tandan, and as a result shot a quarter of the film in Hindi. “She said, ‘This couldn’t happen in English. It would happen in Hindi.’ I said, ‘Do you realize what you’re fucking saying? We’ve been given $13 million and …’ Well, she was right. We made her co-director.”

Boyle turned the score over to Indian superstar A.R. Rahman, who says Boyle “just said he wanted a pulse—and no cellos!” Boyle even integrated script notes from pop star M.I.A., also on the soundtrack, and leaned heavily on assistant director Raj Acharya, who brought a very Indian approach to the production—call it controlled chaos. “Raj drove everybody mad, but I saw the film through his eyes,” Boyle recalls. “The crew would be screaming—he’d just fucking disappear—but I always sort of knew Raj was working the wave—what I call the wave, anyway. It was like surfing in Bombay: The waves would come and they would disappear.”

Watching Slumdog Millionaire is, in many ways, like surfing a big wave—terrifying and euphoric. It’s no spoiler to reveal that when the credits run, the kids join in a giddy Bollywood dance—a supremely cathartic, universal moment that makes Jamal’s difficult journey seem worth it. “We’re all a bit inhibited now—it’s so hard to feel,” Boyle explains, “but everyone loves to dance,” And, as we’ve learned, everyone also loves hope.

Pajiba (Daniel Carlson) review

Is Slumdog Millionaire a portrait of the real India or a stylishly ... What, Exactly, Is Slumdog Millionaire? by Dennis Lim from Slate

Slant Magazine review [3/4] Nick Schager

At the Movies Michael Wood from The London Review of Books

Flipside Movie Emporium (Rob Vaux) review [A-]

Bollywood meets Hollywood in Danny Boyle's Slumdog Millionaire Scott Foundas from The Village Voice

indieWIRE review Eric Hynes from Reverse Shot

New York Magazine (David Edelstein) review

The Wall Street Journal (Joe Morgenstern) review November 14, 2008

The Wall Street Journal (Joe Morgenstern) essay ["When Bad Times Make Good Movies"] January 9, 2009

Ruthless Reviews ("potentially offensive") Matt Cale

New York Observer (Andrew Sarris) review

ReelViews (James Berardinelli) review [3.5/4]

PopMatters (Bill Gibron) review

Epinions.com [Steven Flores]

The New Yorker (Anthony Lane) review

PopMatters [Cynthia Fuchs]

Twitch (Todd Brown) review

Christian Science Monitor (Peter Rainer) review [B-]

DVD Times Noel Megahey

Cinepassion.org [Fernando F. Croce]

Critical Culture [Pacze Moj]

Mike D'Angelo review

PopMatters (Chris Barsanti) review

Confessions of a Film Critic [John Maguire]

Jigsaw Lounge / Tribune [Neil Young]

Screen International [Allan Hunter] at Toronto

CineScene.com (Howard Schumann) review

Slate (Dana Stevens) review

Cinepinion [Henry Stewart]

CompuServe (Harvey S. Karten) review

Old School Reviews [John Nesbit]

filmcritic.com (Chris Cabin) review [2/5]

eFilmCritic.com (Mel Valentin) review [4/5]

About.com Hollywood Movies (Rebecca Murray) review [A]

Why Raja Sen loved Slumdog Rediff

And Sumit Bhattacharya hated it Rediff

Is Slumdog Millionaire worth the praise? Matthew Schneeberger from Rediff

SpoutBlog [Kevin Buist]

eFilmCritic.com (Peter Sobczynski) review [5/5]

Reel.com [Chris Barsanti] also seen here: Reel.com review [2/4]

PopMatters (Farisa Khalid) review

Black Sheep Reviews by Joseph Belanger

Film Threat, Hollywood's Indie Voice review [4/5] Scott Mendelson, also seen here: Scott Mendelson review

Daily Plastic - Festival Report [J. Robert Parks]

World Socialist Web Site Hiram Lee

The Auteurs Vadim Rizov

CBC.ca Arts review Martin Morrow

Mumbai rising Alkarin Jivani interviews Boyle from Sight and Sound, February 2009

Variety (Todd McCarthy) review

Entertainment Weekly review [B] Owen Gleiberman

Time Out New York (Joshua Rothkopf) review [4/6]

Time Out Chicago (Hank Sartin) review [4/6]

The Globe and Mail (Liam Lacey) review [4/4]

Boston Globe review [4/4] Ty Burr

Austin Chronicle (Marc Savlov) review [4/5]

Seattle Post-Intelligencer review William Arnold

San Francisco Chronicle (Mick LaSalle) review [2/4]

Los Angeles Times (Kenneth Turan) review November 12, 2008

Los Angeles Times (Susan King) review 'Slumdog,' Eastwood, Hathaway earn National Board of Review honors, December 5, 2008

'Slumdog' backlash: Fair or foul? | The Big Picture | Los Angeles ... Patrick Goldstein from The LA Times, January 28, 2009

Chicago Tribune (Michael Phillips) review

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [4/4]

The New York Times (Manohla Dargis) review

A fine pickle Salman Rushdie on adapting a novel to a film, from The Guardian, February 28, 2009

127 HOURS B 87

USA Great Britain (93 mi) 2010

Oops. —Aron Ralston (James Franco)

Based on Aron Ralston’s book Between a Rock and a Hard Place, an autobiographical account of his horrific 5-day ordeal with his right hand pinned beneath a boulder in Blue John Canyon, Utah in 2003 where he was eventually forced to cut off his hand in order to save his life, this is both a thrilling and an exploitive film, a testament to thrill-seeking movies where the stylistic tricks and gadgetry of hyper-kinetic visceral cinema carries the day. Not sure whether the story lends itself to Danny Boyle’s amphetamine-laced stylistic approach, which if truth be told, has a music video look to it, using extreme close ups balanced against aerial photography of a vastly impressive sunlit canyon wilderness area always accompanied by a furiously aggressive hyper-techno score by A.R. Rahman. Using split screen images from the outset, Doyle floods the screen with accelerated movement, where the subject he really appears to be exploring is the attention deficit deprived state of mind of an adrenaline junkie, where James Franco in a one-man show plays Ralston, whose need for that continual rush of energy dominates all other mental faculties. It’s ironic that a story of a person stuck in such an isolated and remote place for 127 hours would use such an accentuated, senses-laden opening sequence that resembles a hyper-energetic commercial advertisement for outdoor life. Franco is excellent in his cocky portrayal of an adventuresome guy that never needed anybody, that is so individualistic in his personal lifestyle that others barely matter to him, including a girlfriend or his own family and friends, as they’re not on the same wavelength that he lives by, though all of this comes into play only after his own mortality is threatened. Of note, it isn’t until the moment he’s actually stuck that the title of the film appears onscreen.

With the pumped up music and hardcore sense of mountain biking and rock climbing that opens the film, it’s also clear that Ralston is reckless in his pursuit of happiness, especially his flippantly casual attitude about bringing necessary food or supplies, which display an arrogant sense of overconfidence that borders on foolish. Nonetheless, this describes the guy’s character where the young think of themselves as invincible. There’s a brief moment of bliss that precedes his accident, where he guides two young female hikers into a gorgeously isolated swimming hole, where he joyously videotapes their freefall drops into the water from the canyon rocks above, behaving like a frolicking group of young penguins on the shore continually diving back into the water. This free-spirited display quickly runs its course where they separate and go their own way. In a matter of minutes, Ralston slips in a crevice, dislodging a large rock as well that eventually pins his hand against the canyon wall, where he remains stuck and unable to move. This sense of helplessness is a strange new feeling, one that he’d never encountered before, where much of the story plays out on his video camera where his confessional doubts and fears sink in, including what he thinks may inevitably be his last wishes, as he quickly runs out of food and water, but his unending optimism continually boosts his spirits, as evidenced by a “Lovely Day” Bill Withers sequence or a morning show mock interview with himself where he questions just how badly one man could screw things up. Through a series of flashbacks, thought projections and hallucinations, we see the kinds of things running through his head, where his brain remains focused and logically organized, but he’s also filled with regrets about the missed opportunities in his life based on his own foolhardy decisions, where a girlfriend who left him continually haunts him, also a dream of a future wife and child to come that he may now never realize.

Especially poignant is the recurring image of the young daughter alongside a heartfelt song sung by Dido called “If I Rise,” which seemed to have a chilling effect on his mental fortitude. While the gruesome act itself leaves little to the imagination, what was altogether staggering was his dependence on the help of others afterwards to get him out alive. This denouement was actually the most inspiring aspect of the film, as the little known quick and decisive actions of others really did save his life. In a critical aside, when we see the real Aron Ralston, we certainly notice that his arm is quite different than the area shown cut in the film. This is simply sloppy direction, as it’s impossible for the eyes not to notice this first and foremost. Even by the end, one is still wondering whether Danny Boyle was the right person chosen to make this film, as this is a fuel driven, adrenaline-laced fantasia, and Franco’s performance is superb throughout, but the film glosses over who this guy really is and why being outdoors plays such a prominent role in his life. There’s obviously a love bordering on obsession that the audience remains clueless about as Boyle never explores Ralston’s background or digs for any deeper psychological emphasis. Instead his life remains a blur, where events whiz by very quickly, even his memories and reflections. It was hard not to think of Van Sant’s GERRY (2002) when watching this film, a slowed down more lyrical film about a couple of guys that get lost in the wilderness, whose state of mind is explored with much more elegance and poetic grace, as their psychological descent speaks volumes over this film.

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Devout outdoorsman and professional loner James Franco finds the sticky end of solitude when he's trapped at the bottom of a remote ravine, his right arm pinned by a loose boulder. Based on a true story, Danny Boyle's movie (written by Slumdog Millionaire's Simon Beaufoy) goes the subjective route, embodying Franco's increasingly vivid hallucinations. The jittery, adrenalized camera is everywhere, even inside his rapidly draining CamelBak, working your nerves raw. It may take a while to recover from the movie's stomach-turning climax, but that's only because Boyle succeeds so thoroughly in getting under your skin.

The House Next Door [Fernando F. Croce] at Toronto

127 Hours: Danny Boyle's dramatization of the real-life ordeal of outdoorsman Aron Ralston boasts the kind of conceptual riskiness that a director has the cachet to tackle only after, say, delivering a crowd-pleasing Best Picture Oscar-winner. Unfortunately, it also has Slumdog Millionaire's brand of exploitative uplift, in which cinematic jazziness is mercilessly employed to sugarcoat portraits of human misery. In the beginning, as he settles in for a weekend of thrills in Utah's Canyonlands National Park, Ralston (James Franco) is a roguish whirligig, light as air, high on his own breezy confidence. When he falls into a rocky crevice and gets his arm pinned under a boulder, there's the feeling that he's experiencing stillness and, subsequently, helplessness for the first time. The five days he spends there, alone but for dwindling supplies, a small digital camera, and a blunt knife, are envisioned by Boyle as a visceral smear of panic, excretions, mirages, and epiphanies. Far more than the filmmaker's hectic, ultimately tension-dispersing visual and aural gimmickry, the picture's best special effect remains Franco's performance, which catches the horror and sublimity of a jock humbled while trapped at the bottom of the earth, becoming spiritually whole even as he literally loses parts of himself.

Reel Film Reviews (David Nusair) capsule review [2.5/4]

Based on a true story, 127 Hours follows James Franco's Aron Ralston as he embarks on a routine trip through some isolated mountains and is subsequently forced to resort to extreme measures after he's trapped beneath an immobile rock within an especially desolate part of the rugged terrain. There's never a point at which127 Hours doesn't feel like an almost prototypical Danny Boyle effort, as the notoriously flashy filmmaker has punctuating the proceedings with all of his expected stylistic flourishes - including split screens, rapid-fire editing, and copious use of flashbacks and cutaways. It's clear that Boyle's in-your-face directorial choices are meant to compensate for the decidedly stagy nature of the film's storyline, as the movie is, when you get right down to it, primarily about a man waiting to be rescued. And although the build-up to Aron's perilous situation is admittedly quite engrossing - ie when's he going to get trapped, anyway? - 127 Hours suffers from a midsection that is, despite the best efforts of both Boyle and his incredibly talented star, hardly as engrossing as one might've hoped. This is despite the inclusion of several thoroughly compelling interludes - ie Aron goes off on a long, fascinating tangent about how the rock has been waiting billions of years for him - and an overall atmosphere of impressive authenticity. The film's watchable yet far from enthralling vibe persists right up until Aron takes matters into his own hands, with the ensuing sequence just as graphic and difficult to watch as anything within contemporary cinema (ie it's so unflinching that even veterans of the Saw and Hostel series will find themselves growing queasy). The movie is capped off with an undeniably powerful finale that isn't quite enough to compensate for the uneven nature of everything preceding it, which unfortunately cements 127 Hours as a technically impressive piece of work that simply isn't as consistently engrossing as one might've expected.

The Onion A.V. Club review [B-] Scott Tobias

Based on Aron Ralston’s book Between A Rock And A Hard Place, 127 Hours chronicles the five days Ralston spent with his arm pinned underneath a boulder during a solo rock-climbing expedition gone wrong. It’s a survivalist tale, naturally, but also a more far-reaching assessment of life and death, as the situation forces Ralston to ruminate about his family, his ex-girlfriend, and the hereafter, often in a hallucinatory rush of panic and half-sleep. Hot off Slumdog Millionaire, director Danny Boyle would seem like the perfect man for the material, because if there’s a common denominator to his work since Trainspotting, it’s his ability to bottle the caffeinated energy of youth. The setting may seem constricting, but Boyle captures the intensity of Ralston’s experience in a swift, agonizing, defiantly cinematic 90 minutes. But intensity is one thing; depth is another. 

Boyle succeeds best at the bookends, before and after Ralston winds up in this predicament. James Franco plays Ralston as a confident, carefree thrill-seeker who ventures out to Bluejohn Canyon, Utah for a rock-climbing weekend alone. Not telling anyone where he’s going is part of the point; real freedom means getting a clean break from civilization and the burdens of family, friends, and other responsibilities. So when he gets stuck under a rock in a deep crevasse, Ralston can’t expect anyone to come to his rescue. All he has for survival are a bottle of water, a little food, and a dull penknife for when things get really desperate.

The money scene in 127 Hours has the intended visceral impact, and it’s a credit to Boyle that he doesn’t flinch from the terrible reality of what Ralston had to do to extricate himself. Yet Boyle’s restless style works against him much of the time, too. The constant barrage of flashbacks takes away from the grim march of time; Ralston was stuck in one place for five days, but the film makes that period feel much shorter. Worse still, all that introspection adds up to a disappointingly shallow accumulation of regrets and life lessons, none of them surprising. After the adrenaline rush, 127 Hours turns to vapor.

Digital Spy [Ben Rawson-Jones]

Danny Boyle's mastery of the cinematic form continues with this gut-wrenching true tale of human spirit in the face of adversity. Evoking the same audacious and experimental techniques he used to shoot Trainspotting, the British director elevates this gruesome story into a euphoric and transcendental entity. In addition, James Franco's engrossing central performance and a taut script that captures the tortured state of a man facing death ensure that 127 Hours should feature prominently in the 2011 awards season.

The simple premise involves daring climber Aron (Franco) becoming trapped inside a deserted canyon in Utah when a falling boulder crushes his right arm against a rock face. As the hours and days pass with just his camcorder for company, Aron's world descends into a hallucinatory state that increasingly revolves around dredging up key memories (good and bad) while trying to keep morale going. Even an iconic cartoon character makes an appearance. Yet it soon becomes clear that Aron will not be found - and the only way to emerge alive involves resorting to extreme measures. What ensues will cause many cinemagoers to become reacquainted with their lunch. If you manage to make it through the attempted amputation scene with your stomach lining intact, be warned - there's a Dido song lurking on the soundtrack!

Despite the constrictive nature of the setting, Boyle displays a visual freedom that involves unexpected visual pyrotechnics and plenty of daring camera positions. The intelligent scriptural and visual treatment of the story makes sure that there is never a dull moment, despite the audience being effectively stuck in a cave with one anguished individual for 90 minutes. Given the near absence of supporting characters, the burden on James Franco to carry the movie was immense. He manages this with aplomb, eschewing sentimentality in his performance in favour of intricately carving out a highly credible and moving portrayal of a flawed man whose life is slowly ebbing away. Described by Boyle as an "action movie with a guy who can't move", 127 Hours is a dynamic gem that makes for thrilling, if often uneasy, viewing.

Paste Magazine (Josh Jackson) review

Stuck in place, Boyle’s latest still maintains a frantic pace

A crime thriller. A drama about heroin addicts. A romantic black comedy. A zombie movie. A charming kids’ flick. A space odyssey. And then an Oscar-winning tale about a poor, lovelorn boy in India. If there’s another director alive with the range of curiosity that Danny Boyle has, he’s not as talented. So naturally for his 9th film, Boyle decided to tell the true story of Aron Ralston, a mountain climber and canyoneer who was trapped alone by a fallen boulder in Utah for 127 hours in 2003.

The bulk of the film takes place in the gully where Ralston (James Franco) tries to free himself after a nasty fall. There are occasional flashbacks and dreams, but more scenes of a loner leaving messages for his loved ones on a camcorder, pondering his choice of going through life alone and, most importantly, trying to get the hell out of the gully. Franco, as a one-man show, remains engaging in a surprisingly frenetic film.

It’s a harrowing story, expertly told by Boyle. In the opening shot, we see crowds of people at ballgames, mosques, city streets. And then we see a man trying to get away from it all and finding some of the most isolated, barren and beautiful landscape in America. He’s alone with his music and enjoying the freedom.

But during the ordeal, all he can think of—besides his thirst and, well, the giant rock on his hand—is his longing for other people. Connectedness. Companionship. Or even just a raven to fly overhead. By the time he gets trapped, we don’t know Ralston very well, but we care deeply about his plight, even if we already know how it ends. Franco’s character is kinda funny, kinda crazy and a complete loner. But his story taps into that deepest emotional center—survival. And, better still, survival comes with the hope of a kind of redemption. Yes, the penultimate scene is gruesome and difficult to watch. But the ending is so triumphant to the soundtrack of Sigur Rós’ “Festival,” that it’s well worth reliving Ralston’s ordeal.

Along with Franco, the music of A. R. Rahman and the cinematography of Anthony Dod Mantle, who both worked on Slumdog Millionaire with Boyle, anchor the film. Another genre mastered, Mr. Boyle. Now let’s see what you can do with a 16th-century period drama. Or maybe the next Pixar movie.

RopeofSilicon (Brad Brevet) review [A+]

Whether you know the story or not won't affect your experience whatsoever when it comes to Danny Boyle's enthralling 127 Hours. It speaks directly to the core of the human experience. It's entertaining, emotional, uplifting, exasperating and altogether breath-taking. Very few films can get me glassy-eyed and put a lump in my throat, but the final five minutes of 127 Hours are five of the greatest minutes I've seen all year and Boyle makes it look so easy.

Based on the true story, detailing seven days in the life of mountain climber Aron Ralston (James Franco), 127 Hours begins on just another Friday in Aron's life. Preparing for a trip to Blue John Canyon in Utah, Ralston fills his water bottle, packs his gear and makes his way out the door all to a thumping soundtrack filled with energy. It plays like a music video introduction that instantly recalls Boyle's Oscar Best Picture-winner Slumdog Millionaire.

Once Ralston gets to his destination Boyle gets us acquainted with Ralston in a matter of minutes and all through the experience of watching him at play. We're with him as he bikes through the Utah terrain. He crashes and stops to take a picture while he lay in a heap before he sets off again. Shortly thereafter he stumbles upon a pair of hikers (Kate Mara and Amber Tamblyn) and guides them to a hidden oasis before he's off again. It's at this point, nearly 20 minutes into the film, one false move finds Ralston's arm stuck between a falling boulder and the canyon wall, several feet below the surface in a small isolated crack in the Earth.

Alone and unable to move, the next 70 minutes consider Ralston's dilemma and Franco delivers a performance as perfectly measured as you could ask for. As time passes he recounts time spent with his family, remembering how he didn't take his mother's phone call before he left, thinking of his ex-girlfriend (Clemence Poesy) and recording personal messages on his camcorder believing these will be the final hours of his life.

It's bleak, I won't tell you it isn't, but Franco doesn't play it as a sad sack whiner. He may believe this may be the end, but he still chips away at the boulder, devises a makeshift pully system and by the end resorts to drastic measures in an attempt to pull free. It's some of the most harrowing moments you'll see on film and Boyle utilizes more than just Franco's performance. With the help of cinematographers Anthony Dod Mantle and Enrique Chediak, he explores every aspect of the senses that cinema can provide, from silence to spectacle.

This is undoubtedly Danny Boyle at his dramatic finest. 127 Hours has a certain amount of electricity to it and just as Slumdog Millionaire benefit from his musical choices with a score from A.R. Rahman, Boyle brings Rahman back and along with the oddly appropriate use of Bill Withers's "Lovely Day" and a tune from the Icelandic group Sigor Rós playing over those final five minutes I mentioned earlier. It's perfect filmmaking and it touches you not only out of happiness and sadness, but more out of an appreciation for life and not only yours.

It's a weird feeling to stare glassy-eyed at the screen and feel an absolute sense of awe at what you're watching. 127 Hours wore me out and at the end I wasn't making any immediate move for the exit. It's reassuring when you see great filmmakers making great films and staying clear from the ordinary. To think Boyle and co-writer Simon Beaufoy were able to deliver such an emotional ride out of such a seemingly small story is movie magic at its best.

Slant Magazine (Ed Gonzalez) review

The Wall Street Journal (Joe Morgenstern) review

Movieline (Stephanie Zacharek) review [8/10]

127 Hours Paul Brunick from Film Comment, November/December 2010

IONCINEMA.com review [5/5] Sean Glass

Smells Like Screen Spirit [Don Simpson]

Filmcritic.com Sean O’Connell

The Village Voice [Dan Kois]

Why the Ick and Wow of 127 Hours Doesn’t Add Up to Much David Edelstein from The Vulture, New York magazine

Slate.com [Dana Stevens]

A Regrettable Moment of Sincerity [Adam Lippe]

Eye for Film (Jeff Robson) review [4/5]

Cinema Blend [Katey Rich] at Toronto

eFilmCritic.com (Mel Valentin) review [4/5]

filmsoundoff [alex roberts]

Cinematical [Eugene Novikov] at Telluride

Monsters and Critics [Anne Brodie]

ReelViews (James Berardinelli) review [3/4]

eFilmCritic.com (Erik Childress) review [5/5]

DVD Talk (Jamie S. Rich) review [4/5] theatrical review

Sound On Sight Ricky D

Daily Film Dose (Alan Bacchus) review

Edward Champion

TIME Magazine (Richard Corliss) review also including: (Watch an interview with A.R. Rahman.)

Lessons of Darkness [Nick Schager]

Salon.com [Andrew O'Hehir] at Toronto

The Parallax Review [Mark Dujsik]

CHUD.com (Renn Brown) review

DVD Talk (Brian Orndorf) review [4/5]

CompuServe (Harvey S. Karten) review

The Land of Eric (Eric D. Snider) review [A-]

indieWIRE (Leonard Maltin) review

Phil on Film (Philip Concannon) capsule review

Black Sheep Reviews [Joseph Belanger]

Screenjabber review Justin Bateman

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson) review [3/4]

exclaim! [Joseph Belanger] at Toronto

"Audience faints at 'realistic' amputation film" Christine Kellett from The Age, September 15, 2010

The New Yorker (David Denby) review (capsule)

"Catching Up with Aron Ralston" Joshua Kupetz interview from Disaboom magazine (2008)

"Aron Ralston Interview – The Man Who’s Real Life Story Danny Boyle’s Upcoming Movie ’127 Hours’ Is Based On" Flicks and Bits, October 8. 2010

James Franco on 127 Hours, Persona and Why His Life's No Performance Mike Ryan interview from Movieline magazine, October 29, 2010

Franco spends time with hiker who survived against the odds Stephen Schaefer interview with James Franco from The Boston Herald, November 8, 2010

In 127 hours, a scene that cuts to the bone – and beyond - The ... Gayle McDonald interviews Ralston from The Globe and Mail, November 9, 2010

The Hollywood Reporter (Stephen Farber) review

Entertainment Weekly review Owen Gleiberman

Variety (Peter Debruge) review

Time Out Online (Tom Charity) review [4/5]

The Guardian (Peter Bradshaw) review [4/5]

"Danny Boyle climbs on mountaineer epic 127 Hours" Xan Brooks from The Guardian, November 5, 2009

The Globe and Mail (Liam Lacey) review

The Boston Phoenix (Peter Keough) review

The Independent (Kaleem Aftab) review [4/5]

The Dallas Morning News (Chris Vognar) review [5/5]

San Francisco Chronicle (Mick LaSalle) review [3/4]

Los Angeles Times (Betsy Sharkey) review

Chicago Tribune (Michael Phillips) review

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [4/4]

The New York Times review A.O. Scott

Pushing the Limit Michael Brick from The New York Times, March 31, 2009

Aron Ralston - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

..........Aron Ralston.......... Trapped: The rock climber who ... Aron Ralston website

Aron Ralston &ndash; the Real Story | The Daily Mirror | Los ... Stephanie Simon and J. Michael Kennedy from The LA Times, May 3, 2003

"CMU grad describes cutting off his arm to save his life" J. Michael Kennedy from The LA Times, May 9, 2003

"Aron Ralston Sacrifices His Right Arm to Save His Life" Jessica Strelitz from Carnegie Mellon magazine, Fall 2003

Blue John Canyon Dave Svilar and Jill Wolverton from Alpine Fever magazine, March 15 – 16, 2006

"My Summit Problem" Aaron Ralston from Outside magazine, April 2006

Bluejohn Canyon : Canyoneering : SummitPost Scott from Summit Post, June 13, 2007

Slot Canyons of the American Southwest - Blue John Canyon, Utah The American Southwest

Tom's Utah Canyoneering Guide - Robbers Roost - Bluejohn Canyon

Cheating Death in Bluejohn Canyon Shane Burrows from Climb-Utah (Undated)

Being Aron Ralston Aaron Ralston Video (5:05)

TRANCE C 74

Great Britain (101 mi) 2013 ‘Scope

While there’s no question that Danny Boyle can make a Hollywood film with his eyes closed, it’s never a good thing to simply watch him waste his talent on superfluous films like this one, which certainly showcases his demonstrable skills, but to what end? While this is essentially a copycat drama, one that owes its existence to Christopher Nolan’s puzzle movies MEMENTO (2000) and INCEPTION (2010), it feels exactly like a fake, carbon copy imitation, lacking the exhilaration of the original, which at least originated in the head of the writer/director. Boyle seems inclined to match many of the same technical skills, seamlessly blending dreams, memory, and reality to the point where they are often indistinguishable, where the viewer is caught up in a mental labyrinth of no escape, wondering throughout which version of reality will prevail, as the director loves to tease the audience with multiple possibilities. Unfortunately, borrowing heavily from the formula of other successful movies has become conventional Hollywood entertainment, basically hand-me-down thrills, where little effort has gone into creating anything new. The result is a slick looking product onscreen, but overly formulaic, where what’s lacking are memorable characters, an essential ingredient in a film with human interaction, but there’s none of that here. Even with name stars, this entire cast is forgettable, as none of the performances stand out and there isn’t an ounce of tension or suspense throughout. Despite the hoops the story jumps through, so obviously wanting to be a sophisticated, mind-bender, the film just never generates any interest. Instead it feels like painting by the numbers, where everyone does a credible job, but nothing feels inspired. Even the interweaving of the narrative feels tired and worn out, not fresh and inventive, as no one really cares about any of the characters, so by the end, none of it really matters, as it all feels so conventional.

Two men are at odds throughout, caught up in a heist gone wrong, where one character, James McAvoy’s Simon, seeped in gambling debt, attempts to steal a valuable painting at an art auction, while the man he tries to steal it from, a sleazy lowlife gangster Franck (Vincent Cassel), catches him in the act and lands a haymaker across the chin, causing amnesia, where throughout the film Simon can’t remember where he hid the stolen painting. After losing a finger or two to tortuous methods, Franck is inclined to believe he really can’t remember, which calls for desperate measures—hypnosis. Enter Rosario Dawson as the calm, soft-spoken hypnotherapist Elizabeth, whose mix of sexual allure and soothing voice instantly sends Simon into a hypnotic state, where the rest of the film tests the audience’s patience, as the storyline weaves in and out of his altered states. Meanwhile, Elizabeth joins up with Franck and his gang of thieves, apparently to split the profits of what is likely a multi-million dollar work of art. While it all seems to blend together too smoothly, as everything in this new alliance goes without a hitch, except Simon keeps losing his focus and concentration, no doubt due to the stress from the fact these men are bound and determined to kill him once they get the information out of him. Elizabeth keeps wafting back and forth as one of the gang, but she also has a man totally at her mercy during a submissive state, where she can program literally anything into his head. While continually leading Franck on, vowing allegiance to his criminal mentality, offering him sexual favors as well, she also plays up her sexual allure with the patient, thinking if Simon gets what he wants, then he’ll reveal to her what she wants, which is the information. In this way, Elizabeth becomes a blatant sex object throughout the film, both in fantasy and reality, where Rosario Dawson has an interesting nude scene with Simon, where she’s the projection of his fantasies, but the surreal nature of his fears keeps intervening, altering the landscape while constantly shifting the tenuous dynamic between the two of them.

What seems like a romantic love triangle between Elizabeth and both men is played out against a myriad of repressed and forgotten memories, where Elizabeth’s own motives continually shift throughout the film, growing out of control, developing her own personal side story of events with Simon leading up to the art heist, so while she’s attempting to unravel the truth about where the painting it hidden, she’s also got some ulterior motive about erasing his other memories, wiping the past clean, literally lifting the storyline from Michel Gondry’s ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND (2004), apparently thinking the public had forgotten. Elizabeth’s over the top conversion from quasi therapist who’s not against turning herself into a sex object with a patient to a mercilessly powerful, spurned lover who would turn hypnosis into some kind of tyrannical mind control is something you’d more likely see from Ming the Merciless in a cheap sci-fi movie attempting to take control of the entire universe. This storyline abomination changes everything that came before, where there isn’t a single sympathetic character anywhere in the movie, making everyone out for themselves, so what’s the point of all the plot twists? But as the audience quickly loses interest in the various versions of reality and dreams and wish fulfillments, all that’s left is the ultimate showdown where they spend a gazillion dollars on blowing things up and special effects, all designed in the name of Hollywood entertainment. Instead of the blur of fast action explosions and demolition that passes for conventional movie entertainment these days, this one instead delves into the deconstruction of thought, where the director gets to perform technical trickery with the camera and various editing schemes, but he’s simply omitted the human element. When there’s no one left to care about, what’s to sustain the interest in the film? As it goes through its various machinations and transformations, it just feels like such a con job, like it’s the audience that’s getting ripped off. And unfortunately, that’s the reality that matters, as this movie is little more than contrived manipulation, making a sucker out of the audience by giving them old, retrodden material at the same price you pay for something new. For a director with the stature of Danny Boyle, this is the ultimate disappointment, as this is little more than a commercial sell out.

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

A cracking thriller built around art auctioneer Simon’s (James McAvoy) convenient amnesia, Danny Boyle’s Trance jumps the rails in the closing stretch. Till then, Boyle is in his element, exercising his showmanship as Simon struggles to recall his part in the heist of a Goya, while art thief Franck (Vincent Cassel) debates whether to let him live. Hypnotherapist Elizabeth (Rosario Dawson) is called in to help Simon navigate the depths of his own mind, and thence it’s never quite clear whether we’re watching what’s happening or what he thinks is happening. Essentially a riff on the post-Memento puzzle, the film hums along, buoyed by Dawson’s sultry intelligence and Cassel’s sleazy charisma. But eventually it runs out of switchbacks and double-bluffs, and calls in a third-act twist that’s both superfluous and offensive. To explain more would ruin it — and though that’s tempting, better to skip it, and Trance, altogether.

The Problem With Saints Wesley Morris from Grantland

One reason to love Danny Boyle is that we'll never have to put up with a Jackie Robinson movie from him. Or if it comes to that, he'll find an imaginative reason to do it. Last summer, he had James Bond throw Queen Elizabeth out of a helicopter to open the Olympics. He gets off on his irreverence.

Trance is high-order, film noir nonsense that takes Boyle back to the thrillers he made at the start of his career with John Hodge (he wrote Trance, too), like Shallow Grave and Trainspotting, that were preoccupied with the grimy corners of the psyche. Boyle's no longer a grimy filmmaker. He likes sleek, icy images that seem launched from cannons and slingshots or pushed through syringes. 

Trance concerns an auction-house art heist that goes south when the job's inside man, an auctioneer named Simon (James McAvoy), takes a shot to the head that erases his memory of where he put the Goya painting he helped steal. The ringleader is a guy named Franck (Vincent Cassel), one of those elegant thugs who surrounds himself with a trio of goons that do the bone-breaking while he sips cognac or whatever. When it's clear that Simon suffers from honest-to-goodness amnesia, Franck lets him select a hypnotist to help him retrieve the memory. 

You suspect the movie's up to no good because Rosario Dawson plays the shrink Simon picks. There's no reason to ask us to believe Dawson as a medical professional unless she can turn that belief on its head. Eventually, this woman talks her way into Franck's criminal circle. She argues that Simon doesn't feel safe remembering where he's put the painting because he knows Franck and his friends will just kill him when he does. What ensues is group hypnosis, some sex, and two or three changeups that don't twist the plot so much as reroute and rewire the movie. 

This is Boyle's first movie set entirely in London since 2003's 28 Days Later … , and his affinity for affixing his camera to everything speaks to the city's reliance on closed-circuit surveillance. He's working with the editor Jon Harris and his usual cinematographer, Anthony Dod Mantle, and they give the movie the exhilarating attention-deficit disorientation that Boyle has turned into a legible cinematic language. Symmetrical reflections in glass that turn into a living Rorschach, a hypnosis head trip that requires use of an iPad to extend the trip, the vaginal lattice of a highway overpass at night: His eye is manic without ever descending into madness. 

Besides, the script, which Hodge wrote with the science fiction TV writer Joe Ahearne, goes crazy enough. At some point, you don't know whom to trust or what's real or why anybody is doing what they're doing, but McAvoy, Dawson, and Cassel work well together. Dawson is required to put her nude body to incoherent if not gratuitous use, but she's also perfectly plausible when discussing the rare psychological state of extreme suggestibility. Even after the movie has gone off the deep end and into a moral pit, you're not sure whether it makes any sense. By then, Boyle has fried enough of our senses that Simon's extreme suggestibility is contagious.

Exclaim! [Robert Bell]

Danny Boyle, a director that vacillates between the gritty underworld of unembellished violence and the mainstream world of uplifting pap, has one auteur consistency throughout his library of works: a propensity for style over substance.

Whether shooting his films with multiple grains and washed-out palettes or forcing a kinetic propulsion through oblique stylizations and an aggressive, omnipresent soundtrack, there's always a focus on visual trickery and gimmickry to preoccupy the senses. Fish-eye views, rapid-paced montages and semi-orgasmic, increasingly rapid, shot/reverse shot edits and a techno-pop "fusion" soundtrack are just some of the characteristics the British director is known for.

With Trance, he's exaggerated his aestheticism with a gritty, grainy, washed-out look made anarchic by a desultory shot composition that's either zooming, panning or sitting slightly off-centre, focusing on characters and actions from unconventional angles while the rhythmic, pulsating booms of Rick Smith's electronic score inject a perpetual rush of adrenaline.

The deliberate (but woefully facile) mind-fuck of a plot is perfect for his visual experimentation, similarly embracing his need for hipster validation by jumping back in time to R-rated nastiness like Trainspotting or 28 Days Later.

Initially set-up as a heist film, a rapid succession of first-person factoids from London art auctioneer Simon (James McAvoy), detailing the precautions taken for preventing the robbery of an item up for bids, sets the stage for an Ocean's Eleven sort of play on plotting. This time, Goya's "Witches in the Air" is the object of a desire; it's a piece noted for introducing pubic hair to the mainstream art world (and, yes, this is a plot point).

But when the robbery goes wrong and Simon is left with short-term memory loss, lead thug Franck (Vincent Cassel) seeks creative ways to extract his memories, which include the location of the painting, enlisting the help of hypnotherapist Elizabeth Lamb (Rosario Dawson). Quick to tap into his unconscious, she manoeuvres around the many safeguards the criminals have in place to "help" her client while herself getting a piece of the windfall.

As usual, nothing is as it seems, with double-crosses and buried plot points re-emerging at opportune moments to provide twists aplenty. Boyle's interest in it all is framing and styling the hypnotic "trances" experienced by Simon, blending elements of reality and dream into a shallow breakdown of a duplicitous character going through emotional turmoil, of an Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind variety.

Through it all, there's a comment on the role of gender amidst the modern global economy, suggesting that while greed might motivate the crew of interchangeable male cronies, women are influenced by far more elaborate and calculated motivators. As such, there's a discomforting degree of misogyny at play — the men ostensibly view women as similarly valuable proprietary objects like the painting — making the graphic, full-frontal nudity and use of Rosario Dawson's pubic hair (or lack thereof) as a metaphor for the controlled simplicity of the male mind bizarre and almost contrarian.

Still, Trance is the sort of work that delivers on the experiential front, packing an invigorating emotional punch when it exploits a known mixture of editing and soundtrack work to build a sequence up to its climax; it's just unfortunate that there's very little depth beyond the visual side.

Had Boyle not tenuously tried to reach for the weird, childishly handled subtext about gender, economy and the sustainment of the male ego (i.e., broken memory), this could have been an effective little puff piece. But there's something unseemly about how it all fits together.

'Trance': The Art of Hypnosis | PopMatters Cynthia Fuchs

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Trance Review: The Movie That Knew Too Little - Pajiba Daniel Carlson

Danny Boyle's 'Trance': You Are Getting Very Creepy | TIME.com Richard Corliss

Digital Spy [Stella Papamichael]

Trance | Film | Movie Review | The A.V. Club Tasha Robinson

In Trance, The Crime (And Confusion) Are In The Mind - Village Voice Zachary Wigon from The Village Voice

Review: Danny Boyle's 'Trance' Is A Trippy, Twisty, Terrific Thriller ... Oliver Lytellton from The Playlist

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Trance Movie Review & Film Summary (2013) | Roger Ebert Ignatiy Vishnevetsky

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STEVE JOBS B 88

USA (122 mi) 2015 ‘Scope Official Website

It’s life’s illusions I recall.
I really don’t know life at all.
—Joni Mitchell, “Both Sides Now,” 1969, Joni Mitchell - Both Sides, Now [Original Studio Version ... YouTube (4:30)

Who knew Bob Dylan was a driving force behind the popularization of the computer on the Internet? But if you watch this film Dylan and Steve Jobs are interconnected forces striving for social change. Michael Fassbender may have been saner wearing a cartoon, papier-mâché head in 2014 Top Ten List #10 Frank , a film where music literally masks his mad obsessions and personal psychoses. But as Steve Jobs, the overcontrolling, egomaniacal force behind an as yet undiscovered corporate product, demanding all the credit himself, though it remains unclear what it is exactly that he does do other than tyrannically browbeat everyone associated with his product while viciously undermining and demeaning the efforts of all others involved, placing himself center stage in his own Barnum & Bailey circus act, billed as “the greatest show on earth,” where he’s certain his innovations will revolutionize the way the world operates. Who, other than himself, knew this would actually happen? Curiously, as written by Aaron Sorkin, adapting Walter Isaacson’s book by the same name in 2011 (released 19 days after Jobs’ death), the film contrasts his enormous ambition with this swelled notion of what he would become, accentuating the abysmal failures of his first two product launchings, the first Macintosh computer in 1984 and the neXT “black cube” in 1988, not exactly humbling experiences, where the film is made up of the real time moments immediately preceding Jobs taking the stage before an anxiously anticipatory public, before finally realizing all his dreams with the release of desktop iMac in 1998, each section shot differently on 16 mm, 35 mm, and high definition digital. One of the more startling reactions after seeing this film is: who the hell is Joanna Hoffmann (played astonishingly by Kate Winslet, who has to be among the frontrunners for Best Supporting Actress)? She deserves a medal for simply putting up with this man all these years (and did apparently two years in a row at Apple in 1981 and 1982 when a satirical award was given to her as “the person who did the best job of standing up to” the boss), showing such an alarming degree of patience and professional reserve as his world class marketing executive, where she is the only other person in the room who has any idea how his mind works and feeds off it constantly while making sure all the meticulous preparations before the momentous events are in place.

While not nearly the triumph of Aaron Sorkin’s earlier, more incisively written portrait of Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg in David Fincher’s THE SOCIAL NETWORK (2010), which felt more like a quick-witted, highly inventive film instead of a more standard biographical approach, part of the problem is the structure itself, as it is entirely comprised of smaller, behind-the scenes moments, and while often humorous and cleverly written, it does offer an opportunity to view Jobs in connection to the world around him, where he is continually portrayed as an overbearing, arrogantly pompous ringleader continually driving his own personal ambitions above all else, it also resembles similar territory explored by the Coen brothers in Inside Llewyn Davis (2012), taking particular interest in focusing upon a subject “prior to” a major cultural shift that changed the nation. In each the center of attention happens to be a particularly loathsome individual whose damaging flaws potentially undermine their own creative ingenuity, yet in Walter Isaacson’s biography, Jobs is described as the “creative entrepreneur whose passion for perfection and ferocious drive revolutionized six industries: personal computers, animated movies, music, phones, tablet computing, and digital publishing.” Almost lost is the fact that by the time the film begins, Jobs and his computer whiz high school friend Steve Wozniak (Seth Rogan) have already made millions by co-founding Apple in 1976, with Wozniak designing the products while Jobs was the clever snake oil salesman who pitched the first mass-produced personal computers, Apple I and Apple II, as the new wave of the future. With the idea of breaking away on his own, the film suggests his competitive mean streak of denouncing those that helped him get where he is today is all part of his personally conniving yet sophisticated sales pitch to promote new ideas that have yet to be realized, but only because technology has not advanced that far yet, continually lagging behind the creative process, which is how Jobs distances himself from his old friend Wozniak, as despite the technological advances in leaps and bounds, it simply can’t keep up.

Despite all the ballyhooed hype surrounding his product, holding others to a standard of perfection that he can’t remotely match himself, this film is like pulling back the curtain and exposing the wizard in THE WIZARD OF OZ (1939), where he’s revealed to be just a man. In each case it’s quite a shock to the audience inevitably preferring all the razzle dazzle to the ordinariness of real life. While Jobs is worth hundreds of millions of dollars, his ex-girlfriend and high school sweetheart Chrisann (Katherine Waterston) is forced to beg for money, literally going on welfare for his thoughtless refusal to pay child support for his out of wedlock child, where the man is humbled in so many ways (though without ever realizing it) by the sheer force of good will that comes from his daughter Lisa, who he refuses to recognize. “I’m not your father,” he says on several occasions in front of Lisa, played by Makenzie Moss when she first hears it at the age of five. Perhaps unintentionally, the smaller story about Lisa (played by three different actresses), who is present in each of the three launches depicted, is a much more compelling portrait than the larger surrounding drama of Jobs himself, despite another Herculean effort by Michael Fassbender, as she is the lesser developed but more vitally interesting subject in each instance as compared to the more ego-driven, madly out-of-control Frankenstein invention that is Jobs, where his human shortcomings are at the center of the picture, highlighted by his ongoing difficulties in taking a larger role in her life, where she turns out to be his Achilles heel. Lisa actually has verve and personality and a burning desire to be loved and appreciated, while Jobs allows her to play with a now outdated interactive computer named after her called the Apple Lisa which she uses to impressively draw a picture, which remains one of the poignant moments of his entire life. It is only after this minor victory, his invention succeeding with his own daughter while failing miserably on the technical front, with his latest design unable to say “Hello,” as advertised, where Jobs agrees to pay Chrisann whatever she needs. Simultaneous to this little unplanned family visit, we’re witness to an overbearing Jobs bulling and browbeating his entire team with unreachable expectations, but no one worse than software architect Andy Hertzfeld (Michael Stuhlbarg) who can’t magically make it all happen, eventually implementing a plan of deception to fool the audience into believing that it works, even when it doesn’t. Jobs rationalizes this sleight of hand is not really an ethics violation, convinced that by the time the product is released, “it will work.”

After a long, drawn-out power struggle, Jobs is booted out of Apple the next year in 1985 under mysterious circumstances, where an obviously offended Jobs claims he was fired, while CEO John Sculley (Jeff Daniels), one of Jobs’ strongest supporters, has a different interpretation that we only learn later. Once more, the next launch four years later is a computer touted as an educational product, even as it’s priced out of the reach of most colleges, which, of course, doesn’t work either, as the machine simply doesn’t perform yet what it’s designed to do, leaving Jobs in a precarious position as he’s about to introduce it before a filled-to-capacity opera house lined with voraciously interested teachers and students who believe in the hype. Nonetheless, he’s in surprising good spirits, having brought over an entire team from Apple to help him with this new design, where Lisa is now nine (played by Ripley Sobo), mysteriously pulled out of school for the occasion where she’s seen wearing Walkman headphones. Asked what she’s listening to, she indicates “Both Sides Now,” a “really old” Joni Mitchell song where her father can, surprisingly, recite the lyrics, where suddenly he doesn’t seem so distant, but only for the moment, as he rather infamously has it out with a highly perturbed Steve Wozniak who is himself being pushed out of the Jobs inner circle, labeled a betrayer who helped push Jobs out, where the two engage in a dysfunctional family drama hurling incendiary verbal barbs at one another in front of friends, coworkers and the press, where rumors are swirling suggesting Jobs may actually be back as the head of Apple, which has reached economic stagnation. Still, Jobs is utterly speechless when his emotionally torn daughter gives him a big hug before she leaves, indicating “I want to live with you.” Rather than the happy family reunion that some might have preferred, Jobs never really gave the idea a thought, instead he is emphatically anointed as the “chosen one,” returning as the CEO of a company on the verge of bankruptcy, needing the brilliance of his ideas to reshape and envision the future, where there is a clever use of flashback sequences to reimagine how it all began when they were long-haired kids hanging out in the garage, but now Jobs was more than happy to fill the bill, going on an unprecedented run of successes that are only hinted at in the film, like the iMac, iTunes, Apple Stores, the iPod, the iTunes Store, the iPhone, the App Store, and the iPad. Still, he’s on the receiving end of an obviously angry tirade from his now 19-year old daughter (Perla Haney-Jardine) who has finally learned to reject him as the deadbeat dad he always was, but ever the consummate salesman, he promises to find a way to “put five hundred or a thousand songs in your pocket.” finally admitting that “I’m poorly made,” as if he’s little more than one of his own machines, luring her back into his good graces as he hears the thunderous sounds of the applause awaiting him as he magnanimously steps onto the stage into the resounding acclaim of the flashbulbs and bright lights, finally earning the adoration of a fickle public.

PopMatters [Chris Barsanti]

Say what you will about The Social Network. It might have been a David Fincher-on-autopilot film whose Aaron Sorkin script was based on a wildly one-sided book and resorted to inventing a somewhat laughable reason for its Mark Zuckerberg to succeed (he wanted to impress a girl). For better or for worse, though, it created a plausible character and dramatically situated him on the battlefield where the modern world’s social and technological rules are being violently rewritten. Even though Sorkin had Walter Isaacson’s great, warts-and-all biography to draw from for his take on one of the immersive electronics era’s other great modern divisive tech populist billionaires, Steve Jobs is a far less interesting film about a far more fascinating person.

Jobs was, if nothing else, a phenomenal showman. Given the amount of humbug involved in his exquisitely choreographed product launches (displaying computers using the wrong operating systems), you could safely call him a huckster. So it makes sense that Sorkin would chuck the usual biopic arc and make the daring dramatic choice to break the story into three acts, each one set in the tension-choked minutes right before his newest launch: 1984 for the first Macintosh, 1988 for NeXT, and last in 1998 for the iMac. These are the minutes in which everything that Jobs had worked for was coming together, making them useful flashpoints.

Sorkin packs each of those three slots with backstage drama, with Jobs (Michael Fassbender) either haranguing or reassuring his long-suffering marketing director and “work wife” Joanna Hoffman (Kate Winslet, whose vaguely Eastern European accent cuts out like a weak radio signal) about the big new reveal that the assembled masses are chanting for like fans at a concert. Sorkin then brusquely jams in every other major character, who keep choosing that moment to show up and give Jobs the business. Jobs’s old garage-inventing buddy Steve Wozniak (Seth Rogen doing bearded Seth Rogen), Macintosh co-creator Andy Hertzfeld (Michael Stuhlbarg), former Apple CEO John Sculley (Jeff Daniels), and Lisa, the daughter Jobs refuses to acknowledge, all have it out with him in one way or the other. This turns the film at times into an almost self-parodying Sorkin walk-and-yell, with barbs, putdowns, and pithy jargonized blocks of exposition flying thick.

Sorkin seems to acknowledge the staginess of his approach, as does the unusually sedate director Danny Boyle, who contents himself with a couple camera tricks (screening Skylab footage onto a wall while Jobs talks about it to prove a point) but mostly stays out of the way of the script. At one point Jobs gripes that, “it’s like five minutes before every launch everyone goes to the bar and then tells me what they really think of me.” However, a self-aware gag doesn’t counteract a flaw in the film that’s even more crucial than its inherent lack of drama. It’s one thing for the film to shuffle around or ignore entirely events from Jobs’s fairly well-documented life story for the sake of drama: If filmmakers couldn’t fold, spindle, and mutilate the historical record then the biopic genre would be extinct. But the film spends all its energy spinning around Jobs and the conflicts seeded by his prickly persona, hoping to see his reflection in everyone else’s aggravated faces. By only parachuting us into his life for a few minutes at a time (a couple flashbacks aside), and then quickly tying it all up with a non-revelatory insight about his orphan past, the window of opportunity for understanding Jobs is dramatically limited.

What Steve Jobs leaves us with isn’t a genius or even a particularly innovative business manager. One after the other, aggrieved former colleagues or family come for some kind of reconciliation or passive-aggressive score-settling, only to be hit with the paranoid, megalomaniacal verbal assaults Sculley calls the “Steve Jobs revenge machine”. On the surface this looks like an attempt to puncture the bubble of Jobs’s self-created genius mystique and show his seedy underbelly. But the film’s heart isn’t in it. Each time, Jobs gets the upper hand. When Wozniak finally abandons his jolly calm to demand of Jobs what he actually does (since Jobs couldn’t program or design), Jobs blithely responds, “I’m the conductor”, shutting down a perfectly legitimate question. In a later scene when Hertzfeld admits to paying Lisa’s college tuition after Jobs refused to out of spite, somehow Hertzfeld is presented as a meddling loser instead of concerned friend.

Like all of the socially maladroit male geniuses on television these days, we’re supposed to take Jobs’s finicky attitudes and personal attacks as the price of admission for watching a superior mind at work and revel in his putdowns of lesser beings. There is no evidence here of the real Jobs’s penchant for not just cruelty but childish screaming tantrums and outright sadism when he thought somebody was thwarting him. Well before the unctuous insincerity of the last act’s family rapprochement, we are simply supposed to stand back in awe at the great bully who always has his way in everything. One can almost imagine this film recast as a Silicon Valley sitcom about a temperamental tech boss who’s always flying off at the handle, only to have his (not too) sassy female sidekick roll her eyes and sigh “Oh, Steve!”

When Wozniak vents in frustration, “It’s not binary! You can be decent and gifted at the same time,” Jobs ignores him. The film does, too.

Slant Magazine [Steve Macfarlane]

By now it's no secret that Steve Jobs was a controlling, egomaniacal bully. Danny Boyle's Steve Jobs presupposes that, maybe, he wasn't all that bad. As if testing the mettle of its rendition of the late Apple co-founder, to say nothing of audience endurance, Aaron Sorkin's screenplay is broken into three disparate chunks, each played in something approximating real time. Michael Fassbender stars as the Mephistophelean Jobs, seen exclusively in the minutes ticking down to one of his signature keynote speech-cum-product launches—the first Macintosh in 1984, the neXT “black cube” in 1988, and finally, the desktop iMac in 1998—with frisky expository montages filling in the peaks and dips of his storied career between acts. But despite this intriguing structure and the vigor of its execution, Boyle's film can't help but land in the same hagiographizing place as nearly every single other Great Man biopic churned out by the studio powers that be.

Johanna Hoffmann (Kate Winslet) is Jobs's handler, unofficial shrink, and “work wife,” walking him through each of the three long mornings leading up to the respective launches, clipboard in hand. Each event is preempted by a litany of technical troubleshoots and confrontational “sessions” between Jobs, once-and-former Apple CEO John Scully (Jeff Daniels), and long-suffering developers Andy Hertzfeldt (Michael Stuhlbarg) and Steve Wozniak (Seth Rogen). Across the three chronologies, no through line is as dramatically pressing as Jobs's pathological unwillingness to acknowledge his out-of-wedlock daughter, Lisa, and pay child support to his ex-girlfriend, Chrisann (Katherine Waterston).

True to Sorkin's form, the majority of these hashings-out take place during peripatetic walk and talks, with each member of the film's Greek chorus lodging both zingers and accusations at Jobs in equal, dogged proportion. As Boyle barely leaves time for the dust from these interpersonal clashes to settle, no viewer could be blamed for assuming Jobs's naysayers—each, in their own way, having been demonstrably steamrolled by the tech guru—will vanish from the remainder of the film. Just as Jobs endures, so do they—all, exempting Chrisann, looping back around for another featured turn in each act, and with added life wisdom, to grapple one last time with their once and future, and legendarily dickheaded, boss.

Danny Boyle's film can't help but land in the same hagiographizing place as nearly every single other Great Man biopic churned out by the studio powers that be.

The screenwriter's signature verbal-diarrhetic dialogue allows for a nonstop blaring of actorly chops that, like the movie at large, is nothing if not committed. It's incumbent on Boyle's cast to suggest a realistic “corporate culture” at Apple outside the film's confined set pieces, and for the most part they succeed wildly: As Hoffmann, Winslet is particularly adroit at summarizing two decades spent under Jobs's thumb without her tics feeling atemporal. Playing Jobs as a tortured genius trapped under the burden of a Gatsby-esque public persona, Fassbender would have us believe the tech guru lived every minute of his life in full-blown visionary-entrepreneur mode, his veins practically varicose with self-bedazzlement. But the actor's technical prowess gives Jobs's nasally lilt and pleading appeal a double-sided edge, making both the good and bad Jobses sufficiently plausible.

Steve Jobs's triparite structure is probably as audacious a choice a Hollywood studio can make: the minute-to-minute claustrophobia of the launches means the acting (and the beyond-prolix script) are thrown under an unforgiving degree of scrutiny. But if the begraddled present tense of the three acts makes for a superficially exhilarating movie-going experience, Sorkin's text betrays the hoariness of its motivating Big Concept early and often. Jobs's on-screen relationship with Scully is essentially one protracted heart to heart that exists principally to unmask the titular antihero's daddy issues before it's too late. Jobs finally figures out how to redeem his deadbeat-dad self in perfect sync with the scoring his last (and greatest) Apple coup, wherein Hoffmann has cause to tell him iMac sales are projected to break a million in their first week. (For whatever reason, this histrionic, win-big-or-bust quality permeates nearly every film with Boyle's name on it.)

This process means inevitably realizing there's no way Steve Jobs can't culminate in a treatise on why America (allegedly) adores Steve Jobs. Hurdling toward its conclusion, Boyle's film takes pains to solidify its antihero's image in its most enduring—one could even say streamlined—form: emaciated, adorned in his signature black turtleneck, spotless sneakers, and rimless granny glasses. On a sun-kissed Cupertino rooftop parking lot, with milliseconds between him and the iMac unveiling, Jobs's mad rush to finally take responsibility for himself allows for the teasing of a yet-unseen new product: The now-teenage Lisa (played here by Perla Haney-Jardine) is more than jaded to her father's overpromising, until he begins bellowing to her that he'll find a way to “put five hundred or a thousand songs in your pocket.” Even by its surprisingly upbeat denouement, it's way too late to ask if Steve Jobs is a full-bore promotion of Apple's corporate philosophy: In 2015, no utterance of Jobs's name in public can be mistaken for anything else.

INFLUX Magazine [Steve Pulaski] also seen here: Rock n Reel [Steve Pulaski] and here: The Baconation [Steve Pulaski]

For a mainstream film about a technological titan, Danny Boyle's Steve Jobs is immensely subversive in the way that it rejects biopic convention to give us the parts of Jobs's story I'm sure many of us wouldn't have put near the top of our lists to see. The film focuses on the behind-the-scenes interworkings of three specific press conferences Jobs delivered: the first is the unveiling of the original Macintosh computer following an electrifying Super Bowl commercial in 1984, the second is the announcement of the NeXT Box, the debut hardware from Jobs's own company NeXT in 1988, and the final is the reveal of Jobs's iMac computer in 1998, after Jobs is rehired by Apple. Just as Jobs is about to stand before the crowd to give his press conferences, Boyle's camera cuts and Sorkin's script deviates to a transitory scene that takes place in the middle of the sequence we just watched and the sequence we're about to see.

What should've made for a disjointed and unnerving film instead creates a symphonic blend of sharp dialog, terrific character acting, and intimate character development and relations behind one of the most recognized names in the technology field. Michael Fassbender plays Steve Jobs, a wickedly smart but frequently condescending man, uncaring of what people think of him so long as he gets his vision out to the public. He's assisted, morally guided, and somewhat kept in line by his marketing adviser Joanna Hoffman (Kate Winslet), especially when his daughter Lisa gets caught up in a brutal battle of paternity denial. Lisa's mother finds this a deplorable act of cowardice on Jobs' behalf; he finds it a setback and an attempt to devalue his name and career.

Boyle and writer Aaron Sorkin also show Jobs' relationship with Apple CEO John Scully (Jeff Daniels), who seems to always be on the opposite page of Jobs no matter the issue. Scully is a marketing and business traditionalist, ultimately concerned with promotion and the bottom dollar, where Jobs believes that innovation and creating something people didn't know they wanted should be the fundamental goal of a technology empire (in one brilliant scene, Jobs states, "the person who said 'the customer is always right' was almost certainly a customer"). Finally, there's the long-developed and discussed relationship between Jobs and his college buddy Steve Wozniak (Seth Rogen), who surprisingly takes a backseat to much of the action, only turning up to knock Jobs off his high-horse by reminding him that, despite him commanding the orchestra, he doesn't know how to make any of the parts move nor does he really do anything other than dictate and belittle.

I'm sure there were few people thinking Sorkin's screenplay for Steve Jobs wouldn't be top-notch, but I'm not sure many expected how sharp and biting the dialog of this film was going to be. Rather than focusing on capturing every noteworthy event of Jobs' life in a concise, completionist manner like the forgotten Jobs biopic two years ago, Sorkin focuses on the conversations between the people that made them happen. The dialog here is always alive, turning a two hour film into one that races past at lightning speed - something I don't say often.

But Sorkin's dialog would be of little merit if it wasn't recited by the immensely talented cast this film boasts. The supporting performances here are the kind of performances that transcend the power of the lesser characters in a film, and Jeff Daniels and Kate Winslet truly capitalize off of the power of their characters. Daniels works to make every line of dialog he says level-headed and understandable from his perspective, and Winslet, who ostensibly gets a very thankless role, turns her character into an undeniable force and commendable female supporting role. Winslet is as good as Fassbender, who ultimately is the beating heart of this film. Fassbender's ability to be as mesmerizing in his smugness and his confidence is what keeps this film watchable, in addition to his ability to be so interesting as he condescends people, using elaborate but believable dialog appropriate for a variety of situations. The only one who seems out of place here is indeed Rogen, who always looks and seems to feel like he's about to make some kind of a joke or a quip in every scene he's in.

Finally, there's the richness in the film's photography, largely thanks, not only to Boyle, but cinematographer Alwin H. Küchler, who give this film the presentation that the events are occurring in their respective time periods. This turns a film bent on profiling the ugliness in Steve Jobs' character into a very beautiful and richly photographed film capable of inspiring certain emotions due largely in part to he way the film operates and feels with every passing scene. Even the editing choices by Elliot Graham work, as tricky and as risky as they are; one particular moment involves splicing two scenes involving conversations between Jobs and Scully, one when Jobs is begging Scully to be his CEO, the other, captured in the present day, absolutely blasting him for his move to fire him from the company he helped create, over two very different times. The result shouldn't be as powerful and as titillating as it is.

Yet, Steve Jobs is a powerful and titillating film, proving my notion that films that dedicate themselves to profiling a character through dialog and his relations with others can be just as gripping as any action film you can name. This also serves as a cogent reminder to those who emptily praise Jobs without really understanding his character or his accomplishments. Political commentator and pundit Bill Maher pointed out an interesting note on this film, assuming it would be successful like many other biopics about cut-throat people of success because America has a love for "a**holes." I don't disagree, but this film should be regarded like The Wolf of Wall Street in a way where neither the director or writer of the film actively condemns the titular figure, and instead simply allow for his actions to condemn and define himself before audiences.

Hard to Be a God: 'Steve Jobs' Thinks Different About ... - Grantland Alex Pappademas

Armond White [National Review]

“Steve Jobs”: Michael Fassbender stars in a riveting three ... - Salon.com Andrew O’Hehir

Steve Jobs movie review: portrait of a broken man | The Verge Kwame Opam

Aaron Sorkin's Steve Jobs, starring Michael Fassbender ... - Slate Dana Stevens

Steve Jobs fact vs. fiction: How accurate is Danny Boyle's new ... - Slate Laura Bradley, October 13, 2015

In 'Steve Jobs', a Fascinating Subject Remains Elusive - The Atlantic Christopher Orr

Movie Review: Steve Jobs Starts Big, But Settles -- Vulture David Edelstein

The Film Stage [Nick Newman]

PopMatters [Cynthia Fuchs]

The Man Is the Machine: 'Steve Jobs' Digs at the Heart ... - Village Voice Nick Schager

Writing: Movies [Chris Knipp]

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Boynton, Rachel

OUR BRAND IS CRISIS C 73

USA (87 mi) 2005

An unusual subject, an examination of the 2002 Presidential election in Bolivia, unusual because the featured candidate was so completely dull and uncharismatic, the 72-year old Gonzalo Sánchez de Lozada, affectionately known as Goni, a Bolivian educated in the United States, a former President (1993-1997) who introduced many unpopular ideas, namely free trade, a capitalist notion perceived in his nation as giving away Bolivian jobs to foreigners, basically selling their soul. Bolivia has one of the largest sources of natural gas, yet they continually export it to other countries, leaving Bolivians impoverished. As it turns out, the filmmaker’s mother was in the theater. I asked what led her daughter to this subject matter, as this candidate was hardly a dynamic or charismatic leader. She graduated Brown University with an interest in free market economics, attending film school at Columbia. Goni was an ardent free market supporter, which was considered the source of the current government’s economic crisis, so in an unusual strategy, he hired an American political consultant firm, the brains behind the Clinton campaign, who are now selling their wares internationally to the highest bidder. According to James Carville, Goni bought the “whole package.” Where he got the money to afford this high-priced team of Washington strategists was never asked.

So this film follows the strategy sessions with the candidate, in particular the on-going assessment of Jeremy Rosner, the prized pollster, who continues to organize small focus groups to see how his message was playing with the general public. Initially, he appears to be the least popular candidate. But he goes on the attack with negative ads targeting the leader in the polls, portraying him as a man with Fascist tendencies, as they obtained a photograph of the man in a military uniform. Despite the fact the man couldn’t hold anyone’s attention, much less an audience, as evidenced by his inability to handle even softball questions asked of him on television, his simple message was that his country was in crisis, that it needed an experienced leader to pull them out, a theme that was hammered into his nation’s subliminal cerebral cortex, and damn if he didn’t win the election with only 22% of the vote – not exactly riding a populist bandwagon.

However, the government was in chaos almost immediately afterwards, unable to deliver the jobs or economic prosperity that it promised, instead raising taxes on even the poorest citizens, leading to violent organized protest demonstrations from the losing candidates. After the deaths of some 100 protesters, once again hammering home the antiglobalization theme that the President was sending jobs and money out of the country while the country continued to suffer, Goni was forced to resign within a year, exiled to Washington DC, living in a neighborhood where his father raised him after he was similarly exiled out of the country. When asked to explain this phenomena, pollster Rosner explained the inevitable historical reality, that 450 years ago the Spanish conquistadors stole the Bolivian silver, 125 years ago the Chileans stole the Bolivians sea access, so when Goni started sending Bolivian natural gas directly through Chilean pipelines, that was the last straw, suggesting that for democracy to work in impoverished regions, the candidate has to be able to deliver something that’s essential to the needs of the public, which Goni was unable to do, largely due (from what I could tell) to the strong organizing skills of his opposition, which later led them to the Presidency with a 54% plurality. However, as far as Rosner’s own personal job was concerned, his assessment was he wouldn’t have changed a thing.

Unfortunately, this story was told largely through the eyes and voices of a completely sterile American PR crew, who have little understanding or interest in maintaining ties or political connections with the Bolivian locals, instead they remained out of the public’s eyes and were perceived as interlopers (gringos) who were subsequently blamed for the country’s latest series of woes and misadventures. Many were impressed with this film, (see the review below), as if it uncovered a deep dark political secret. Perhaps the political wool has been pulled over my eyes once too many times and I’m no longer impressed by the back-room wizardry of Sunday morning political pundits. (“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.”) But this was not riveting filmmaking, as the candidate would put anyone to sleep, and much of this was stiflingly dull, with an excessive amount of material written on the screen opening and closing the film that could have played out just as well on an in-depth radio report.

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez]

The resonance of Rachel Boynton's documentary Our Brand is Crisis is flabbergasting. When former Bolivian president Gonzalo Sanchez de Lozada, known as Goni to his people, hires the firm operated by Stan Greenberg and James Carville to run his reelection campaign, the spectacle of ballot-counting and angry mob scenes echoes the election horrors that put Bush II in the White House not once but twice. Riveting through and through, Our Brand is Crisis unravels like a political thriller, evoking the failure of the capitalistic, neo-liberal Goni to spread democracy in a country whose people have been crippled by poverty and disenchanted by the man's undelivered promises. Though Boynton seems to lose sight of some fascinating gripes (Goni, a Bolivian raised and educated in the United States, speaks better English than Spanish and his people seem to resent him for it—hence the signs that read "Gringo Asshole Step Down"), that's not to say that she isn't mindful of the social realities of the Bolivian people and how this shapes their political views. She certainly is, except the focus of Our Brand is Crisis, like 1993's The War Room and Robert Altman's Tanner '88, isn't so much the politics of a nation as it is the selling of a political campaign to that nation. Carville's well-meaning associate Jeremy Rosner calls the progressive form of government their agency looks to spread all over the world "market-driven," but marketing-driven is more like it, because it's amidst the non-stop flurry of focus groups, speech-writing, and polling that Carville's people begin to lose sight of the reality of life in Bolivia, which erupts in revolution as soon as Goni raises the country's income taxes. It's in this way that Our Brand is Crisis looks to remind well-meaning people like Carville and Rosner to put the humanity in brand marketing.

BIG MEN B- 82

USA Great Britain Denmark (99 mi) 2013 Official site

While Joel Berlinger’s Crude (2009) documents the way multi-national corporations like Texaco and Chevron do business with South American nations while in pursuit of oil profits, often taking the money and resources while getting out quick, leaving the land ravaged afterwards with toxic spillage left behind in the rainforests, endangering the lives of the indigenous population living there, Rachel Boynton takes a look at the business dealings on the other side of the globe, where in 2007, Ghana, with the aid of the Dallas-based Kosmos Energy Corporation, discovered new oil reserves in the Atlantic Ocean just 35 miles off their coast. Oil had never been discovered in Ghana before, so the impact was enormous. Seven years in the making, Boynton got into the story early on near the point of discovery, when Wall Street investment firms were projecting profits in the neighborhood of $22 billion dollars. Hard as it is for the public to believe, new oil reservoirs are not something discovered every day, in fact it’s an extremely difficult process to locate new sources of oil, one of the specialties of Kosmos, as for the past 100 years these competing oil companies have spent a good portion of their technology and expertise scouring the earth in search of more oil, so by now there are few surprises left that haven’t already been explored. Boynton is given rare inside access to Kosmos, developing the trust of CEO Jim Musselman, whose company is bankrolled by the investments firms of Warburg Pincus and the Blackstone Group, firms that are only interested in a hefty return for their investment, where in their eyes, the higher the risk, the greater the reward. The combined initial investment is somewhere in the neighborhood of several hundred million dollars, climbing to a billion before a single barrel of oil has been pulled out of the ocean. Boynton’s cameras follow Musselman as he is introduced to a Ghanian tribal chief bearing bottles of Scotch and Hennessey along with a $10,000 donation to an educational charity. The introduction is managed by a local businessman, George Owusu and his EO Group, the Ghanian oil company that brought the outside interests of Kosmos into the deal. Despite the pleasant, easy-going nature of Musselman, raised on a family farm in Texas, there is something altogether off-putting about the experience, as it recalls notions of colonialist exploitation.

Boynton opens the film with quotations on the subject of greed from Milton Friedman and John Huston’s THE TREASURE OF THE SIERRE MADRE (1948), suggesting there is an ugly side of capitalism, which only grows more pronounced with the intersection of First World and Third World economies, where the drive for profit quickly outdistances itself from any system of laws in place, where the film is a case study on the behavior of financial sharks in the water, as the Jubilee Oil Field is a reservoir of great untapped wealth, drawing out the ruthless self-interests of all competing parties as they position themselves to determine who will reap the rewards. Musselman is part of a business network of complex relationships, with Kosmos executives, financiers, consortium partners, and the government of Ghana which ultimately has the last word on any business dealings within its borders. Musselman is on good terms with Ghanian President John Kufour, securing favorable terms in the initial contracts drawn, hoping to sign a Plan of Development to produce the oil. Initially all signs are optimistic as the price of oil is skyrocketing, but this is followed both by the 2008 financial crisis depressing the price of oil and an opposition party candidate, John Atta Mills, winning the Ghana Presidential election, which puts all the political goodwill and hopes of favorable concessions in jeopardy. Making matters worse, George Owusu also falls out of favor when he’s investigated by the U.S. Department of Justice under the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act for alleged bribery and corrupt business practices, charges he vehemently denies. Left out of the story are unmentioned partners of Kosmos, other oil companies that actually own a combined 61% stake of the Jubilee Project, including Anadarko Petroleum, a rival Texas oil firm that actually prompted the inquiry. Nonetheless, Kosmos cuts tires with Owusu, as they want no perception of impropriety as they embark upon negotiations with the new Ghanian President, but the Kosmos Board of Directors also lose faith in Musselman and have him replaced. This turn of events is surprising, since the arc of the story was being told through Musselman, as in the process Boynton loses internal access as well, leaving the viewer a bit in the dark. Musselman, who remains a top executive, indignantly rationalizes how he fell out of favor, but it’s hard not to think how he did the same thing to George Owusu, who was later exonerated of all charges.

As a counterpoint to the story of Kosmos in Ghana, Boynton intercuts scenes from neighboring Nigeria, the tenth most petroleum-rich nation in the world, and by far the most affluent in Africa, yet a combination of corporate exploitation and government corruption has turned the Niger Delta region into a nightmare of oil spills, environmental destruction and lawlessness, where armed militia groups like the Deadly Underdog militants control access to the pipelines in their territory. As much as 75% of the profits are siphoned off into the hands of various interests, where ten years ago it was considered the second-most corrupt country on earth (after Kenya), NIGERIA: Nigeria angry at being rated second most corrupt, more recently replaced by Somalia, North Korea, and Afghanistan (Read more at Transparency International). These Nigerian militants claim none of Nigeria’s oil wealth makes it back into their impoverished communities, that it instead finds its way into the hands of the “big men,” who are governmental officials and well-connected businessmen. These images are by far the most harrowing, where holes cut into the pipelines create pools of spewing oil that are set on fire, with the local population stealing and reselling black market oil in areas perpetually surrounded by flames, as billows of black smoke surround the region, controlled by young kids wearing ski masks and carrying Kalashnikov assault rifles. While Boynton’s ability to gain access to both Jim Musselman and the Deadly Underdogs is impressive, she never makes any connection between the two, where the colonialist history of exploitation is never mentioned. Ghana and Nigeria have differing histories, yet this is not explored, even as the director contrasts and compares the two nations. Like her earlier film, OUR BRAND IS CRISIS (2005), Boynton chooses not to use a narrator, but instead advances the narrative by filling the screen with an excessive amount of written material, which, when added to a procession of talking heads, is a bit of information overload. Adding the Nigerian picture is fascinating, but diverts the interest and may actually belong in another film, as this film is more a profile of the inner workings of Kosmos Energy, shedding light onto the difficulties foreign enterprise runs into when dealing with governmental instability and changing regimes. As a portrait of an American company in search of wealth, it can at times be fascinating, especially the candid views of capitalism in progress from Musselman once he’s been ousted from power, but as a portrait of Africa, it never connects the dots, where the impact of colonialism affects every African atrocity, especially in Nigeria, where past historical transgressions impact upon the present, but this was never addressed, leaving the overall journalistic picture incomplete.

Chicago Reader

Rachel Boynton's fine debut documentary Our Brand Is Crisis (2005) explored the deforming effects of U.S. political strategists on a Bolivian presidential election; her second examines the corrupting power of oil money in West Africa, and its opening close-up of wasps clustering around a nest proves aptly symbolic. In 2007, Dallas-based Kosmos Energy discovered a giant oil field off the coast of Ghana, and Boynton follows CEO Jim Musselman as he travels overseas to cut a development deal with the government. But two years after the discovery, a new presidential administration comes to power in Ghana, oil prices plunge worldwide, and Anadarko Petroleum Company, another U.S. firm financing the deal, accuses Kosmos of having bribed Ghanaian officials. Through it all the oft-proclaimed ideal of sharing oil wealth with the people of Ghana begins to slip away, and the country seems headed on a path to become another Nigeria, with its handsome oil profits and widespread poverty. In English and subtitled Ijaw and Twi. 99 min.

BIG MEN Facets Multi Media

In Ghana, Kosmos Energy, a small American energy company, fights to hold onto its enormous discovery of oil, called the Jubilee Field, just as a new government comes into power. In Nigeria, where oil has already been discovered, the ramifications of the oil industry have taken their toll on the people, most notably those in the Niger Delta who have seen none of the benefits of this new wealth. As the American company falls under the scrutiny of the new Ghanaian government and the U.S. Justice Department, the contracts for the oil field languish. Jobs are lost, power plays are made and all the while, the Ghanaian people wait to reap the benefits. In the Niger Delta, pipelines are attacked and set on fire as militants continue to demand more of the wealth from their government.

With unprecedented access and an unflinching eye, Big Men takes us deep into the African oil industry in Ghana and Nigeria, delivering an exposé on the ambition, greed and corruption that threaten to exacerbate Africa's resource curse and leave more of its citizens behind. What follows is a twisting tale of greed and deception with global implications, told by director Rachel Boynton (Our Brand Is Crisis) with razor-sharp journalistic skill.

Film-Forward.com [Nora Lee Mandel]

The U.S. now gets almost half its imported oil from Africa. That’s where director Rachel Boynton followed a colorful greed-is-good cast of characters over six gripping and suspenseful years after the discovery of what is hailed as Jubilee Field off the shore of Ghana. Her camera is there when the first Big Man, a tall wildcatter named Musselman (this isn’t fiction—he really is a Dallas rancher) lassos millions from Big Men on Wall Street for high risk exploration and drilling. As oil prices rise, the potential profits could make their local liaison a Big Man with the President and the King—until an election may cut everybody down to size, except Big Oil. (If a corporation is a person, then ExxonMobil is another Big Man.) The diminutive director (as seen on the “Tribeca Talks: New Chick Films” panel) bravely tracks other black gold Big Men to gauge Ghana’s future: can they follow the peaceful, egalitarian development model of Norway where oil benefits the country as a whole or will they get mired in the corruption and violent disruptions endemic to the Niger Delta, where she directly gets the perspective of a Big Man rebel from his armed camp. (Maybe she avoided arrest by having Brad Pitt as an executive producer, unlike what happened to Sandy Cioffi, who earlier investigated Sweet Crude in the region.) You will not be able to anticipate who wins and who loses.

"Big Men," A Look at Ghana's Oil Industry | World Policy ... David Stevens from World Policy Blog, April 4, 2014

Rachel Boynton’s documentary film, Big Men, introduces us to Kosmos Energy, technical operator of a consortium looking to develop the recently discovered Jubilee oil field, 37 miles off the Ghanaian coast. Kosmos is a small Texas-based energy start-up, backed by financial powerhouses Warburg Pincus and Blackstone Capital Group, and led by co-founder Jim Musselman, a long time oil executive with considerable experience working in Africa. Musselman is the central character around which Boynton develops the story of Kosmos’ work in Africa. It soon becomes clear that Musselman works within the confines of a number of complex relationships–with Kosmos executives, financiers, consortium partners, and the government of Ghana.

Having gained extraordinary access to Kosmos executives and Ghanaian government officials, Boynton follows the company’s efforts to secure a signed Plan of Development (PoD) and reach “first oil,” the point at which the well becomes productive. Musselman is on good terms with the administration of Ghanaian President John Kufour, and easily works with administration officials and community leaders to secure both favorable contract terms and the goodwill of the larger community. With the price of oil increasing rapidly, and a common view that Ghana lacks many of the governance and corruption problems that have plagued the oil industry, all parties are optimistic that the PoD will be signed.

This optimism fades, however, when the crash of the price of oil during the 2008 financial crisis, and an opposition victory in the Ghanaian presidential election rob Musselman of both his political capital (and his ability to win favorable concessions) and the hope of astronomical returns. As a result, the deal, and in fact Kosmos’ future, are placed in jeopardy.

From the beginning it’s clear that Kosmos is not working in isolation, but rather is navigating a number of partners with a variety of incentives. Boynton’s interviews with executives at Warburg Pincus (who sit on the Kosmos board) and members of both the Kufour and the Mills administrations, hint at the variety of motivations and interests that had to be managed. Boynton pays particular attention to George Owusu and his EO Group–the Ghanaian oil company that brought Kosmos into the Jubilee project–as he transitions from serving as a central part of Kosmos’ engagement strategy to an outsider, out of favor with the new administration, sidelined by Kosmos, and under investigation by the US Department of Justice. But despite complex politics of both the American consortium and the Ghanaian government, Boynton makes the choice to follow a narrative line understating these complexities–leaving the viewer to decide who is acting in good faith and who is not, who are the predators and who are the prey.  

For the first half the film, there is hardly any mention of Kosmos’ partners: Tullow Oil plc, Anadarko, and Sabre Oil who own a combined 61 percent stake in the project. This is a particularly confusing choice since there are allusions to backroom politics between the partners. For instance, when a Foreign Corrupt Practices Act (FCPA) investigation is opened into EO, Anadarko is seen as a having prompted the inquiry.

More attention is paid to the efforts of the Ghanaian government to renegotiate the terms of the consortium agreement, particularly as talks of a sale occur. But Boynton does not present the relationships between Owusu and the Kufour government, the internal politics of the Mills government (a picture of which was presented in diplomatic cables released by Wikileaks), or much of how Kosmos finds it way back into the governments good graces–eventually signing a PoD. Without this detail, much of the intrigue is lost, and a story of the complex intertwining of global business and local electoral and party politics is lost in favor of common narratives. This is exacerbated by enthralling, if somewhat confusing presentations of the very different reality that is Nigeria’s oil industry.  

The film’s biggest triumph is also its largest fault–a comparison to Nigeria. Boynton follows the Deadly Underdog militant group of Rivers State, home to Nigeria’s oil industry. Rivers State has born the brunt of Nigeria’s oil expansion. Environmental and economic consequences have been severe while few of the benefits of Nigeria’s oil wealth have made it back to the population, instead finding their way to the countries "big men," government officials and connected businessmen. The resulting tension has led to the formation of rebel groups of various size and ability, as well as a variety of gangs that attack the oil infrastructure and illegally tap pipelines to feed a large black market. Boynton’s ability to gain access and interview the Deadly Underdogs is a remarkable feat, and her stark portrayal of life in the Niger Delta is an important contribution to our understanding the impact of irresponsible energy development.   

Where Big Men runs into trouble is in its side-by-side presentation of the Ghanaian and Nigerian experiences without the presentation of details that would make comparison meaningful. Boynton seems to want us to draw our own conclusions about how the Ghanaian experience may be similar to that of Nigeria, when in fact the two countries share relatively little. The result is an unfair coloring of the Ghanaian experience with the large scale environmental, economic, social and problems that have occurred in Nigeria–downplaying, for example, Ghana’s largely peaceful transfer of power and its record of transparency in extractive industries. As a result, the film misses opportunities to highlight how the Nigerian experience may have informed the Ghanaian case or how Ghana might compare with other oil producers. Instead, the idea that there is something intrinsically corrupt about business in Africa is allowed to come to the fore. 

When seen as a profile of Kosmos Energy, Big Men is a fascinating look into the incentives and challenges faced by a start-up looking to work in developing regions. As such, it sheds light on the process by which much future African development is expected to occur–through private enterprise, in partnership with increasingly stable and democratic governments. However, with the addition of the Nigerian case, the film reaches beyond its scope in trying to marry two disparate stories into a single narrative. Boynton may have found more success had she presented each case–fascinating in its own right, separately. As it is, Big Men, leaves too many blanks to be filled in with common, and overly general narratives about Africa.

Salon.com Andrew O’Hehir

Slant Magazine Alan Jones

Big Men: Ghana, Nigeria, and the United States - Blogs Emily Mellgard from Africa in Transition, April 4, 2014

Village Voice Alan Scherstuhl

Big Men / The Dissolve Nathan Rabin

Review: Big Oil & 'Big Men' Collide In Brad Pitt-Produced ... Kevin Jagernauth from The Playlist

Red Carpet Crash [James McDonald]

Krell Laboratories [Christianne Benedict]

Digital Journal [Sarah Gopaul]

ArtsGuild [Ilse]

NPR Mark Jenkins

Dork Shelf [Andrew Parker]

KQEK.com [Mark R. Hasan]

Flavorwire [Jason Bailey]

Nigeria's Illegal Oil Refineries - In Focus - The Atlantic Alan Taylor, with Nigerian photos by Akintunde Akinleye from The Atlantic, January 15, 2013

Boynton interview Jose Solis interview from Pop Matters, March 13, 2014

Big Men: Tribeca Review - The Hollywood Reporter John DeFore

Variety

Washington Post Stephanie Merry

Los Angeles Times Kenneth Turan

RogerEbert.com Hank Sartin

'Big Men' Looks at Ghanaian Oil Discovery - NYTimes.com Jeannette Catsoulis, also seen here: New York Times

Kosmos Energy Annouces $500 Million Equity Funding June 19, 2008

Warburg Pincus | Private Equity Africa

Ghana rejects Exxon Jubilee buy - World Oil

Ghana Is Set to Start Pumping Oil - Wall Street Journal Will Connors from The Wall Street Journal, December 15, 2010

Kosmos Energy payoff | King of Capital January 19, 2011

Warburg, Blackstone Seek Kosmos IPO as Crude Oil Hits High Lee Spears from Bloomberg, May 10, 2011

Warburg Pincus, Blackstone, etc selling 30 million shares in ... Ghana Oil Watch, February 11, 2013

Warburg Pincus: The Merchant Of Modest - Forbes Daniel Fisher from Forbes, September 4, 2013

Warburg Pincus Is Said to Seek $3 Billion for Energy Fund ... Sabrina Willmer from Blomberg, December 18, 2013

Bozon, Serge

LA FRANCE B 88

France (102 mi) 2007

"Bresson meets the Beatles" —Scott Foundas, Variety

A truly strange film, perhaps totally philosophical, not one that easily makes sense but feels more like an experimental short that has an interesting idea, but a harder time expressing it, particularly since it is set in a harsh world of extreme realism, yet mythologizes the subject matter with a kind of revisionist, perhaps even feminist mentality, basically inventing something that doesn’t exist, perhaps only in the mind. Sylvie Testud, of all people, plays Camille, caught up in the madness of war during WWI, exacerbated by a letter received from her husband at the front that instructs her to stop writing him as she will never see him again. This sends her into a frenzy of inner turmoil, as she can’t accept his frame of mind, actually disguising herself as a young male soldier in search of her missing husband. When she is discovered by a small group of soldiers led by Pascal Greggory, they are immediately suspicious and intend to return her to civilization the first chance they get, but they have little luck, as she describes herself as an orphan with no family to return to, so with continuing doubts she joins the group as they spend endless amount of film time wandering undetected through the forests, mostly traveling at night, seemingly avoiding detection. While they claim they are heading for the front lines, they rarely come into contact with other soldiers, instead spending idle time hunkered down in an opening in the trees scavenging what little food they can find. Remarkably at one point, they break out into song, where instruments suddenly appear out of nowhere, where these hardened, grizzled men sing about a male lover’s bedroom, describing it intimately as if it’s a fond recollection. The soldiers themselves cite passages from a poem about Atlantis, or read from their personal diaries, all of which personalizes the soldier’s experience, as they are attempting to hold onto something that has meaning while all around them the world is falling apart.

At one point the commanding officer instructs one of the soldiers to tell the new recruit (Sylvie) the story behind one of their men, who is remembered as a dreamer with a love for literature who had a passion translating it into Greek. But as the war dragged on, he lost his passion and his will to live, believing it no longer mattered any more, blending into the insanity of the world surrounding them, eventually killed senselessly in battle. To a man, this group of soldiers has been running from conflict ever since, attempting to preserve their humanity by saving their own lives, where bravery is measured by preserving lives rather than destroying them. In a tableaux setting, like an image from a Paradjanov film, the men again break out and sing melodious pop songs from the perspective of a blind girl who is yearning for something out there that she can’t see. While the metaphor may be clear, that these are wandering souls disconnected from reality attempting to rediscover their lost humanity, the film expression remains strange, as the men appear tainted in the head or disconnected even from themselves. Their peculiar behavior in the face of their wandering circumstances is one of utter passivity, as if they have resigned themselves to a purgatory of resignation where they may be lost in the shadows forever, men portrayed in as anti-masculine a light as possible, literally rearranging their chemistry as anti-soldiers. Rather than becoming more human, they appear hardly human at all, lost souls whose disconnect to the world around them is profound, a troubling consequence of the conflict of war, where the men resemble a shattered state of mind, where their lives have been reduced to recollections of poetry and song, to the underlying inner meaning in things, but where their souls have no bodies left to inhabit.

While the artificialized style of the film resembles the wandering format of timelessness as seen in Angelopoulos films, where travel is a common medium even through different time periods within the same shot, it lacks the utter beauty and artistic grace of his film composition, or perhaps one might be reminded of the near sculpted ballet-like imagery in Jansco films, but it lacks his spaciousness and sense of political conviction. Instead this film creates a kind of stillness in time, where the songs represent a mindset, a yearning to another time, a safer place where unobstructed love can exist. The point of view of a blind girl does not appear accidental, as it’s part of the carefully designed film aesthetic, as if creating a world that might be, men who refuse to fight, or who continue to do so under such terrible pressure that their mindset literally becomes separated from their bodies, like a lost limb. The idea of seeking a world where it could be re-attached and their lives made whole again does not seem like an uncommon hope of any soldier. All of them wish they could return home to the way it used to be, even as they are surrounded by evidence that life will never be the same, as war and the psychological damage done continues to live inside every soldier long after the war is over. There’s an interesting poetry to one of the last songs sung in the snow, where a lone soldier wanders out of a clump of forest to join their group. Sylvie asks where he’s headed, and he blurts out the words “La France,” again not so much a place as a state of mind. He falls to the ground beaten and weary, having recently escaped from prison, but she orders him to stand up and stop complaining, which he does so without question. All of the soldiers appear heading in the same direction, but each gets lost along the way. The world they’re searching for continues to evade them. But what about us? What about the world we’re searching for? Will we die never having found it?

Time Out Chicago (Ben Kenigsberg) review [4/6]

The discovery of Cannes’s 2007 Directors’ Fortnight festival, La France is a World War I film that traffics in deliberate discordances. This exceedingly odd movie takes France’s most unconventionally beautiful actress, Testud, and dresses her in drag, casting her as a farm wife who goes searching for her husband at the front. She meets up with an ostensibly lost band of soldiers who not only accept that she’s a boy named Camille, but who—when the mood strikes them—spontaneously burst into song.

Like festival darlings Eugène Green (The Living World) and Albert Serra (Honor of the Knights), former film critic Bozon has absorbed the influence of Robert Bresson, rarely showing more than is necessary. And like Green, he’s a modern folklorist—this is a World War I fable that, by its very existence, calls into question how war stories are told, exploring the relationship between death and art. (If, to paraphrase the British WWI motto, it was considered sweet and proper to die for one’s country, La France emphasizes the sweet.) Occasional instances of violence register all the more powerfully against the minimalist backdrop. From its preposterously overbroad title to its impromptu, toe-tapping musical numbers, this is a movie that invents its own language. If it doesn’t all translate, that’s because it’s unique.

The Lumière Reader Tim Wong

IN La France, a left-of-field war musical harmonised by twee interludes, the wonderfully unorthodox Sylvie Testud bends her gender for not the first time in her career – La Vie en Rose her last androgynous outing as Edith Piaf’s long-time cohort Simone Berteaut. Playing Camille, the forlorn wife of a WWI soldier, Testud masquerades as a man in order to join a company of inglorious French troops headed vaguely in the direction of her MIA husband. Within lean, pragmatic surroundings – a squad-based parable not unlike Fixed Bayonets or The Big Red One – director Serge Bozon circumvents the anticipation and cheap thrill of battle gore with the spectre of combat, and for all the film’s soft spoken whimsy and twilight surrealism – its willowy night-time sequences some of the most entrancing ever lit – there’s something disquieting, even faintly post-apocalyptic about its march towards a conflict which never presents itself. All in all, a strange delicacy among war movies, disengaged from both the cruel primitivism of Bruno Dumont (who would’ve turned the scene where Camille’s sex is revealed into a pack rape), and the showmanship of Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s hyper-romances (A Very Long Engagement a bloated, pre-existing version of this film). Finally subversive, Bozon even emasculates the genre’s machismo by directing his grubby male cast to sing their musical numbers in the key of James Blunt.

Time Out New York (Melissa Anderson) review [5/6]

In 1964, Jacques Demy astounded critics and audiences with The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, a musical in which every word of dialogue is sung. But within this audacious exercise lies an achingly antiwar film, its hero shipped off to fight in Algeria. Serge Bozon’s singular, extraordinary La France, cowritten with Axelle Ropert, is the inverse of Demy’s classic: a drama about the horrors, loneliness and camaraderie of World War I that intermittently (four times, to be specific) blooms into a delirious musical.

Liberty, equality, fraternity: Gaul’s motto is dissected throughout Bozon’s movie, which laments the folly of nationalism while reveling in the glories of anachronism. Joining the simple, straightforward title of the film are the songs themselves: “England,” “Italy,” “Germany” and “Poland,” all of which begin with the line “I, the blind girl…,” sung by weary soldiers who come to life with their handcrafted string instruments, made from cans and other everyday detritus. Gender discordance runs throughout, as Sylvie Testud’s Camille, in search of her husband, cuts her tresses and dons suspenders to join ten combatants led by Pascal Greggory. Both Testud and Greggory have repeatedly proved themselves two of the finest actors working today, but I can’t recall despair ever portrayed so movingly and yet with such economy. The look of pure enchantment on Camille’s face the first time her comrades break into song—creamy, harmonious nuggets that sound like mid-’60s pop manna—may reflect your own. And Bozon ends his war story with a scene as romantic and otherworldly as Demy might have dreamed.

Toronto Life [David Balzer]

One of last year’s more obscure critical fixations, La France has, as a concept at least, much to recommend it. Serge Bozon’s story of French soldiers in World War I puts a stubborn, enterprising woman, Camille (Sylvie Testud), at its centre. After receiving a letter from her husband indicating, enigmatically, that she should never contact him again, Camille cuts her hair short and runs away from her small town in North Eastern France to look for him. She stumbles upon a cadre of soldiers, who begrudgingly accept her, putting her in soldier’s garb. As the group’s travels become increasingly desperate, they begin, inexplicably, to pull out instruments and sing beautiful songs, which constitute the only music in the film, and are inspired by post-Revolver pop-psychedelia, not, as one might assume, by period appropriate music hall ditties.

All this gutsy creativity should make La France much less of a slog than it is. Bozon has obviously taken a cue from Brecht, but has not successfully applied that playwright’s love of melodrama. Nor, for that matter, has he come close to capturing the spirit of classic war films by Ford, Walsh, or Fuller, despite what recent raves in Cahiers du Cinema and Cinema Scope magazines suggest. This is not to say that La France isn’t without intrigue: one can’t help but want to know what’s going to happen to Camille, and secrets are successively divulged that foster this curiosity. Yet Bozon’s style is predominantly stolid, and La France suffers from editing that privileges the episodic over the fluid and overarching: scene changes can seem as abrupt as the cadre’s flights into song. This is purposeful, but not necessarily effective. And at moments of crisis—rape, death, suffering—it seems plain wrong. Absurdity and detachment don’t universalize and allegorize La France; they make it remote, and occasionally even boring.

LA FRANCE Steve Erickson from Chronicle of a Passion

Part of this year's "New Directors/New Films" series, co-presented by MoMA and the Film Society of Lincoln Center, "La France" is undoubtedly the best gender-bending World War I musical you'll ever see. Impossible to classify, it's a war movie with a love story that only flowers in its beginning and then in its closing moments. It's far more fully realized than the kind of promising but not quite accomplished film "New Directors/New Films" often showcases.

Its use of four original songs, performed by the cast, is a good example of its oddness. Without overt anachronisms, its soundtrack ties together World War I, the psychedelic counterculture 50 years later, and the present. Full of layered vocal harmonies and acoustic instrumentation, it recalls the light pop of late '60s Beach Boys and Bee Gees.

Simultaneously, the soundtrack also suggests contemporary indie rock sounds like those of Animal Collective and Beirut who have been influenced by that period. All the same, it remains true to the World War I era, played on homemade guitars and violins made from trash and recorded live, intricate vocals and all, with no studio overdubbing.

In the opening scene of "La France," women gaze out on a rural landscape, looking for soldiers. Camille (Sylvie Testud) feels so lonely without her husband, a soldier in the French Army's 30th Regiment, that she tracks down a platoon and finds news of him. In order to join the army, she cuts off her hair and binds her breasts, disguising herself as a 17-year-old boy. Heading into the countryside, she meets up with a regiment led by a nameless lieutenant (Pascal Greggory).

At first, the regiment is very reluctant to let her tag along. When they come to a bridge, they tell her to head to a nearby village, but she jumps off the bridge and nearly drowns. Gradually, they come to accept her presence, although suspicions about her persist.

Camille isn't exactly transgendered. She dresses as a man for a specific goal, not because she feels that she really is male. However, "La France" suggests that the chaos of wartime can break down otherwise rigid boundaries of gender and sexuality. The soundtrack plays a key role in this process. The troop of gruff, mustachioed men relax by singing love songs written from a woman's perspective. Their final three songs all begin with the line "I, a blind girl." As sung by men, the film's first song, which describes a male lover's bedroom, is particularly homoerotic.

Cinematographer Céline Bozon, who is the director's sister, gives "La France" an atmospheric look so vivid that when it rains, you can almost feel the humidity. Much of the film was shot at night. However, the daytime scenes are color-coordinated to a breathtaking degree. The film's palette is dominated by pale blues and greens, with military uniforms matching the tones of the surrounding forest and grass.

Not since Apichatpong Weerasethakul's "Tropical Malady" has nature seemed so uncanny or been such a strong cinematic presence. Bozon shies away from close-ups, preferring long shots taking in vast landscapes in one image.

"La France" feels dreamlike. For a war film, it's relatively light on bloodshed, making the few occurrences of violence all the more startling. At the same time, it's a realistic treatment of military life, depicting it as a long stretch of boredom and endless, exhausting wandering punctuated by bursts of carnage and unpleasantness.

Ironically, Camille, who joins the troop for purely personal reasons, turns out to be a good soldier, though her bravery may stem from an impulsive streak that the lieutenant views as suicidal. Its depiction of the army never plays like a Civil War reenactment or costume party, since the ensemble cast is remarkably convincing in their grungy uniforms and dirty faces.

Bozon's soldiers sing of the mythical land of Atlantis, celebrated by '60s singer Donovan. As we eventually find out, their destination is Holland, which seems to represent more of an ideal than a real place, a haven free from sorrow and violence. Meanwhile, Camille is on a parallel quest to re-connect with her husband.

Visually, "La France" is remarkably pretty, but it expresses a dark worldview, in which individuals may find satisfaction but the collective is doomed to have their hopes deferred endlessly. Utopia is nowhere in sight, and just going on living may be a privilege. If "La France" is a portrait of France itself, as its title suggests, it depicts a nation of dreamers caught in an endless quagmire, searching for a way out, but unable to get very far. Holland remains close, but impossible to reach.

SpoutBlog [Karina Longworth]

Serge Bozon’s La France is a generic clusterfuck, but in the best way––a stunningly confident, category-defying, broken-down dream piece about loss and being lost. It’s a film about war in which soldiers are not only never seen actually fighting for their land, but in fact seem to have lost their way in vague and vain pursuit of a lost land to reclaim as their own. It’s a musical with just one song, performed by non-performers in a handful of mutations throughout the film. And it’s a love story, soaked in romantic delusion but ultimately fatalist in regards to the actual odds that love can overcome existential crisis. After a 14 month festival run (including stops at Cannes, New Directors/New Films and LAFF), it opens for a week in New York at Anthology Film Archives on Friday.

Camille (Sylvie Testud) is living on a rural estate with an invasive sister when she receives a letter from her husband, who has been writing as faithfully as possible from his post in World War I. But in this missive, he tells her to move on, that she’ll never see him again. Convinced that he’s just confused and susceptible to the black magic of nightmares, that the war’s major side effect is simple distance and not total psychological recalibration, Camille sets out to get her man back. She chops off her hair, binds her breasts and heads out into the countryside in search of her love’s brigade. She soon instead finds another band of soldiers, and though she easily convinces them that she’s a desperate, orphaned teenage boy, they’re nonetheless afraid of a look in her eyes, which the lieutenant of the brigade is sure is a sign that this ruffian is “seeking death.” Camille eventually secures the troops’ trust and earns the right to stay with them, and together they wander the countryside, ostensibly “looking for the front.”

The journey is long, and less than eventful, and as a lost soul with a dreamily sketched but ill-thought-out goal, Camille fits right in. The band kills time on the road swapping imaginings about the lost city of Atlantis, and singing variants on a French pop theme about a blind girl and her lover(s). Bozon recorded the songs live, capturing the less-than-professional voices organically stretching and cracking as the actors played along on shabby home-made folk instruments.

At first these musical moments––which unfailingly crop up before night falls and a certain anxious, almost hallucinatory madness creeps on to the screen––play as wonderful non-sequitors. Eventually, they start to tell stories that run parallel to La France’s primary themes. At one point, the feminine protagonist of the song (who is given voice by a variety of legitimately male soldiers, but never Camille) sings a lament to a lost boyfriend: “I promised a lover, a German who’s hard of hearing. The idiot doesn’t know France…who am I to judge?” Later, “she” swoons for a Polack: “I’d like France to be invaded by Poland/I can feel the pleasant vibrations.” If the colonialist fantasy is analogous to rape, this is its inversion: in search of a safe haven away from home, they’re fantasizing that they could submit to another country’s embrace. This longing resolves itself in the saddest of ironies when Camille discovers what’s become of her husband. She may have assumed a new identity in order to find him, but their parallel journeys away from home have transformed both into different people.

As much as Bozon’s vision has been praised for its startling originality, so has his choice of title come under attack for its “portentousness“, for being merely a “provocation.” Is this France––or was it? An empty space on which the lonely and lost draw their own impossibly romantic fantasies, only to wander towards inevitable disappointments with heads and hearts infected by the deceptively simple beauty of pop? In an interview with Mark Peranson for Cinema Scope, Bozon, a former film critic and active vinyl obsessive, admits to sourcing his “politics” from his pop preferences:

Just listen to “Going All the Way” by The Squires or “On Tour” by The Chancellors (two garage diamonds found by Tim Warren of Crypt Records) and you’ll understand the political meaning of my movie. I’ll try and explain: “On Tour” is a song (as you could guess) about the life of a group on tour. But, like all the real garage bands, the Chancellors never played once outside their own town. Now think about the “tour” of my soldiers… you see? You begin by expecting some light, uplifting pop, but in the end it’s only imposture, frustration, and anger all over the place.

Like the music in which the filmmaker finds his unlikely inspiration, La France’s grand, all-encompassing gestures of uplift are underpinned by an eventual awareness of their futilty. That tension, and the odd magic that comes out of it, is irresistible.

By Mark Peranson which includes an interview with the director from Cinema Scope

Village Voice (J. Hoberman) review

eFilmCritic.com (Mel Valentin) review [4/5]

La France Mike Sicinski from The Academic Hack

The New York Sun (S. James Snyder) review

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young] Vienna Film Festival

d+kaz. Intelligent Movie Reviews (Daniel Kasman) review [B+]

The Village Voice [Nathan Lee] (excerpt)

Newsblaze [Prairie Miller]

Cinematheque Ontario - Film Details - LA FRANCE Andréa Picard from Cinematheque Ontario

Variety.com [Scott Foundas]

The New York Times (Manohla Dargis) review July 11, 2008

FILM; How the First World War Changed Movies Forever Stuart Klawans from The New York Times, November 19, 2000

Brabbée, Mystelle

HIGHWAY COURTESANS B- 82

India (71 mi) 2005 Trailer: www.ifilm.com

Following a beautiful opening with historical Bollywood footage of a dancer decorated head-to-foot, the picture of youth and beauty; only afterwards do we realize this objectified image defines the culturally entrenched subject matter of the film, which examines the centuries old traditions of the Bachara tribe in central India to place their own daughters into prostitution. While not overly probative, asking fairly dull and routine questions, this filmmaker does do a good job capturing the utter hoplessness of this economically deprived region, where the women cook and clean while everyone else, including the kids, just lay around all day with absolutely nothing to do other than watch an old broken down television. This film observes a single family of nine in the region, most of them daughters, whose own parents force them into roadside prostitution, usually around the age of 16, sometimes as early as 12, as this is one of the only means of income in the region. Splitting their earnings half and half with their parents, who assume the role of pimps, truckers are seen pulling up on the side of the road, initially pretending to check their tires, but really their eyes are on the young ladies adorning the huts along the sides of the highway.

In this rural community where the nearest town is miles away, the female village elders support and justify this practice, and are seen on camera claiming the men come from the higher social classes and no one forces these girls to do it, a claim this film refutes, much like MOOLAADÉ, the Sengalise film on the practice of African female circumcision, another centuries old cultural tradition that is handed down by the misinformation of the women in the community. Young women are groomed for this life, told the income is needed to support their family, then pressured by their brothers, who are always backed by the father, to continue their life in the profession. Should they waver, they face being beaten by the men in their families.

Over a period of nine years, the central focus of the film is on Guddi, whose introduction to the trade was at age 16 when she was deceived and manipulated by her own family to go look for something inside the house, where a man was waiting for her. This profession destabilizes the family unit, as these young girls end up having babies with truck drivers who may only visit once a month, if that, and who would never consider marriage due to their profession. What inevitably happens is the girls fall in love with the first guy who treats them nice, who take them out on dates, and then wait for the marriage proposal which never comes. Guddi ends up attempting to poison herself in the aftermath of one of these relationships, where she was boldly defying her parents refusal to accept this man, but loved him anyway, only to discover the man was never serious about her, but just wanted her continuing sexual services. When she presses him for more, there’s a wrenching scene where he tells her to “remember your place in life.”

Seven years later, as a girl who actually completed the 8^th grade, Guddi is hired as an experimental school teacher, based on her ability to bring in young students from the region who would otherwise not be attending school at all. Her family is disappointed in her choice, as it doesn’t bring the family as much money, and the money she does earn isn’t shared with them, so they call her petty and selfish. Of interest, her younger sister Shana is seen at her side every step of the way, as she is looking for a way out of the profession as well and is impressed by her sister’s ability to stand up to her father and to a century of tradition. But despite getting out, Guddi is hardly satisfied with herself, and is searching for a one-way ticket out of there, but when she sees the red light district in Bombay on one of her first ventures away from home, she is devastated by the abhorrent conditions of filth and servitude, where women can’t leave the premises. This leaves her in a quandry with few expectations, only the hope that she’ll somehow find a way.

Salon.com [Andrew O'Hehir]

It wouldn't be right not to mention Mystelle Brabbée's extraordinary documentary "Highway Courtesans," shot over the course of nine years among the Bachara community of central India, where by tradition the oldest daughter (and often the younger ones too) support their families through prostitution. She follows three young women, the sisters Guddi and Shana and their vivacious neighbor, Sangita, as they grow up into this tradition (officially abhorred but still thriving in practice), turning tricks for truck drivers along the Delhi-Calcutta highway.

What's amazing about this is not the unstinting, fair-minded portraits of these girls' lives, and the complex social and familial pressures that push them into "the profession" (as everybody calls it), although those details are captured in outstanding clarity. It's that Guddi dares to defy her parents and the tradition, seeks out an education, leaves the profession behind and begins to develop her own ideas about gender, society and her own individual future. Shana and Sangita seem conflicted about this metamorphosis, both proud of Guddi and a little abashed that they aren't following suit. Not many documentaries about poverty in the developing world are so hopeful; you can't help wondering what Brabbée's camera will find among the Bachara in another decade.

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez]

Highway Courtesans begins with a black-and-white clip from a Bollywood movie that extols the life of regal courtesans. Director Mystelle Brabbee understands how the sexual politics of India's pop cultural landscape has shaped the country's people, men and women alike. The courtesans of the film's title, though, do not give their bodies to kings but to the truck drivers who pull over on the side of the road near an impoverished Bachara town in Central India where a father treats his daughters very differently than he does his sons. One after another, this pimp will pull his little women out of school, asking them to sell their bodies, thus squelching their chances at happiness with men who would want to father their children. Though six years in the making, the film feels flimsy at 71 minutes, lacking both in ambition and focus: Brabbee's camera is constantly rambling, hunting uncertainly for crisis that already exists before her eyes. (This explains, in part, why the names of the subjects appear on the screen next to their words: When they speak, Brabbee is often dawdling on the sidelines where we can't see anyone's lips.) The film's aesthetic lacks a certain sense of vigilance and the chronicle itself doesn't cast too deep a light onto the social conditions of its characters or the hegemony the courtesans work to boost, but a series of confrontations between eldest Guddi and one of her brothers and, later, her boyfriend strongly reflects every patriarchal step of her country's caste system.

User Reviews from imdb Author Dilip Barman (barman@jhu.edu) from Durham, NC (USA)

Tonight I saw the documentary film Highway Courtesans on DVD. It is about the Bachara tribe in the western part of Madhya Pradesh in central India. This tribe is known for the tradition of child prostitution, with families making their first daughters, as children, into prostitutes to support the family. The tradition is centuries old and is still practiced today.

The film follows six years in the life of Bacharan Guddi Chauhan from age 16 to 23. She has been a prostitute serving passing-by truckers and others I believe since age 11 or 12, but clearly is uneasy about this forced occupation. Along the way, she has garnered a boyfriend, Sagar, out of her clientèle. Sagar surprisingly seems not to mind her profession.

Guddi's misgivings lead her, against her family's wishes, to leave prostitution and learn enough to become a teacher in a village. How do her drunken do-nothing brother and tradition-bound father react to her independent streak? How does Guddi, as well as some of her peers in the community, Shana and Sungita, feel about the tradition and the role thrust upon them? Change is often a two-edged sword, and would fighting this tradition benefit these young ladies and girls? What other opportunities exist, where do they exist, and do ex-Bacharan prostitutes have hopes of marriage? Can they fulfill their desires to support their families? Why is Sagar vague about his plans to marry Guddi? We see Guddi's father sending her by bus to a larger town to get a proper education; will he support her and let her study? This 71-minute film that took approximately ten years to produce gives insight into these questions. It is difficult to come to terms with forced child prostitution, especially in modern times, and a documentary on this topic could leave one numb. Instead, the film is crafted in an accessible and warm manner. The prostitutes are victims, but somehow Guddi, Shana, and Sungita, are surprisingly strong and confident.

I am impressed with the access that the filmmakers were able to get to the people in the Bacharan village, and to the villagers' willingness to frankly discuss matters. By clearly documenting this story, the producers have used film to possibly make a big difference in the lives of these highway courtesans. But will this age-old tradition become a thing of the past? And if it does, will reasonable opportunities for villagers be available? We can only hope.

Bright Lights Film Journal [Robert Keser]

It’s fitting that Highway Courtesans opens with a clip from a Bollywood production number, a romantic image of a dancer groomed as a plaything for the maharajah’s pleasure, as Mystelle Brabbee’s film shows how such objectified pictures bring real-life consequences for women in India, in this instance for the daughters of central India’s Bachara, a clan that traditionally puts them to work as prostitutes.

Eight years in the making, this is a searching and fluently edited portrait of innocence bought and sold along a highway that links Calcutta to Delhi to the Himalayas, a conduit for long-haul vehicles and long-term HIV, where a girl’s power to earn money defines her value. Drivers park their diesel trucks outside a roadside stone house, and business then transpires on a pallet on the bare floor (and men cannot be forced to use condoms any more than these women can abandon their romantic illusions).

The film introduces 16-year-old Guddi, pretty and thoughtful and full of youthful high spirits, yet her only choices are marriage or prostitution. We ride in the backseat as sisters and girlfriends accompany her with optimistic giggles to a rendezvous with a new suitor who claims to love her and might be her ticket off the street if he proposes. This already once-divorced photographer woos her with romantic photo collages of themselves dressed as the lovers of the Taj Mahal, but later his true colors surface when he threatens to “knock your teeth out.” Questioned by the filmmaker, he says that “just because I love her doesn’t mean I should go easy on her.”

Ultimately, Guddi can hope for little better treatment from her family, not from her father (described by a social worker as essentially a pimp), and certainly not from a brother who’s a drunken lout, out of control, and dependent on her earnings. It’s a system where the male resorts to beatings to enforce his power, and Guddi’s happiness is not even a concept that arises. All pretend that tradition justifies this social setup, but everything we see spells exploitation

To the filmmaker’s credit, as she peels back the layers of reality in Guddi’s life, the theme that emerges becomes the slippery and even contradictory nature of truth. Various participants, including enabling women such as the girl’s mother and a local matriarch who rules four villages, tell the foreigner what they think she wants to hear (“It’s the women’s choice. Why else would they do it?”) and repeat the hollow lies they tell each other (“The customers are only from good castes”).

India has seen it all before, of course, and the same pressures will work on the children growing up in the Bachara community. This, along with the glimpses of Bombay’s brothel streets (where Guddi observes that “the girls are forced to work!”), suggests a natural double bill opposite Born Into Brothels, with its corresponding peek into the red-light district of Calcutta, although the digital video might pale next to the striking colors in Zana Briski and Ross Kauffman‘s Oscar-winner.

At the conclusion of filming, having survived to the age of 23, Guddi is groping toward a new life as a teacher in a village school while also setting up a kind of credit union, but her family considers her in limbo. How long can this shadowy status shield her, and what price has she paid? “There’s tension all around me,” she tells the camera. “I’m not sick. I just can’t eat.” (Highway Courtesans won the CIDY President’s Award.)

Chicago Tribune [Michael Wilmington]

New York Times (registration req'd) Jeannette Catsoulis

Bradshaw, Frazer

EVERYTHING STRANGE AND NEW D 58

USA (84 mi) 2009 Official site

What separates this film from hundreds of others is the visual composition of the spaces in between people, where the director, also a cinematographer, shoots rooftops, street scenes, highway overpasses, telephone wires, and home fronts, all dazzling images initially, though they repeat themselves over and over again and lose whatever unique quality distinguished this film in the first place. That it’s shot on video washes out the colors, however, always appearing darkened and poorly lit, creating a dull and colorless look onscreen. But the narration kills this film, which is exactly what it sounds like, someone reading the script offstage, which has the effect of being read to throughout the entire movie. The tone of the narration, however, the I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude couldn’t be less inspiring, as he’s narrating the story of his own blasé life and he couldn’t be less interested in anyone else, as he’s completely self-absorbed. For a guy talking about his wife and kids, it just sounds like a script, not a real guy with any connection to his family. While he whines about the economic condition of never having money to do the things that his family needs, he spends not only money but a good deal of his time with drinking buddies after work, whiling away their lives avoiding their family responsibilities. Then he has the nerve to complain about his wife who happens to point out his obvious deficiencies. It’s a wonder she puts up with him, but since he’s the narrator, we rarely hear her point of view except when it’s presented negatively.

There’s a reality disconnect here, because once the first child is born, parents realize instantly that they are no longer the center of their world, that the needs of the children must come first. But this guy continues to think like someone who’s never had children, never made concessions, never spent time with his children, and hasn’t a clue what the meaning of the term responsibility means. This entire film is filled with his griping about his life, thinking it has fallen into a deep morass that he can’t climb out of, as he barely communicates with his wife anymore and spends all his time falling deeper in debt. In the arguments that he has with his wife, they attempt to resolve their differences, but he couldn’t be less sincere. Instead he simply says what he feels he is supposed to say, even though he doesn’t mean a word of it. The grating insincerity level is off the charts, which will lose an audience fairly quickly, as it pretends to be existential angst but never digs deep enough to reveal any real truths and instead isn’t being straight with the audience, and there were walk outs to this film, people leaving in disgust. The script itself is appalling a good deal of the time, filled with inconsiderate bordering on sexist ramblings that go unrefuted, that are presented as the typical vernacular of ordinary guys. Forget about it. What’s there to draw anyone to this material? As indicated, it’s the imagery between the dialogue, and the repeated use of an intriguing piece of music which is filled with the dramatic chaos this film is striving for but never reaches, as if this disturbance was a recurring motif from his own imagination. There is a visual chemistry to this film, but also a completely pretentious script that couldn’t have less to offer filled with aloof and adrift characters no one is interested in. The movie itself has alienated its own audience.

Also, of note, it’s apparent this director is not an Atom Egoyan fan, as the film title comes from a children’s poem that was brilliantly illuminated in THE SWEET HEREAFTER (1997), an ingenious Egoyan device that was not in the Russell Banks novel from which it was adapted, a poem that this director only callously makes reference to, which only heightens the comparisons between the two films, drawing attention not only to its ineptitude but also the inappropriate use of someone else’s idea.

"Love Makes Fools of Us All"
Written by Dan Weir
Performed by Orphan Town

"Tried and True"
Written by Dan Weir
Performed by My Blue Heaven

"From the Ashes"
Written by Matt Rohr and Kent Sparling
Performed by Eyeland
Courtesy of the Jicama Salad Company

Chicago Reader JR Jones

Indie writer-director Frazer Bradshaw makes an impressive feature debut with this small but knowing drama about a decent, well-meaning young lumpen (Jerry McDaniel) who's begun to bump up against the limits of adult life. Bradshaw's dominant motif is static long shots of streets, houses, and empty rooms, combined with voice-overs in which the hero assesses, with rigorous honesty and careful introspection, his mundane job (as a carpenter in Oakland) and increasingly heavy home life (as husband, father of two little boys, and slave to his mortgage). That may sound like a recipe for tedium, but there's real drama here, the quiet sort that results when a good man stares life directly in the eye. 84 min.

NewCity Chicago Ray Pride

Cinematographer-turned-director Frazer Bradshaw’s “Everything Strange And New” captures the airlessness of one man’s life, largely in visual terms, partly in sound. The everyday life of a fortyish carpenter named Wayne is a mosaic of messes: children underfoot, wife troubled, drinking with a new drinking buddy beckons. The plain title blurts Bradshaw’s ambition. (Does the banal, observed, ineffably reveal?) Despite Wayne’s agitated state, Bradshaw works with intent formal control, and likes the word “pastoral” to describe the film’s tableau-driven mood. (He’s also described the film as “a portrait of passivity inside a vortex of change”; the film’s haunted-California imagery is often crystalline where lingo like that isn’t.) Emotions rise. Sexual conflicts emerge. A clean resolution’s not likely. Plus: Clowns are invoked. (Literal ones.) A Sundance 2009 entry. With Jerry McDaniel, Beth Lisick, Rigo Chacon Jr., Luis Saguar. (“Everything Strange And New” was one of the five nominees for the IFP and MOMA’s “Best Film Not Playing at a Theater Near You, 2009″; I was on the jury.)

Long Pauses [Darren Hughes]

To recycle a line I've used before, I'm often more interested in what a film does than what it's about, and Bradshaw's first narrative feature, Everything Strange and New, does quite a lot. The opening shot (pictured above) is a long, static take accompanied by an explosion of percussive, dissonant music -- a self-conscious announcement that this is not another of those suburban stories about disaffected fathers and husbands. As it turns out, it is one of those films, but I'll credit Bradshaw for his experiments with the genre, particularly his working-class lead character, Wayne, and for his often fascinating photography. One or two shots approach Bela Tarr territory (if Tarr shot a low-budget dv movie). Had the film ended 20 minutes sooner, I would have even applauded Bradshaw's success at blending avant-garde techniques with more naturalistic storytelling. But a plot turn in the final act -- and, more importantly, Bradshaw's cynical handling of it -- caused me to reevaluate everything that came before. Everything Strange and New is cruel to its characters in a way that comes off as smug rather than searching.

EVERYTHING STRANGE AND NEW Facets Multi Media

Everything Strange and New is a piercing, meditative film that raises uncomfortable questions about the broken promises of the American dream.

With a job, a wife, two kids, and a house, Wayne is living what some might call the American dream, but to him, it is more likes a nightmare. He is not happy with the demands of home life, (which also includes a faltering marriage, a submerged mortgage and fatherhood), but he is also not motivated to make any real changes, and sleepwalks through life, lamenting what could have been.

Writer-director Frazer Bradshaw, already an established cinematographer, emphasizes Wayne's trapped existence and addresses the universal concerns and questions of life through still shots of everyday life, friendship and family, as the edgy soundscape reflects Wayne's emotional state with a muted, experimental electro-acoustic score. As things change for others, Wayne's life takes emotional turns, which are sometimes subtle and sometimes violent but never enough to agitate him to take responsibility for his choices, as he longs for certainty in uncertain times. Bradshaw's feature debut chronicles a life that is in actuality neither strange nor new, and ponders a bewildered existence in which Wayne feels like a character in someone else's story.

Quiet Earth [Hal MacDermot]

Now that I am finally unemployed like everybody else, this is the kind of movie I suppose I should like. Experimental, thoughtful and downbeat, this is a portrait of Wayne (Jerry McDaniel), an unhappy carpenter in the middle of the kind of existentialist crisis that French philosopher Jean Paul Satre would have had wet dreams about. But with this topic, I honestly found the movie way too slow and even the visual originality wasn’t enough to make up for the fact almost nothing happens in the story. I am naturally drawn to the idea that consumerism is meaningless, and more than that, I reckon that the Government, corporations and society try to make us sign up for houses, marriage and consumerism just so that we shut up and stop dreaming for better things. However, when it comes to films, I also like story development and plot twists. That said, this will appeal to cinematographers and cinephiles who love ideas and don’t mind a very slow pace.

Frazer Bradshaw’s visual technique is definitely interesting. He illustrates Wayne’s thoughts and feelings with a series of long shots of banal suburban rooftops and traffic, and this hooks up with Wayne’s inner voice, which is the narrative. Wayne’s problem is that the magic and romance have gone right out of his life, and we see if from the opening pan shot of suburbia and cut to Dude, in brown workman’s overalls, stooped shoulders and defeated by life. His average day consists of rebuilding houses, taking bus trips and being bored. In his not very interesting house, his marriage is on autopilot and man and wife no longer seem to understand each other. No wonder he’s naffed off! The voice over provides a running commentary on his frustrations which include how the arrival of kids meant the end of his sex life. He’s got a house, but the cost of the mortgage means he’s got no money to do anything fun. Wayne and his mates Leo and Manny find relaxation by drinking beer and discussing the women in their lives, who don’t make them very happy. More long shots of suburbia, more bus trips, you get the idea.

Wayne looks around at his friends, and their lives are not much better. Leo (Rigo Chacon Jr) is divorced and has a very nasty shock waiting for him towards the end of the film, and their other buddy Manny (Luis Saguar) is so bored that he shoots up coke in his car. Wherever Wayne looks, it’s all quiet desperation. I wonder if that’s what Christy Moore’s talking about in his Irish folk song. Now if this was a French movie about consumerism and boredom, it would be about now in the story that Wayne snapped and started killing people or stealing cars and painting his face blue like in the amazing Pierrot le Fou. But this ain’t Goddard, and although two things do happen right at the end, one very weird and the other shocking and depressing, most of what we get is more anguish/confusion/monologue. The ending has a twist, but by that point I didn’t really care. On the upside, I will say that the sound track is great and is a good reflection of Wayne’s alienation. It’s a kind of Philip Glass/Wim Mertens minimalist cacophony type thing, which kicks in and out. Composers Dan Plonsey and Kent Sparling (who also worked on Sleep Dealer) did a good job. I would like to watch another Frazer Bradshaw directed film, but only if someone’s invited to help with the script.

Film Freak Central capsule review Alex Jackson

Director interview  Interview by Eric Lavallee at Sundance from Ion Cinema, January 16, 2009

Hollywood Reporter [James Greenberg] at Sundance

Variety (Peter Debruge) review

San Francisco Chronicle (Walter Addiego) review

Braff, Zach

GARDEN STATE B+ 90

USA (112 mi) 2004

A quirky, personality-driven film with some good writing, interesting music and acting in the style of JESUS’ SON, but not nearly as well made. Written and directed by the understated leading male, who discovers energy and happiness in the joy of his lovely off-beat girl friend, Natalie Portman, who I must say repeats a trend of similar visions of what constitutes an interesting woman – think Samantha Morton in JESUS’ SON, Shirley Henderson in WILBUR WANTS TO KILL HIMSELF or Kate Winslet in ETERNAL SUNSHINE, each featuring leading males that barely have a pulse who find salvation in the arms of gorgeous but energized women. 50’s and 60’s male film fantasies were sexually driven. Perhaps that’s now taboo, so the women instead fit this new formula. I never did believe this couple, or understand why the ravishingly beautiful Portman would spend her time with anyone as lethargic as this. The couple meets in a hospital scene where she urges him to listen to her headset, saying: “It’ll change your life.” The music playing is the Shins “New Slang,” with the line: “I’m looking in on the good life I might be doomed never to find.” However, any film that features the terrific Peter Sarsgaard is always interesting, and here he has a significant impact into the oddly compelling and sometimes-weird story line. The dialogue between the leading players is mostly excellent, keeping the film feeling fresh and alive, occasionally hilarious, but the generic ending disappointed.

Braga, Sônia – Brazilian actress

Sônia Braga - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Sonia Braga bio from Turner Classic Movies

Sonia Braga > Overview - AllMovie bio from Andrea LeVasseur

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What's Going On: Sonia Braga's Story bio from UN Works

Sonia Braga Biography (1950?-) Film credits from Film Reference

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Dona Flor e Seus Dois Maridos Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands, by Susana Schild from Film Reference

Brazil - BRAZZIL - Censorship, Xuxa, A Bomb, Sonia Braga, Roberto ... Eyes on the Boobs, from Brazzil

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Charlie Rose - A conversation with Sonia Braga PBS television interview, May 31, 1996 (14:20)

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Kiss of the Spider Woman (film) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Bragason, Ragnar

METALHEAD (Málmhaus) A- 94

Iceland (97 mi) 2013 ‘Scope Official Facebook

Flesh and blood

into the ground returned

Destroyer born 

Everything will burn

Scorched earth

Swallows the best of us

Scorched earth

annihilates the rest of us

Agony in pained defeat

A toast of sand so dark and sweet

As far as the eye can reach

Snow engulfs the fields

As far as the eye can reach

The snow will never yield

Pétur Ben - Svarthamar - YouTube (4:33)

A small gem of a film from Iceland, one that resonates on far deeper levels than one might presume, and raising eyebrows in the process. While the title and movie poster suggest some kind of homage to a 70’s music group like Kiss, the film itself moves in a completely different direction, becoming a portrait of youthful alienation in an isolated rural setting of a smalltown family farm. Opening with a tragic farming accident, 12-year old Hera witnesses the startling death of her older brother Baldur, leaving behind an inexplicable void that haunts every frame of the rest of the picture.

But rather than dwell on typical stages of grief and loss, this well-written film uses deadpan humor to great effect, becoming an absurdist road movie about a rebellious teenager Hera (Thorbjὃrg Helga Thorgilsdόttir) who always dreams of leaving home and heading for the city, spending the better part of her life talking about it, but somehow never goes through with it, despite multiple attempts, where one of the lingering images of the film is seeing her sitting alone at a bus stop, a lone outpost in the vast emptiness of the region, often remaining there even after the bus passes, remaining stuck in the claustrophobic confines of a conservative smalltown family and community that embraces her, even as she utterly rejects them. In a wordless sequence that jumps forward a few years, Hera burns all her old clothes and instead grabs a few metal T-shirts like Slayer and Megadeth from Baldur’s room, that remains exactly as it was throughout, like a shrine to his existence. Leaving her own identity behind, she instead immerses herself in Baldur’s black leather jacket and his electric guitar, playing his favorite metal music at disturbingly high volumes, expressing her thoughts on the matter, “They say time heals all wounds. That’s utter bullshit.” Reverberating with defiance and dissatisfaction, the film is an expression of her refusal to conform, a headstrong character continually seen butting heads with her parents and neighbors, who are often seen bringing her home, passed out in a state of intoxication, usually with one of their tractors missing which she appropriated for one of her midnight joy rides. As much a comment on the uniqueness of the region as her own state of mind, the secondary characters are all equally well sketched out, especially her own parents, the quietly stoic and mild-mannered milk farmer Karl (Ingvar Eggert Sigurðsson) and his devoted wife Droplaug (Halldóra Geirharðsdóttir), both of whom suffer in silence with a kind of muted dysfunction.

Seemingly on the road to nowhere, Hera remains emotionally trapped and conflicted, caught between the life that took her brother and her own inability to strike out on her own for fear of losing whatever connection still exists between them. But more than any character, the true subject and most outstanding feature of the film is Iceland itself, beautifully shot by August Jakobsson, particularly wide-angled shots that extend to distant horizons, revealing a mountainous, snow-filled landscape that couldn’t express more natural beauty. Interesting, then, that much of this was achieved through special effects, as seen here, Metalhead Visual Effects YouTube (3:21). As improbable as it may seem to many, filling the endless expanse with Judas Priest and Dio blasting away from her tape deck, while composing a raw version of her own song, featuring blood-curdling screams to the startled cows while amped up at full blast in the barn for a truly primitive sounding recording, Svarthamar Demo OST - YouTube (5:42), it works better than expected, as it’s a tribute to the glory days of metal bands like Riot, Teaze, Savatage, Lizzy Borden, Judas Priest, and Megadeth, whose anguish perfectly expresses Hera’s own silent rage. In a Scandinavian nod to Ingmar Bergman, it seems every scene shot in the cold stillness of frozen farmlands is beautifully juxtaposed against the inner grief tormenting Hera and her family. Winner of eight Icelandic Film Awards (nominated for 17 awards), including Best Actress, Best Supporting Actor and Actress, Best Editing, and Original Score, the film was at least partially inspired by the Norwegian black metal church burnings in the 1990’s, where a wave of arson attacks against Christian churches resulted in at least 50 church burnings by 1996, nearly all attributed to followers of black metal who bitterly opposed Christianity and organized religion as a whole. Without delving into any historical reference, the film incorporates this sentiment into the much simpler times of a country town in Iceland in the late 80’s and early 1990’s, starting quite slowly, but eventually picking up the pace, allowing the viewers to identify with the characters. Thorgilsdόttir as Hera is especially outstanding, particularly the way she earns the audience’s sympathies despite behaving despicably throughout, regularly playing mean-spirited juvenile pranks, continually ostracizing her parents, making their lives a living hell, where we feel her pain and don’t-give-a-fuck ambivalence while relying upon the friendship and kind support of her somewhat devoted childhood best friend Knutur (Hannes Oli Agustsson), a fellow metal aficionado, though in utter exasperation he finally confesses near the end that he has always hated Dio.

With characters damaged by the remoteness of their surroundings, Hera is at odds with the people and the place where they live, where everything feels too ordinary and small for her. While essentially a film of Hera’s personal struggles, the film also adds insightful details to her parent’s issues with intimacy, where their son’s death has become an unspoken wedge between them, eventually finding a way to turn the page, which may come as something of a surprise considering their daughter’s continued recalcitrance. They continually remain a part of the town through regular church visits and community social functions, where the presence of a new young priest, Janus (Sveinn Ólafur Gunnarson), acts to help facilitate this change. For Hera, however, she feels betrayed, especially after he opens up to her and acknowledges his own metal past, suggesting “God can also be found in the dark,” displaying a particular affection for Iron Maiden, Venom, and Celtic Frost. She proceeds to see him differently, however, misunderstanding his helpfulness for something more personal, precipitating a full-scale rage against God that has deep-seeded ramifications, including a church burning. Alone against the world, carrying the burden of her brother’s soul along with her, she goes on an existential quest for meaning, a surprising odyssey into the mystifying elements of ice and snow that takes on surreal implications, where she seems to hit a wall of resistance, realizing she can simply go no further, as if to surmise rebellion isn’t enough. In an awkward and uncomfortable moment, she does the unthinkable, failing to move on to the city, as everyone suspects, as this would be the opportune time, instead retreating back home to the hushed stares of everyone. This is a particularly telling moment, as she is who she is, troubled and defiantly aggressive, a problem child that belongs to the entire community at large, where no one knows what to do with her, especially her family, though there is an unspoken feeling of forgiveness and reconciliation. What does transpire is completely unexpected, where out of the blue some adoring Norwegian metalheads arrive on her family’s doorstep after hearing a tape of her music, something they describe as “wickedly evil,” but meant in the best possible light. Their genuine interest revives her own sagging spirit, helping to rebuild a community that Hera herself has broken, and in what is perhaps the scene of the film joins Hera in playing a concert before the entire town, where the faces of all the musicians are painted except Hera, who stands before everyone in a confessional moment of rage, with piercing screams and cries of agony, before toning it down into Björk-like poetry, malmhaus scene YouTube (4:16), a dark revelatory moment where mood says it all, that brilliantly brings together all the feelings of pain, anguish and insurmountable loss, where music becomes an outlet for healing. For all the gloominess and sad melancholy that pervades throughout this picture, like an incessant stormcloud hanging overhead, there’s also an equal amount of gentle wit and wry humor, and while plunging into the inexplicable depths of how people react when dealing with grief and tragic loss, it’s a unique, beautifully told coming-of-age story that provides a personalized, firsthand glimpse into rebellious and ostracized youth.

Director Ragnar Bragason Lists Top Five Metal Songs ... Revolver magazine, March 31, 2015

Winner of 8 awards at the 2014 Icelandic Film Awards, ‘Metalhead,’ is a film directed by Ragnar Bragason that follows a young Icelandic girl whose love for metal stems from witnessing the gruesome death of her metalhead brother. Her passion for metal only deepens as she gets older, despite facing alienation from her community and family who remain in shambles following their son’s death.

Bragason picks his Top Five Songs that appear in the movie.

1. Judas Priest, “Victim of Changes”
“From ‘Sad Wings of Destiny.’ A key moment in the history of metal and a key song in the film. That piercing scream by Halford still resonates after 40 years. A film titled ‘Metalhead’ can’t be without a Judas Priest track.”

2. Savatage’s “Strange Wings”
“From ‘The Hall of the Mountain King.’ A great song but often overlooked because of the number of exceptional songs on that album. When writing the script, I was looking for a song that reflected the main character, her alienation and uniqueness–both in feel and lyrics. Opening line is, ‘She is a native of the stormy skies.’ A great opening riff by the late Criss Oliva.”

3. Lizzy Borden’s “Me Against the World”
“An ’80s classic for sure. Originally I intended to use ‘I Wanna Be Somebody’ by W.A.S.P, but got a refusal from Blackie Lawless on the grounds that the story of the film, or the events depicted, didn’t adhere to his current religious believes–which I thought was quite funny. So I went with my other choice and it fits perfectly to the story.”

4. Riot’s “Run for Your Life”
“From ‘Restless Breed,’ which is one of my all-time favorite metal albums. Riot were the U.S. equivalent to the NWOBHM, a kick ass band that doesn’t fully get the respect they deserve. The scene where Hera frees the hoard of sheep in the slaughterhouse needed a fast galloping song, and the choice was between this one and ‘Run To The Hills’ by Iron Maiden.”

5. Megadeth’s “Symphony of Destruction”

“From ‘Countdown to Extinction.’ I wanted a song that represented the year the film ends on, 1992 to be exact. I also wanted a song by one of the original thrash bands and that specific song was perfect for the final scene of the film. It has a great riff and hook that plays perfectly to the emotional release I was going for.”

White City Cinema [Michael Smith]

I was predisposed to liking this, given my affinity for Icelandic culture, but writer/director Ragnar Bragason’s sharply observed drama is the kind of small gem that I imagine will impress film festival audiences wherever it plays. Thora Bjorg Helga, starring in only her second feature film to date, gives a quietly powerful performance as Hera, a teenage “metalhead” who lives with her parents on a farm in rural Iceland. Hera’s enthusiasm for heavy-metal music is spurred by the accidental death of her beloved older brother, who was also a fan of metal and whose identity she subsequently adopts. Hera rebels against her family, community and church by immersing herself into a subculture that doesn’t even exist in the small town where she lives — the dramatization of which stands as the most poignant exploration of grief I’ve seen in a movie in some time. But all of the film’s characters are impressively nuanced, including Hera’s parents (played by Halldóra Geirharðsdóttir and and the inevitable Ingvar Eggert Sigurðsson) and a sympathetic local priest, whose tender encounters with Hera reminded me of the relationship between the characters portrayed by Maureen O’Hara and Walter Pidgeon in John Ford’s How Green Was My Valley. I read that Limp Bizkit’s Fred Durst wants to remake this; if there is a God, he will not allow it to happen.

Twitch [Todd Brown]

A powerful portrait of grief never dealt with - of grief so powerful it likely never can or will be dealt with - Metalhead is the film that will very likely finally draw the sort of attention to Icelandic director Ragnar Bragason that he deserved to receive four films ago. The simplest way to put it would be to say that Bragason is the director most likely to follow in Baltasar Kormakur's footsteps and cross over into larger international success but while that's true it also somewhat diminishes Bragason's own unique voice.

At the core of the film is Hera, a girl growing up in a remote rural area of Iceland on a dairy farm. As a girl Hera witnesses her beloved brother Baldur - a long haired heavy metal fan - killed in a horrific accident and the experience simply never leaves her. In many ways it is as though Baldur himself never leaves her and she becomes emotionally trapped - caught between the life that took her brother and her own inability to strike out on her own for fear of losing the only connection - her home - that she still has with him.

Instead of moving on Hera remakes herself. She takes on Baldur's wardrobe, his black t shirts and leathers, takes up the guitar and channels her anger into a stereotypically abrasive, in your face attitude that masks - but only just barely - the fact that she is lost within herself and sinking fast. And it's not just Hera who's going down. Though her parents are more successful at putting on the polite facade the entire family is lost in their pain, each trapped in their own isolation.

Bragason tells the story of Hera and her family with a caring, incisive touch. Bragason is clearly an actor's director and he draws such a strong performance from first timer Thorbjörg Helga Dýrfjörd as Hera that it's a virtual certainty Bragason's fearless lead will have offers coming in from around the world in very short order. An impeccably crafted and beautifully performed film, Metalhead is a tiny gem very well worth seeking out.

TIFF 2013 [Steve Gravestock]

Acclaimed Icelandic filmmaker Ragnar Bragason (Children, Parents) directs this darkly comic drama about a grief-stricken young woman who adopts the persona — and decibel-blasting predilections — of her deceased brother.

There are some things you never get used to. That's certainly the case for Hera, the heroine of Ragnar Bragason's Metalhead. As a young girl she witnessed the accidental death of her brother, Baldur, a long-haired heavy-metal devotee. She promptly remade herself in his image — wearing his clothes, and listening to and playing music at earshredding volumes — as an expression of her grief, her anger, and a reminder to her parents that they haven't really dealt with their loss. Still, as the end of high school and the arrival of adulthood looms, her acts of rebellion no longer satisfy her the way they once did, and Hera begins to act out on a larger, more destructive scale.

Told with compassion and insight, Metalhead never condescends to its confused, angry heroine, nor does it glibly justify her actions. (Bragason is very aware of how adolescence isn't exactly the most balanced period in our lives.) All Hera has to call her own are her emotions and her right to reject things. When her parents show understanding (or don't respond at all) it only exacerbates her situation. But leaving isn't an option — that would be like turning her back on Baldur.

Like the ghostlike sounds that creep into Hera's metal recordings, her grief is almost supernatural, a force of nature. One could say something similar about lead actress Thorbjörg Helga Dýrfjörd, who dives fearlessly into the tempest of emotions. She and Bragason are aided by a strong veteran cast, including Ingvar E. Sigurdsson (Angels of the Universe, Jar City).

Tough, clear-eyed and compassionate, Metalhead is a touching film about a tortured soul who hasn't been — and may never be — able to let herself off the hook.

Reel News Daily [Jeremy Harmon]

Few countries produce as consistently high quality of film as Iceland. In my estimation, that is. The quantity of films that it produces is low, well at least those that somehow cross the pond and make it onto American screens, usually at film festivals such as Heartland. There are four Icelandic films that I’ve seen in this manner – Nói Albínói, The Seagull’s Laughter, Of Horses and Men and finally Metalhead. All are unique in their own way, most of them are depressing (an aspect of Scandinavian film that I tend to enjoy) but still manage a way to get a laugh or two in just in case, and all have a laser-pointed direction on what makes their characters tick and tock and they do it so well. Ragnar Bragason‘s Metalhead is no exception.

Metalhead is ostensibly about the stasis Hera (Thorbjorg Helga Thorgilsdottir) resides in after she witnesses her brother die in a brutal farm accident. After his death, she clings to the one thing that defined him – his metal music. Flash forward several years and she is clad in his black leather jacket, always carrying a walkman with tapes of his (and now her) favorite tunes. Frequently, she packs up her things and goes through the motions of moving from her small village to the city, but never goes through with it. Instead of leaving, she remains in her parents’ home, practicing her own metal music and missing out on life’s responsibilities and ambitions. Instead, she routinely gets drunk, steals neighbors’ tractors and makes a general nuisance of herself. But the tipping comes when, after meeting and falling for the new local pastor, himself a metal fan, and (her amorous advances are unrequited, she burns down the church mimicking the spate of church burnings blamed on Black Metal bands in Norway and Sweden. Hera is left with a choice – does she finally buckle down or contribute to her own demise.

While this film is most certainly centered on Hera’s journey, writer-director Bragason completes the picture by showing us her parents’, Karl (Ingvar Eggert Sigurðsson) and Droplaug (Halldóra Geirharðsdóttir), journey to healing from their own loss and how each other’s ways of coping with the tragedy have affected the family since it happened.  Bragason approaches the subject so elegantly in a way that contrasts so much with the pounding of the metal soundtrack that you might not think it possible to be so. I assure you, this is mos definitely the case. He is careful not to have the family’s grief spill into needless melodrama or other ridiculousness. The story itself grows from the scenes that precede it, nothing forced, and allowed to grow organically and is one of its main strengths. Even as Hera ups the ante on her shenanigans, we can really see that these are cries for help, not aimless occurrences intended to shock the audience or get cheap laughs.

Without a doubt, the performances of the three leads, Sigurðsson, Geirharðsdóttir and especially Thorgilsdottir, are the highlight. Thorgilsdottir‘s portrayal of Hera is nuanced and natural and she carries the film. But the scenes between Sigurðsson and Geirharðsdóttir are just heartbreaking and pitch perfect. All three reminded of the great performances by the leads in Lance Edmands‘ Bluebird.

One thing about Icelandic films that is never hard to notice is the gorgeous photography. While the landscape is often thought of as barren, it is quite the opposite. Lush with mountains and waterfalls and fields of grasses, it is quite beautiful and DP August Jakobsson‘s lens captures it all. The opening shot is quite stunning and really sets the tone for what happens at the outset. I would be remiss if I didn’t also mention the perfect  match cut showing the passage of time when Hera sits on the lone bench waiting for the bus about ten minutes in. Really exquisite even if it an oft used tactic employed by editors and directors.

Bragason really plumps of the depths of the human experience to bring us this tale and it is wildly successful in capturing just that. We are able to feel Hera’s pain, her angst and her ambivalence without judging her as she circuitously arrives at a spot where she feels she is finally able to let go of what happened to her brother and start living her life as she wants it to be. I can’t speak highly enough of this film and the story it tells. If you happen to have a chance to see this, please do. I doubt you’ll regret ir and you certainly won’t forget it. And if you are a metal fan, you get the added bonus of getting to hear Megadeth, Judas Priest and Savatage all on the soundtrack.

Film Encouters [Shaun Gamboa]

Heavy Movie Is Heavy: Metalhead | Heavy Blog Is Heavy Matt MacLennan

Movie Mezzanine [Jake Cole]

Metalhead | Reviews | Screen - Screen International Mark Adams

SBCC Film Reviews » Blog Archive » Metalhead (Ragnar ... Angela Yago

Inspired-Ground.com [Andina R.]

"Metalhead" (2013) Heavy Metal in the Icelandic ... Atli from Cinekatz

Film Review: Metalhead | New Noise Magazine Metal Nick

The Upside News [Libby Parker]

EFilmCritic [Jay Seaver]

Ragnar Bragason METALHEAD - Metal Underground.com

Metalhead Reviewed by Oliver Hynes, Metalunderground.com

Metalhead, by Ragnar Bragason | Death Metal Underground

Ragnar Bragason on new movie Metalhead and his ... Catherine Morris interview from Metal Hammer , March 22, 2015

Ragnar Bragason, Director of Metalhead: The Heavy Blog Is ... Matt MacLennan interview from Heavy Blog Is Heavy, April 8, 2015

'Metalhead' ('Malmhaus') - The Hollywood Reporter John DeFore

Variety [Elsa Keslassy]

Metalhead - Los Angeles Times Martin Tsai

Review: In 'Metalhead,' an Icelandic Girl Drowns Her ... The New York Times

Brahm, John

HANGOVER SQUARE

USA (77 mi) 1945

Hangover Square | Chicago Reader Jonathan Rosenbaum

John Brahm, a baroque stylist of the 40s best known for The Locket and his remake of Hitchcock's The Lodger, directed this striking Victorian gothic (1944) about a high-strung and temperamental composer (Laird Cregar) who goes nuts when his mistress (Linda Darnell) betrays him. Bernard Herrmann, himself a high-strung and temperamental composer, contributed the score, and curiously Cregar is made up to look very much like him. With George Sanders and Glenn Langan; the lush and striking cinematography is by Joseph LaShelle.

Time Out Capsule Review Tom Milne

Loosely based on Patrick Hamilton's novel, this is a slightly self-conscious attempt to repeat the success of The Lodger, immensely stylish in its evocation of Edwardian London but failing to reproduce quite the same sense of subtle psychological nightmare. Playing a composer driven to murderous blackouts by discordant sounds (a fine cue for Bernard Herrmann's score), Cregar - in his last film - again gives a superbly ambivalent performance; and Darnell is terrific as the scheming chanteuse who seduces him into prostituting his talent to supply her with popular songs. But with the script using histrionics to patch its holes, Brahm is sometimes forced to respond with Grand Guignol excesses like the climax, which provides flaming apotheosis in the concert hall for the composer and his finally-completed concerto; pitched on a far too hysterical and grandiose note, this finale never quite rhymes, as it should, with the superb earlier sequence in which Cregar, anonymous in the crowd of Guy Fawkes celebrants, casually consigns Darnell's body to a bonfire.

filmsgraded.com [Brian Koller]

The 1940s was a decade filled with many underrated Hollywood films that are obscure and rarely seen today. Hangover Square is just one such film, which has never been released on video or DVD.

The story is loosely adapted from the Patrick Hamilton novel. Rising classical composer George Harvey Bone (Laird Cregar) is writing a concerto for Sir Henry Chapman (Alan Napier). Chapman is the upper crust father of Barbara (Faye Marlowe), a beautiful young woman with a crush on Bone. But the hulking composer only has eyes for Netta London (Linda Darnell), a selfish, conniving nightclub singer who uses him to write show tunes for her.

The stress of juggling two girlfriends and writing a concerto is too much for poor Bone. He is subject to blackouts in which a murderous personality emerges, leading to a criminal investigation led by Dr. Middleton (George Sanders). Droll to the point of sarcasm, Sanders (Rebecca, All About Eve) is one of my favorite supporting actors from the 1940s.

Bone has good and evil split personalities, similar to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Inconsistently, however, even his 'good' side betrays a penchant for violence when things don't go his way. His hope for salvation lies in choosing considerate, educated Barbara instead of spoiled and stupid Netta. But then we wouldn't have the dramatic finale, which has Bone pounding out his concerto while surrounded by smoke and flames from the burning concert hall.

The classical music theme of the film was ideal for the talents of composer Bernard Herrmann. Herrmann, best known for his long-running association with Alfred Hitchcock, had a career that ranged from Citizen Kane (1941) to Taxi Driver (1976). Herrmann composed the featured concerto for Hangover Square, in addition to the background music and several melodies sung by Darnell.

Hangover Square was the final film in the short career of Laird Cregar. Cregar was a massive man, over six feet tall and weighing some 300 pounds. Because of his size, he was soon in demand as a character actor, usually playing a villain. Despite his career success, he longed for 'leading man' roles, and went on a crash diet. After landing the lead for the first time in Hangover Square, he died of a heart attack soon after completing the film. He was only 28 years old.

Film Noir of the Week Steve-O

As I was going down the list in my head to confirm that Hangover Square indeed met the proper criteria to be considered a film noir, on paper it seemed like sure a thing: Adequate ice water running through the veins of a prominent femme fatale character – check, male lead character unable to resist devious charms of said femme fatale – check, crazy blackout and flashback sequences – check, murders occurring during said blackout sequences – check, lead character experiencing overwhelming sense of dread from events beyond his control – check, cinematographer being far from stingy with shadows and chiaroscuro lighting – check, detectives on the hunt for a killer - check. Sounds like we got all the fixings for a classic film noir right? Not so fast, Hangover Square isn’t your run of the mill noir. I’d say it’s more like a cousin to the conventional film noir. It contains much of the same DNA, but it’s not in the immediate family. Hangover Square is however a beautifully shot and overlooked thriller that merits a view through the film noir lens; despite on its surface it may appear incongruous to that category.

George Harvey Bone (Laird Cregar) is a dull, sad sack type of figure, but he possesses a bright future as a music composer. He is on the verge finishing a concerto that carries great potential for international recognition according to his sponsor Lord Henry Chapman (Alan Napier) and his talented pianist daughter Barbara (Faye Marlowe). Things would be looking pretty well for George if it wasn’t for those pesky blackouts he occasionally experiences. When he comes to from them, he has the sneaking suspicion that he’s committed some bad deeds under their influence. We know this as viewers to be true because in the opening scene of the film George is stabbing a man in a London shop and then fleeing the crime scene after setting it ablaze. George commits these crimes without conscious knowledge, but he has grave concern as to the nature of his blackouts and conveys these apprehensions to Barbara. George decides to speak to an acquaintance at Scotland Yard, Dr. Allan Middleton (George Sanders) who is not a police officer but a psychiatrist figure of sorts. He allays George’s fears after checking out his blackout story (he can’t find any evidence to link George to the shopkeeper stabbing and fire) and tells him to relax as the stress of completing his concerto may be triggering these blackouts. These spells don’t cease however and neither does the George Bone blackout violence that ensues as the movie progresses.

To take his mind off all his worries, George decides to take in a show at a local beer hall. This is where he first sees dazzling songbird Netta Longdon (Linda Darnell) performing a bawdy musical number in front of a bunch of drunken blokes. Afterward George goes back stage and tells Longdon he admires her singing. She’s unimpressed until her manager, who has heard of George's talents, properly introduces her to him with the intention of George writing some new material for Netta. George spot composes a tune for her, while amalgamating her lyrics into it, and the result is a very catchy number. It’s so good her manager sells the song for 50 guineas soon after. Netta realizes that with George’s talents at her disposal, he would make an ample stepping stone for her career. George falls hard for the gorgeous Netta and is hopelessly wrapped around her finger. She uses his musical talents for her career gain and then tries to discard him when he gets wise to her plan. Unfortunately this wisdom came after George had just sprung an engagement ring on her. His moment of clarity, in realizing Netta’s opaque motives, happened after learning of her pending engagement to a successful promoter that could shoot Netta’s star much higher into the stratosphere than George’s talent ever could.

George is devastated at this development. Upon returning to his apartment he throws Netta’s sheet music against the wall where a number of his instruments are leaning against it. The discordant sound of the violins, cymbals and all the noisy instruments crashing down together (we finally learn) is the catalyst for George’s murderous blackout spells. He immediately becomes thrown into one of his attacks and is off to Netta’s place in his state of murderous somnambulism. He strangles Netta and his disposal of her body leads to the most striking and uncannily creepy scene of the film.

George formulates a clever plan (he’s apparently capable of doing such even under these homicidal spells) to burn Netta’s fresh corpse out in the open, in front of hundreds of witnesses. Luckily the evening he snuffs out Netta is Guy Fawkes Night in England. The ceremonial burning of Guy Fawkes effigies in the center of the neighborhood square happens with a huge towering bonfire. Before the giant pyre is lit ablaze, people pile on the effigies and George is the last to contribute his own “Guy.” George climbs up the long ladder with Netta’s wrapped body slung over his shoulder including a Guy Fawkes mask over her face. George slowly inches his way up the huge mound and simultaneously we see the mask starting to slip off Netta’s face; it’s becoming exposed to the sizable crowd below at the base of the pile. The tension increases as the crowd is egging on George to hurry up. They even start to light the base of the pile on the opposite side as George climbs down the ladder after depositing Netta at the top. At the very least it’s an extremely powerful scene. Not only is the entire sequence beautifully shot and edited, it concludes with people dancing in a circle around the bonfire. Their huge shadows cast against buildings and streets from the fire’s light makes for chillingly effective cinema. The scene is even more unsettling however when considering Linda Darnell’s real life demise came from a domestic house fire in which she suffered extensive burns and died the next day.

Hangover Square concludes with an over the top, but very well filmed scene where George finally gets to have his concerto played with full instrumentation backing him. This finale has some truly impressive sweeping camerawork that’s well coordinated with the stellar soundtrack. The police are on to his uncontrollable homicidal ways at this point in the film. George literally goes down in flames and concludes the films trio of fiery scenes that serve as narrative cruxes for George and the viewer. Finally and tragically George gets to hear his concerto as he descends into madness. The insanity he struggled with finally engulfs him like the flames that claim his body in the timeless, haunting final shot.

Much of this description may sound like a film noir, but the visual twist you must consider is the setting: 1903, turn of the century London. The street lamps are gas powered and not electric as were used to seeing in noir, but cinematographer Joseph LaShelle does a fantastic job with lighting, framing and camera movement. He especially exceeds in choosing some great low and high camera angles along with some textbook noir shots such as George showing up at Netta’s door with new song in hand for her. LaShelle and director John Brahm, made some clever visual choices along the way. In one sequence toward the end of the film, he films Dr. Middleton (who now believes George is a killer) in darkness and George Bone (who now knows he’s a killer) in the light as Middleton questions him about a particular type of knot used with some of the victims that were strangled. The questioning occurs in George’s flat while he’s getting ready for his concerto premiere and we get plenty of close-ups of George tying the knot on his bow-tie in tandem with all the strangulation chat.

One aspect of Hangover Square that stands out is the fantastic musical score by the legendary composer Bernard Herrmann. He’s able to deliver a superior suspenseful score for the film, but he also does a very impressive piece of composing with the concerto finale performed at the end. Herrmann did a similar task a decade later with Hitchcock’s The Man Who Knew Too Much by writing a composition that served as the centerpiece of the films dramatic climax. While it doesn’t hinge on something as specific as the cymbal crash in Hitchcock’s film for example, the concerto is a device that drives the plot in the film. Hermann’s concerto piece is spectacular because for the story to have credibility, it has to be such. The concerto is what drives and motivates George Henry Bone to potential greatness, but ends up delivering him into actualized madness.

There is a ridiculous aspect to the film that sticks in the logic craw: the inexplicable homicidal trances that George undergoes when hearing loud discordant noises. Not only do we not know how this peccadillo began, but also why these types of sounds trigger this behavior in George Harvey Bone. It’s somewhat reminiscent of the William Bendix character in The Blue Dahlia that is driven crazy when he hears jazz “monkey music.” It does serve a purpose in that it facilitates the noir trope of the sympathetic victim as the criminal. Its unaccountability is not so unforgiveable as to completely undermine the many positives of the film. What bothered me most about the way it was not explained or handled, was that John Braham didn’t seem to know how to do so in the first place. There’s a difference between adroitly being kept in the dark and feeling like you’ve simply been lazily left behind there.

The casting is strong all around with Laird Cregar turning in a truly fine (albeit slightly over the top during his wild eyed flashbacks) performance. Linda Darnell is fantastic however in the devious femme fatale role of Netta Longdon. Darnell lends enough credibility to Netta by not going overboard and hard selling her character’s selfish motives to the audience. She lets Netta’s self-centered ways show themselves in a seemingly organic fashion and believable pace. Darnell’s less than consistent number of appearances in film over the years, before her demise, is a true loss for her fans of which I am certainly one.

While turn of the century gaslight Victorian London may not seem like an obvious setting for a film noir, at the very least it becomes a surprisingly serviceable one under the direction of Braham and the camerawork of LaShelle. The essential film noir elements are there, but more so it’s a well crafted and acted thriller that deserves some recognition and kudos. At the very least it warrants viewing for the combination of Laird Cregar, Linda Darnell, the score of Herrmann and those fantastic scenes combining infernos and insanity.

Hangover Square - Turner Classic Movies John M. Miller

Classic Film Freak

Film Monthly [Alan Rode]

Few There Be That Find It Person X

FilmFanatic.org

DVD Savant [Glenn Erickson] Fox Horror Classics

Fox Horror Classics Collection | PopMatters Michael Barrett on the films of John Brahm

Hangover Square (1945). Stars: Laird Cregar. Director ... Richard Scheib from Moria

Junta Juleil's Culture Shock [Sean Gill]

Cinepassion.org [Fernando F. Croce]

The Spinning Image [Graeme Clark]

Ozus World Movie Reviews Dennis Schwartz

Fantastic Movie Musings and Ramblings Dave Sindelar

Destructible Man excellent panel of photos

Hangover Square | HORRORPEDIA Mondozilla

derekwinnert.com [Derek Winnert]

TV Guide

NY Times Original Review

DVDBeaver [Gary Tooze]

Hangover Square (film) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Brakhage, Stan

All-Movie Guide Sandra Brennan

Stan Brakhage is one of the most influential filmmakers in American avant-garde cinema, noted for his unflinching social commentaries and technical innovations. Over his nearly 40-year career, he has made over 200 films of varying length. He made his first film, Interim (1952) at age 18 after dropping out of college. Brakhage films seek to change the way we see. They encourage viewers to eschew traditional narrative structure in favor of pure visual perception that is not reliant on naming what is seen; rather his goal is to create a more visceral visual experience, for he believes that a "stream-of visual-consciousness could be nothing less than the pathway of the soul." To this end, his films are shot in highly sensual colors and utilize minimal soundtracks.

His work can be divided into distinct periods. His first short films explored the properties and possibilities of light. In many of his experimental ventures, Brakhage has forgone traditional cinematography in favor of working directly with the film stock itself. He has occasionally painted, inked, scratched and dyed images onto it; he has also tried pasting organic objects on the film. His most famous example is the 1963 short Mothlight in which he glued moth wings onto the stock. Some of his early films were based on his most intimate experiences that included making love to his new bride—depicted on negative film—in Wedlock House: An Intercourse (1959), and an attempt to bring his dead dog back to life with a camera in Sirius Remembered (1959). During the 1960s, Brakhage's iconoclastic views were celebrated for their poetry, but during the '70s, his focus changed to social issues and he alienated many supporters with such disturbing film series as the "Pittsburgh documents" in which he presented many gruesome views of inner city life with films such as Act of Seeing with One's Own Eyes (1971) which was shot in a morgue. He also continued with autobiographical material with the "Sincerity/Duplicity series. During the 1980s, Brakhage's focus again changed—this time he became intrigued with creating truly "abstract" films such as Arabics (1982) which consists of brilliant bursts of colored light which he claims, represent "envisioned music." In addition to filmmaking, Brakhage also wrote books about films and filmmaking and also served as a teacher.

Film Comment Obituary Steve Anker, Brakhage Obit: 1933 – 2003 from Film Comment

All of the following are quotes from "Stan Brakhage's Last Interview", by Marilynne S. Mason, Northern Lights Journal, 1984

Art goes on because artists have no choice in the matter, whether people are going to pay for it or not.· I can only say what art has been for me all these years, and I feel beaten in trying to defend it. An artist is someone who has no choice about making things and no choice as to what kind of making. People would say in the old days they were chosen - assuming there was something to choose them·.

I don't have any choice whether to make or not. The only thing I could choose is to try to fake it. When I'm not inspired. I can, if I want to be stupid or blasphemous enough, fake it - out of habit or because I think I should be doing it or because it's expected of me to do it. My integrity is that I resist faking it and work only when I have absolutely no choice in the matter·.

In the arts there are centuries of tradition. East and West, which make up a living, growing form. And at the roots and branches of that form there is always room for uniqueness, which means that one person is meeting out of his or her absolute being, the pressures of a given situation - and his or her unique extension is the only possibility of extension. But they are on that tree, and if they're involved in the arts, they feel the whole history of what has been available to them from the arts for thousands of years.· and they are the living extension of that. The whole tree is living.· you don't just have branches hanging out of the air, which is the mistake a lot of young people make. You feel back along, or read, or look at paintings of, or listen to music of that whole living tradition. And that's your trunk or your roots or branches. I guess the root end is what society calls the underground. Both ends of the tree are extending themselves or the tree is dying.

Twenty-four frames in a second is a rhythm. And in the mind also, where a growth or evolutionary process is reaching toward a picture, you almost have to think of it as a force field flow - what we call the life force itself.· as exact, and variable, as a plant coming up through the earth. And then what's done with that for recognition is to take slices of it, which are then put together into pictures.· and rhythm is the key to the first recognition of that process itself.

Rhythm comes first. You can't slice up that process to get an image. I mean rhythm really is the width of the slices, and that's how you get an image. Otherwise you don't get a recognizable image. If you slice it too thin, you can't follow the growth process. And if you slice it too fat, you have a series of pictures but you have no image. So rhythm is the intermediary in the process·. it is all in that context·

My work now primarily has to do with being able to exteriorize moving visual thought processes - that is, thinking that isn't locked into language, to words or symbols or other categorical imperatives of the left brain. There is a visual, unnameable, non-referential form of thinking, which, if it refers to anything - and I believe it does - has internal reference and is a reference to one's being. To achieve well-being, you have to have a way to converse with you own nervous system.· for the two hemispheres of the brain to converse with each other.

Stan Brakhage on the Web Fred Camper’s thorough overview on Brakhage from his website, including a wealth of links to other published articles

Film Reference a profile by P. Adams Sitney

TCMDB bio from Turner Classic Movies

Obituary by P. Adams Sitney from Fred Camper’s website

-Fred Camper Criterion essay

Stan Brakhage Brian Frye from Senses of Cinema

Rouge Article (2003) Nicole Brenez and Adrian Martin from Rouge

The Stan Brakhage Dossier a collection of articles on Brakhage from Offscreen

Review of Portrait of Jason by Ed Howard at Only The Cinema Brackhage shorts, October 25, 2007

Brakhage, Stan They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

Tracing an Original and the Law of Diminishing Returns: Brakhage Dirk de Bruyn reviews a 75 mi documentary directed by Jim Shedden about Brakhage from Senses of Cinema

Senses of Cinema Article A Remembrance for Stan Brakhage, by Phil Solomon

Guardian Obituary (2003) Stan Brakhage, by Ronald Bergan, March 15, 2003

Fred Camper's Top 10 Directors

David Sterritt's Top 10 Directors

DESISTFILM

USA (7 mi) 1954

Desistfilm Darragh O’Donoghue from Senses of Cinema

DAYBREAK and WHITEYE

USA (8 mi) 1957

Daybreak and Whiteye Martin Rumsby from Senses of Cinema

MOTHLIGHT

USA (3 mi) 1963

Mothlight Darragh O’Donoghue from Senses of Cinema

DOG STAR MAN

USA (75 mi) 1964

Neil Young's Film Lounge

Weapon shapely, naked, wan,
           Head from the mother's bowels drawn,
           Wooded flesh and metal bone, limb only one and lip only one,
           Grey-blue leaf by red-heat grown, helve produced from a little seed sown,
           Resting the grass amid and upon,
           To be lean'd and to lean on.   
                                   Walt Whitman, Song of the Broad-Axe

·   Brakhage d.2004, included in Oscar "those we have lost" montage.

·   Colour (!) / silent (!!) / 4 parts + prelude.

·   Dog (brown, tail-wagging) + Man (hunter, Brakhage himself?) + Star (the sun, flares visible)

·   72-minute fugue state.

·   Incomprehensible?

·   Works on non-rational, non-verbal level: instinctive. Abstract.

·   Succession of images. Distortions. Some gross-out. Many perplexing.

·   Repetitions: solar flares. Manipulations of the image: back and forth. Slow motion.

·   Not especially accessible or easy. Uncompromised vision (of genius). Succumb and rewards will follow.

·   Moments of trippy-hippiness. Also of Whitmanesque engagement with wilderness.

·   Cormac McCarthy Child of God. "This breaking brimstone galaxy" (McCarthy: Suttree? Outer Dark?)

·   Primal, sisyphean struggle uphill.

·   Birth and death. Nature. Ice/snow.

·   Stumbling onwards - the axe-wielding hunter and Brakhage the director alike.

·   Stumbling into uncharted territory. Lost and unsuitably dressed (his flimsy boots).

·   Also something of a slog for audience?

·   SILENT. In the auditorium, we provide the soundtrack. [At screening caught, on Newcastle Quayside, Brakhage's images accompanied by raucous cries of drunken passers-by. Sunday night, December, 2004]. Clack of seats from impatient walkouts [At screening caught, walkouts audible talking outside the auditorium, their comments in the corridor].

·   "Chaos / control ... Chaos / control" (Six Degrees of Separation)

·   Comparisons invidious. Greenaway Water Wrackets.

·   As with Walt W, to describe is somehow to diminish.

Wooded flesh and metal bone, limb only one and lip only one,
           Grey-blue leaf by red-heat grown, helve produced from a little seed sown

THE WOLD SHADOW

USA (3 mi) 1972

The Wold Shadow Martin Rumsby from Senses of Cinema

TEXT OF LIGHT

USA (71 mi) 1974

User Reviews from imdb Author: stavi:

i saw this movie w/a live appearance by the director at U of Colo. in 74.

No video, DVD etc in those days so the schools always showed films a few times a week and I rarely missed many. This one was 45 mins of lap-dissolve images of light refracted into a crystal ashtray. It seemed like one 30 sec lockoff shot of a light prism that slowly, very slowly morphed into another. no sound track, just one long dissolve after the next. I believe it was nominated that year for best ash tray but lost to the documentary 'hearts and minds' a must see.

User Reviews from imdb Author: madsagittarian from Toronto, Canada

This 71-minute effort is one of Stan Brakhage's most enjoyable films. It is a "chance" study of light refracted from a crystal ashtray. With its extreme closeups of the prismatic reflections, this movie creates a micro-universe all its own, which has no relationship whatever with our physical world. In fact I am reminded of the similarly wonderful films of Jim Davis, whose prismatic works also give a sense of weightlessness and otherworldly feel.

But for all that, Brakhage refuses to turn this into a "head" film. Its choppy editing discourages us from surrendering ourselves completely in this world. As the film seems to form its own "chapters" by the way the light shapes and colours begin to coalesce, its rhythm is interrupted by a hard cut and several frames of black before we continue to a different composition. (One wonders therefore, if we are seeing this film precisely in the order it was shot, or in how Brakhage discovered the effects.) Personally, I wouldn't have minded to have been lost completely in this universe, but the choppy editing perhaps allows the camera to be a slave to the subject, rather than the traditional film-making case of manipulating the subject for the good of the camera. In that regard, TEXT OF LIGHT treats its subject matter as though it were a living thing, and the camera thusly records whatever messages it desires to share.

In any event, this film is a joy... these 71 minutes go fast.

THE GARDEN OF EARTHLY DELIGHTS

USA (2 mi) 1981

Putting the Garden Into the Machine: On The Garden of Earthly Delights Karli Lukas from Senses of Cinema

THE DANTE QUARTET

USA (7 mi) 1987

Across the Universe: Stan Brakhage’s The Dante Quartet Adrian Danks from Senses of Cinema

I…DREAMING

USA (7 mi) 1988

I… Dreaming Malcolm Cook from Senses of Cinema

A CHILD’S GARDEN AND THE SERIOUS SEA

USA (74 mi) 1991

CINE-FILE: Cine-List Patrick Friel from Cine-File

In his description for A CHILD'S GARDEN, Brakhage quotes from poets Ronald Johnson and Charles Olson (and cites Johnson's poem "Beam 29" as inspiration). But the film also vaguely calls to mind William Blake--more perhaps for his art than his poetry: there is both a sense of darkness and of mystical transport in Brakhage's images. The first film in the loose "Vancouver Island" quartet, Brakhage films locations around the British Columbia locale where his second wife, Marilyn, grew up. He films land, sea, and sky and intercuts frequently between them. Shots are often out-of-focus, to accentuate color and light; they are hand-held, upside down, and fleeting. All of this is no surprise for those who know Brakhage's work: anything and everything is valid, as long as it works. What will come as more of a surprise is the extensive use of blackness in the film. Brakhage moves from emerald-green grass to a patch of shade, allowing the screen to become totally dark. He adjusts the aperture, closing it down to again engulf the image in black. Or, frequently, nearly so: shots of light glinting off impossibly blue water are darkened until the spots of light resemble stars twinkling in a black void. For someone who spent his life focused on and fascinated by light, this considered use of darkness is powerful. There is a curious disconnect, though: Brakhage writes of the film in terms of beginnings, the sea as a generative force, "The World to be discovered by the/any child." But this is a moody work, a film frequently about the diminishment of light. Its emotional register is more somber than his description would lead one to believe. Amidst the darkness, though, are many shockingly beautiful shots of intense luminance--light flares on his lens, prismatic separations of color into shards of rainbowed images. Brakhage was always one to explore the multiplicities of life and the world around him--dark films were not uncommon--and find great beauty and wonderment in everything. A CHILD'S GARDEN is no exception. It is that non-rare thing in Brakhage's filmography--another masterpiece.

PANELS FOR THE WALLS OF HEAVEN

USA (32 mi) 2002

Panels for the Walls of Heaven Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

Brakhage’s last long film, Panels is intended to serve as a hand-painted conclusion to the “Vancouver Island” series. Its use of placid oceanic color, interrupted by jarring passages of fiery red or yellow, rhymes in part with the photographic color schemes of The God of Day, the only other film in the series I’ve seen. Panels is in many ways a summary work, incorporating most of the styles and shapes his hand-painted work has assumed over the years. Like many such summary works, it is a bit too ambitious at times, anxious to move from one visual idea to the next. Its breadth prohibits it from hanging together as well as it might. But there are stunning passages, such as the slathered-on, icy blues forming planes like European stucco, and the repeated motif near the end of dense weaves of color giving way to lone strands of yellow or green dangling in the projector light. The repetition conveyed a sense of someone dragging out a story, because they don’t want to leave.

SEASONS

USA (20 mi) 2002 with Philip S. Solomon

Plot summary from imdb:

Brakhage's hand carvings directly into the film emulsions are illuminated and textured by Solomon's lighting and optical printing. The forms are then shaped and edited by Solomon into a Dance of Seasons, a Hymn to the Sun, from Summer to Spring, inspired by the woodcuts of Japanese artists Hokusai and Hiroshige and Anton Webern's orchestral coloration of Ricecar from The Musical Offering. The continuity of line and rhythm over the ever-changing colors and textures of the yearly cycle is akin to a continuous melodic development with changes in timbre and overtones. Seasons... Is a subset of Brakhage's larger, umbrella work title "..." (Ellipsis).

Seasons . . . Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

This remarkable 2002 film (introduced as having been edited by Solomon) struck me as possibly having been a sketch for Brakhage's last long film, Panels for the Walls of Heaven.  But as fascinating as Panels is, Seasons . . . is tighter and more astonishing.  Both films are like summations of Brakhage's hand-painted work, combining disparate visual styles and techniques.  Running a mere 15 minutes, Seasons . . . is an explosive dynamo of a film, bursting forth with carefully harnessed energy, and pretty much leaving me flat.  It begins in Brakhage's most familiar hand-painted mode, with thick Abstract Expressionist brushwork and overlapping fields of color.  This soon gives way to paler, smoother frames of single tones, like sheets of colored ice.  They are slightly cracked, like broad swaths on a fresco.  Then, we are offered a third movement consisting of mostly black step-printed frames with scratched-out spots of color throbbing out of the darkness.  At this point, Seasons . . . gives the impression of having gone through a complete cycle, even though we would seem to be one season short.  Soon after, these patterns of imagery repeat, faster, and then faster still.  So is this the major theme of the film -- cyclical repetition of a set of visual phenomena?  It would appear not, since Seasons . . . doesn't end on this note.  We get green and blue geometrical lines, forming diagonals like an asymptotic graph, followed by brilliant jagged lines of silver and gold, which accumulate in force until they are practically bursting from the screen, like squinting into oncoming headlights.  The film eventually slows down again and returns to a muted palette, but the experience of watching this film is like being at a fireworks show or a rock concert, thinking you've just hit the finale, that clearly nothing else can top what you're now experiencing, and then it just goes higher and higher, and you can scarcely believe what you're witnessing.  I compared Panels to the tale of a lingering storyteller, prolonged out of a reluctance to come to the end of a fun ride.  But Seasons . . ., more compact and much more draining, felt almost like a mash-note to the fans who have supported, and been sustained by, this final phase of Brakhage's career.  All our conventional visual cues (rhythm, composition, color intensity) are telling us, throughout the last nine minutes of this film, that we're nearing the end.  And most of the audience, being non-Brakhage aficionados, were becoming audibly exasperated with this "endless" film.  But those of us who'd been grooving on this work for years got the message, savoring every false conclusion like an encore.  Seasons . . . might just be Brakhage's Return of the King.

STAN’S WINDOW

USA Canada (6 mi) 2003

Stan's Window Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

Of the final few Brakhage films, this one affected me like no other. In part this is because it is a self-portrait in a very direct sense. For the first (last) time in many years, we see Brakhage’s face, an eerily flattened-out form hovering in the darkness. Much of the film centers on the extreme ends of photographic light, with Brakhage straining film’s very capacity to register concrete images. Passages are dense with blackness, with only the slightest hint of an object piercing through to vision. Then, just as our eyes are adjusting to this, the film cuts to a radiant window or light emanating from a hallway. Very basic effects, in some ways, but for me, simply devastating. A final testament to the value of being alive in the world.

THE CHINESE SERIES

USA (2 mi) 2003

The Chinese Series Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

A brief and lovely film, quite reminiscent of Len Lye’s late testament, Particles in Space. The particular quality of the emulsion scratches in 35mm is very fine, not unlike a Franz Klein painting in reverse. There is a halting flow to the marks and their movement, although as a work it does not hold together as well as one might hope. The markmaking has a power that the overall composition does not. Given the circumstances of its creation – Brakhage carving into black leader with his thumbnail, on his deathbed, with the film ending along with its maker;s life – it seems in poor taste to point out that it is not among his best abstract works. Then again, to ignore this would be an equally inappropriate response, given the magnitude of Brakhage’s artistic achievement. There is no reason to expect that this film should be his finest. And yet, even a somewhat scattershot effort by this great artist yields substantial rewards.

Branagh, Kenneth

HAMLET C+ 79

Great Britain USA (242 mi) 1996

The only uncut version of Hamlet on film, shot in 70 mm film in actual historic locations, with the director playing the lead in an over-the-top, histrionic shouting performance that just drove my interest elsewhere, namely to Julie Christie and Derek Jacobi as Gertrude and Claudius, who were both stunning, and offers an intelligent rendering of the King that is rarely witnessed, full of power and command. Charlton Heston was good as the Player-King, while Kate Winslet’s Ophelia was only so so. The film lacked all evidence of humor and wit, while the powerful and wonderful ideas of Hamlet were yelled and screamed and bullied to such excess that outside of the extravagant photography, there was little else to look forward to. The only pleasure watching Hamlet as a rich, spoiled, over-indulgent, self-centered brat was when the screaming stopped.

Cineaste Branagh Interview Gary Crowdus, December 1998

Brando, Marlon

THE HIGH HAT | NITRATE: The Bottom Shelf Scott von Doviak from the High Hat

Within hours of Marlon Brando’s death on July 1, 2004, the conventional wisdom had solidified. (Of course, most of the obits and appreciations that appeared in the days to follow had most likely been sitting on dry ice for at least a decade. The man had not been the picture of health in some time.) Yes, Brando had been a great actor, perhaps even a genius, but he had squandered his talent. And besides, his personal life was just too alarming to contemplate.

I’ll concede the last point, but the squandering charge is now and always has been bogus — a fraud perpetrated by short-sighted hacks with no sense of adventure. If Brando had toed the line and put in his time turning in “dignified” performances in blatant Oscar bait for a few years, then retired to his island quietly, his demise would have been marked with the reverence accorded to lesser lights like Jack Lemmon and Gregory Peck. Apparently, a track record that includes bona fide classics A Streetcar Named Desire, On the Waterfront, The Godfather, Last Tango in Paris and Apocalypse Now isn’t enough. A handful of brilliant performances in lesser known films ranging from One-Eyed Jacks to Reflections in a Golden Eye to Burn! … well, that just doesn’t cut the mustard, not compared to all that — that — SQUANDERING!

Sorry, but I just don’t see it. Yes, there are a handful of stinkers on his resume, but I’ll put his IMDb page up against that of any Great One you’d care to mention. How about that other genius who played Vito Corleone? I could curate a week-long film festival devoted to Robert De Niro’s squanderings over the past five years alone, but I don’t think anyone would survive it. Perhaps you are now scratching your head or shaking a clenched fist at the computer screen. “I thought this was the Bottom Shelf?” you howl, you wholly imaginary regular reader of this column. “Enough with the kind words already! Get to the bad stuff and fat jokes!” The problem is, there’s no clear consensus about which Brando film represented the beginning of his supposed decline. I’ve seen convincing defenses of Desiree, Mutiny on the Bounty, Bedtime Story and even Teahouse of the August Moon. I’m fairly certain, however, that I’ve never seen a defense of Candy. You can relax: I’m not about to attempt one here. I may be a Brando apologist, but I’m not insane.

A spiritual cousin to Skidoo (discussed in last issue’s psychedelic edition of the Bottom Shelf), Candy is a relentlessly unfunny lump of Sixties kitsch, based on Terry Southern’s novel and directed by Brando pal Christian Marquand. It’s a timeless fable about the journeys of a naïve sex kitten and the variety of repugnant characters who force themselves on her in numerous icky and slobbery ways. The gallery of grotesques includes Richard Burton as a Tom Jones-y poet, Walter Matthau as a gung-ho Army general, James Coburn as a groovy surgeon, and, of course, Ringo Starr as a Mexican gardener.

Each and every one of these individuals was unwise to participate in this incredibly tedious mess, but I have to give Brando a little credit for at least having the good sense to appear very late in the film. The Bottom Shelf’s crack team of researchers has determined that as much as 97% of the paying audience had left the theater by the time Brando made his entrance. Those who hung in there until the bitter end witnessed a sort of low-rent Peter Sellers turn from America’s greatest actor — proof, if any was needed, that a funny wig and funny accent don’t necessarily add up to a funny performance. He’s a numerology spouting Indian guru who rides around in back of an 18-wheeler and keeps getting stuck in the lotus position. Put yourself in the shoes of a Brando fan of the time — someone who has no idea that The Godfather and Last Tango in Paris are still around the corner — and you can understand that “Next stop, ‘Hollywood Squares’ ” might be a perfectly reasonable reaction.

And yet Candy is not the bottom of the Brando barrel. It’s a silly role in a godawful movie, but you can’t quite say he’s phoning it in. Nor can I claim the big guy never telecommuted in the course of his career — not while VHS copies of Christopher Columbus: The Discovery still collect dust on the shelves of Mom and Pop video stores from coast to coast. Producer Alexander Salkind, who had paid Brando approximately five bazillion jillion dollars to show up for 15 minutes as the Man of Steel’s father in the 1978 blockbuster Superman, apparently figured the same formula would pay off again in this 1992 atrocity. Kids today, what do they know? Superman, Christopher Columbus — same difference!

In order to further ensnare the youth market, Salkind hired Magnum P.I. to play the King of Spain and gave the title role to George Corraface, a Greek actor who looks very familiar until you realize you’re thinking of Julio Iglasias. While Corraface was able to parlay his swashbuckling turn into a pivotal guest shot on an episode of “Red Shoe Diaries,” he was sadly unable to reach the same heights as two of his co-stars, Catherine Zeta-Jones and Benicio del Toro. On the other hand, he has the best chance of being available to share treasured memories on the double-disc special edition DVD. Del Toro is actually pretty bad, but Zeta-Jones is not only smoking hot, she even manages to keep her composure when the famed explorer pronounces her “too top-heavy and narrow of beam.”

As for Brando, his take on Torquemada is never going to supplant anyone’s fond memories of Mel Brooks doing the Inquisition. You’d think he’d get at least one barn-burner of a scene doing some, you know, inquisiting, but alas, he merely lingers on the periphery, looking as bored as Paris Hilton at a Noam Chomsky lecture. In many of his late-period “I’ll give you a week then it’s back to Tahiti” films, like A Dry White Season or even The Formula, Brando’s cameo is the prize in a box of stale Cracker Jacks. Here, he’s just more caramel corn.

Just as musicians have been known to rework their early material later in life, releasing new, sometimes radically restructured versions of classic tunes, Brando put a fresh spin on a couple of his signature roles in the twilight of his career. While his turn in The Freshman was an affectionate parody, his most notorious late-period performance could be described as Col. Kurtz through the looking glass.

It would be foolish to try to make any definitive statements regarding the mercurial actor’s motivation for taking the title role in John Frankenheimer’s 1996 remake of The Island of Dr. Moreau, but it’s at least within the realm of possibility that lingering resentment from the public perception of his involvement in Apocalypse Now played some role in the offbeat choice. Among the stinging criticisms that made little or no sense at the time and don’t carry any more weight today are … well, for one, that he carried more weight when showed up on the set. Apparently fat people aren’t scary, or something. (Nobody tell Orson Welles, Sydney Greenstreet or Charles Laughton, please.)

Also among his crimes: he hadn’t read the book Heart of Darkness. The horror! Most major film productions get around this problem by having a screenplay of some sort available to the cast, but apparently it was also Brando’s fault that no workable third act had been committed to paper. But hey, I guess if you pay an actor an astronomical salary, you have the right to expect him to miracle an ending out of his ass through sheer Brando-ness. I’ve always thought he did all right for himself, but the convention wisdom has it that he simply didn’t bring enough to the party.

So maybe this was the allure of Moreau: an opportunity to show critics the Kurtz that could have been, if he’d really wanted to push Coppola’s hallucinatory masterwork off the deep end. Hell, he brought so much to the party this time around, he was a virtual one-man Mardi Gras. And yet, as loony as Brando’s Moreau is, there’s still a Method to his madness. Yes, his face is covered with chalky white makeup in certain scenes, but this is explained by his character’s rare skin condition. True, he wears an ice bucket on his head in a tender moment with his half-human daughter, but Moreau is a man ahead of his time, as you will realize one day in the future, munching on your seaweed cookie while making ice cream in your hat.

In short, if you have a special place in your heart for the bugfuck version of Brando, Moreau is a movie to treasure. He has a two-foot tall sidekick. He speaks with a peculiar British lisp. He wears colorful muumuus and gives piano lessons to hyena men who then rip him apart and eat him. As a nice bonus, he has Val Kilmer as a co-star, thus ensuring that he would never be known as The Difficult One on the set.

Brando followed Moreau with two of the least-seen performances of his career, each just as bizarre in its own way. Free Money is a straight-to-video heist comedy starring Charlie Sheen, made by people who had seen some movies by the Coen brothers but learned nothing from them. Brando, sporting a red walrus mustache and matching ring of Bozo-hair, plays a prison warden known as The Swede. He resembles a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade balloon of Popeye’s burger-loving pal Wimpy, and his performance is as broad as his bottom. It’s safe to say this is Brando like you’ve never seen him before, unless I’m forgetting another film in which he plunges face-first into a toilet. (Viva Zapata, perhaps?) He certainly can’t be accused of sleepwalking through this one, though his antics have only the most tenuous connection to the movie going on around him. That’s okay — it’s a lousy movie anyway.

Then there is Johnny Depp’s directorial debut, The Brave, still unreleased in any form in this country. To suggest that Depp’s filmmaking style is influenced by David Lynch is akin to speculating that Harry Connick Jr. may have heard a Frank Sinatra record or two. The movie takes place in a industrial/desert wasteland populated by freaks, scumbags and mysterious entities — it’s Mad Max by way of Eraserhead. Fluorescent lights sizzle and sputter, repellent characters cackle and make weird popping noises, greasy yokels power an oil drill by running in a giant hamster wheel, and an old man in a Boy Scout uniform chats up the transvestite bartender at the local beer joint.

Depp has the title role of an impoverished Indian living in a junkyard shanty, so desperate to provide for his family that he agrees to be tortured and killed in a snuff film for $50,000. Much of The Brave’s running time is devoted to long, loving takes of Depp walking slowly down desert highways, tumbleweeds rolling past, dust devil swirling by the roadside, Native American chanting on the soundtrack. At one point, carrying buckets of water back from the muddy creek, he assumes a Christ-like pose. It’s all a bit much, but there’s half a good movie in here somewhere, and it deserves some sort of afterlife on video shelves, if only to preserve Brando’s last worthwhile screen appearance.

He’s the man with the money, some sort of wealthy industrialist nearing the end of his days and needing a little bit of death to brighten his life. He explains this, sort of, in a Kurtzian monologue that may well have been improvised by Brando; you can almost imagine him delivering it to a befuddled Larry King in response to a question about Karl Malden.

In this context, however, it doesn’t really matter what he’s saying, even if you could make any sense of it. As he did so often in his later films, Brando has supplied himself with props and little bits of business — he sports a white ponytail and a bolo tie and rides in and out of his one scene in a wheelchair while playing a harmonica. He gives you your five minutes’ worth, though; simultaneously monstrous and pathetic, he rides a tidal wave of emotion while barely moving a muscle.

It would be a fitting capper to his career if it happened to be his last movie, but unfortunately that honor goes to The Score, a heist flick that manages to turn the one and only meeting of the two Vito Corleones into a non-event. The most memorable aspect of Brando’s involvement was his rumored comment to director/Muppeteer Frank Oz after Oz asked him to tone down his campy take on the role of an aging criminal: “I bet you wish I was a puppet so you could stick your hand up my ass and make me do what you want!” A distressing mental image, to be sure, but as good an epitaph as any for a man who never did what everyone wanted him to do.

ONE-EYED JACKS

USA (141 mi) 1961

Time Out review Tom Milne

Fascinating to see Brando directing this revenge Western - double-crossed by Malden, his outlaw partner, he erupts from the past to haunt the older man, now a lawman and proud father - exactly as he acts, so that the whole movie smoulders in a manner that is mean, moody and magnificent. At its origin is a novel by Charles Neider which, though changing the names, retold the story of Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid. Brando's further changes (Rio/Billy now kills rather than is killed by Dad Longworth/Garrett) were evidently made with a view to indicting shifty, mendacious society as the real villain. The Freudian intentions lurking in the character conflicts and the card symbolism, the homosexual and Oedipal intimations, are underpinned by the extraordinary settings. Surely uniquely in a Western, the key scenes are played out against the rocky Monterey sea coast, with waves crashing portentously in the background, so that nature echoes the Romantic agony of a hero much given to brooding in corners or gazing out into space shrouded in his Byronic cape. The result, laced with some fine traditional sequences and stretches of masochistic violence, is a Western of remarkable though sometimes muddled power.

Brilliant Observations on 1492 Films [Clayton Trapp]

The rare film that would be intriguing even if it wasn't any good. Marlon Brando apparently became so enamoured with his performance that he ran Stanley Kubrick off the set, and directed himself. He brought the baby in at a mere three times budget, and even managed to make half the money back. Critics complain, to this day, that he spends too much time allowing himself to brood, onscreen. Um....what the hell do they expect, he's fucking Marlon Brando! He broods!! That's what he does. Other guys smile and make great speeches and any manner of other equally useless things, but Marlon Broods. He also projects a fantastic sense that if he gets what he wants, whatever it is and whether or not he knows what it is, that would be a bad thing. He makes sinning squalid, but he does it with style. No one in their right mind could ever want to be him, but it's all the more fascinating for the multitude of reasons why not. There's still a lot of Kubrick in the film, in the wide open shots of the Mexican desert, and the more nourished version of the Monterey coast, and Marlon himself reminds you more than a little bit of young Elvis, morphing into a palate touched upon by Johnny Cash, and the silent, brooding side of Dylan. And that's all before you even start thinking about what it must have been like off-camera, with Brando "directing" Slim Pickens. There is honour in the film, not least in Larry Duran, just no honourable men. Only honourable motivations and moments, the exceptions to everything else in this putrid world of double-cross, wastefulness, and emptiness. I think that was a statement of honesty, for Marlon, from Marlon, and just because it looks eloquent after the smoke all clears doesn't mean that it was easy to get it all out. He had an eye for telegraphing foreshadowing in an immediate manner that was appealing, and real. It's too bad that it was the only film that he ever directed. I would have liked to see him direct himself as Dr. Rieux, in an adaptation of Camus' The Plague, without supporting cast or script or location; and only a six-gun, a scalpel, a bottle labeled "vinegar," and a plastic dwarf palm tree as props.

Turner Classic Movies review Mark Frankel

Marlon Brando's only film as director, One-Eyed Jacks (1961) was the Heaven's Gate of its day. Famously over-budget and overlong, this Western melodrama has, in recent years, earned critical praises as a psychologically fascinating and visually stunning entry into the genre. Based on the 1956 Charles Neider novel, The Authentic Death of Hendry Jones, the film draws heavily on the legend of Billy the Kid, particularly Billy's relationship to Pat Garrett. In this regard, it is interesting to note that the first to turn the novel into a screenplay was none other than Sam Peckinpah, who would go on to direct his own version of the story in 1973 entitled Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid starring Kris Kristofferson.

With Peckinpah's script, Pennebaker Productions (Brando's film company) approached the young Stanley Kubrick. Brando had been impressed with Kubrick's first two features, Killer's Kiss (1955) and The Killing (1956) and he was convinced that Kubrick was the right man for the job. "We've got to get Kubrick," he is reported to have said. Kubrick agreed to direct but insisted on a new script by Calder Willingham. Karl Malden signed on and the producer, Frank Rosenberg, went to Mexico to search for an actress to play the young love interest. He returned after signing Pina Pellicer for her first film role.

What happened next is less clear. Brando, Kubrick, Willingham, Rosenberg and Carlo Fiore (a friend of Brando's and an assistant on the film) met regularly up at Brando's home overlooking Coldwater Canyon. Brando required that all the men remove their shoes so as not to scratch the wood floor. Kubrick often removed his pants as well, choosing to work in nothing but his shirt and underwear. After many delays and many hours arguing up at Brando's house, Willingham left and was replaced by Guy Trosper. Brando and Kubrick repeatedly clashed over the issue of character development (it's probably safe to assume that Brando wanted more and Kubrick less), but things finally came to a head when Brando overheard Kubrick making a crack about an actress Brando was smitten with. Kubrick was immediately fired, though the official press release stated that he had resigned to work on Lolita.

With filming set to start in a month, Brando volunteered himself for the job of director. Paramount agreed, even though as Brando himself recounted in his 1994 autobiography, "I didn't know what to do." Five days into shooting, Brando was two weeks behind schedule, a neat mathematical trick. With a Method actor at the helm, actors were encouraged to improvise; one Paramount executive dubbed the film "Stanislavsky in the saddle." Stories circulated in the press about Brando's odd behavior (something that continues to this day). He insisted on getting drunk to film a scene in which he was supposed to act drunk, but he got too drunk to act or direct and so he insisted on repeating the process another day. Again he got too drunk to direct or act. Another time, Brando made everyone sit around while he waited for the "right" wave off the Monterey coast. According to the film's producer, Frank Rosenberg, Brando "pondered each camera set up while 120 members of the company sprawled on the ground like battle-weary troops, or gazed at the seals playing in the swelling seas." Throughout all this, Brando kept shooting. They eventually printed close to 250,000 feet of film (the average is 150,000). All this while utilizing the Vista-Vision process, which cost fifty cents a foot! In the end, the film, originally budgeted at $1.8 million, wound up with a price tag of $6 million.

Brando has called One-Eyed Jacks "one of my favorite pictures." But the ending was not what he intended. Brando's original edit of the film ran 4 hours and 42 minutes. He then, as he put it, "got pretty sick of it and turned the job over to someone else." After he walked away from the editing, the studio cut the picture down to a manageable 141 minutes and added a new ending, which was filmed almost a year after principal photography was completed. According to Brando: "I don't feel it's what I set out to do. In my film, everybody lied, even the girl. The only one who told the truth was the Karl Malden character. Paramount made him out to be the heavy, a liar . . . . Now the characters in the film are black and white, not gray and human as I planned them." How much of Brando's version is true is hard to tell as he has a notorious history of bad-mouthing his pictures just as they are about to be released.

This was the third and final pairing of Brando and Malden, marking the end of a memorable working relationship. Katy Jurado (High Noon [1952], Broken Lance [1954]) is terrific as Maria, Malden's wife, and, in her only US film appearance, Pina Pellicer is well cast in the role of Louisa. Sadly, after a brief film career in Mexico, she committed suicide at the age of 24. Slim Pickens is wonderful as the sadistic deputy sheriff. Brando also borrowed two actors from John Ford's stable: Ben Johnson and Hank Worden. And watch for a quick appearance by Elisha Cook Jr.

Brando claimed that he wanted to make a "frontal assault on the temple of cliches." But according to David Shipman, "you'd have to go back to William S. Hart to find a Western hero so lacking in heroic qualities." Indeed, many reviewers found the film oddly cliched itself. Time magazine, for instance, called it "A horse opera" and claimed it was "the usual melodrama of revenge." But the New York Times called it "extraordinary" and claimed, "It is as if it had been jointly directed by John Huston and Raoul Walsh." All reviewers, however, took note of the stunning cinematography by Charles Lang. Lang's use of color and the contrasting locations of Sonora, Mexico and Monterey, California make One-Eyed Jacks an aesthetic treat and well worth another look.

Moon In The Gutter: Overlooked Classics: One Eyed Jacks Jeremy Richey, March 9, 2007

It has been hailed by Martin Scorsese and Quentin Tarantino, it is the only film directed by one of the most famous actors in film history and it signaled the rise of a more violent and cynical cinema, but for some reason Marlon Brando's One Eyed Jacks has never really gotten its due.

The main reason for its continuing dismissal in some circles is that it remains a compromised film. After a gruelling six months worth of shooting Marlon Brando either ran out of steam while editing, or the film was finally just taken away from him or most likely, both. It is known for sure that Brando's original five hour cut was whittled down to the 141 minutes we have now and the incredibly bleak ending was changed. Brando would comment on it's release that it was no longer his film but he would still get a Director's Guild nomination, which he would lose to Robert Wise.

Even in it's compromised state One Eyed Jacks remains a visionary film and a totally unique one. It's impact can be felt in the American Westerns that followed by Sam Peckinpah, Monte Hellman and Arthur Penn; and also in the European westerns that would gain such prominence just a few years later. One Eyed Jacks seems like a clear precursor, not only to Sergio Leone, to a breed of mystical European Westerns like Sergio Corbucci's The Grand Silence and Enzo Castellari's Keoma.

It all started out as a novel called The Authentic Death of Hendry Jones by Charles Neider. Sam Peckinpah optioned the book and wrote the original script, much of which made its way into the final product. Peckinpah was soon replaced after not seeing eye to eye with Brando, as was original director Stanley Kubrick. Brando decided to take the film on himself and he set out to create a piece of art that was 'gray and human'.

Brando surrounded himself with some of the finest character actors in Hollywood, including his friend Karl Malden. The astonishing cast would feature Ben Johnson, Slim Pickens, Larry Duran and Timothy Carey. Talented Mexican actors Katy Jurado and Pina Pellicer also signed up.

Shooting was originally scheduled for just a month in California's beautiful Big Sur but six months later Brando had shot almost seven times as much footage as most films. This was said to have shown his inexperience but when you watch the film you can see what Brando had in mind. The film is filled with multi-shot and multi-angled takes, as though Brando wanted to conceivably get every bit of emotion out of his actors that he could. Watching One Eyed Jacks now, even in its mutilated state, one always feels they are watching something very controlled and thought out. The production is fascinating in it's obsessive detail, but it's easy to see that this would have been a hard shoot for everyone (doubly so for Brando as he was subjecting himself as an actor to his obsessiveness as director).

The film's plot is simple, Brando is Rio and he is best friends with his robbing buddy Dad (Karl Malden in one of his great performances). Dad betrays Rio and Rio is sent to prison for five years. In that time Dad becomes a sheriff and Rio becomes more and more obsessed with revenge. The film could have played like a simple revenge tale but Brando turns it into a haunting, existential and masochistic nightmare.

Brando gives one of his loneliest and intense performances as Rio. Often shooting himself positioned slightly away from the other cast and often in close up to heighten the sense of isolation his character is going through. This is a man who never really gets out of the prison he was stuck in for five years. Much like Soderbergh's The Limey we are presented with a character essentially seeking revenge on himself and the audience follows him down his path knowing he'll never find the justice necessary to ease his pain.

The film's most famous moment is undoubtedly the whipping scene. Easily one of the most brutal scenes filmed up to that point in American cinema, the prolonged whipping literally brings Brando and the audience to it's knees. The film is also uncommonly tender at times and the scenes between Brando and the young Pina Pellicer are unforgettable. The moment when Brando admits that he lied to her and took her virtue just as part of his revenge on her stepfather (Malden) is one of his great moments and Pina's comment of, "You only shame yourself" is heartbreaking.

The lovely Pina Pellicer would take her own life just three years after shooting this film. It was a tragic loss and her performance in One Eyed Jacks is splendidly vulnerable and she would be awarded the best actress award at the San Sebastian film festival. She brings a tenderness out in Brando that few other actresses ever could.

Brando is magnificent throughout the entire film. His Rio is one of the most complex and multi-layered parts he ever played. He was also at the peak of his physical beauty here and the slightly added weight he had put on only adds to it. He cuts an imposing, muscular figure throughout the film and along with Elvis he remains the most masculine and beautiful man that ever appeared in front of a camera.

The film falls apart at the end. This is where the studio interference really hurt it and the last shot feels cheap and hollow, like it's from a different film.

It would perform decently at the box office but the wonderful cinematography of Charles Lang got the film its only Oscar nomination.

Brando was reportedly deeply disturbed by the studio interference and would never direct again. He was entering into ten years of some of his most underrated and sincere work, even if the films were often nowhere near as good as he was.

Ten years after One Eyed Jacks Brando would get the roles in The Godfather and Last Tango In Paris that would solidify him as the greatest of all actors. After Tango he stopped giving his heart to us and I often think of his later career and life in comparison to the shot in One Eyed Jacks when he realizes Dad has betrayed him. He's alone on top of a hill and a dust storm is developing around him, the wind is blowing and we see him looking and then we see the realization on his face that he's been left behind. It is one of the loneliest and most isolating moments in all of American cinema, and the look on Brando's face tells us more about the man than any mumbled interview or biography could ever hope to.

Just a few years after One Eyed Jacks left theaters Monte Hellman would deliver Ride In The Whirlwind and Sergio Leone would unleash A Fistful Of Dollars. Sam Peckinpah finally got to make something resembling his version of The Authentic Death Of Hendry Jones in 1973. Pat Garrett and Billy The Kid would share similar traits and scenes with One Eyed Jacks, have a troubled shooting and also be taken away and recut by the studio.

And the missing One Eyed Jacks footage? Legend has it that it was destroyed by Brando himself but I hold out a hope that it's still out there just waiting for someone to discover it. Chances are that if Brando said he destroyed it, then it is still around. This was a man who chose to tell us the truth only in his films and he was never more honest than he was in One Eyed Jacks.

A Regrettable Moment of Sincerity Adam Lippe and Rhett Miller

At the Movies Michael Wood from The London Review of Books, July 19, 2007

George Chabot's Review

FilmFanatic.org » One-Eyed Jacks (1961)

One-Eyed Jacks Michael Ben Doer from 10k bullets

The Village Voice [Jonas Mekas]

Projections Katie Kat

Ozus' World Movie Reviews (Dennis Schwartz) review

filmsgraded.com (Brian Koller) retrospective [76.9/100]

Exploded Goat [Joe Cormack]

Moda Magazine (Kage Alan) dvd review Legends of the West, 4-discs

Turner Classic Movies review Lang Thompson remembers Katy Jurado

Variety review

Montreal Film Journal (Kevin N. Laforest) review

The Toledo Blade [Ray Oviatt]

The Ottawa Citizen [Andrew Webster]

Baltimore City Paper (Andy Markowitz) review

The New York Times (Bosley Crowther) review

One-Eyed Jacks - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Brass, Tinto

CALIGULA

aka: Caligola

Italy USA (156 mi) 1979 co-director: Bob Guccione

not coming to a theater near you [Rumsey Taylor]

1979’s Caligula is solid evidence of the intriguing nature of X. The video cover boasts the title of “the most controversial film of the 20th Century.” Despite the arrogant height of this statement, one is at a loss to cite any film that rivals such an undisputed title.

Criticizing the film, one must discern its “halves”; each conjures a different reaction. Caligula is foremost an historical drama, involving the notorious exploits of the title emperor, said to be the most infamous in Roman history. The film was penned by acclaimed screenwriter Gore Vidal and helmed by Tinto Brass; the credits are a role call for a British Shakespearean guild; John Gielgud, Helen Mirren, Peter O’Toole, and Malcolm McDowell as the title character. Had Brass secured his vision, Caligula might have become less notorious and more liked.

Brass was fired before completion for editing the work in a manner straying from producer Bob Guccioni’s intent. Guccioni, editor of Penthouse magazine, took over. Without hesitation it can be said that the two visions in charge of the film not only deviated from one another, they conflict to the point that any portion of the film is noticeably helmed by one of two people: an artist and a pervert. The differentiation is obvious.

The film became a notorious failure. To compensate for its budget (near 15 million), tickets for Caligula’s initial release were an inordinate eight dollars. For these and numerous other reasons, Caligula boasts a sort of notoriety known to few films. It was a lavish accident: the marriage of legitimate film and smut.

Salon.com [Daniel Kraus]

Sir John Gielgud, one of England's most celebrated thespians, was 75 years old when he proudly announced, "I've just finished my first pornographic film, called 'Caligula.'"

Today the notorious 1979 film remains the only major motion picture to couple respected, eminent film actors (Gielgud, Peter O'Toole, Malcolm McDowell, Helen Mirren) with graphic, penetrative, smut-style sex. The 20th-anniversary edition of "Caligula" may be digitally remastered and enhanced with Dolby stereo sound, but its core is as raw as ever.

As part of Penthouse magazine's 20th-anniversary celebration, "Caligula" was given a brief theatrical rerelease earlier this fall and is now available on video and DVD from Image Entertainment. In the film's press release, producer and Penthouse founder Bob Guccione claims the revised edition of "Caligula" will "fundamentally change the theater-going public's perception of motion pictures."

Apparently, Guccione's goal for "Caligula" was the same goal he has for Penthouse -- to free it from the domain of barbershops and locked basement bureaus and to get the public to acknowledge porn as a worthy art form. But the new "Caligula" DVD comes packaged with a one-hour disc of Penthouse Pet DVD clips -- not exactly the "extra" that you would find enclosed with, say, a Merchant-Ivory period picture. Guccione himself accounts for the differences between "Caligula" and Penthouse porn in purely quantitative terms: "For [the] kind of money [spent on 'Caligula'], I could have made 200 porno films."

The story of a depraved and cruel Roman emperor who sinks into a psychotic hell of sex, torture and casual killing, "Caligula" permanently threw the porn smut curve. Movie reviewer Leonard Maltin spoke for almost every film critic when he said "Caligula" was little more than "chutzpah and six minutes of not-bad hardcore footage ... Most viewers will be rightfully repelled." The TLA Film & Video Guide is more generous: "For those chagrined at having missed the decadence and excess of the Roman Empire, this X-rated epic is as satisfying as a day of debauchery."

Guccione didn't take the criticism well. "I don't wish to sound paranoiac, but I knew, or rather suspected, that the press would see me as a kind of dilettante upstart, an intruder," he says. "No matter how good the film was, they would see me -- Bob Guccione, publisher of Penthouse, wheeler-dealer in sex and nudity, trying his hand at something new, pressing his luck ... buying his way in."

It's not clear what, exactly, Guccione thinks he bought his way into, but he proudly flaunts the $17.5 million budget that he personally put up (in cash, of course) to produce the original. And, to Guccione's credit, "Caligula" does make you reevaluate your umbrage yardstick. The sex is explicit, yes -- but it is just sex. "Caligula's" gratuitous decapitations and disembowelments -- presumably far less common in everyday life -- are now accepted in everyday cinema, and even then went largely unremarked upon.

Guccione sidestepped the Motion Picture Association of America's inevitable X rating by branding "Caligula" with his own MA (Mature Audiences only) rating. But MA seems far too respectable a label for a film that has all the markings of a chintzy skin flick, and rarely betrays its lavish preparation. The 20th-anniversary edition still has muddy sound, and still uses awkward wide shots and clumsy camera zooms to clump together a shot sequence. Rather than rethink the process of photographing sex, the makers of "Caligula" use Penthouse as their only artistic reference.

The result is an indulgence in standard fantasy filth: A women's bathhouse is, naturally, writhing with hot, girl-on-girl action and lots of big tits (forget "breasts" -- "tits," "cock" and "cunt" are also operative words here). And even if sperm really is a good exfoliating agent, as one scene would have us believe, a group of men spewing it synchronously is strictly porno hour -- not quite "shockingly realistic," as the press release promises.

Guccione knows that pornography fuels the gender wars: Women rightfully feel objectified by pornography, and attack the industry; men who don't join the crusade are, in turn, labeled as industry sympathizers. The only place in this moral mess where men and women actually seem to get along is in the pornography itself. While feminist author Andrea Dworkin writes, "Pornography is the material means of sexualizing inequality," Guccione must think, "Pornography is the material means of equalizing sexuality."

But Guccione safeguards his work from censors by aligning it with legitimate thinkers -- writers Gore Vidal, Isaac Asimov and John Chancellor were all Penthouse contributors. "Caligula," then, was the distillation of the Guccione empire: naked flesh on Page 1, cultural critique on Page 2 and when you close the pages it all smashes together.

For the film's cheeky finale, Caligula unveils his magnum opus -- a ship that serves as a colossal brothel. Guccione's presence is felt heaviest here; just as Caligula used his power to turn his eager kingdom into an orgy, Guccione has used Penthouse to turn an eager America on to the idea of an orgy. And if group sex isn't your cup of tea, just turn the Penthouse page, or let Caligula lead you to the ship's next chamber. Torture, toys or midgets? There's something here for everyone! Caligula and Guccione both pride themselves on packaging and trading sex for gold -- or, if you prefer, booty for booty.

"No one doubts the importance of sex," continues Guccione, "and if you do it a little better than the next guy -- accenting people rather than the pneumatic, nonstop grind of disembodied cocks and cunts -- if you show more respect for everyone's favorite subject, that's value!"

But hiring an Academy Award-winning production designer to adorn your porn with 64 sets, 450 gallons of blood and 3,592 costumes hardly equals "value." Consequently, "Caligula" emerges as a form of perversion, and not strictly of the sexual sort. Just as the Penthouse Forum reassured readers that they weren't alone in their fantasies, "Caligula" uses its respected credentials to persuade you to give in to your "indecent" urges (see, even Sir John's doing it!). Guccione's film is not just a presentation of lechery, revelry and anti-political-correctness; it's an invitation to join in, be proud of it and publicly ask for more.

Ten years ago, during a "60 Minutes" interview, Guccione told Morley Safer, "If ... the biggest-selling newsstand magazine in the area, that is to say, Penthouse, isn't the community standard, what is?" But even if Guccione was right, a magazine and a movie are entirely different beasts. Despite grossing $23.4 million in the United States alone and selling thousands of videos monthly, "Caligula" provided a lead that few films followed. And apparently, we're still not ready to bring our dark desires into the light and noise of a crowded movie-theater lobby. Which is why -- 20 years after its initial release -- "Caligula" still stands as an oddity, the cornerstone of a film movement -- and a sexual awakening -- that never happened.

not coming to a theater near you [David Carter]

DVDTown [John J. Puccio]

filmcritic.com (Rachel Gordon)

The Onion A.V. Club [Keith Phipps]

Cinema de Merde

Movie House Commentary Johnny Web

Mondo Digital

DVD Verdict [Brett Cullum]

Digital Retribution - 3 Disc Imperial Edition Review Julian Bodenmann

Fantasies and Nightmares The Red-Blooded Media, by Valerie Miner from Jump Cut

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

DVDBeaver [Gary Tooze]

Brechner, Alvaro

BAD DAY TO GO FISHING (Mal Dia Para Pescar)

Uruguay (100 mi) 2009

Bad Day To Go Fishing (Mal Dia Para Pescar) Dan Fainaru at Cannes from Screendaily

This attempt at deadpan satire, based on a short story by Juan Carlos Onetti , lacks the necessary pace, wit or humour to sustain its lofty ambitions – Bad Day To Go Fishing seems to sorely lacks the irony that made fellow Uruguayan film Whisky such an arthouse success a few years ago.

The story concerns a two-bit impresario going under the name of Prince Orsini (Piquer) who, accompanied by a has-been, ageing wrestler named Jacob van Oppen (Ahola), descends upon a quiet Latin American town with the intention of fleecing the inhabitants, but finds himself the victim of his own scam instead. But both camera work and editing on Bad Day To Go Fishing seem uninspired and the result is not challenging enough for art houses nor attractive enough for mainstream distribution.

Prince Orsini is a middle-aged wheeler-dealer who considers himself to be a sharp player of people. He makes money by promoting the performances of former champion wrestler Jacob van Oppen, who is down on his luck, fond of the bottle and apparently also given to epileptic fits.

They move from one small Latin American town to another, promising a substantial award to any local willing to challenge the Champ. Needless to say, Orsini makes sure the potential opponent will go down in the ring for a fee and van Oppen’s reputation will not be tinted. But something happens in Santa Maria, “a hole in the middle of nowhere” to quote Orsini, to turn the tables on him.

The hall for the event is rented, the posters printed and put up all over town, and Jacob’s challenger has been paid to take the fall. Everything seems to be in place when the hired contender uses his payoff to drink himself into a stupor. A cheeky, insistent girl Adriana (Costa) demands that her fiancé wrestles van Oppen instead, and the champion himself is becoming more volatile by the moment.

It is easy to see how the basic plot could have been turned into a brilliant satirical piece. But in order to achieve that aim, the story needs more meat and a sharper direction. Gary Piquer, charged with carrying most of the film on his shoulders, is better at despondency and self-pity than he is at satire. Antonella Costa overplays her character’s toughness, while Ahola is never required to deliver more than a faint sketch of the past legend who still clings to a glory that is no longer his.

Breien, Anja

Anja Breien - English biography and filmography from the Norwegian Film Institute

WIVES (Hustruer)

Norway (84 mi) 1975

The Norwegian comedic feminist response to Cassavetes’ Husbands

Museum of the Moving Image - Films - Anja Breien: Games ...

Celebrated in her home country and throughout Europe, but little-known in America, the Norwegian film director Anja Breien makes feminist, politically aware fiction and documentary films. Because of their formal fluidity, exploration of women’s issues, and controlled directorial style, her films have often been compared to those of Chantal Akerman. Her first feature film, Rape (1971), a critique of the Norwegian judicial system, is not told chronologically, but starts simultaneously at the beginning and the end, working its way into the middle; it was recently compared to Asghar Farhadi’s A Separation (2011). Inspired by John Cassavetes’s Husbands (1970), Breien made Wives (1975) as a riposte. A major commercial and critical hit throughout Scandinavia, it follows the exploits of three housewives who decide to relinquish familial responsibilities and spend a day exploring their freedom. For this film, and its sequel, featuring the same characters played by the same actors, ten years later, critic Peter Cowie described Breien as a Dogme director 20 years before Dogme arrived. Next of Kin (1979), a satirical look at family members vying over an inheritance, was selected for the main competition in Cannes in 1979; Ingmar Bergman, a fan of the film, told Breien that it should have won an award. This retrospective, the first one of Breien’s work in the United States, is a rare opportunity to see her work theatrically, with the filmmaker in person and an introduction by renowned scholar Jane Gaines.

Wives (Hustruer) - Museum of the Moving Image

Having seen John Cassavetes’s Husbands, Anja Breien felt prompted to make a humorous riposte; a chronicle of female exploits. Three former classmates, Mie, Kaja, and Heidrun, now in their 30s, meet at a school reunion. Together, they represent the new post-war generation of middle-class Norwegian women. Following a drunken evening, they make a sudden decision to flee their families and responsibilities; roaming about Oslo, they discuss sex, womanhood, and family responsibilities. Relying heavily on improvisation, the actresses (and co-authors) keep the story flowing within a tight structure that gradually reveals the characters’ inner selves. Wives was an international success, gaining wide recognition for Breien. With Anne Marie Ottersen, Katja Medbøe, and Frøydis Armand.

Norway's Anja Breien honoured at New York's Museum of ... Jorn Rossing Jensen from Cineuropa, August 11, 2013

First U.S. Retrospective of Norwegian Director Anja Breien ... Broadway World, October 28, 2013

Movie Review - Wives Ten Years Later - FROM NOR Walter Goodman on '”Wives – Ten Years After,” from The New York Times

Breillat, Catherine

Film Reference Rob Edelman

It is not so much her subject matter that makes novelist/actressturned-director/screenwriter Catherine Breillat so provocative and controversial. Rather, it is the manner in which she depicts that subject matter, the choices she makes as a filmmaker as she portrays her characters and their sexual longings. None of the liaisons in Breillat's films are "traditional," because of the age differences between the characters or their stations in life. Their unions are injurious and obsessive, with Breillat not holding back in any way as she explores the manner in which duplicity, contrition, and rejection kindle sexual yearning. Her primary focus most often is on her female characters and their carnal appetites. In this regard, Breillat has spent her directorial career re-making the same film (albeit with heroines ranging in age from adolescence through early middle-age).

With boring regularity, Hollywood has churned out films focusing on teen-agers and their rampaging hormones. Yet Breillat's 36 fillette is a different, and decidedly more adult, take on this theme. Breillat tells the story of Lili, a restless, alienated fourteen-year-old who attracts the attention of several men—and, in particular, a middle-aged playboy—while on vacation with her family. As the story unfolds, the question arises: Will she or won't she lose her virginity?

What sets 36 fillette apart from other teen coming-of-age films is the way in which Breillat presents her lead character. Lili's sexual curiosity does not lead her to boys her own age; instead, she is involved with males who might be her father. The focus of the story is on her, and not her potential sexual partners; she is depicted as being just as much of a sexual predator as any male. Despite her age and lack of sexual experience, Lili is no tentative, blushing innocent. Neither is she a sexual victim. She is instead an indecisive young woman whose fully developed body mirrors her craving for sexual initiation. As Breillat explores the social and sexual realities of the character, the men with whom she deals serve as mere props; they exist solely as a means for Lili to explore the power of her emerging sexuality. And the sexuality Breillat portrays is explicit; her character's tender age is no excuse for the filmmaker to cut away from actress Delphine Zentout's voluptuous body during the film's sex scenes. 36 fillette—and, for that matter, all of Breillat's films—may not be in the same artistic league as the all-time-best cinematic chronicles of sexuality and desire, adolescent or otherwise. What sets them apart are the choices the filmmaker makes for her lead characters, and the candid manner in which she portrays their sexuality.

Breillat began her career as a novelist, and was a published author while still in her teens; because of its salty language, her first book, L'Homme facile, was the subject of controversy in her native France. She started out in cinema as an actress—fittingly, she had a role in Bertolucci's Last Tango in Paris—and then co-scripted such inconsequential sexploitation films as Michel Boisrond's Catherine et Cie and David Hamilton's Bilitis. Despite its trite handing, Catherine etCie does offer up a tale of female sexual empowerment as it chronicles the attempt of a prostitute to incorporate herself. Then Breillat's writing credits grew in stature: Fellini's E la nave va (And the Ship Sails On) and Maurice Pialat's Police. The latter deals with characteristic Breillat material as it charts the plight of a racist, sexist police detective who is drawn to a sensual, streetwise young woman involved in a drug smuggling case.

Breillat's directorial debut, One vrai jeune fille, spotlights a young teen's fixation on her burgeoning sexuality. However, Breillat really came into her own as a cinematic talent with 36 fillette, which allegedly is autobiographical (and also is based on one of her novels). In her subsequent films, she has not shied away from graphic sexual depictions. Sale comme un ange, her follow-up to 36 fillette, chronicles the relationship between the wife of a young cop and her husband's partner, a self-hating, fifty-year-old police inspector. The sex scenes between the two are as fiercely candid as those in 36 fillette. Parfait amour! is the story of a middle-class divorcee in her late thirties and her disastrous affair with a self-involved man who not only is unsettled but is a decade her junior. In Parfait amour! Breillat also pushes the sexual envelope; the film includes a scene in which a hairbrush is utilized as a sexual apparatus.

Along with 36 fillette, Breillat's highest-profile feature to date is Romance. Here, she explores the erotic desires of Marie, a twenty-something schoolteacher whose boyfriend refuses to have sexual relations with her; summarily, Marie sets out on a sexual odyssey in which she experiments with several different partners. Romance may not be the first mainstream film to feature oral sex, or a woman undergoing a gynecological examination. However, such sequences usually are discreetly filmed; the physical activity is suggested, rather than shown in detail. Yet in Romance, Breillat's staging and camera placement allow the audience an unencumbered view of Caroline Ducey, the actress playing Marie, performing fellatio on Sagamore Stevenin, the actor playing her boyfriend. During the exam sequence, Marie is shown spread-eagled and in full view. And the male nudity in Romance is more than just full-frontal; Breillat shows the erect member of one of Marie's sex partners (played by porn star Rocco Siffredi).

So why is Romance not an exploitation film? The fact that it has been made by a woman filmmaker is an inadequate explanation. After all, a woman is just as capable as a man of directing a film that exists solely to titillate the viewer with hardcore sex scenes. Romance is not pornographic because of the context in which its scenes are presented. Marie is, like Lili in 36 fillette, a sexual being. She is sexually empowered. In a more dated, traditional film depicting relations between men and women—the classics of this type might feature Doris Day and Rock Hudson—the male is the aggressor while the female is sexually withholding, heroically grasping onto her virginity until her wedding night. Yet in Romance, Marie is sexually experienced; she relishes her eroticism, and is anguished by her boyfriend's ambivalence. Breillat illustrates her character's desires by allowing the camera to reveal all during the sex scenes; she depicts Marie's womanhood by her shot selection in the doctors' exam sequence. By making these choices, Breillat presents images that might be disturbing to some, and might not be for all tastes, but that nevertheless feature an honesty and forthrightness that is not so much shocking as liberating.

All-Movie Guide bio info

TCMDB more bio

Catherine Breillat Brian Price from Senses of Cinema

Telegraph: Breillat on Nagisa Oshima's "In the Realm of the Senses" from Filmmakers on Film, written by Breillat, July 19, 2003

Breillat, Catherine They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

Salon Interview (1999) Tainted Love, by Cynthia Joyce, September 17, 1999

Guardian Interview (2001) The Joy of Sex, by Libby Brooks, November 23, 2001

indieWIRE Interview by Saul Anton

Catherine Breillat: 'I love blood. It's in all my films' Cath Clarke interview from The Guardian, July 15, 2010

A REAL YOUNG GIRL (Une vraie jeune fille) D 60

France (93 mi) 1976

Bright Lights Film Journal Gary Morris

This film was originally released in 1975 but caused such an uproar that it was censored and then banned, remaining unreleased until recently, perhaps riding the wave of Breillat's increasing notoriety for art films that include hardcore sex. Fourteen-year-old Alice (Charlotte Alexandra ) returns to her family for the summer from boarding school. Daddy lusts after her, at one point exposing himself in lurid closeup (size queens may demand a refund), though she doesn't pay this or anything else much attention. Daddy has a philosophical bent ("All the girls give their asses and there's nothing left!") that Alice has inherited. She spends much of the film in eloquent self-analysis ("I can't accept the proximity of my face and my vagina!"), processing teenage-girl rituals like puking on herself ("I sat up, liberated by the vomit's warmth. Disgust makes me lucid."), and wandering around the house tempting one of her father's employees (hunky Hiram Keller from Fellini Satyricon) and wearing her panties around her ankles, as so many teenage girls tend to do. A Real Young Girl clearly predicts Breillat's later hardcore work and in a way is even more disturbing, with its images of Alice sticking a big spoon up her skirt and compulsively masturbating. Breillat takes a clinical, "real-time" approach to this very dicey material that subtly sucks the viewer into its depressing indictment of bourgeois life.

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

Controversy has always followed French provocateur Catherine Breillat (Romance), but, in the spirit of her sexually adventurous heroines, she's spent her entire career leading it on. When she agreed to adapt her first feature, 1975's A Real Young Girl, from a novel (The Air Duct) about a 14-year-old's self-discovery, the producers expected gauzy, exploitative softcore that would be vindicated by a female perspective. In a way, Breillat gave them exactly what they wanted, an explicit and erotically charged one-hot-summer scenario starring the voluptuous Charlotte Alexandra, who would later appear in the third Emmanuelle film. But Breillat's discomfiting frankness about the shame, violence, and decidedly unladylike experimentation that are part of her heroine's coming-of-age so disturbed the producers that the film was never released. Twenty-five years later, timed in perfect anticipation of Fat Girl (another unsettling study of adolescence), A Real Young Girl finally made its debut in Paris theaters, quietly ducking the controversy that was rained on the post-feminist hardcore of Baise-Moi. A crude, revealing sketch of the themes and attitudes that would resurface in her later work, the film takes a matter-of-fact approach to teen sexuality that's bold and uncompromising, far from any cheesecloth titillation for the trenchcoat crowd. But Breillat's usual shortcomings are also laid bare at this early stage, including a tendency toward silly provocation, hateful peripheral characters, and a heroine alter ego who speaks in arch theory instead of common language. Loose and episodic, with frequent excursions into fantasy, the story takes place during Alexandra's summer vacation at her parents' home in the French countryside in the late '60s. Bored by her repressed mother (Rita Maiden) and lecherous father (Bruno Balp), both grotesque relics of a more conservative era, Alexandra spends her endless days coming to terms with her newly developed body. When she's not throwing scandalous looks at the lean young stud (Hiram Keller) at her father's sawmill, she spends a lot of time fiddling with bodily fluids and looking for things (a spoon, an ink pen, a bottle of tanning lotion) to cram in her vagina. Her experiments are often accompanied by a voiceover loaded with daffy Breillatisms, like when she vomits on her pajamas and savors its "liberating warmth." At its best, A Real Young Girl deals honestly with the uncertainties of an awkward transition, when girls are thrust into womanhood without knowing quite how to handle it. Breillat gets inside Alexandra's head almost too well, viewing the world outside of it with a juvenile's listlessness and contempt. Following its heroine's lead, there are discoveries to be made in A Real Young Girl, but getting there means pawing through a lot of muck.

Reverse Shot [Lauren Kaminsky]

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

Epinions.com [tbthorn]

Reel Movie Critic [Shelley Cameron]

Film Journal International (David Noh)

filmcritic.com Christopher Null

New York Times (registration req'd) A.O. Scott

36 FILLETTE B+ 92

aka: Virgin

France (88 mi) 1988

Time Out

Yet another film that catches the thrills and fears of a young girl's sexual awakening. Unromantic and shot in long, unflinching takes, Breillat's film sees 14-year-old Lili (Zentout), on a family camping holiday, accept a lift in a flash car from balding smoothie Maurice (Chicot). They meet later at a nightclub, and a mating ritual based on his lust and her paralysed desire begins. Things get complex. In the course of alternately teasing Maurice to distraction and insulting him cruelly - in his hotel room, on the beach, in his ex-girlfriend's bed - Lili reveals a fragility that arouses affection and protectiveness in her playboy seducer. He falls in love, and when he does, Lili senses that her use for him is over. In Lili, Breillat has created a new kind of sex symbol: a voluptuous ingénue who is sharp-tongued, quick-witted, and independent of spirit to the bitter end. But will that appeal to men? Probably not.

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

Sexuality is both Calvary and power weapon for Catherine Breillat's heroines, never more so than during the formative excruciation of adolescence. The Jan Brady of the filmmaker's trio of puberty-agonizing explorers, bracketed by her debut A Real Young Girl and the later Fat Girl, the film's 14-year-old protagonist (Delphine Zentout) is probably the most conventionally attractive, though no less burdened by a changing body seemingly on display for the entire world. Her heavy bosom and thick thighs obviously no longer fitting in the eponymous kiddie-dress measurement, Zentout's sullen jailbait ditches her bored family, camped out on the overcast beachfront, for the local nightclub, where her dark petulance catches the eye of middle-aged roué Etienne Chicot, whose depravity now can only produce jaded yawns ("busted her sphincter," he casually remarks of a disco-hopping acquaintance). More than one critic has caught Chicot's resemblance to Brando's buttery Paul in Last Tango in Paris, but where Bertolucci's duo slam together by the first reel, Breillat keeps the coitus continually interruptus here, all the better to stretch her characters' sexual anxiety -- Zentout's little rendezvous with Chicot at his posh hotel, real-time groping kept mostly in medium distances, is the film's centerpiece, an extended waltz between the man's sheer desire to wipe the smile of a tease's face and the girl's awareness of her developing body-politic. Courting intimations of cynical worldliness despite her virginity ("I got dumped twice. Now, I'm immune," she tells Jean-Pierre Léaud's tuxedoed musician, during one of her rare tantrum-free moments), Zentout comes to see her despoiling as the entrance to the adult universe she, for all her rebellion, yearns to belong to. Fumbling three times with her somnolent Humbert Humbert, she finally gets her wish with a gawky colleague, and the girl's post-defloration grin, freeze-framed, signals a relief that, given Breillat's no less bleak view of adult sexuality, really amounts to jumping from the grill onto the fire. With Stephane Moquet, Olivier Parniere, and Jean-François Stevenin.

Deep Focus (Bryant Frazer)

French writer/director Catherine Breillat, whose Romance beats Eyes Wide Shut as this year's smartest, wariest sex film (if not the most fascinating), hasn't been heard from in the U.S. since 36 Fillette was exported back in 1987. Taking its title from the purported dress size of its 14-year-old protagonist, 36 Fillette is a low-key character study involving an elaborate courtship between that girl (16-year-old Delphine Zentout, in a fine performance) and a 40ish salesman (Etienne Chicot). She's on vacation with her family; he's keeping a posh hotel room and spending long nights at dance clubs following a separation from his wife.

Yes, this another one of those cute-young-thing-beds-geezer-with-receding-hairline movies that we've all grown so tired of. But although Maurice is clearly taking advantage, the film investigates a balance of power betwen him and the girl -- Lili protects her virginity in an extended will-she-or-won't-she display, and it's never clear whether the largely hapless Maurice is any good as a lover, anyway. Breillat is interested in the girl's incipient sexuality, the source of her desirability and power. Her skill with members of the opposite sex is established early on, when she gives a celebrity musician (Jean-Pierre Léaud, famous for his role in Truffaut's autobiographical The 400 Blows) a demanding look from across a crowded room as he rather dourly signs autographs for well-dressed concertgoers. "I wonder what you want?" he asks. "I certainly don't want your autograph," she says. She's not looking for sex or souvenirs; she just wants to talk.

When she's playing the coquette, she's just a kid, impatient with life and perturbed by her environment. She mopes around, complaining that she doesn't have the guts to slash open her wrists, and that school bores her. Other than an obligatory scene in which her father smacks her around after she pulls a quick vanishing act, there's no indication that this innate sulkiness is borne of anything more significant than standard-issue adolescent pique. But the ultimate sourness of this film (a quality it shares with Romance) is tied up in Lili's encounters with men, who seem congenitally incapable of satisfying a woman sexually or emotionally.

Only with Léaud's character, the musician, does Lili seem to make any kind of connection. Breillat does seem to be making her own version of The 400 Blows, with that actor's presence just the most obvious reference point; she even closes her picture on a freeze frame that apes the Truffaut picture. Your reaction to the film will likely be reliant on your tolerance for that level of impertinence.

Even so, Breillat's unique quality is her ability to make sex scenes emotionally resonant in and by themselves -- the relationships between the characters are revealed in the ways they try to connect physically, and that physicality can only be conveyed on film through an offhand explicitness, at which Breillat excels. (Were she to dabble in out-and-out hardcore, you have to wonder if she could make the film that would singlehandedly rescue porn from the gutter.)

CultureCartel.com (Rachel Gordon)

MovieMartyr.com Jeremy Heilman

Washington Post [Hal Hinson]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Janet Maslin)

ROMANCE B 84

France (99 mi) 1999

Nashville Scene [Noel Murray]

French director Catherine Breillat's film Romance has caused a mild sensation on both sides of the Atlantic. But it's unlikely to cause much of a stir here in Nashville--because it's unlikely to make an appearance in any local theater, chain or otherwise. The film has no MPAA rating, but it would be a clear NC-17 because of the presence of several explicit--some might say pornographic--sex scenes. Which means that Nashville cinemas won't touch it, and local filmgoers with an interest in mature subject matter will have to settle for Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo.

The weird thing is, though, what would be likely to shock audiences in Romance is what happens amongst all the clinical copulation. In one sequence, the film's lead character, Marie (played by Caroline Ducey), sneaks out of the bedroom of her model-boyfriend Paul (Sagamore Stevenin). She picks up a man in a cafe, makes out with him in her car until morning, makes a date to meet later for sex--and then drives straight to her job as a grammar school teacher.

Romance is not necessarily about the distance between our sex lives and our "normal" lives, but it's not not about that either. The film is a sometimes harsh, sometimes arousing (in more ways than one) look at one woman's sexual dysfunction, and by extension--Breillat would likely assert--all women's.

Saddled with a sexy boyfriend who won't sleep with her, Marie endeavors on a series of increasingly degrading affairs. With the stranger from the cafe, Marie attempts to see if she can make sex disgusting to a man by constantly referring to human hair, blood, and semen. She fails to turn him off. Later, Marie allows herself to be stripped and tied up by her boss, then proceeds to sell herself to a man on the street, who essentially rapes her without paying her. Marie is undeterred. She defiantly shouts after him, "I'm not ashamed!"

Ultimately, Marie gets pregnant and allows herself to be a case study for gynecology students. They stand in line with their plastic gloves, awaiting a turn at the exam table. The story, and all lingering eroticism, ends with a nothing-taboo depiction of live birth.

Because this is a French film, the scenes of graphic sexuality are interspersed with static shots of quiet contemplation, shattered by voice-overs in which Marie ruminates about her dissatisfaction with life. Were the conversation about, say, actuarial tables, Romance would be pretty hard to take. But because it's about sex, the abundance of silence and stillness holds a fascination. And much of what Breillat has to say, via the (very) brave young actress Ducey and their mutual character Marie, is boldly intriguing.

A few moments stand out. Marie holds a mirror to her vagina and her face, and wonders if men are able to make a connection between the two, to love them both equally. Similarly, Marie's boss jokes that most men couldn't identify their own penis if they had to pick through a basketful to find it. The two insights are brought together in a fantasy sequence: Marie imagines a brothel where women are presented to men from the waist down, only to be ravaged truly anonymously.

All of this has to do with the three-way disconnection between human intellect, emotion, and desire. But if Romance comes off more as an admirable, hard-to-like "think piece" than a gut-wrenching emotional powerhouse, blame Breillat's own disconnection. The writer-director never articulates fully whether her film is an essay on sexuality or a narrow character study. The main problem is that Breillat never explains Marie's boyfriend's sudden disinterest in sex, which makes what follows all the harder to understand.

Whatever its flaws, Romance is a thought-provoking and often upsetting film, with a high degree of artistic merit. And while film fans in other major cities are free to love it or hate it, the large number of cinephiles in Music City will have to table their debate until next year's inevitable video release. How ridiculous is it that in a city with "The World's Largest Adult Bookstore," where just about every downtown corner houses a strip club or massage parlor, a serious look at sexuality is all but shut out? Perhaps it's just a reflection of our nation at large, where jokes on TV are getting smuttier and smuttier, but we can't see the uncut Eyes Wide Shut. We push the envelope when it comes to making fun of sex, but not when trying to understand it.

Deep Focus (Bryant Frazer)

With her new feature, Romance, Catherine Breillat (best known in the U.S. for 36 Fillette) comes closer than any director that I know of to finding a means of expressing the most basic human emotions -- love, longing, fear, insecurity -- in the language of sexuality.

The very sexual scenes that make up the bulk of Romance's running time are more explicit by far than anything to come from mainstream world cinema since Japanese director Nagisa Oshima unleashed his In the Realm of the Senses on the world back in 1976. Romance isn't quite as hardcore as all that, but it is significantly more explicit than the more recent Italian sexual cause celebre, Devil in the Flesh (1987) -- which notoriously featured a brief, dark scene where Maruchka Detmers gave Federico Pitzalis a half-hearted blow job on camera.

Now that the obligatory historical comparisons are out of the way, I want to be clear that there's more going on in Romance than just the erotic touching, erect penises and gynecological camera angles. Each of the sexual encounters depicted takes the main character a step farther on an internal journey toward some kind of self-knowledge -- that's why it's important that these scenes be shown, and not simply hinted at modestly. (Trimark will release the film in the U.S., unedited and unrated, in September.) Breillat's fearless accomplice in this exploration is the remarkable Caroline Ducey, a naturalistic young actress who projects conviction, confusion and vulnerability as Marie, the film's schoolteacher protagonist.

Marie embarks on her journey after much frustration with fashion-model boyfriend Paul (Sagamore Stévenin), who is either unable or unwilling to make love to her. She first finds succor in the bed of Paolo (real-life porn magnate Rocco Siffredi), a beefy fellow whom she picks up at a Parisian cafe in the middle of the night. Before long she politely ditches Paolo, unnerved that he is taking the place of Paul in her thoughts. Her explorations next lead her to a series of quietly intense sado-masochistic encounters with her school's headmaster (Francois Berleand), an inveterate chauvinist skilled in the use of ropes, handcuffs, and other assorted bondage equipment. Every night, she returns home to an uninterested Paul, blithely remarking on her evening out with the girls. In this way, at least, she remains scrupulously faithful.

The film's centerpiece is an uncomfortably long sequence that has Berleand stripping Marie and then roping, buckling, and chaining her into uncomfortable positions. (Afterward, they go out for a nice dinner.) The strength of the scene is that Breillat doesn't clue us in to how Marie feels about this particular experiment. At any rate, it's out of her hands once the gag goes in her mouth and the cuffs on her wrists. As in earlier passages from the film, we have to content ourselves with watching, imagining the reality of such an act as it passes in real time on the screen. No matter how vigorous our objections to this scenario may be -- or, conversely, how strongly we may be aroused by the notion -- Breillat's point of view remains, I think, absolutely non-judgmental.

That's not to say that the film lacks judgment, or a point of view. Marie's adventurousness eventually, perhaps unavoidably, leads her to be badly mistreated, her spirit finally broken. Despite her incongruous protestations that she's unashamed, this abjection seems finally to change something inside of her, and her mood spirals downward. Licking her wounds, Marie finally draws some conclusions about what it means to make love to a woman -- and why her beloved Paul remains bluntly uninterested in servicing her.

The film's conclusion offers glibly humorous relief from everything that has come before, a sly nod to female angst and instinct, as well as to cosmic balance. Even though Marie makes a decisive exit from her loveless love life, her motivations in screwing strangers and acquaintances remain vaguely enigmatic -- as many sexual impulses must, even in the real world.

As Breillat took the stage after a screening of Romance at the Walter Reade Theater in New York City, one audience member wanted to know if Marie was a "nymphomaniac," as Marie herself wonders in voiceover at one point during the movie. And if Marie wasn't a nymphomaniac, this woman asked, what was she? Another viewer wanted to know why Marie stops seeing Paolo, the "only real man" in the entire movie, after spending just a couple of nights with him. There is no easy answer to these questions; the only answers that can exist are within the film itself. Explaining a French character study is a little bit like examining a joke or dissecting a frog -- you can do it, provided you're willing to see the character, the joke, or the frog die in the process.

So I'll refrain from doing much more explaining, observing only that Romance can be read as a perhaps overly scornful look at the expected relationships between men and women. Missing the point entirely, one last questioner took po-faced issue with Breillat's choice of title, as though the director lacked any sense of irony. "Your film insults romance," he claimed. No, Breillat responded. "Romance insults itself."

BFI | Sight & Sound | Romance (1999) Ginette Vincendeau from Sight and Sound, November 1999

France, the present. Marie, a schoolteacher, loves her partner Paul, but is frustrated by his refusal to make love to her. She picks up a young Italian named Paolo in a bar, and later they have sex. Robert, the head of her school, tells her there is a problem with her work. He takes her home to discuss it but they begin a series of ritualised S&M sexual encounters. She has rough sex which shades into rape with a stranger. Finally Paul makes love to her and she becomes pregnant. She undergoes a gynaecological examination and has vivid sexual fantasies. As she is about to give birth, Paul gets drunk. She opens the gas on the cooker and leaves for the hospital with Robert. She gives birth, with Robert present. Her flat is destroyed in an explosion which presumably kills Paul. Marie fantasises about Paul's funeral, while she holds her baby, also called Paul.

Review

Much has been made in the press of the fact that Romance is one of the most explicit heterosexual art films to date, prompting both accusations of indecency and laudatory comparisons with Oshima's Ai No Corrida (1976). Central to Romance's scabrous image is the presence of Italian porn star Rocco Siffredi as the Italian stud Paolo who "fucks" Marie in a graphic take. Both male (erect and soft) and female genitals are on display here, along with head-on shots of Marie's gynaecological examination and her baby's birth. As Marie's voiceover explains: "I just want to be a hole; the more gaping, the more obscene, the truer it is; it's metaphysical, it's my purity."

Yet as Marie's mixture of obscenities and existential considerations indicates, Romance addresses its audience not as a sex film but as an intellectual artefact about sex. Culturally it belongs to a French tradition that goes back to de Sade and encompasses the writings of Apollinaire, Bataille, Klossowski and Pauline Réage (author of Histoire d'O), in which eroticism is a cerebral matter. As a film-maker Breillat radically undermines her movie's potential for titillation and voyeurism in a number of ways, often by using prosaic details. A discussion of used condoms and tampons comically precedes sex with Paolo, for example.

Breillat's aestheticisation of sex is indebted to the stillness of Japanese cinema. Her mise en scène is bluntly realistic in some ways, but distanced from naturalism. Romance's social anchorage is minimal: Paul is a model, Marie a teacher, but their social identity is as pared down as their white flat. Breillat's signature use of near-to-real time allows such scenes as Robert and Marie's bondage games to be presented in such hyper-realist detail they become almost abstract. Similarly the gynaecological examination is shocking not in a traditional moral sense, but because of the deadpan approach. "Romance would not be classified porn," Breillat has said, "not through self-censorship, but by finding another way of showing."

Inevitably, since Breillat is a woman, Romance prompts the question of whether this "other way of showing" is connected to gender and whether Romance can be regarded as a feminine or feminist exploration of female desire. Like many French female film-makers, Breillat denies the concept of 'women's cinema', seeking to be identified with a general view of authorship. And yet from her earliest films (such as 36 Fillette) she has focused single-mindedly on female sexuality. Both her recent Parfait amour! and Romance contain savage explorations of female desire and identity and critiques of French machismo and misogyny. Marie says at one point of Paul, "He dances because he wants to seduce, he wants to seduce because he wants to conquer, he wants to conquer because he is a man."

In other ways too Breillat foregrounds a female point of view and works in the tradition of the woman's film. For instance, Marie's voiceover dominates the soundtrack. The men are weak or merely instrumental – each of them fulfils a simple function (partner, father, mentor, and so on), after which he is discarded. By contrast, Breillat's women are complex. Contrary to stereotypical representations, they are not victims, mad or mysterious objects of desire. In Romance it is Paul who is a mystery.

Thus in many ways Breillat satisfies one of the key feminist demands in relation to women's cinema: that it should challenge patriarchal representations and give expression to the complexity of female desire. Her direct tackling of sexuality, unburdened by conventional morality and political correctness, is original and emotionally powerful. Romance is both fascinating and disturbing. Why, then, is it disappointing? One reason is that some of its erotic tropes are rather too close to old-fashioned, oppressive male fantasies: Robert's self-important Don Juan figure; the notion that genital penetration is less intimate than kissing; and, most problematic of all, Marie's longing to "meet Jack the Ripper." Is the price Breillat pays for auteur recognition that of endorsing male-pleasing fantasies of what 'masochistic' women supposedly want? As in the recent films of other French women directors (such as Tonie Marshall and Jeanne Labrune), Marie's sexual autonomy is gained at the expense of any other sense of worth. All this only seems to produce a profoundly pessimistic, even nihilistic, world view. There is a lot of sex in Romance, but not a lot of pleasure.

BFI | Sight & Sound | The Edge Of The Razor Leslie Felperin and Linda Ruth Williams from Sight and Sound, October 1999

Breillat, Catharine essay on ROMANCE by Gerald Peary

Village Voice (Amy Taubin)

Jonathan Rosenbaum, Chicago Reader

culturevulture.net, Choices for the Cognoscenti Tom Block

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FAT GIRL (À ma soeur!) D+ 62

France Italy (86 mi) 2001

Did this film suck or what? Ms. Breillat introduced her film by saying it starts out like a sitcom, but then it “changes.” This was an intentionally annoying and pretentious film about an uninteresting family that is continuously pre-occupied with themselves, parents that don’t have a clue about their children, two teenage sisters, one cute, the other fat, where the cute sister is constantly mean to the younger sister, who then takes refuge in food, whose mother makes excuses for her and says it’s a “glandular problem.” Instead, it appears to be a hormonal problem with the two sisters who have phony ideas about sex, lead phony lives, discover only phony people will pay attention to them, and then whine about it to each other. This film can be summed up in a nutshell. Mom complains: “People are so disgusting,” to which the younger daughter replies: “That’s so typically French.” Mom parks in the handicapped parking spot, throws refuse out the window, doesn’t know how to change lanes on the freeway, and we’re supposed to care about these people when a blast of ill wind blows their way?

…despite being the 2001 Chicago Film Fest prizewinner, this is a good film to walk out on

Time Out

Elena (Mesquida) is 15, old enough to understand the effect of her beauty on males, young enough to feel insecure and confused over how to lose her virginity to the right person. Her 12-year-old sister Anaïs (Reboux), on the other hand, is fat, envious and insists that, when the time comes, she'd rather give herself to a stranger. Holidaying with their parents, the girls reach a new phase in their bickering when Elena starts seeing Italian law student Fernando (De Rienzo), whose determination to have sex involves smooth talk that may persuade Elena of his romantic intentions, but doesn't fool little sister, reluctant witness to his siegecraft from her bed across the room. What if mum or dad were to find out? Breillat's typically tough but sensitive study of sisterly rivalry may be less philosophical in tone - not to mention less visually explicit - than its predecessor Romance, but it remains notable for its refusal to provide a facile, politically correct account of adolescent experience. As psychological portrait and social critique, the film offers cruelly honest insights. Dark, disturbing and hugely impressive, it's made all the more lucid by superb performances from the two young actresses.

arenn's 2001 Film Year in Review Aaron M. Renn

A special note on FAT GIRL. There are spoilers and I do not apologize for them.

Seldom am I morally offended by a film, but this is one that sickened me. Breillat exploits a 12 or 13 year old girl for her "art".

You can quibble about the age of the actress playing the older sister, who was apparently of legal age to shoot porn in France, even if she portrays an underage girl who is sodomized on camera by an older boy and more. But it is simply not right to take a young girl like young actress Anais Reboux and put her into sexually explicit situations on camera - including showing her topless and portraying her being raped at a highway rest stop. There is no way a girl of that age could have given consent to that type of abuse by Breillat. To top it off, Breillat has Anais play a character named, you guessed it, Anais, implying a direct link between the character on screen and the girl in real life.

The critical praise heaped on this film - Roger Ebert gave it three stars and it won the top prize at the Chicago International Film Festival - and notable lack of criticism of Breillat's exploitation of a young girl in this film, show a strange moral blindness on the part of film critics. I am firmly convinced that had Breillat mistreated an animal or destroyed an environmentally sensitive area during the filming this work, we'd have heard all about it. When a film deals with a political or moral cause as its them - as in ERIN BROCKOVICH for example - critics are quick to highlight purported wrongs in the real world. Indeed, most of the moralizing about the film in the press came from cries of censorship when it was banned in Ontario, Canada. But apparently the exploitation of an actual little girl doesn't rate very highly in the critics' universe. Roger Ebert should be ashamed. Kudos to the Village Voice, which was one of the few publications to tackle this head on.

In short, I would put FAT GIRL on my to be avoided at all costs list. I certainly wish I had never seen it.

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

In every way a dreary, unattractive lump, the 12-year-old title character of French provocateur Catherine Breillat's Fat Girl receives no affection and thus has the benefit of seeing the world for what it really is—or at least what Breillat thinks it is—with a cold, dispassionate eye. Early on, she declares to her older, conventionally attractive sister that she wants "to be broken in" by someone who doesn't love her, as if love would be certain to taint her rite of passage. Sentiments like these are common to Breillat's work: From her 1976 debut A Very Young Girl to the minor arthouse breakthrough 36 Fillette to the scandalous (and deceptively titled) Romance, love and sex have been incompatible bedfellows. To her way of thinking, love can confuse the issue in emotionally treacherous ways, exposing people when they're at their most vulnerable. For roughly 90 of its 93 minutes, Fat Girl demonstrates this cynical philosophy with subtlety and unnerving tension, as Breillat pushes a familiar coming-of-age scenario into unusually chancy terrain. Then, in those last three minutes, she pushes too far, ending in a flurry of cheap provocation that tarnishes everything that preceded it, smothering shades of gray in a thick coat of black. Anaïs Reboux and Roxane Mesquida star as bitter sibling rivals who share a room in a gated vacation house with their bourgeois parents. After they meet a handsome Italian lothario (Libero De Rienzo) in a café, Reboux plays silent witness as her virginal older sister falls under his spell and later invites him to sneak into their room after hours. In Fat Girl's bravura centerpiece, a long and relentless sexual negotiation, De Rienzo seduces Mesquida with a salesman's snaky charm, softening her up with sweet talk and insincere promises, letting her feel a slight sting of resentment, and then using "love" as the ultimate bargaining chip in getting what he wants. As a standalone scene, it's a remarkably intricate and credible feat of emotional exploitation, but when measured against the finale, it suddenly looks simple and crude in retrospect. Breillat manages to slip in one more terrific sequence before it's over, in the form of a menacing highway drive worthy of Psycho and Duel. But once her sexual politics snap cruelly into focus, Fat Girl becomes not just unsettling, but repellent.

The Village Voice [J. Hoberman]

There are distractions and there are immersions. Possibly the most emotionally intense 83 minutes currently available to local moviegoers, Catherine Breillat's polarizing Fat Girl is a female coming-of-age film that radically redefines its sentimental genre. Having disposed of romance in her absurdist melodrama of the same name, France's foremost provocatrice returns to her favorite subject, and that of her strongest films, A Very Young Girl and 36 Fillette, namely the construction of female adolescent sexuality.

As its less confrontational French title, À Ma Soeur!, suggests, Fat Girl is a movie about solidarity—or its opposite. Much of the film deals with the competition between two virgin sisters, the slim and sultry 15-year-old, Elena (Roxane Mesquida), and her sometime sidekick, tubby Anaïs (Anaïs Reboux), a physically mature 12. Both are preoccupied with sex. "The first time should be with a nobody," the more pensive Anaïs tells her older sister. The girls are on summer holiday with their self-absorbed parents, somewhere in the south of France. In the first scene, they meet a suave Italian college student, Fernando (Libero de Rienzo), in a café, and because this is a movie in which things develop at the speed of thought, Elena and Fernando are immediately making out as Anaïs greedily inhales her banana split.

Fernando sneaks into the sisters' room that night and, joining Elena in bed, begins negotiating her defloration with what initially seems an amusing directness. Elena hints that she may not be ready to "sleep" with him. Marshaling numerous arguments in the service of his desire, the law student tries to convince her that "on the edge doesn't count." Avid but afraid, she continues to put him off; although aware that she's jailbait, he petulantly accuses her of spoiling everything. The scene makes for fantastic theater of embarrassment. It's leisurely and unblinking in its voyeurism, and scarcely prurient. To add to the effect, Anaïs is covertly watching along with the audience—everyone wondering just how far this amazing drama in teasing ambivalence and frustrated guilt-tripping will go.

Essentially comic in its mixture of brutal frankness and philosophical bemusement, Fat Girl amply demonstrates Breillat's brilliance as a director—even as it raises, without settling, the question of whether she may be exploiting her young actresses. (To judge from the response the film received at the Berlin Film Festival, as well as those few French reviews I've seen, the issue, at least in Europe, is a nonstarter.) Reboux, only 13 when she made the movie, gives an astonishingly unselfconscious performance, whether lost in contemplation of her body or swimming—happily and literally—in an amniotic fantasy. The strange and creepy song she sings throughout will ultimately be revealed as the movie's authentic theme.

Breillat likes to live dangerously. Fat Girl is made without transitions, and the director puts the dynamics right out front. (The morning after providing Fernando with a compensatory blowjob, Elena stuffs a French loaf into blubbering Anaïs's mouth: "Eat, you'll feel better.") The girls' father (director Romain Goupil) is unexpectedly called back to Paris; the next shot has the sisters and their distracted mother (Arsinée Khanjian) driving straight to the mall to shop. Typically, Anaïs wants something that Elena has already picked out for herself, driving Elena to trump her annoying sib by finding a much slinkier dress.

Is Anaïs the privileged witness to Elena's first love? There's a key scene in which the two study themselves in the mirror, pondering the nature of their connection. "Nobody would know we were sisters," Elena hopefully remarks, adding, "We hate each other because we are raised as rivals." Soon, however, they are giggling about their shared childhood antics. The irony is that, despite Anaïs's lack of social grace, she has a more acute social intelligence. When Elena shows Anaïs the expensive ring Fernando has given her, her sister immediately sees the problem that will arise. Indeed, round two of Elena's love affair is complicated by the arrival of Fernando's voluble ring-seeking mother (Laura Betti). The girls' own mother gets so upset she smacks handy Anaïs, then packs everyone up and heads back toward Paris in a car that seems to radiate anxiety.

Fat Girl's classical structure climaxes with a violent shift in rhetoric—gritty as it is, the movie has no pretensions to kitchen-sink naturalism. The shock ending recasts the idea of initiation, recapitulating much of Breillat's argument—already made tangible for being played out on the bodies of its female cast members—in a particularly visceral form. However disruptive, the gothic horror of the finale has been carefully set up from the movie's opening scene. (This is a fiction in which a number of characters are granted their wishes.) Steeped in unconscious aggression as it is, the climax is also readable as Anaïs's fantasy, but this possibility doubles back on itself. "Don't believe me if you don't want to" are the fat girl's final words as the image freezes on her stubborn glare.

A work of bold irrationality and highly questionable taste, Fat Girl is as fascinating as it is discomfiting and as intelligent as it is primal. From first shot to last, France's foremost bad girl has made an extremely good movie—and maybe even a great one.

BFI | Sight & Sound | Sisters, Sex And Sitcom Ginette Vincendeau’s version from Sight and Sound, December 2001

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Filmmaker Magazine | Fall 2001: END OF INNOCENCE B. Ruby Rich interviews Breillat, Spring 2008

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SEX IS COMEDY

France Portugal (92 mi) 2002

Time Out

Breillat's movie begins with Jeanne (Parillaud) directing a scene on a windy beach. She's not happy. Her young actors (Colin, Mesquida) are not kissing as passionately as she wants, and she knows the chill's due only in part to the weather: they don't like each other. Moreover, the actor is arrogant, moody, probably dubious about being directed by a woman, and nervy about a prosthetic penis he has to wear for a long scene where his character uses emotional blackmail to persuade the girl that penetrative sex is okay. While the actress is happier with Jeanne, she still finds it hard to relax for the camera, and is yet to be told of the false dick and the degree of nudity expected. Meanwhile, Jeanne must battle not only with cast, crew and climate, but also with her own doubts and bouts of creative block. Breillat's prime subject is how a film-maker may mould ideas, instincts and experiences into art, using as raw materials human individuals and the illusionism of cinema: an illusionism more than ever necessary if what's wanted is a plausible picture of sexual desire and passion. To attain what we will accept as 'real', the director must pretend, pontificate, flirt, seduce, caress, cajole, cavil, provoke jealousy and discontent, provide security and finally comfort, all in pursuit of lies that look like truth when flickered on to a screen.

Seattle Post-Intelligencer [Sean Axmaker]

"You have a weird relationship with your actor," observes an assistant to Jeanne (Anne Parillaud), a director struggling to make -- and make sense of -- an emotionally and sexually raw drama of a teenage girl's first sexual experience. He's not wrong. Despite the title, there's little comedy and no actual sex in Catherine Breillaut's slice of life on a movie set, but there is a battle of wills over control of the scenes and of the character, and especially over the performers exposing themselves emotionally and physically.

Jeanne spars with her callow (unnamed) Actor (Grégoire Colin), a headstrong young man who clowns to relieve his embarrassment at the film's intimacy, charming the crew between takes but allowing little of that charm to be seen on film. The blank Actress (Roxane Mesquida) simply retreats into an impassive pout. Her perpetually hard, opaque face -- both on and off the set -- is perfect for the character, until she needs to open up for a particularly revealing scene.

Parillaud plays Jeanne as Breillaut's mouthpiece, pontificating on actors and actresses, intimacy and sex on screen, and why a hard bed is necessary for a good sex scene. Such pretentious proclamations seem less about inflated ego than a cover for insecurities and doubts. It makes for a quotable film, but not a particularly penetrating one.

The climax is a re-creation of a discomforting sexual encounter from Breillaut's 2001 film "Fat Girl" (with Mesquida reprising her role) and Jeanne strokes, confronts and cajoles her performers into opening themselves up. This is no portrait of the director as God and Jeanne doesn't manipulate performers off-screen to tweak performances in front of the camera, but her vision and her ego are on the line.

It ultimately comes off as a fictionalized diary, a confessional that attempts to lay bare the creative struggles of putting Breillaut's emotionally rugged and naked films on the screen. As such it feels too self-satisfied, but the prickly personalities and relationships have the ring of experience.

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

Virtually every actor will say that sex scenes are the most difficult ones to shoot, for the obvious reason that they leave performers literally exposed, subject to embarrassment, awkwardness, and the confusions of faking intimacy. No one is a greater authority on the subject than French director Catherine Breillat, whose films deal obsessively with the power struggle between men and women, which usually manifests itself in the bedroom. Breillat's incisive movie-movie Sex Is Comedy revisits the centerpiece of her powerful 2001 coming-of-age film Fat Girl, which turns on a long sexual negotiation between a predatory young hustler and a virginal teenager. The scene is essential, not gratuitous: If it doesn't play convincingly, the entire movie crumbles around it.

Making a movie about one of your own movies sounds like an unforgivable indulgence, but in Sex Is Comedy, Breillat examines the filmmaking process with brutal honesty, saving many of her most pointed barbs for herself. Uncannily good as the Breillat surrogate, Anne Parillaud (best known as the title character from La Femme Nikita) portrays the director as a raving tyrant who has a strong vision, but doesn't always know how best to communicate it to her actors. While shooting Fat Girl, Breillat reportedly had bitter disputes with the film's handsome lothario, Libero De Rienzo, played here by Grégoire Colin as a smug, inexperienced actor who burns all his natural charisma clowning with the crew offscreen. Roxane Mesquida, who reprises her experience making Fat Girl, seems more willing to take direction, but her seething animosity toward Colin turns her into a cold fish during kissing scenes.

"Look at those two idiots," Parillaud hisses during one particularly lifeless take. "She's like a corpse." With a heavy dose of self-deprecating humor, Breillat acknowledges those moments when she behaves like a petulant child, screaming directions that no actor could be expected to follow. But Sex Is Comedy triumphs mostly in laying out the specific mechanics of a love scene: Under Breillat's exacting eye, the minute choreography of the actors' body language can convey aggression, resistance, and ecstasy without a word being spoken. Her films can be exasperating, tainted by an irredeemably cynical view of human relations, but her strongest scenes go to daring lengths to unearth raw emotional truths. When she succeeds, as she does in Fat Girl and in the final minutes of Sex Is Comedy, the impact can be overwhelming for filmmaker and audience alike.

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ANATOMY OF HELL (Anatomie de l'enfer)

France (77 mi) 2004

Time Out London Geoff Andrew

Provocation has always been an integral part of Breillat’s strategy in her studies of sexuality, eroticism and male-female relations. This film, based on her novel ‘Pornocratie’, pushes still further into tricky territory, in terms of graphic imagery, its take on gynophobia and misogyny, and its fundamentally philosophical-literary tone.

Seemingly the sole female in a gay disco, a woman (Amira Casar) slits her wrists in the toilets but is taken care of by a man (Rocco Siffredi, the porn star from Breillat’s ‘Romance’) who agrees, while proclaiming his disgust for women, to visit and ‘watch’ her, for payment. Over several evenings, he goes to her isolated, barely furnished clifftop house for a series of intense meetings, during which he insults her and she lectures him on what she argues is a universal masculine distaste for female flesh and desire.

Notwithstanding the explicit visuals, it’s improbable many will be aroused by what is said or done (think tampons, garden cultivators etc) in these brief encounters; most, frankly, will be bored or bemused by such observations as ‘The elasticity of a boy’s anus doesn’t lie about the tightness of the lower intestines.’ Unable, personally, to judge the accuracy of that assertion, I can nevertheless commend the film’s painterly beauty (Yorgos Arvanitis’ camera is almost as eloquent as it used to be for Theo Angelopoulos) and remind Breillat fans that ‘Romance’ – which this resembles stylistically, while thematically evoking aspects of ‘Perfect Love’ – was far from naturalistic. In fact, with its absurd poetics, it’s a peculiarly French rumination, reminiscent of de Sade or Bataille, and just as brave, outlandish and intriguing.

Exclaim! [Travis Mackenzie Hoover]

Catherine Breillat’s latest wet trout to the side of the head may shock even her staunchest defenders, but though it’s been denounced as cruel, misogynist, homophobic and generally yucky, it flings down the feminist gauntlet with force enough to shatter concrete.

The nominal plot pits a sombre young woman (Amira Casar) against the gay man (porn star Rocco Siffredi) who rescues her from a suicide attempt. He hates women, she hates men who hate women, and so she pays him to examine her "where I’m unwatchable" in order to challenge his anti-female disgust. Rocco does his best to degrade her — you’ll scream every time he touches something phallic — but her combination of resolve and theorising eventually wears him down.

The very definition of the word "problematic," Anatomy of Hell has something to offend everybody: it’s too feminist for sexists, too pornographic for feminists and too unafraid of menstrual blood and other female secretions to qualify as light entertainment. But if you look beyond this (and its untenable correlation of male homosexuality with misogyny), the movie combines an astounding density of ideas with the willingness to put them into practice. Unlike most other allegedly political directors, Breillat actually wants to settle the issues she raises and she’ll do whatever it takes to get the job done, including rubbing your nose in the female places we’ve all been taught to fear.

It may be a tad esoteric for those unfamiliar with feminist theory, but for those who can take it, this is one of the best films of the year, one that forces you to take a position instead of congratulating you for your liberal superiority.

Slant Magazine [Eric Henderson] also here from When Canses Were Classeled: Anatomy of Hell (Catherine Breillat, 2004)

Given the first shot of the film is of a man sucking another man’s cock, I was almost prepared to dismiss all the critical gynophobia as completely speculative, but on the other hand, excepting for possibly the very first instance, all voice-over narration (first person) is spoken by Breillat herself, confirming that for all the presumed dissections into the minds of the two lead characters (a morose, sclerotically brusque emotional-dominatrix and a gay überstud perpetually dressed in creamy beige and strutting with a gait that resembles a rooster with fully-fluffed plumage), the philosophy is really the director’s own. (Which is to be expected, as her film is an adaptation of a novel she wrote earlier: Pornocatie.) After attempting to take her own life in the bathroom of a gay club – or, rather, putting on a staged approximation of the act (note that she cuts parallel to the wrists in a gesture that most other movies will follow up with the punchline “she cut the wrong way, if she really wanted to kill herself”), “The Woman” is discovered by the object of her desire… or loathing, or pity… or all three: “The Man.” She gives her gay liege an unwelcomed-but-tolerated blowjob in the alley and proposes that he come out to her sparsely appointed chateau for a series of nights with the intention of teaching him the majesty and mystery of her feminine orifice. A filmmaker whose interest in distaff cinematic sexual frankness, Breillat’s almost anthology-structured film then becomes a series of breakthroughs, both emotional-psychological and sexual-physical. Early on, flashbacks show little girls being introduced to the sexual puerility of malekind via bush-cave rounds of “Doctor,” and gay-to-be little boys are shown stomping on the “deceptive hardness” of baby birds in defiance of the maternal order of nature, and it’s probably safe to say that if you’re not with Breillat at this point, it’s only downhill from there, as The Man (played with all the puffy diffidence that makes Breillat all hot and oratorical by Rocco Siffredi) is increasingly taught how to go from objectifying the vagina (the lipstick and garden rake episodes), thereby making it all the easier to reject, to discovering with great awe the metaphysical superiority that comes from cootchie blood. (As though gay anal sex doesn’t also release blood, Cathy!)

The Onion A.V. Club [Keith Phipps]

A specialist in closed-door provocations, Catherine Breillat directs films in which no intimate gesture can take place without referencing a millennia-old struggle between men and women, and no pleasure can occur without at least raising the possibility of pain. Usually, women end up on the hurting end, but Breillat doesn't exactly wave a shaming finger: She seems to accept this state of affairs as the way things have to be. Having witnessed queasy sexual negotiations and suffered unspeakable cruelty, the protagonist of Breillat's Fat Girl sits in silence, as the film suggests that she's seen the light and has nothing more to say. It's a mystery how anyone can hold this view of the world and still drag herself out of bed for croissants and coffee, but Breillat's best moments make a literal war of the sexes look like a fact of everyday life. It's when she retreats into theory, as she does pretty much from the start of Anatomy Of Hell, that she becomes hard to take seriously.

An Indecent Proposal for filmgoers with plenty of Hélène Cixous on their shelves, Anatomy Of Hell focuses on four eventful evenings in the life of a woman (Amira Casar) who strikes up an acquaintanceship with a gay man (Rocco Siffredi) when he witnesses her cutting herself in a disco bathroom. After surprising him with a blow job, Casar promises Siffredi cash if he'll agree to, in her words, "watch me where I'm unwatchable." She's not being coy; she's being literal. Shortly after Siffredi first arrives, she gets down to the business of displaying parts of her anatomy that she'd need a mirror to see herself, prompting him to compare her genitalia to "the horror of Nothingness that is the imprescribable All" and, at another less poetic point, a frog.

Now a Breillat regular, Siffredi is best known for parts in films with titles like Captain Organ and Intercourse With The Vampire. The defiantly unerotic Anatomy Of Hell doesn't have much in common with Siffredi's usual work, apart from an eagerness to fill the screen with genitals. After a while, it feels less like an examination of the relationships between men and women than like an exploration of what can be inserted into a woman's vagina. (Pauline Hunt, Casar's stand-in for the close-ups, deserves special commendation for her work here.) Breillat adapted the film from her own novel Pornocratie. On the page, it's possible to contemplate the symbolic value of a man and woman sharing a drink from a cup with a used tampon floating in it without struggling to avoid gagging. But even without the difficult imagery, Breillat's grim observations on men, women, and sexual orientation (anuses, it would seem, are less threatening than vaginas) are tough to take. "Words are lies. Bodies are truth," Breillat's surrogate says in her recent—and much better—Sex Is Comedy. Maybe. But it's still best not to mistake all frank talk about bodies for truth-telling.

Review: Anatomy of Hell - Film Comment Nathan Lee, September/October 2004

BFI | Sight & Sound | Sadean Woman Geoffrey Macnab from Sight and Sound, December 2004

BFI | Sight & Sound | Written On The Body Geoffrey Macnab interviews Breillat for Sight and Sound, December 2004

Anatomy of Hell Gerald Peary

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Reverse Shot includes an interview with the director

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DVDBeaver.com - Review [ Henrik Sylow]

AN OLD MISTRESS (Une Vieille Maîtresse)

France Italy (104 mi) 2007

Time Out London (Geoff Andrew)

Less metaphysical, or physical, than ‘Romance’ or ‘Anatomy of Hell’, less naturalistic than ‘A Ma Soeur!’, less self-reflexive than ‘Sex Is Comedy’, and – notwithstanding the presence of Asia Argento – less provocative than any of the above, Catherine Breillat’s latest is as philosophically rigorous and psychologically revealing as anything she’s made. For once in her remarkable career, the French writer-director has elected to adapt someone else’s material: the eponymous nineteenth-century novel by Jules Barbey d’Aurevilly.

The film centres on a question considered and discussed by a bride-to-be’s open-minded grandmother and her judgemental, gossiping friends: would the womanising but impoverished aristocrat, Ryno de Marigny (Fu’ad Aït Aattou) be willing or able to give up his mistress, La Vellini (Argento) upon his marriage to the virtuous and wealthy Hermangarde (Breillat regular, Roxane Mesquida)? After all, their passionate affair has already survived ten years.

Swiftly and deftly immersing us in the fashions – not just the clothes and decor, but also the changing sexual and social ethics – of the 1830s, Breillat’s meticulous, eloquent script and direction succeed in relating a rich, complex, consistently engrossing story and in providing an insightful commentary on the mores and literary concerns of the time. Argento has never been better, Mesquida and the supporting actors are strong, and Fu’ad Aït Aattou is a real find, his androgyne beauty splendidly cast, his début performance subtle and assured. Witty yet grave, incisive and utterly unsentimental, the film is also – thanks to Yorgos Arvanitis’ camerawork and some judiciously chosen music – wonderfully elegant.

Mike D'Angelo at Cannes from ScreenGrab

I must confess that my heart sank a bit this morning when the words "un film de Catherine Breillat" appeared, as her confrontationally explicit essays on gender dynamics (Romance, Fat Girl, Anatomy of Hell) tend to leave me cold. Nor was I especially psyched to see more of Asia Argento, who had already snarled her pseudopunk way through Boarding Gate and Abel Ferrara's hilariously awful Go Go Tales. But Une vieille maîtresse, which translates as An Old Mistress ( "old" in the sense of "former" or "longtime"), while very much in keeping with Breillat's thematic interests, turns out to be an adaptation of an 1851 novel by Jules Barbey d'Aurevilly — a sort of Dangerous Liaisons minus the duplicity. This means that while the characters frequently have explicit sex, they do not, as Breillat's original characters are wont to do, suddenly start shoving random objects up their vaginas or offer cups of their menstrual blood as apéritifs.

Argento is impressively restrained in her ferocity as the title character, Vellini, who has no intention of renouncing her hold on a penniless gambler with whom she's been entangled for 10 years, even though he's about to marry a fabulously wealthy young beauty (Breillat discovery Roxane Mesquida) with whom he's sincerely in love. But it's first-time actor Fu'ad Aït Aattou, as the preposterously pretty male object of desire, who gives the film's genuinely revelatory performance, fully embodying the fatal combination of arrogance and frailty that gives this story of noble putrescence its bite.

That the battle of wills fizzles to a close just when you're expecting a conflagration is presumably a flaw of the source material; all the same, this is the rare period drama that feels at once faithful to its era and thoroughly modern. (Although the shot in which you can quite clearly see one of Argento's several tattoos through several coats of base is perhaps a bit too modern.) Breillat's ardent fans may well feel betrayed, responding only to the moment when Vellini hungrily laps the blood from her lover's gunshot wound; to my mind, this film cuts deeper than her more willfully outrageous efforts, precisely because it's populated by people who, deeply fucked up though they are, retain their sanity.

european-films.net Boyd van Hoeij at Cannes

French director and provocatrice extraordinaire Catherine Breillat is finally tamed by a partially stilted adaptation of an early 19th century literary classic in Une vieille maîtresse (An Old Mistress). Asia Argento stars in the title role of Spanish courtesan who imperils the happiness of a young married couple, though it is model-turned-actor Fu'ad Aït Aattou as the married man and her doomed former lover who steals the show, and not only because he has the biggest lips this side of Angelina Jolie. To further pile on the unusual qualities of a costume drama by the director of A ma soeur (Fat Girl) and Sex is Comedy, Breillat regular Roxane Mesquida (the promiscuous sister from A ma soeur) is cast here as the beatific virgin married to Aattou.

Based on the novel by Jules-Amédée Barbey d'Aurevilly, Une vieille maîtresse tells the story of a 30-year-old libertine called Ryno de Marigny (Aït Aattou) who is set to marry the beautiful and pure aristocratic child Hermangarde (Mesquida). Before marrying her, Ryno tells her curious grandmother the marquise de Flers (played by French entertainment journalist Claude Sarraute) how he has been under the spell of La Vellini (Argento), an Andalusian courtesan, for ten years but that he has put a stop to it on the night before arriving at the marquise.

An enormous flashback of around an hour details the ten years Ryno and La Vellini spent together and is by far the most interesting part of the film, as all that leads up to it and all that comes after is not just less interesting but actually stuffy in a respected TV-adaptation-of-a-respected-novel kind of way (associating stuffy with a Breillat film is something this critic never expected to do).  Because of the energy of the central section despite the period language and clothes (when they’re on, that is), the other parts, in which the clothes permanently stay on and also feature elaborate speeches, feel even more stilted and could use a good trim.

What energises the film’s central section is the fact that Argento and Aattou make for a great couple, though in the novel Vellini is described as ugly and Argento’s only offence to aestheticism are her crooked teeth. Their cat and mouse games as they go from unknowns to passionate lovers to grieving parents and back wonderfully plays off the naturally sulphurous attitude of both. Argento is a feline here more than ever, though her verbose period French sometimes sounds awkward (and her Spanish is risible: "Adios!"). Aattou’s intensity combines a heartfelt yearning with a physicality that makes his beating heart audible 

Though the idea of a costume drama from the director of Romance (which starred porn star Rocco Siffredi in his first sort of non-porn outing) might in itself be shocking, the film obliges its hardcore audience with scenes in which Argento and Aattou enjoy each other’s company without all the burdensome period garb on their backs, though the film’s most resonant scene is a small moment in which both are fully dressed and Argento, after an early morning in his bed, is returning home and is about to lock him inside his room. She pretends to want to kiss him before quickly closing the door while Aattou’s face, still light-headed after all that love-making, remains floating in front of the door. He really wanted that kiss. And she knows how to keep her man hungry for more. The aura of tension surrounding Aattou’s angelic face with that tenebrous, romantic look crowned with a mop of unruly black hair is really the heart of the film: a passion of an immeasurable appetite that can not last.

In France particularly, Une vieille maîtresse might also suffer from its release so close on the heels of Rivette’s riveting Ne touchez pas la hache (Don’t Touch the Axe), which also featured a frustratingly passionate couple at its heart of which one of the two was married to someone else. This literary drama is even longer than Breillat’s film but knows how to sustain all the passion, suspense and sense of urgency that the non-flashback sections of Une vieille maîtresse so sorely lack.

Festival Distinguished by Its Strong Actresses Manohla Dargis from the New York Times

The question isn’t how the French filmmaker Catherine Breillat and that international woman of mystery, Asia Argento, found each other; the question is why did it take them so long? A match made in heaven (for some) or perhaps hell (there were walkouts), “Une Vieille Maîtresse” marks a strong return to form for Ms. Breillat and offers continued evidence that Ms. Argento is the reigning queen of Cannes. In the past week, Ms. Argento, the Italian-born actress and sometime director, has torn through Olivier Assayas’s “Boarding Gate,” where she carries the film on her slender shoulders, and helped keep the flame lighted inside Abel Ferrara’s “Go Go Tales,” where she bellied up to a stripper pole and exchanged slobber with a Rottweiler.

Leave it to Ms. Breillat, whose films include “Romance,” a raw, philosophical inquiry about the bedroom, and her last film, the gravely miscalculated “Anatomy of Hell,” to push Ms. Argento further yet, and with exhilarating results. Set in 1835 and based on a novel by Jules Barbey d’Aurevilly, “Une Vieille Maîtresse” tells the story of a young nobleman, Ryno de Marigny (the newcomer Fu’ad Ait Aattou), who on the eve of his wedding to a delectable sweet named Hermangarde (Roxane Mesquida), finds his future threatened by his scandalous past. Her name would be Vellini, the film’s title character and resident outrage, and a creature of such intensely burning, mad passions that it’s difficult to imagine any contemporary actress in the role other than Ms. Argento.

From the first moment she appears on screen, stretched across a divan in a supine pose and dressed in a costume that directly invokes Goya’s painting “The Clothed Maja” (which, along with its match, “The Nude Maja,” was seized during the Spanish Inquisition for being “obscene”), Ms. Argento has us in her grasp. She never lets go. Having seduced each other 10 years earlier amid melodramatic storms and not a little blood, Ryno and Vellini remain locked in an epic amour fou.

Much of the film unfolds in flashback, as Ryno relates his life with his old mistress to his fiancée’s concerned grandmother (a wonderful Claude Sarraute, whose layers of silk and lace make her look like a Viennese apple strudel). The witty, often exuberantly funny screenplay keeps you laughing amid the couple’s pain and drama, while Ms. Breillat and Ms. Argento occasionally make you gasp with their own equally epic amour fou.

The House Next Door [Kevin B. Lee]

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CINE-FILE: Cine-List Ignatius Vishnevetsky from Cine-File

Screen International Jonathan Romney at Cannes from Screendaily

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Prost Amerika

Film Threat, Hollywood's Indie Voice Niki Foster

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ABUSE OF WEAKNESS (Abus de faiblesse) C 73

France Germany Belgium (105 mi) 2013 ‘Scope

I am the pariah of French cinema. That can make things complicated for me: it is never easy to drum up a budget or to find a distributor for my films in France. Some people refuse even to read my scripts. But it also makes me very happy because hatred is invigorating. All true artists are hated. Only conformists are ever adored.

—Catherine Breillat, "Catherine Breillat: 'All true artists are hated'", Benjamin Secher interview from The Telegraph, April 5, 2008

While in this film Breillat has eliminated the nudity and sex scenes that typify her earlier works, she continues to make exactly the same kind of film, featuring loathsome, nearly unwatchable characters who are masochistic victims of their own narcissistic empty headedness, gluttons for punishment so to speak. What these films have to say about society at large is a major question, as there’s a decided disconnect between Breillat characters and real life, where the all-consuming, self-centered nature of the people populating her films, ruled as they are by their nagging obsessions, does not say much for the world at large, where they seem to exist in a vacuum. The exaggerated human tendencies on display aren’t entirely implausible, as some people are capable of just about anything, but it’s entirely possible Breillat has never once created an onscreen character that viewers can actually identify with. Instead the intent of her films seems to be provocative in nature, where the pervasive themes of sadomasochism, bourgeois emptiness and discontent, and sexual obsession seem to be goading the audience into unfamiliar and/or uncomfortable territory, where it often feels exploitive, as if placed on the screen for shock value. With only one film in her entire body of work worth recommending, 36 FILLETTE (1988), an intelligent and somewhat autobiographical exposé of budding sexuality seen through the eyes of a young 14-year old female girl, many of the rest are major disappointments. Breillat began her career as a novelist, published while still a 17-year old teenager, where success came early from writing a “dirty” novel, L 'homme facile (A Man for the Asking), the subject of some controversy in France where the female protagonist prefers rape to consensual sex, so the book was classified only for readership older than age 18. This scandalous introduction along with the frank nudity and unsimulated sex scenes in her films led to her being labeled a “porno auteriste.” At age 24 she played a role in Bertolucci’s THE LAST TANGO IN PARIS (1972), wrote a few sexploitation films for others, while making her own first film in her late 20’s, A REAL YOUNG GIRL (1976), which was only released 23-years afterwards due to the explicitness of the material, where it’s rare to see sexuality presented in such an unconventional and clinically bleak manner, where her later films continue to express graphic sexual depictions, including the use of a male porn star (Rocco Siffredi) to provide an erection in ROMANCE (1999) and ANATOMY OF HELL (2004).

In late 2004 at the age of 56, Breillat suffered a stroke and was hospitalized for five months with paralysis on the left side of her body. After learning to walk again, she completed the pre-production work of UNE VIEILLE MAÎTRESSE (THE LAST MISTRESS, 2007), a controversial 19th century costume drama starring Asia Argento that was the only film made at that point in her career adapted from someone else’s material. Her next project was to be an adaptation of her own novel, Bad Love, starring Naomi Campbell and Christophe Rocancourt, a notorious criminal who had already served five years in an American prison for defrauding multiple victims out of millions of dollars. Known for working with non-professionals, Breillat’s initial recollections of Rocancourt, “He is so intelligent, so sincere, so arrogant. You have to be arrogant to achieve anything in this life. When I first saw him, I knew he would be perfect for my film.” Over the course of the next several months, however, Rocancourt initially borrowed small sums of money from Breillat before swindling her out of more than 700,000 euros, for which he was convicted in 2012 and the planned film never made, a harrowing ordeal that she describes in her book, Abuse of Weakness (Abus de faiblesse), which was turned into this film, starring Isabelle Huppert as Maud, a stand-in for the filmmaker. After suffering a stroke, where the director makes an uncredited appearance as an anonymous patient walking in the hospital corridor with a cane, Maud happens to see a television interview with con man Vilko Piran (French rapper Kool Shen), recently released from prison after serving his 12-year sentence for defrauding millions from unsuspecting victims, where she is utterly fascinated by his sexual swagger and total lack of remorse for his crimes, wanting him to star in her next movie. When they meet, he’s instantly interested, but will only agree if the film shows him in a positive light, appearing to be smarter than he is, creating some mythical aura surrounding his criminal activities. Due to her medical limitations, Maud needs help with many of her daily activities, where she remains partially paralyzed, yet in typical Breillat fashion, she exaggerates the grotesque through a continuing series of exhaustingly repetitive menial tasks, replicating the difficulties of recovering after a stroke, filled with a heightened state of frustration and personal insecurity. Maud has a way of teasing Vilko’s masculinity, suggesting he is strong and able bodied, but belittles his poor lower class instincts and lack of education, where he is seemingly a terrible businessman, as he’s constantly owing money to people. Initially she’s more than happy to help out by writing him a check for a loan, and he’s more than happy to take her money.

Over time, this process of writing checks becomes habit forming, where the amusing joking and teasing that defined their initial relationship becomes more disturbingly depressing, where they are more of a constant and nagging presence in each other’s lives, endlessly complaining about petty concerns, expressed through incessant cellphone calls that she receives from him as she lies in bed, constantly searching through the covers for her phone, where the repeated images of Maud lying asleep in bed begins to resemble that of a human corpse. Vilko, on the other hand, is more of a thug, where he’s a shady character always looking for a big score, but he’s attracted to the aristocratic way of life that Maud leads, where she protects herself with wealth and status and is indifferent to the lives of others, barely even retaining any connection with her own family, so is it any wonder that he wants a piece of what she’s got? While she initially has the upper hand, the roles reverse in the second half where the two of them are constantly playing power games, each trying to outdo the other in showing less concern, where writing checks is a way to express that she “doesn’t” care, that she’s not the least bit concerned, not allowing the physical struggles or hardships to phase her one bit. It’s all an act they play, surrounded by walls of indifference, where there’s no sexual connection, only obligatory behavior, yet there’s an undercurrent of need that grows more desperate over time, where they each seem to thrive on the attention of the other. Vilko recognizes that Maud treats men like slaves, where she enjoys humiliating her assistant by forcing him to fold her underwear, proudly wearing a veneer of independence, while she obviously enjoys being surrounded by the intoxication of his rugged masculinity, like having a male porn star around the house, recalling Huppert’s performance in Maurice Pialat’s LOULOU (1980), where she similarly abandons her bourgeois friends for the crudeness of an unemployed layabout. Vilko, however, is able to take advantage of her pride and this false veneer of independence by playing upon her vanity, continually offering the impression that his own life is in shambles, that he’ll be destitute without another check, even as he lives in a five-star hotel that wraps the food service meals neatly in a box while tied in a bow, while also drinking vintage 2003 Chateau Margaux wine that currently retails for an average price of $931 a bottle, obviously charging a huge mark-up price when ordered at a hotel restaurant. So while these two plead poverty, who are they fooling? — as they both continue to lead lavish lives surrounded by only the best that money can buy. The absurdity of it all feels exaggerated and distorted to the point of being humorous, though not many would find this a human comedy, where the film plays upon a perceived human weakness, but it’s nothing either one of these characters would admit to, as they both get exactly what they ask for.

In Review Online [Kenji Fujishima]

It’d be difficult to consider Catherine Breillat a “humanist,” per se, at least by comparison, even if she generally deals with human beings in all their difficulties. The clinical detachment of her latest  film, Abuse of Weakness, marks this as vrai Breillat for sure, but instead of putting her own intellectual spin on fairy tales as she did in her last two films, Bluebeard (2009) and Sleeping Beauty (2010), here she draws on her own recent experience recovering from a stroke and—if this new film is any indication—being duped into giving away a good chunk of her money to a con man who took advantage of her stricken state.

Was she duped, though, or did she somehow dupe herself? As expected, Breillat doesn’t come to any easy conclusions, preferring instead to show us her characters' behavior and allow us to draw our own conclusions. In the case of Abuse of Weakness, one could point to Maud Schainberg’s (Isabelle Huppert) sense of pride—expressed mostly in stray moments when she insistently shrugs off physical assistance in order to do things herself—in order to partly explain why she allows herself to be taken in for so long by Vilko Piran (Kool Shen), an equally prideful career criminal who seems to unlock Maud’s perverse side as he bilks her out of her money. Perhaps Maud—who, tellingly, works as a movie producer—deceives herself into thinking she can control him, especially when she decides to hire him as the lead actor for her latest film.

Whatever the motivations of these characters—made more opaque by Breillat’s usual chilly detachment—one’s reaction to the film will arguably hinge on one’s reaction to its final scene of devastating self-revelation, in which Maud admits her failings to her extended family while painfully evading a more solid explanation for her behavior. “It was me…but it wasn’t me” is Maud's refrain, which she repeats while Breillat's camera stares unforgivingly. One could read this as a dodge on Breillat’s part, rubbing our nose in a refusal to psychologize à la the final scene of Cristi Puiu’s Aurora. But then, Breillat has made a whole career out of swimming in people’s contradictions and complexities; it’s that same refusal that makes her films as unsettling as they can be at their best.

Review: Abuse of Weakness | Film Comment Kristin M. Jones, July/August 2014

Two extraordinary scenes bookend Catherine Breillat’s latest film, inspired by her experience of a stroke in 2004 and subsequent entanglement with con man Christophe Rocancourt. First, in a striking overhead shot, film director Maud Shoenberg (Isabelle Huppert) awakens in bed and with growing panic tries to feel the left side of her body. She attempts to stand but falls to the floor, facing away from the camera as if her very identity has collapsed. Then at the story’s conclusion, with muffled unease, she struggles to explain to her family why she wrote numerous checks for large sums of money to notorious con man Vilko (rapper Kool Shen). “I knew I had to stop, but didn’t care… It was me, but it wasn’t me.”

What happens between these events—a devastating stroke and the recognition that some version of herself has given away everything she possessed—is a thriller about the journey of a grown woman and fully fledged artist from innocence to experience. It begins with a period of numb determination in which Maud relearns how to walk and even laugh in pristine hospital and physiotherapy rooms over several months, though in a voiceover she recalls that it took her a year to understand that she had suffered a brain hemorrhage. “I’ve sunk like the Titanic. But if I ever resurface, I’ll be an atomic bomb,” Maud says at one point, her strong will intact. But how exactly will she know when she has resurfaced?

Rest is clearly a big part of Maud’s recovery, and she is dozing at home when Vilko enters her life as an apparition on a television screen. Waking to the sight of him being interviewed, she decides to cast him in a film, fascinated by what she calls his “icy, hangdog look” and “bitter pride.” Vilko materializes like a damaged, attention-hungry prince waking Sleeping Beauty, and he repeats the rude awakenings throughout their relationship, phoning while she is trying to rest, even eventually invading her home, where he crashes in a child’s bed.

When Maud isn’t sleeping, she is falling or struggling not to fall. The opening scene includes a shot of her body prostrate beneath a toppled gilded chair, hair flowing, an image so arresting it could be a period painting, or a still from Breillat’s The Last Mistress (07). Throughout Abuse of Weakness, some of the most potent scenes and images involve frightening tumbles. More than once she implores Vilko not to let go of her, though in doing so she is also succumbing to a voluptuous vertigo.

If sex is largely absent in Abuse of Weakness, power is not. Vilko plays on her pride as well as her vulnerability, reminding her of their similarities and grousing that she enjoys dominating men, a charge that elicits peals of childlike laughter. When he first visits her home, he jumps up on her bookcase while she watches in delight, as if her imagined film is already coming to life, though it is a book bearing her own image that he plucks from a shelf. Later, at the delirious height of their involvement, he notices a monograph of an artist’s sadomasochistic photographs, and she remarks on their beauty, oblivious to any implication it may hold in terms of her own situation.

It’s hard to imagine an actress other than Huppert so artfully layering frailty and toughness, self-delusion and self-awareness, and her complex portrayal is an irresistible foil to Kool Shen’s blank expressions and wounded swagger. Maud herself often seems to relish the absurd aspects of the story as it unfolds, such as Vilko’s hulking driver and ditzy, good-hearted wife—sometimes half-smiling as if, in fact, she were directing her own life. 

EyeForFilm.co.uk [Anne-Katrin Titze]

Catherine Breillat's Abuse Of Weakness (Abus De Faiblesse) is a fantastic, heavy-duty tour-de-force. It all begins with everybody's most terrifying nightmare. Maud, played by Isabelle Huppert who is formidable in every scene and gesture, wakes up one morning under fresh white sheets and notices that there is something wrong with her left arm. She tries to get up and collapses. It takes all her strength to reach the phone. "Half my body is dead," she says and realises that "nothing will ever be the same."

Brain hemorrhage, emergency room, Breillat shows from her own experience with having suffered a stroke and the camera tells of the hospital and the patient's progress in a tone that is unsentimental, poignant, free. Maud, a filmmaker by profession, has to start with baby steps to crawl out of the abyss.

Her eyes follow the doctor's finger, she can't tell the color of the balls he is holding up for her, she, a woman whose apartment we later see is filled with bold works of art, every corner speaking of colours and textures. The tapestry of her world was struck down and her soul went into battle. Now, she cannot draw a clock with the numbers any more. She is progressing slowly and tells the speech therapist in one of the most potent hospital scenes on film what is missing. "I would like to laugh. I very much like to laugh."

Huppert heartbreakingly continues with expressive "ee" and "oo" sound exercises. Her family, among them her pregnant daughter (Daphné Baiwir), her friends and her colleagues are not there even when they are there. Huppert's character and Breillat in a cameo cross paths in the hospital corridor, as though the director passes on the baton of understanding to the film and to us in the audience. Everything is different now.

Once back in her home, the central story begins, again not far from the director's real life encounter with convicted swindler Christophe Rocancourt, whom she took to court and defeated in a well documented case of "abus de faiblesse," the legal term she chose as the title of her film about lucidity and identity.

Breillat follows up brilliantly on the fairy tale promises from her previous two films after her stroke, The Sleeping Beauty (La Belle Endormie, 2010) and Bluebeard (Barbe Bleue, 2009). She named her character Vilko in honor of Vilko Filac, her cinematographer on Bluebeard. A sleeping beauty, Maud is about to meet her Bluebeard.

Maud sees a man being interviewed in a talk show on TV. She can't take her eyes off him. She calls her assistant in the middle of the night. She wants to cast this man, Vilko Piran (Kool Shen), in her next film. His "icy hangdog look," and the "bitter pride" of having spent 12 years in prison after a tortured childhood make him unlike any actor in her eyes. "I want him," she knows, and when she meets him at her apartment the battle of wills commences. He provokes her, jumps on her bookshelves, calls Nietzsche "my master," struts like a peacock, and tells her he will only star in her movie "if the ending is good."

Well, not to give away too much, blood, a shower, violence appeal to his sensibilities and Vilko agrees if he can hang around. What evolves is a dance of tenacities and vulnerability mirrored and held too tight for comfort. Their relationship, never a physical one, is chronicled by the cheques she writes. Her friends warn her "He's a killer," they say, "Get rid of him, he's a killer."

Exclaim! [Robert Bell]

In 2004, Catherine Breillat (the controversial auteur known for biting deconstructions of gender relations, primarily in a sexual capacity, relating to the detachment from, or relationship with, the physical body) suffered a stroke after shooting Anatomy of Hell, a film incidentally about the consequentiality of corporeal attunement. Though experiencing an almost ironic, literal revulsion of bodily function, albeit removed from the allusion of menstrual blood as a perverse illustrator of feminine fragility and projected impurity present in Hell, her aim was to press on, adapting her novel, Bad Love, to film.

As we know now, being familiar with Breillat's works of late — those interpreting male texts about female objectification and performative gender role typification in literary adaptations and fairy tales — Bad Love was never made. At the time, Breillat, having a preoccupation with casting actors to be a part in her work rather than act it — notoriously casting French porn star Rocco Siffredi where a stoic, sexual aggressor was appropriate — felt that conman Christophe Rocancourt would suit her latest film, despite being a criminal and not being an actor.

Abuse of Weakness, Breillat's second semi-autobiographical film, after the surprisingly accessible and comic Sex is Comedy (about her experiences making À ma soeur), begins here. Maud Schoenberg (Isabelle Huppert), a controversial director of note, suffers a stroke that limits the mobility on one side of her body, but tenaciously maintains an independent lifestyle, deciding to cast conman Vilko Paran (Kool Shen) in her latest movie after seeing him on TV during her recovery period.

In meeting her, he admits that his means to con money out of people of note was to flatter their ego, reminding them of their power and intelligence to incite complacency and collaboration, something that Schoenberg acknowledges but shrugs off, pleased to have the ability to demand the man of her choosing into her home and a position of subjugation. His disposition, being a male of limited grace and candour, and obvious physical dominance, is, as it seems, the auteur's muse. The sheer roughness of character and the simultaneous emotional and physical threat he represents contrast with her inability to assuage her lack of bodily cooperation, thrilling the presumably numb portion of the ego desexualized and marginalized by illness.

Breillat's unsentimental depiction of bodily struggles, with Schoenberg fighting to put on clothes and feed herself, is, as a visual representation, a psychological deconstruction. Despite being an esteemed artist, few people demonstrate much concern or interest in her plight, leaving Paran, ostensibly an employee that perpetually flatters her ego through flirtatious calls and sheer acknowledgement, helping her with basic mobility issues. It's why her casual, deliberately carefree reaction to his request to borrow money makes sense, in a superficial and metaphoric capacity, ensuring that he'll stick around while giving her a sense of power and usefulness in a dynamic where her passivity, despite her inner desires, has no real sexual component.

It's interesting that Abuse of Weakness, though accessible by sheer merit of being bound to a tangible reality, reiterates Breillat's constant power play with gender politics. The monstrosity of the female body is again the subject of male exploitation, only with an intense psychological component driven by physical frailty as a hyperbolized mode of victimization at the hands of male entitlement and detachment.

Though the detachment here isn't in the form of physical gratification and the terror of, and need to violate, the female form, the lack of emotional engagement on the part of Paran, mentally raping a woman in a prone position, isn't overly different from Elena's loss of virginity in A ma soeur or the female's employment of a homosexual to examine sexuality he deems putrid in Hell.

There's a perpetual imbalance conscious of the role the victim plays in a game of cerebral and physical dominance with a predator they've engaged.

In Review Online [Carson Lund]

On the surface, Catherine Breillat’s Abuse of Weakness is little more than a demonstration of its title: the process by which the frailty of a recovering stroke victim is exploited and capsized by a Machiavellian smooth talker. Its kink, however, is in its tone: unnervingly neutral, resting in some nebulous space between dark comedy and tragedy, and stingy with regards to clarifying connective tissue. Not long after a vulnerable Maud (Isabelle Huppert) is released from her hospital stay with intentions of seeking casting for her upcoming film, she’s signing away fragments of her fortune to her mysterious star prospect in frustratingly withholding close-up, the path from there to here at once inferred and opaque. Maurice Pialat-like austerity might seem a curious progression from the ornate fairytale miniatures of Breillat’s recent output, but if one considers the course of the French filmmaker’s career thus far—her recent phase, for instance, which started with 2007’s The Last Mistress, seemed to emerge quite suddenly from the sexually charged provocations that came before, a shift that makes sense only in retrospect—it’s easy to wonder if the new developments in her directing style might be indicative of a larger evolution in her work. 

If this does turn out to be the case, the circumstances of Breillat’s personal life function as tempting context clues. In 2004, the director suffered a cerebral hemorrhage; The Last Mistress materialized three years after. If the psychological aftermath of this experience could be said to have had any impact on her work, it was a productive one, guiding her away from contemporary realism and toward more detached, metaphorical expressions of her key themes. Seven years later, Abuse of Weakness presents a fictional primer on Breillat’s stroke trauma, but it does so in a way that betrays preconceived notions of autobiographical cinema. Shot through with sustained aloofness—its camera rarely moves and always sits on a tripod—the film hardly exudes a sense of raw, firsthand experience. And yet, the facts are there: Breillat, like Maud in the film, has openly admitted to carelessly sacrificing her finances to a swindler (here brought to imposing screen life by French rapper Kool Shen). Accounting for this haunting discrepancy between the weight of biographical truths and the mode of their recollection is an inexplicable power that also ushers Abuse of Weakness along.

Like a nightmare, the film opens immediately on the first stirrings of Maud’s stroke. A few cuts later, she’s pinned to a hospital bed, her jaw slung out of shape like silly putty and her left hand curled back in an unnatural direction. Huppert is uncomfortably spot-on in this depiction of physical and mental strain, using her body with great expressiveness even if it means letting the camera ignore her face altogether, as in one chilling close-up that monumentalizes her right hand’s effort to realign its left counterpart. The impact of this bodily entrapment lingers over into Maud’s subsequent scenes back home in her nondescript Belgian flat, where she stumbles around with a hunchback’s gait and struggles to integrate her left arm into mundane domestic behaviors. A weakened single woman, her predominantly white-walled urban habitat (whiteness that foreshadows her encroaching financial and existential blankness), a collection of hitherto learned gestures collapsing into foreign conduct—all are part of an ideal template for the dominating scheme of Vilko (Shen). Ever on the lookout for interesting humans to perform in her films, Maud’s intrigued by the “bitter pride” he displays when she sees him featured in a news segment detailing his history of financial double-dealing.

For Maud—who doesn’t hesitate to invite this TV image into her home—Vilko is as much a social experiment as a magnetic object of curiosity both alluring and intimidating. Their first scene together sets the tone for what’s to come: In a rigid shot-reverse-shot sequence that temporarily transforms Maud’s living room into an interrogation room and her colorless couch into a proverbial hot seat, Vilko meticulously lays out the ground rules for his involvement in Maud’s project. Their respective physicalities alone—Maud awkward and shrunken by Breillat’s alienating angle; Vilko, more tightly framed, looking equally ready to pounce whether relaxing on the leather sofa or sliding to the edge of the cushion—tease out an inherent sexual tension that continues to hang over their interactions, always latent but never realized. When Maud attempts in vain to close her living room window during this scene and Vilko brusquely outperforms her, that’s their relationship in a nutshell: a series of power moves made by Vilko in the guise of helpfulness.

Most baffling, however, is that Maud appears to be alert to the real intentions behind Vilko’s faux-sincerity (and certainly if she’s not, her producer (Christophe Sermet) is). This is where the film's slippery complexity lies. The audience never knows the “real” Maud, only the stroke victim who claims that half her body is dead and the other half alive—a physical split that is also psychological, emotional and spiritual. (If Huppert’s early theatrics were impressive, managing this tall task is an even greater feat.) Just as Maud is both drawn to Vilko and repulsed by him (a quintessential image late in the film shows her loading and unloading a gun as if wrestling with her conflicting feelings, albeit mechanically and without conviction), Breillat’s filmmaking puts narrative action front and center in a direct visual style even as it elides certain details that would create a clearer picture of Vilko’s exploitative acts. By the time Maud’s estranged family re-emerges for a closing act intervention, it’s easy to have forgotten, what with only their brief appearance at the beginning of the film during her hospital session, that they ever existed at all. By ultimately omitting all narrative information except for Maud’s compulsive check-signing and her seemingly banal interstitial interactions with Vilko, Breillat distills the narrative to an undifferentiated sine wave, all the better to approximate Maud’s autopilot fugue state.

If Abuse of Weakness is autobiography, it’s a challenging, uncategorizable use of the form: based on personal events but decidedly resistant to resuscitating the subjective experience of living through them—or, especially, providing any discernible commentary on them. Instead, it’s a film that studies its main subject as though part of an alien species, behaving according to unclear logic even in the face of certain disaster. "Nothing moves you,” a stupefied Vilko keeps stressing to Maud, an inarguable sentiment that, frighteningly, renders this rotten man more discernibly human than his complicit target.

Review: 'Abuse of Weakness,' Starring Isabelle Huppert ... Gary M. Kramer from indieWIRE

NYFF: Abuse of Weakness is Brilliant, Maddening, Unlikeable Stephanie Zacharek from The Village Voice

Slant Magazine [Ela Bittencourt]

Abuse of Weakness | Spectrum Culture Pat Padua

NYFF: Catherine Breillat's 'Abuse of Weakness' Finds ... Shelley Farmer from Film.com

'Abuse of Weakness' Review - Film School Rejects Kate Erbland

[TIFF Review] Abuse of Weakness - The Film Stage Jared Mobarak

The House Next Door [Elise Naknikian]

Abuse Of Weakness / The Dissolve Scott Tobias

Nonfics.com [Daniel Walber]

Filmleaf [Chris Knipp]

Sound On Sight [Simon Howell]

Review: Catherine Breillat unwisely conceals that Abuse Of ... Mike D’Angelo from The Onion A.V. Club

New York Film Fest 2013 Review: ABUSE OF WEAKNESS ... Christopher Bourne from Twitch

Abuse of Weakness : DVD Talk Review of the DVD Video Oktay Ege Kozak

Blu-ray.com [Brian Orndorf]

IONCINEMA [Nicholas Bell]

Film-Forward.com [Kent Turner]

MUBI [Daniel Kasman]

Isabelle Huppert Gives an Indelible Performance in Abuse ... Zachary Wigon from The Village Voice

Taking Sex Seriously Catherine Breillat: Taking Sex Seriously, by John Hoyles from Movie Mail

Catherine Breillat - Film Reference Rob Edelman

Daily | Toronto 2013 | Catherine Breillat's ABUSE OF ... David Hudson from Fandor

“All true artists are hated” Benjamin Secher interview from The Telegraph, April 5, 2008

MUBI [Darren Hughes] an interview with the director, September 25, 2013

The Girl Who Played with Fire, Got Burnt but Enjoyed It ... Dana Knight interview with the director from Ideas…Film Files for Cinephiles October 16, 2013

Abuse of Weakness (Abus de faiblesse) - The Hollywood ... Boyd van Hoeij from The Hollywood Reporter

Variety [Peter Debruge]

Review: 'Abuse of Weakness' - Los Angeles Times Sheri Linden

Abuse of Weakness Movie Review (2014) | Roger Ebert Peter Sobczynski

DVDBeaver [Eric Cotenas]

Breitman, Zabou

BEAUTIFUL MEMORIES (Se souvenir des belles choses) B+ 92

France (110 mi)  2002 

Also known as - Try to Remember Beautiful Thoughts, the words inscribed in the beginning of a patient's notebook as she enters a clinic for treatment of her memory loss, initially thought to be from being struck by lightning, but it turns out to be the initial signs of a rare, genetically transmitted Alzheimer's Disease that affects young patients.  This had the makings of being one of the year's best films, as this is an unbelievably compelling and beautifully written story by the director Zabou and Jean-Claude Deret.  Isabelle Carré and Bernard Campan deliver knock out performances as the couple that meet in the clinic and fall in love, somewhat resembling an in-their-30's version of DAVID AND LISA, with memory loss being the common affliction.  Every minute she is on screen is riveting, as she lives and breathes the various stages of this debilitating illness, giving us the feel of a documentary, she is every bit as believable.  There is a surprising intelligence and sensitivity to their relationship, clinically supported by the medical staff, as the consensus is there is no medical cure, so a love affair provides greater rewards than anything the staff could offer.  The appeal of something so permanently serious affecting someone so young and attractive is undeniable, but rather than trust the audience on this one, the director overplays the emotional pitch in key moments.  When what is needed is the subtlest touch, she instead heightens the already-existing tension with insensitive side players who are simply not in synch with this couple, which only serves to confuse the issue, pulling us away from our experience with her, which is regrettable, as she is easily one of the most fascinating film subjects of the year.  But despite these first time directorial lapses, this is a thoughtful examination of an illness that shows glimpses of rare insight, that moves easily between the real and the imaginary worlds, and much of it unfolds with tenderness, beauty, and a poetic grace.

Brenez, Nicole – film critic

an introduction Adrian Martin at Screening the Past

The ultimate journey "The ultimate journey: remarks on contemporary theory" translated by William D. Routt, Screening the Past, Issue 2, 1997

Review article, "For criticism" part one and part two, a review of Nicole Brenez, De la figure en général et du corps en particulier: l'invention figurative au cinéma by William D. Routt

"Peter Whitehead: The Exigency of Joy" Rouge

"Jeune, dure et pure! A history of avant-garde and experimental film in France" Senses of Cinema

On Film Criticism Girish

Brenon, Herbert

PETER PAN

USA (105 mi) 1924

I know a place where dreams are born

And time is never planned

It’s not on any chart

You must find it in your heart

Never Never Land

Bright Lights Film Journal Gary Morris

This was the first version of J. M. Barrie’s play and the one officially sanctioned by the author, who personally chose 17-year-old Betty Bronson for the role. Barrie’s decision to bypass such luminaries as Gloria Swanson and Mary Pickford in favor of an untried teenager proved more than sensible: Bronson literally soars in the title role, beautifully capturing the character’s alternating strains of puckishness, petulance, and occasional melancholy at the prospect of growing up. Every version of this story has genderbending undertones — inescapable since Peter is almost always played by a female. But this time the actresses playing Wendy (Mary Brian) and Peter are about the same age, giving their relationship a sexy simpatico. Their scenes together, which include dialogue like Wendy’s “I’ll give you a kiss, Peter, if you like” (which she does), look a bit like a babydyke dress-up party, Wendy in her dressing gown, Peter in his dashing adventure-boy duds. Ernest Torrence’s Captain Hook adds to the gay merriment, prancing around his ship wearing black sausage curls and a Dame Edna-like scowl. For viewers indifferent to such conceits, there’s still much to love here: a mermaid colony; fabulous sets; fine photography by James Wong Howe; and a wonderfully fey performance by George Ali in a dog suit as Nana, the Darling children’s nimble dog-nursemaid. The film was a huge success at the time of its release and then vanished, resurfacing many decades later and now restored to 35mm glory with original tints. Kino Video’s DVD is loaded with features and extras: the new transfer; an orchestral score by Philip C. Clari; an essay by historian Frederick C. Szebin; a photo gallery, production stills, and promos; and reminiscences by actress Esther Ralston.

Nitrate Online (Capsule) Eddie Cockrell

This whimsical silent film, restored using the original nitrate material and tintings, charmed a new generation of children of all ages recently on the regional film festival circuit in the USA, with many of the dates featuring live music by Philip C. Carli and the Flower City Orchestra. Now, the good folks at Kino Video have preserved this remarkable silent film presentation on video and a feature-laden DVD, part of their “Premiere Silents” series, which also includes Uncle Tom’s Cabin (1927) and The Vanishing American (1925). The story is, of course, J.M. Barrie’s 1904 play about a boy who refuses to grow up. But while Disney’s 1953 animated musical version, that 1955 “Producer’s Showcase” kinescope with Mary Martin (also new in stores) and Steven Spielberg’s confused 1991 extravaganza Hook are the better-known versions, director Herbert Brenon’s simple, charming approach to the material gives it instant appeal. Betty Bronson is fine in the title role, matched by the robust Ernest Torrence as Captain Hook. Ironically, it was only through the neglect of this long-forgotten film that the print is in such remarkably good shape. Unlike such acknowledged silent masterpieces as Nosferatu and the like, since Peter Pan was never shown the print remained in pristine condition. As a result, this is one of the cleanest silent films likely to be unearthed, and this enhances not only the fresh, beguiling nature of the production but the spectacular cinematography of James Wong Howe, who went on to photograph such Hollywood classics as The Thin Man and Hangmen Also Die! (another new title from Kino). The DVD features a revealing print essay on the film and its fate by historian Frederick C. Szebin, a gallery of production still and promotional material, and a half-hour interview with Esther Ralston, who plays Mrs. Darling.

moviediva, for the last word on classic films

The New York Times (Mordaunt Hall)

Bresan, Vinko

WILL NOT STOP THERE (Nije Kraj) B+ 91

Croatia Serbia (110 mi) 2009

A rather hilarious look at the Croatian-Serbian divide, as seen through some of the more improbable characters that appear to be leftovers from the stock players of Emir Kusturica’s films of the 1990’s, which featured non-stop madcap antics, usually accompanied by wild Gypsy music. Here Djuro (Predrag Vusovic), a heavily endowed Gypsy who dabbles in the Serb porn industry (keeping it all secret from his wife and large family), narrates the film with a tongue-in-cheek style, offering a neutral point of view on the Croat-Serb conflict as well as his own nose music for the soundtrack. Enter Martin (Ivan Herceg), a quiet secretive man on a mission: to find the girl who stars in the porn film Little Red Riding Hood, leading him to Djuro who then recounts his own personal involvement with the guy, noting how it changed his life. Djuro sends him to her pimp Stevan (Vojislav Brajovic), where she’s one of a cadre of girls, who after a few meets agrees to sell her for 35, 000 euros. This is how things get done in the Balkans where anything and everything is for sale. The girl (with a drinking problem) turns out to be Desa (Nada Sargin), who soon ditches her blond wig and looks a bit like American Idol contestant Katharine McPhee. Hauling her off to his home in Croatia, people immediately recognize she’s a Serb and begin to make wretched, foul-mouthed remarks before Martin convincingly puts an end to all that. Nonetheless, it’s a sign that even though the war is over the deep-seeded resentments are not.

Through flashbacks we learn Martin is a former sniper expert in the Croatian army and his macho roughneck friends in town are his army buddies. No one has a clue why Martin has gone to such great lengths to find this woman, including Desa herself, who expectedly offers herself to him, but he has none of it and instead for a good length of the picture the two barely speak to one another, where Desa sobers up, calls her friends still working with Stevan, and otherwise quietly wonders why she’s there, as the guy doesn’t lay a hand on her and treats her with utmost respect, demanding that others in town do the same. In a slow methodical pace, information unfolds, as Martin earns his living by doing private eye snooping and by selling maps showing where dead war veterans are buried to grieving families. Apparently peering through the scope of a rifle was perfect training for his new career of peering out of secret windows and doorways to snap surveillance photos. Because the tone is one of heavy sarcasm, there’s quite a bit of humorous philosophizing about what the world is like in a bleak postwar society and the lengths that people will go to survive.

Curiosity gets the best of Desa who eventually follows Martin on his daily rounds, but she’s no closer to unraveling the mystery for why he chose her, eventually saying she’s had enough, she must be going, a stand off to see which one would finally commit first, which leads to their first kiss, and after that, a torrid love affair. But his old war buddies can’t let it go, as once a Serb always a Serb, and they smell a rat. Now part of a criminal underworld, basically turned into thugs for hire, they add a comic tone to this whirlwind tour through the Balkans as they fight for the postwar profits by re-living some of their earlier personal battles which apparently never ended during the war. Mostly this is briskly paced with sacred choral music intermixed with brief electric guitar interludes, creating a black comedy that is filled with the robust spirit of Djuro, who’s not above cracking jokes about the human condition. At times hilarious, this is also a poignant love story fraught with the difficulties about healing the wounds of the past, as some scars never heal. But this film does a terrific job of bringing the ethnic tensions to light, offering wise counsel about the ephemeral nature of our tragic-comic lives.

User comments from imdb Author: dusan-22 from Serbia

Just saw the film, the impressions are still pretty fresh. Definitely not a bad film. Pretty articulate usage of voice over, even though sometimes not selected well, speaking of the text. Probably, the biggest problem with this film is insisting on music all the time. Acting is very good, the plot composition is pretty solid. There are also too many theater scenes in the film which are adding the minutes but reducing the points on good black portrait of love and love story in the environment of the region. Clever message behind the multinational characters in this part of Balkans and story that represents the sides, if any. Solid job. 5 out of 10.

User comments from imdb Author: anaglosser from Ljubljana, Slovenia

I saw the film at the First Mediterranean Film Festival Split (27th May till 31st May 2008) and I was rather disappointed. The idea of the film is not uninteresting but the story is not so convincing. It's another one Bresan's film about Croats and Serbs. The love story between the Serbian prostitute (Nada Sargin) and Croatian warrior (Ivan Herceg) is unconvincing, without stronger motivation and suffocated with too much by the way events. The film wish to be the drama and the comedy at the same time but the result is pretentious. NIJE KRAJ suffers of awkward direction, pale photography and too much voice-over. The rhythm of the film is slow and the film should be twenty minutes shorter. The Mate Matisic's music is OK but there is too much music in the film. 5 of 10

User comments from imdb Author: konzultant007 from Czech Republic

I disagree with Anaglosser, this title is very worth of being seen. Romantic link is not actually between Serbian prostitute and Croatian warrior, but between Serbian girl that becomes local porn actress and Croatian ex sniper, that (what is most important) knows her from the war times - he didn't fall in love with her watching porn movies, as some annotations may suggest (that would be disappointing indeed, if he would start to search for her due to this inspiration). I have seen the movie on Karlovy Vary International Film festival 2009, just few days ago and I enjoyed it very much, as well as jury, because its rank settled this movie on second place in competition section. This film takes topic of Balkan war finally to more lighter/humorous side, being as well able to achieve some level of tension in story, that is very good. As a picture of the Man making Woman slowly fall in love with him - this is where the movie excels, i liked this image a lot. Thumbs very high up.

Variety (Alissa Simon) review

When a Croatian war-vet-turned-private-investigator recognizes the actress in a Serbian porn film, his quest to find her leads to blackly comic complications in the sardonic romantic drama "Will Not End Here." Fourth feature by Vinko Bresan, leading helmer of the Young Croatian Film generation, is an acerbic satire that targets ongoing Croat-Serb tensions. Similar in macho tone to the best-known Balkan cinema, it mixes sex, violence and humor into a rollicking whole that should be appreciated at fests and niche arthouses. Pic, which opened in Croatian theaters in May, nabbed the audience award at the recent Pula fest.

Briskly paced tale is narrated in part by massively endowed Gypsy porn star Duro (Predrag Vusovic), whose cynical reflections offer some of the witty script's funniest lines. Also sharing narration duties during the flashback-laden pic is chief protag Martin (Ivan Herceg), a former sniper whose past experience peering patiently through a rifle scope turned out to be perfect training for his current life as a P.I.

Martin requests Duro's help in finding Duro's former co-star, Desa (lissome looker Nada Sargin). Turns out she's now an alcoholic prostie in Belgrade, but her pimp's willing to part with her for a price. Manner in which Martin raises the cash epitomizes the pic's blithely amoral tone.

With the bemused Desa installed in his apartment, chastely sharing his bed, Martin's plans to slowly woo her are interrupted by his former comrades-in-arms (Drazen Kuhn, Voja Bajovic, Leon Lucev), now part of a criminal underground. Desa's identity and the reason for Martin's obsession with her are gradually revealed in between subplots involving Martin's sickly mother, his avaricious aunt and his own complicated medical history.

Pic's colorful tale-within-a-tale structure mirrors Duro's wise observation, "Where one story ends, another begins." Sharply detailed script builds to numerous well-earned comic and dramatic payoffs.

Feisty Sargin is a knockout screen presence who manages to strike some sparks with the handsome but somewhat wooden Herceg. No matter, long-nosed Vusovic and the supporting players, many of whom have worked with Bresan before, boast loads of charisma and excellent comic timing.

Bright tech package, supplied by Bresan's regular crew, is everything it should be. Sandra Botica-Bresan, the helmer's wife and longtime editor, amply deserved her Pula fest award for her compelling juggling of pic's many threads.

Co-writer Mate Matisic also composed the film's Gypsy-flavored score, as well as special "nose music" performed by Vusovic.

Camera (color), Zivko Zolar; editor, Sandra Botica-Bresan; music, Matisic; production designer, Mario Ivezic; costume designer, Zeljka Franulovic; sound (Dolby Digital), Marton Jankov, Ranko Paukovic. Reviewed at Pula Film Festival (competing), July 21, 2008. Running time: 108 MIN.

Bresson, Robert

While Bresson has not bred copycat enthusiasts, he has most certainly had a major impact on the direction of cinema, such as Chantal Akerman, Jim Jarmusch, Michael Haneke, the Dardennes Brothers, Béla Tarr, Gus Van Sant, and the whole movement of minimalist filmmakers of today, which has even veered into minimalist comedy, something Bresson may actually have sneered at.  On another note, many filmmakers adore Bresson, over and above all others, often called the patron saint of cinema, including big names like Fassbinder, Bergman, or Tarkovsky, simply because of his brilliant economy of means, how he reduced film to its bare essence, how they could watch his film construction all day long and still find something new to admire in it. Fassbinder as a budding talent actually learned how to be a filmmaker from watching Bresson films, though he immersed himself in practically everyone, routinely watching several films a day, even finding time to watch movies during his own film shoots.  More common among directors is before filming a particular scene with an intent on creating a certain impression, they may take a glance through cinema history to see how others did it. 

Bresson was ardently convinced in his own perfectionist style of filmmaking due to his faith in Catholicism, where his belief in God was absolute, so his depiction of the world was imprinted with his idea of faith, where the world was filled with transgressors, where they are defined by how they see the world around them.  Even Balthazar is defined in this manner, as we see him being passed from person to person. Through a series of extended scenes shown with meticulous detail, the viewers begin to identify with the world as the Bressonian character does, where it becomes recognizable and familiar to us, so when a particular moment occurs that does not fit the pattern, this creates an identifiable tension, perhaps a transcendent moment, where everything that came before must be re-evaluated in this new light.  Bresson, like Dreyer before him, was more concerned with the spirituality of how one viewed the world, where these "significant" moments provided meaning, where creating cinematic acts of perfection was as sacred an act in his eyes as prayer, where renouncing the superficialities of the material world, which is what he did in his films, was how one communicated with God. Bresson felt challenged by his faith, and as his life progressed, became less and less certain about the existence of God, which is reflected in the dour outlook in the films following Balthazar, and like so many of those great Irish Catholic writers, was most likely an atheist by the end of his life.

from DVDBeaver Director’s Chair: http://www.dvdbeaver.com/film/reviews.htm

Robert Bresson occupies a unique place in cinema. Certainly too inaccessible for the established mainstream viewer and quite separate from his contemporaries and countrymen attached to the French New Wave. He fervently explored the theme of redemption in his increasingly idiosyncratic and bare minimalist style with flat austere images, vague descriptions, lack of flowing narrative and often unrealistic dialogue further emphasized by the use of purposely expressionless non-professional actors (he called them 'models'). Bresson rejected the artificiality and dependence of "photographed theater" with it's superficial reliance upon publicized performers and instead emphasized a pure, elliptical approach to narrative, making a masterful use of natural sound. His films are regarded as a demanding and difficult work to approach - intensely personal - leaving his cinema to never achieve great popularity.

Bresson, Robert from World Cinema

Little is known about the early life of this reclusive, secretive genius of the French cinema, except that he turned to painting after graduating from high school, where he had excelled in Greek, Latin, and philosophy studies. He married at 19. In 1933 he made his entry into films as screenwriter on C'était un Musicien. The following year he directed a medium-length comedy, Les Affaires publiques, of which no print survives. He collaborated on several more scripts, including René Clair's L'Air pur (1939) before the outbreak of WWII. During the war he spent more than a year in a German prison, an experience he was later to incorporate into his film A Man Escaped (1956). Bresson prefers to dissociate himself from his early work in films and to regard his film career as really beginning with his first feature, Les Anges du Péché (1943).

Bresson occupies a unique place in French cinema. He cannot be classified with either the old guard or the New Wave but is highly respected by both for pursuing his own individual style, unperturbed by the cinema around him. "He expresses himself cinematographically as a poet would do with his pen," Jean Cocteau said of him. "His cinema is closer to painting than to photography," says Truffaut. Others see in him a philosopher with a camera, an uncompromising Jansenist rigorously preoccupied with ideas of predestination and spiritual grace.

Above all, Bresson is the complete cinema stylist whose universe remains unchanged from film to film and whose personal signature is imprinted clearly on each and every one. Of all contemporary directors, he probably comes closest to the definition of an auteur. His films are tightly constructed to the exclusion of all but the bare essence of the material he intends to explore. Nothing is allowed to interfere with his basic theme by either addition or subtraction. What he does choose to show is presented with rigorous, almost fanatic, attention to detail. But the realism he achieves is not of the kind associated with documentary films. His concern is with truth beyond mere reality, and he discovers it not in the artifacts themselves but in the inner life of the characters who are surrounded by them.

A purist, Bresson resists being influenced by the tools of other arts. He rejects the conventional plot as "a novelist's trick" and most of the time employs nonprofessional or inexperienced actors. "Acting is for the theatre, which is a bastard art," he says. To him, acting, like all other extraneous matters, is a hindrance rather than an aid in his search for inner truth. Unlike the theatre, Bresson contends, "film can be a true art because in it the author takes fragments of reality and arranges them in such a way that their juxtaposition transforms them....Each shot is like a word, meaning nothing by itself....[It] is given its meaning by its context....Acting has nothing to do with that. It can only get in the way. Films can be made only by bypassing the will of those who appear in them, using not what they do but what they are."

This emphasis on the relationship of images also accounts for the "flat" composition of Bresson's individual frames. "Painting," he says further, "taught me to make not beautiful images but necessary ones." The sound track, too, is used by Bresson not for effect but functionally, as another dimension of his universe, an extension of the world of his characters and nothing more. Bresson has made only ten feature films in nearly 30 years, yet he is one of the most discussed and revered figures in cinema today—creative, original, unique. In 1975 he published Notes sur le Cinématographe, a book-size essay expressing his ideas on filmmaking. An English translation, Notes on Cinematography, was published in New York in 1977. He shared the Grand Prix de Création at the 1983 Cannes Festival for L'Argent.

— Ephraim Katz, The Film Encylopedia

Film Reference P. Adams Sitney

Robert Bresson began and quickly gave up a career as a painter, turning to cinema in 1934. The short film he made that year, Affaires publiques, has not yet been shown. His next work, Les Anges du péché, was his first feature film, followed by Les Dames du Bois du Boulogne and Journal d'un curé de campagne, which firmly established his reputation as one of the world's most rigorous and demanding filmmakers. In the next fifteen years he made only four films: Un Condamné à mort s'est échappé, Pickpocket, Procès de Jeanne d'Arc, and Au hasard Balthazar, each a work of masterful originality and unlike the others. From then until his death in 1999, he made films with more frequency and somewhat less intensity. In 1975 Gallimard published his gnomic Notes sur le cinématographe. As a whole Bresson's oeuvre constitutes a crucial investigation of the nature of cinematic narration. All three films of the 1950s are variations on the notion of a written diary transposed to a voice-over commentary on the visualized action. More indirectly, Procès de Jeanne d'Arc proposes yet another variant through the medium of the written transcript of the trial; Une Femme douce is told through the voice of the husband as he keeps a vigil for his suicidal wife; and in Quatre nuits d'un rêveur both of the principal characters narrate their previous histories to each other. In all of these instances Bresson allows the tension between the continuity of written and spoken language and the fragmentation of shots in a film to become an important thematic concern. His narrators tell themselves (and us) stories in order to find meaning in what has happened to them. The elusiveness of that meaning is reflected in the elliptical style of Bresson's editing.

For the most part, Bresson employed only amateur actors. He avoided histrionics and seldom permitted his "models" (as he called them, drawing a metaphor from painting) to give a traditional performance. The emotional tensions of the films derive from the elaborate interchange of glances, subtle camera movements, offscreen sounds, carefully placed bits of baroque and classical music, and rhythmical editing.

The Bressonian hero is often defined by what he or she sees. We come to understand the sexual tensions of Ambricourt from a few shots seen from the country priest's perspective; the fierce desire to escape helps the condemned man to see the most ordinary objects as tools for his purpose; the risk the pickpocket initially takes to prove his moral superiority to himself leads him to see thefts where we might only notice people jostling one another: the film initiates its viewers into his privileged perspective. Only at the end does he realize that this obsessive mode of seeing has blinded him to a love which he ecstatically embraces.

Conversely, Mouchette kills herself suddenly when she sees the death of a hare (with which she identified herself); the heroine of Une Femme douce kills herself because she can see no value in things, while her pawnbroker husband sees nothing but the monetary worth of everything he handles. The most elaborate form this concentration on seeing takes in Bresson's cinema is the structure of Au hasard Balthazar, where the range of human vices is seen through the eyes of a donkey as he passes through a series of owners.

The intricate shot-countershot of Bresson's films reinforces his emphasis on seeing, as does his careful use of camera movement. Often he reframes within a shot to bring together two different objects of attention. The cumulative effect of this meticulous and often obsessive concentration on details is the sense of a transcendent and fateful presence guiding the actions of characters who come to see only at the end, if at all, the pattern and goal of their lives.

Only in Un Condamné, Pickpocket, and Quatre Nuits does the protagonist survive the end of the film. A dominant theme of his cinema is dying with grace. In Mouchette, Une Femme douce, and Le Diable probablement the protagonists commit suicide. In Les Anges and L'Argent they give themselves up as murderers. Clearly Bresson, who was the most prominent of Catholic filmmakers, does not reflect the Church's condemnation of suicide. Death, as he represented it, comes as the acceptance of one's fate. The three suicides emphasize the enigma of human will; they seem insufficiently motivated, but are pure acts of accepting death.

film > Remembering a Master of Precise Gestures ... Remembering a Master of Precise Gestures and Cinematic Emotion, Amy Taubin and others memorialize Bresson from the Village Voice, January 4, 2000, also seen here: Kent Jones

A magisterial figure in world cinema, having made but 13 features over the course of four decades and influenced virtually every major European director to emerge since 1960, Robert Bresson, who died December 18, distilled the motion picture narrative down to a particular essence. Bresson's movies are looks and gestures and precisely arranged sounds. He eschewed theater. He did not use actors. His favorite effect was the close-up and his only peer as an editor was Alfred Hitchcock. Bresson, however, was not a director of audiences. Each of his films was a drama of faith so uncompromising as to border on the absurd and, as cerebral as these movies are, their effect is far more emotional than intellectual. Everyone has their favorite. Mine is the heartbreakingly ridiculous Au Hasard Balthazar—a movie that transforms the death of a donkey into the most tragic and sublime cinematic passage I know. —J. HOBERMAN

In 1972 Robert Bresson, responding to my recently published book, Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer, wrote me, "I have always been surprised not to recognize myself in the image formed by those who are really interested in me."

Looking back at Bresson's films and my fascination with them, I am no longer sure if I ever saw Bresson in the glass of his films; I only saw my own reflection.

This is the extraordinary spell of his films: Pretending to depict the physical world with neither emotion nor estimate, he reveals not the outer world, but the inner one. The point he strives for, the end of his task, is not a depiction of the physical world, not an emotional identification with the actor or story, not an exploration of the artist, but the exquisite quiet of oneself, the viewer.

For the last 15 years Robert Bresson has seemed like God himself, distant, beyond communication. Now, like God, Bresson is dead. —PAUL SCHRADER

"I would like to announce that my husband Robert Bresson, author of films, died on the 18th of December, and will be buried in private." With this simple statement, as direct and shorn of wasteful embellishments as a moment from one of her husband's films, Mylène Bresson publicly announced a piece of news that we all knew would come sooner rather than later. Bresson was, after all, 98 years old, and his mind had reportedly started to lose its extraordinary lucidity some time ago.

But now we have a world without Bresson in it. There was little if any chance he would ever get another film off the ground after the 1983 L'Argent—for my money one of the great works of art of the second half of the 20th century—although he did come close in the mid '80s, with La Belle Vie and his long-cherished version of Genesis. But the mere fact that he was still in our midst felt comforting, almost like a shield against venality and indifference. In Histoire(s) du Cinéma, Godard offers the dubious proposition that Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne, Bresson's scaldingly romantic drama and his first great work, was the "one true film of the resistance." From a purely factual point of view, it's a stretch—the movie was made under studio conditions during the German occupation. But as often happens with Godard, the poetic logic is right. Because throughout his career, more than any other filmmaker, Bresson resisted.

He resisted stars, spectacle, theatrically inflected acting, standardized syntax, anything that stood in the way of his efforts to achieve a completely personal narrative cinema. There is nothing even remotely ordinary about Bresson's films: Every choice, from the sound effects to the transitions between scenes, feels like a brush stroke. Bresson began as a painter, and much to the consternation of his exasperated crews and producers, he carried that private mode of creation into the most industrially tainted of all art forms.

There's a mythical image of Bresson as an austere, transcendental creator of austere, transcendental films (it's based on a misunderstanding of Schrader's pioneering book on "transcendental style"). The adjectives are misleading, because they speak more to what his films aren't than to what they are. And they don't do justice to this fan of Goldfinger and Brief Encounter, who once considered casting Burt Lancaster and Natalie Wood in Lancelot du Lac. Nor do they describe the hair-raising eroticism of Au Hasard Balthazar, Une Femme Douce or Four Nights of a Dreamer. Or the profoundly empathic communion with the young and the disenfranchised in The Devil Probably and L'Argent. Bresson was certainly the only filmmaker who could have made sense of Littleton. Now he's gone. Will there be anyone brave enough to follow his example? —KENT JONES

Given that Robert Bresson could not live forever, there's something satisfying in the fact that his 98 years were almost the measure of the century of cinema, that the century enfolded, with a slight modernist asymmetry, his beginning and his end. You can see the form in this, although Bresson, whose films are, above all, investigations into the mystery of form, might have found the relationships and metaphors a bit crude.

"Robert Bresson is French Cinema, as Dostoevsky is the Russian novel and Mozart is German music," wrote Godard, the polemicist. The quotation is on the back cover of Robert Bresson, edited by James Quandt, an excellent collection of interviews with Bresson plus essays and tributes by filmmakers and critics testifying to the revelatory impact of his films. "Pickpocket is the film of my life" (Chantal Akerman). "The experience was an awakening for me—the film expressed such essential truths" (Agnieszka Holland on A Man Escaped). "I would never have survived in this God-forgotten world without the realistic lies of Mr. Bresson, for which I will always be thankful until I die and thereafter" (Aki Kaurismaki). What publicist could dream of better blurbs?

Au Hasard Balthazar is the film of my life, and not simply because I weep from beginning to end every time I see it. I also weep, though not as convulsively, at Bambi, which like Balthazar is about the cruelty of humans to animals. The comparison, however, stops there. Balthazar is a donkey who lives for the first year of his life in a kind of paradise. Marie, the daughter of the family that owns him, lavishes him with affection. He is her familiar, her alter ego, the love of her life. But their happiness is short-lived. Marie's father loses his livelihood and his pride will not allow him to accept help. Balthazar is sold to one cruel master after another. Marie not only watches as he's beaten and tormented, she fucks his abusers. Marie has inherited her father's masochism. She cannot reconcile sex and love. Her perverse confusion of pleasure and pain, which is shared by every person in the film, is what defines the difference between humans and beasts like Balthazar. It all ends badly. Marie is raped by her lover and his motorcycle gang, and Balthazar is killed when the same boys use him to carry smuggled goods over the border.

Unsparing in its depiction of sadomasochistic relations and the shame that accompanies them, Balthazar also offers, in its opening moments, a glimpse of paradise, the loss of which conditions everything that follows. Bresson's films are composed around this sense of loss. The fragmentation of sound, image, and movement testifies simultaneously to what is present and what is absent, to the world as it is and as it could be. Gravity and grace.--AMY TAUBIN

Robert Bresson Robert Bresson link from Masters of Cinema

bresson Bresson website, by Paul Schrader

Robert Bresson | Senses of Cinema Alan Pavelin’s from Senses of Cinema, July 2002

Robert Bresson: Biography from Answers.com biography

Overview for Robert Bresson - Turner Classic Movies biography from Turner Classic Movies

Robert Bresson biography by Rebecca Flynt Marx from Rovi

Robert Bresson a Books and Writers biography

Robert Bresson Alan Pavelin biography and filmography from Talking Pictures

notcoming.com | Robert Bresson a brief biography by Matt Bailey from Not Coming to a Theater Near You

village voice > film > 'Nine Films By Robert Bresson' by Richard Hell a brief introduction to Bresson

The Films of Robert Bresson - by Michael E. Grost Michael Grost reviews Bresson films from Classic Film and Television

Robert Bresson / films / director / biography / filmography reviews of Bresson films by James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

Robert Bresson reviews by Acquarello from Strictly Film School

Robert Bresson Mubi

Robert Bresson - Explore - The Criterion Collection

Robert Bresson Bergman on Bresson, from the Ingmar Bergman website (undated)

Aphorisms for a Spiritual Style in Film « Handy Cloud Productions Quotes from various filmmakers

Susan Sontag Spiritual Style in the Films of Robert Bresson, essays on his first 6 films, 1964

Jane Sloan: A Critical Survey Robert Bresson: A Guide to References and Resources, G.K. Hall, 1983, from Masters of Cinema

JonathanRosenbaum.com » Blog Archive » The Last Filmmaker January 26, 1996

A Cinema of God's Grace, by Robert E. Lauder April 1996

Bresson's Notes on Sound March 5, 1997

To See the World Profoundly: The Films of Robert Bresson Shmuel Ben-gad from Cross Currents, Summer 1997

The soul of cinema, page 1 - Movies - Seattle Weekly How a controversial filmmaker achieved a state of grace, Sean Axmaker, March 24, 1999

The Dismaying Grace of Robert Bresson Cinema Purgatorio, by Peter Keough from The Harvard Film Archive Retrospective, April 1 – May 1, 1999

Bresson Robert Bresson: an Introduction, by Kent Jones, first appeared in Film Comment May/June 1999

EuroScreenwriters [03] Fragments of Reality: The Cinema of Robert Bresson (1907-1999), by Rustin Thompson from Moviemaker magazine (1999)

Bright Lights Film Journal :: Robert Bresson All Is Grace, The Films of Robert Bresson, by Gary Morris, April 1999

The spartan stylist of cinema Peter Lennon from The Guardian, August 6, 1999

Bresson's lost screenplay Brian Baxter from The Guardian, August 9, 1999

Legendary French director dies Obituary from The Guardian, December 21, 1999

Robert Bresson | Film | The Guardian Obituary, December 22, 1999, also seen here: Robert Bresson

Bresson: Destinies Making Themselves in a Work of Hands M.C. Zenner’s Three-Part essay from Senses of Cinema, Part I, December 5, 1999

Bresson: Destinies Making Themselves in a Work of Hands ... M.C. Zenner’s Three-Part essay from Senses of Cinema, Part II, January 9, 2000

Fragments of Reality: The Cinema of Robert Bresson (1901-1999) Obituary by Rustin Thompson for Movie Maker magazine (2000)

The Narrative Cracks: Emotion in Robert Bresson | Senses of Cinema Bill Mousoulis from Senses of Cinema, January 9, 2000

French filmmaker Robert Bresson (1901-1999) "When one is in prison ... David Walsh from the World Socialist Website, January 20, 2000, also seen here: WSWS Article (2000)

Bresson: Destinies Making Themselves in a Work of Hands ... M.C. Zenner’s Three-Part essay from Senses of Cinema, Part III, February 6, 2000

Robert Bresson: Depth Behind Simplicity - Kinema : : A Journal for ... Sarah Jane Gorlitz essay from Kinema, Spring 2000

Robert Bresson: 1901-1999 - Brief Article ArtForum - Find Articles from Artforum, April 2000, novelists Gary Indiana and Dennis Cooper, artist Stephen Prina, and film historian David Bordwell assess the significance of Bresson’s art and his place in film history

François Leterrier and Andi Engel on Bresson “Working with Bresson” page photos are taken from ENTHUSIASM, Issue 2, Summer 2000 (UK), pp 36–37. ©2000-2004 Artificial Eye Film Company Ltd, from Masters of Cinema

Tucker on Reader A Patient Cinema or a Cinema of Patience? Thomas Deane Tucker reviews Keith Reader’s book, Robert Bresson, from Film-Philosophy, July 2001

Sterritt on Quandt Bressonians on Bresson, David Sterrit reviews James Quandt’s book on Bresson from Film-Philosphy, July 2001

Robert Bresson Robert Bresson: Without a Trace, a 64 minute documentary film from Cinema, Of Our Time, directed by François Weyergans, from Icarus Films, 2002, also seen here: Robert Bresson – Without a Trace

Bright Lights Film Journal | Robert Bresson and Chantal Akerman Gary Morris reviews the Bresson documentary, August 2002

Robert Bresson: A Spiritual Style in Film : Joseph Cunneen ... (224 pages), published May 2003

Robert Bresson - A Spiritual Style In Film brief book review on Joseph Cunneen’s book on Bresson by Alan Pavelin from Talking Pictures, 2003

[ robert-bresson.com | Words: Daryl Chin on Au Hasard, Balthazar] The Strange Luck of Au Hasard, Balthazar, by Daryl Chinn September 2003

BOOKS -- as reviewed in the Spring 2004 issue of CrossCurrents Auteur! Auteur! a book review of Joseph Cunneen’s Robert Bresson: a Spiritual Style in Film, by Peter Heinegg

Robert Bresson as a Precursor to the Nouvelle Vague: A Brief Historical Sketch Colin Burnett from Offscreen, March 31, 2004

The Absolute Realism of Robert Bresson - Quiet Please - Film ... Eric Mahleb from Quiet Please, April 30, 2004

“Notes” on Notes on the Cinematographer Book review of Bresson’s Notes on a Cinematographer, by Donato Totaro from Offscreen, April 30, 2004

Review of Jane Sloan’s Robert Bresson: A Guide to Sources and References   Colin Burnett from Offscreen, April 30, 2004

The Austerity Campaign That Never Ended Terrence Rafferty in The New York Times July 4, 2004, from Masters of Cinema

here Rebuttal: On Terrence Rafferty's The Austerity Campaign That Never Ended, by Kevin Lee from Masters of Cinema

here More Than Meets the Eye: A Response to Kevin Lee and Terrence Rafferty, by Colin Burnett from Masters of Cinema

Parametric Narration and Optical Transition Devices: Hou Hsiao-hsien and Robert Bresson in Comparison Colin Burnett from Senses of Cinema, October 2004

Robert Bresson: A Spiritual Style in Film | DeepDyve Shmuel Ben-gad book review of Robert Bresson: A Spiritual Style in Film, from Film Quarterly magazine, December 1, 2004 (pdf)

ROBERT BRESSON: THE FAILURE TO FIND THE HOLY GRAIL Gregory and Maria Pearse (2005)

Journal of Religion & Film: The Filmgoer’s Guide to God by Tim ... Book review of Tim Cawkwell’s The Filmgoers Guide to God, by Freek L. Bakker, which includes reviews of several Bresson films, from The Journal of Religion and Film, October 2005

girish: Robert Bresson June 12, 2006

Robert Bresson: Alias Grace Michael Brooke from Sight and Sound, where Olivier Assayas, Bruno Dumont, Paul Schrader, Eugène Green and Aki Kaurismäki discuss his influence (2007)

Strange Encounters at the Cinema Corral Bresson and Sergio Leone, a comparison by Donato Totaro from Offscreen, February 28, 2007

A Dissenting View of Robert Bresson - Senses of Cinema Dan Harper, February 12, 2007

Going Beyond Cézanne: The Development of Robert Bresson's Film ... Peter L. Doebler from Senses of Cinema, May 12, 2007

Robert Bresson films at the BFI Wally Hammond from Time Out London, October 1, 2007

The supreme genius of cinema Gilbert Adair from The Guardian, October 9, 2007

Robert Bresson: Alias Grace Michael Brooke from Sight and Sound, November 2007, also seen here: Sight & Sound Article (2007)

At the Movies Michael Wood from The London Review of Books, June 5, 2008

Bresson and Greenaway Mark Harris from Patrick Murtha’s Diary, September 10, 2008

The Worlds Best Films: Top Ranked Films of Robert Bresson William Sinclair, September 16, 2011

Tony Pipolo on Robert Bresson ArtForum magazine, December 30, 2011

Robert Bresson in five steps - Film - Time Out New York Joshua Rothkopf, January 3, 2012

Amazing Grace: Redemption, Despair and Awe in the Films of Robert Bresson Nick Pinkerton from The Village Voice, January 4, 2012

The Master, Probably: Bresson at Film Forum Justin Stewart from The L magazine, January 4, 2012

Bresson Jesse Cataldo from Slant magazine, January 5, 2012

Pick of the week: Take the Robert Bresson challenge Andrew O’Hehir from Salon, January 5, 2012

Robert Bresson | Film Forum | Salvation at the Forum | By Kristin M. Jones The Wall Street Journal, January 5, 2012

Robert Bresson: The Over-Plenty of Life Ignatiy Vishnevetsky from Mubi, January 6, 2012

Critical Consensus: Kent Jones and Jonathan Rosenbaum Discuss ... Critical Consensus: Kent Jones and Jonathan Rosenbaum Discuss Robert Bresson and Jean-Luc Godard, also including Eric Kohn from indieWIRE, January 6, 2012

Movie Poster of the Week: The Posters of Robert Bresson on ... Adrian Curry from Mubi, January 6, 2012

Film Forum's complete Bresson retrospective notes on Bresson retrospective from Film Forum, January 6 – 26, 2012

Robert Bresson - Moving Image Source Gene Siskel Film Center, January 6 – March 30, 2012, also seen here: Robert Bresson

Austere Perfectionism: The Films of Robert Bresson Pacific Film Archive, January 19 – February 25, 2012

The Complete Robert Bresson Harvard Film Archive, January 20 – February 19, 2012

The Poetry of Precision: Bresson at the Lightbox | Dork Shelf Corey Atad, February 6, 2012, also seen at TIFF Cinematheque, February 9 – March 30, 2012, The Poetry of Precision: The Films of Robert Bresson

Robert Bresson John Semley from The Onion A.V. Club, February 9, 2012

Public Books — Dedicated to bringing cutting-edge scholarly ideas to ... The Intrusion Artist, by Max Nelson from Public Books, November 15, 2016, also seen here: http://publicbooks.org/artmedia/the-intrusion-artist

Robert Bresson from They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

Bresson interviewed by the French press Several of Bresson comments from 1946 to 1960, from Masters of Cinema

YouTube - Robert Bresson a 1960 interview, among others (6:26)

Robert Bresson interviewed by Charles Thomas Samuels September 2, 1970 from Masters of Cinema

Robert Bresson in conversation with Ronald Hayman from Masters of Cinema, Summer 1973

Inside Bresson's L'Argent: Interview with Crew-member Jonathan Hourigan Colin Burnett interview of Jonathan Hourigan from Offscreen, August 31, 2004

An interview with Michael Dudok de Wit, winner of the inaugural Prix Robert Bresson from Masters of Cinema (2005)

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Robert Bresson - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

PUBLIC AFFAIRS ( Les affaires publiques)

France (25 mi) 1934

Cinepassion.og [Fernando F. Croce]

Hommage à Mack Sennett. The copy restored at the Cinémathèque Française is said to be incomplete, but even at just 25 minutes Robert Bresson has lots of material to work with, and he keeps it swirling like a three-ring circus, all speed. Crogandie is his Freedonia, Beby is the clown-dictator who unveils a statue and precipitates an epidemic of yawning; the princess (Andrée Servilanges) of the neighboring kingdom of Miremie crash lands amid the festivities to look for a husband, the rest of the reel zips by via gags out of Chaplin, Keaton, McCarey, Edgar Kennedy. Aristocratic furs and feathers are twirled about, the singing of the national anthem isn’t far from the Folies Bergère. Top hats are to be set ablaze and hosed down, long beards are rolled up and sheared off; the most beguiling bit of surrealism has a building scared off its foundation by the sound of a tuba and lulled back by piccolo tooting. Bresson, "un pessimiste gai"? The humor of Mouchette or Four Nights of a Dreamer, say, may require a keen eye, but in this daft caprice it spurts and geysers. The spoof of diplomatic matters builds to the clash between launching ship and unbreakable bottle, resolved in a Potemkin jest appreciated by Tex Avery. With Marcel Dalio. In black and white.

User reviews from imdb Author: CitizenCaine from Las Vegas, Nevada

Innovative French Director Robert Bresson wrote and directed this brief look at what happens under two opposing republics. Bresson gleefully skewers ceremonies, politics, and pretension in general in this exercise in slapstick comedy. The film opens with a ticker-tape parade, and dignitaries absolutely drowning in all the confetti. More sight gags follow in quick succession. A dignitary receives a flower and absent-mindedly tosses it to the ground, where a street sweeper quickly sweeps it up. Ladies resort to a racy Busby Berkley-like dance maneuver prior to the unveiling of a statue in front of a public gathering. The unveiling recalls Chaplin's opening in City Lights. There's even a Chaplin-like chap who pops up now and then during the film. When a dignitary yawns mirroring a statue while presenting it, it sets off a visual set of dominoes, culminating with the complete nosedive of a plane with a female pilot: absolutely hilarious. The pretentiousness of full military dress with the old world long beard is poked fun at as well. Soldiers become like the Keystone Cops when a large building facade does a shimmy because of a tuba. A dignitary is hosed when his platform becomes overheated. The coup de grace is watching several attempts to christen a new ship go awry and the ship itself, Titanic in nature, sinks. A lot of sight gags and political jests are packed into a short film, which purportedly is still incomplete despite restorative efforts. **1/2 of 4 stars.

Robert Bresson: Les Affaires Publiques / Public Affairs (1934) Troy Olson from Elusive as Robert Denby

Unfortunately, there's not much detail about the beginning of Robert Bresson's life.  He was born in rural France, though no one can quite nail down when (some say 1901, some 1907, others, 1909), and later went to school in Paris where he studied painting and photography.  This led to him aspiring to work in the film industry, which he achieved when he directed his first film, Les Affaires Publiques (English Title: Public Affairs).

Shot in 1934 and discovered in 1987, Les Affaires Publiques is surely the outlier in Robert Bresson's filmography.  Even taking into account the poor quality of the master print (and I was watching it on a VHS rip which didn't do it any extra favors) and it's meager 22-minute runtime, the film doesn't overtly contain the distinctive visual or thematic signifiers that would point towards Bresson becoming a vastly respected auteur later in his life.  Of course, that all depends on my assumption that future Bresson films don't contain much in the way of slapstick comedy.

The film is comprised of three vignettes involving the chancellor of the fictional land of Crogandie (immediately making the Marx Brothers come to mind) and his involvement in three public events -- the unveiling of a statue, the lighting of a house on fire (surely every public leaders ideal event), and the christening of a boat.  In each one, various sight gags occur.  For instance, when the statue is revealed it is shown to be yawning, which then induces everyone, from the gathering crowd at the event to those in other scenes in the film, to suddenly fall asleep.  Through a series of incidents, the house isn't set on fire, but the chancellor's pants are.  Then, incapable of smashing the champagne bottle on the boat, the chancellor launches it via a cannon, putting a hole in the vessel that causes it to sink.  Throw in a little song and dance and a romantic subplot involving a plane flying princess and you have the complete film.

For what it sets out to do and the limited time it has to do it in, it's a successful enough film.  The gag with the yawning and a later moment where a tuba player's blast sends a house moving down the street are both nicely done bits of surreal comedy.  Even more obvious moments like the pants being caught on fire and the ship sinking are worthy of a smile.  And though I'm reaching a bit in saying this, one could say that there is even an inkling of Bresson's education in the fields of painting and photography creeping onto the screen here.  Visually (and surely it's not as definitive as it will become in his later, non-comedic output) there's a distinct and precise quality Bresson lends to the shot compositions (as displayed in the screenshots below).  Even with low expectations, Bresson shows that he knows what he's aiming to do with Les Affaires Publiques and he simply and ably accomplishes it.

Five years after the release of Les Affaires Publiques , Bresson joined the French army to fight in WW2., during which he spent a year in a German POW camp.  After the war was over, he went back to film, releasing his first full-length movie, Les Anges du Péché (Angels of the Streets) in 1943.  I'll tackle that next time.

User reviews from imdb Author: MARIO GAUCI (marrod@melita.com) from Naxxar, Malta

This film is pretty unique in the annals of cinema history, in that the efforts by the same director that came afterwards were such polar opposites that one can barely believe his eyes when watching it: the thing is that this 23-minute short was believed lost and only retrieved in 1987, when Bresson had effectively retired (being then 86 years old)…so that, to most movie buffs and admirers of the director, his debut proved to be the one they got to see last (in my case, it was the penultimate one, since I chose to watch this, A GENTLE WOMAN {1969}, and the documentary THE ROAD TO BRESSON {1984} on the 12th anniversary of his passing, just two weeks shy of the new millennium!).

Anyway, this is a satirical farce with political overtones, very much in the style of The Marx Bros. masterpiece DUCK SOUP (1933) – since it involves two neighboring fictionalized countries – and the ending, with two newscasters disapproving of an elderly high-society dame's singing by flinging objects at her, is a literal borrowing/tribute. The runaway princess subplot, then, may well have been inspired by the W.C. Fields vehicle YOU'RE TELLING ME! (1934), albeit emerging as its weakest link. Another obvious influence here is Charlie Chaplin – especially in the set-piece of the unveiling of a statue (which, depicting a yawning man, unleashes a veritable flood of boredom/exhaustion grimaces among the spectators of the ceremony and even the heroine, whose airplane summarily crashes!), but also the fact that a squad of firemen here behave as if they were The Keystone Kops.

In the end, the film is more a curio (if anything, it owes at least as much to Rene' Clair as it does the afore-mentioned Hollywood star comedians) than a success, but it undeniably boasts a handful of innovations and side-splitting moments: the sound of a tuba causes a house to move off its hinges, which is then brought back into place by a Pied Piper-ish flute player!; one of the firemen is a professional fire-eater, so that every time a spark is lit (as part of the town festivities), he rushes to extinguish the flame by gobbling it up!; finally, the climactic christening of a ship by the traditional breaking of a champagne bottle against its side proves problematic because of the incredible resilience of the glassware – someone has the bright idea of using a cannon to destroy the bottle but, first, the heaving of the evidently cumbersome weapon onto the platform almost brings the whole crashing down but, then, the blast naturally produces a hole in the vessel which, upon being slid into the sea, it promptly sinks!

For the record, the unearthed print of this one (which had actually been stored under a different title!) is in a rather precarious state, with the image so fuzzy that one can hardly make out the actors' facial features!; incidentally, future Jean Renoir regular and reliable Hollywood character actor Marcel Dalio appears in four separate roles here (including a Military General who, in order to have a medal pinned on his chest, it is required to shear off his lengthy beard!). So, while France may have lost a comic genius when Bresson returned to film-making 9 years later, World Cinema certainly gained one of its most rigorous analysts into the human condition (and the quest for spiritual grace).

The Comedy Stylings of Robert Bresson Ignatiy Vishnevetsky from Mubi, January 13, 2012

LES ANGES DU PÉCHÉ B+ 90

aka: Angels of Sin

aka: Angels of the Street

France (96 mi) 1943

Bresson’s first two feature films are both overwrought melodramas from the 1940’s, also both feature the presence of professional actors for the last time in his career as well as an orchestral soundtrack, all features he eventually eliminated in creating his minimalist style that strips bare all but the most essential elements. Of his two early films, this one most accurately resembles his Bressonian film style, where characters are nearly indistinguishable, there’s plenty of uniformity in action, nuns laying prostrate on the ground before their superiors, where the camera routinely follows people moving down long corridors or climbing up or down stairs, where the physical movement itself creates the rhythm he was looking for, also in the directness of addressing his subject matter, in this case spiritual redemption. What distinguishes this film from all other Bresson films is that it was made while under Nazi occupation “during” World War II, similar to Rossellini’s OPEN CITY (1945), which was shot shortly after the German army vacated Rome, or Dreyer’s DAY OF WRATH (1943) which was shot during the Nazi occupation of Denmark and released to the public when the Danish government had resigned in protest, where the film became a symbol of the nation’s resistance. Curiously, after spending more than a year as a German POW, this film was released in Paris June 23, 1943, a full year before D-Day, June 6, 1944. Surprisingly, French cinema thrived under the occupation, especially with a German ban on foreign, particularly American, films. There are no references to the war, no political mention of any kind, and the film, which began as a documentary, takes place nearly entirely within the grounds of a real-life Dominican convent of the Sisters of Béthany, where the interrelation between the nuns comprises the narrative, an idea supposedly brought to Bresson from Raymond-Leopold Bruckberger, a Dominican priest from Paris, shedding light on an unusual ministry that cares for women prisoners while welcoming former convicts into their Order. The personal reference to Bresson's own life in prison is the final shot, where a wayward nun hiding out from the law finally turns herself in, finding spiritual salvation in the form of handcuffs and a life spent in prison.

While this, Diary of a Country Priest (Journal d'un curé de campagne) (1950), and perhaps Mouchette (1967), the latter two both written by the same Catholic author, are his most Catholic oriented films, in each one must overcome the non-believer sentiment and self-doubts, where even the most faithful are challenged and forced to take unpopular actions, where going against the grain leads them to the redemptive path, not following any rigid church hierarchy. The social structure within the convent might surprise some, as it’s filled with unkind rumors and backstabbers, where purely jealous motives may drive one to undermine another, as another sister’s popularity or social ranking may irk them, feeling they are more deserving. Sounding a bit like cliques from high school, many of these sisters were deprived of a normal or typical social background due to damaged family relations, while this particular order of nuns seeks renewal through the rehabilitation of female prisoners. It’s there that the idealistic and ever cheerful Sister Anne-Marie (Renée Faure) is called upon to save the dour and unrepentant prison inmate Thérèse (Jany Holt) who insists she’s innocent of all charges, rejecting and belittling Anne-Marie’s obvious naiveté, but the sister doesn’t back down, becoming obsessed with saving Thérèse’s soul, immediately befriending her when she suddenly and rather unexpectedly joins the convent. Thérèse, on the other hand, remains chilly towards Sister Anne-Marie, hiding from all the fact that once out of prison she murdered the man responsible for putting her in prison. Linking the salvation of the two together, the saint and the sinner, Bresson intercuts a shot of Anne-Marie praying in the chapel and Thérèse walking down a hallway on her way to commit the murder.

Thérèse has a poisonous presence within the convent, leading a conspiracy against Sister Anne-Marie, turning everyone against her, using the rigidity of the rules as a way to subvert her more free-spirited and open hearted approach, resulting in a punitive critique by others who are jealous that the Mother Superior holds her in such high regard, where supposed nitpicking of rather minor infractions leads to a personally humiliating and demeaning public condemnation. Strict obedience to the monotony of daily routine overrides any sense of leadership or moral assertiveness, becoming an absolutist, dictatorial agenda (like an Occupation) from which to impose harsh and punitive judgment. This blindsides Anne-Marie and many of the nuns who find her cheerful optimism a source of refreshment and spiritual renewal. Bresson finds transcendent moments in his very first feature, a highly provocative work accentuating dual moralities, filming a cinematic choreography that highlights an ascending moral path for both, though in decidedly different directions. It should be noted that French director Bruno Dumont’s recent film 2010 Top Ten Films of the Year: #5 Hadewijch may draw heavily from the provocative themes of this film, in particular blurring the lines between sinner and saint, both equally deserving of spiritual renewal, as it also partly takes place in a convent and features a deeply religious teenage Bressonian character who couldn’t be more innocent and pure that becomes exposed to religious fanaticism, drawing a fascinating parallel between the extremism of an austere, cloistered life and a similarly devout Muslim believer who is willing to die for a cause as a martyr, creating a powerful and emotionally cathartic final sequence that rivals Bresson’s own, another film reflecting dual possibilities, the human and the Divine, creating a bridge between heaven and earth.

Chicago Reader (Dave Kehr)

The first full-length feature of Robert Bresson, made in 1943 and preceded only by his 1934 comedy, Affaires publiques. His spare, concentrated style had not yet fully developed, but the seeds are there in this study of a Dominican nun's obsessive devotion to a female ex-convict who comes to live in her convent. The spiritual themes--confession, absolution, salvation--are explored through visual and dramatic paradoxes, as Bresson draws parallels between a life in prison and a life in God, and finds his final image of freedom in a pair of handcuffs. The script, by dramatist Jean Giraudoux, is talky and relatively conventional (it even makes some concessions toward some very un-Bressonian suspense), but the heaviness of the dialogue is balanced by Jany Holt's superbly understated performance as the prisoner--a performance that looks forward to the invisible acting style of Bresson's mature work.

Les Anges du Péché Time Out London

One of the most astonishing film debuts ever, made while France was still under Nazi occupation. Bresson chose an apparently timeless subject: the way that people affect each other's destinies. Based on the real convent of the Sisters of Béthany, a secluded order of nuns are minutely observed in their rehabilitation of women from prison. If the salvation is tangibly close to a Resistance adventure, it is the simple human confrontations that fascinate Bresson - the consuming desire of secure, bourgeois-born Anne-Marie to save the unrepentant Thérèse, wrongly imprisoned for the sake of her criminal lover. Concentrated dialogue (with a little help from Jean Giraudoux) and moulded monochrome photography by Philippe Agostini contribute to an outstanding film. Rarely have the seemingly opposite worlds of the spiritual and the erotic received such sublime, ennobling treatment.

CINE-FILE: Cine-List Ignatiy Vishnevetsky

Despite—or because of—its overtly religious subject matter, Robert Bresson's "conventional" first feature LES ANGES DU PÉCHÉ—about an order of nuns who specialize in looking after female ex-cons—is the one (aside from, of course, his debut short, PUBLIC AFFAIRS) that most thoroughly hints at his Surrealist roots. Made before Bresson started putting his theories about editing, framing and acting into practice, the film has a style that's essentially syncretic, repurposing "mainstream" (or "mainstream at the time") ideas about how a camera should move, how a film should be edited, how actors should perform, and how a story should be told toward its own ends; it teeters somewhere between reverence and absurdism, with Bresson interjecting the melodramatic plot with scenes of nuns scurrying around at night, nuns hiding in shadows, nuns arguing—their hoods always comically flapping in the wind. From PUBLIC AFFAIRS through L'ARGENT, Bresson displayed a generally ironic stance toward human behavior and socially hierarchies—regardless of what you've heard, this is no different. (1943, 96 min, 35mm)

Cinepassion.org [Fernando F. Croce]

The two-way street between convent and prison, the ideal place for Robert Bresson to found his themes and images. The Dominican nunnery is devoted to the rehabilitation of women, inmates seek a new life among the sisters, "it’s a harsh legion." In comes the bourgeois, eager-beaver novice (Renée Faure), convinced of the sublimity of her own mission and determined to save the soul of the newest member (Jany Holt), a former convict who "stains anything white." The synergy between Faure (whose faith is inseparable from her ego) and Holt (who sees "indifference" as the only cure for her suffering) crystallizes the tensions simmering within placid arched chambers and long corridors, where people compete for attention and accuse each other, hunger for severity and forgiveness, quote Pascal and St. Francis back and forth. Outside, meanwhile, is the noir world of shadows and fog and prowling silhouettes, in other words the occupied France where the filmmaker spent a year imprisoned. Bresson’s control of cinematic space (deep-focus panning and tilting, languid dissolves as links into the ineffable) is already absolute, but for him that’s not enough: The pull toward the essential -- the voice forever murmuring "less, less" -- leads him to stage the purchase of a gun and the shooting of a lover as unbroken takes that pin Holt to blank walls and faceless men, quick brushes of almost ethereal terseness. And yet, is there a more tactile director? The hard checkerboard floor on which the women lay face down with outstretched arms, the loud clanking of the prison food cart pushed down a flight of stairs, above all the expelled Faure after "scraps of peace" in the convent's graveyard, alone with the elements, her upturned visage pelted by raindrops. An immense first feature, reflected laterally by the rest of Bresson’s work: The setting is further distilled in Diary of a Country Priest and A Man Escaped, the closing image resurfaces as Pickpocket’s manacles, what are the nuns’ habits if not the medieval armor of Lancelot du Lac? With Sylvie, Mila Parély, Marie-Hélene Dasté, Yolande Laffon, Paula Dehelly, and Silvia Monfort. In black and white.

Les Anges du péché (1943) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

A wealthy young woman, Anne-Marie Lamaury, decides to follow her vocation and becomes a nun in a convent which occupies itself with the rehabilitation of female prisoners.  During a prison visit, she meets another young woman, Thérèse, with whom she starts to take an interest. Thérèse resolutely claims that she is innocent and rejects Anne-Marie’s attentions.  When she is released from prison, Thérèse kills the man who committed the crime for which she was sentenced.  She then seeks sanctuary in Anne-Marie’s convent but is unable to speak about what she has done. Anne-Marie is nonetheless determined to bring about Thérèse’s spiritual transformation, even if she risks alienating herself from her fellow sisters…

Robert Bresson’s first full-length film contains many of the essential ingredients and themes which would recur time and again in his subsequent works, but it is, at the same time, startlingly different to his later films.  The nature of sin, the susceptibility of the human spirit to evil, and the path back to redemption are ideas which underpin much of Bresson’s cinema, and it is interesting to see how the director evolves his approach to these matters in the course of his long film-making career. 

For anyone familiar with Bresson’s later films, the most striking thing about Les Anges du péché is that it is a conventional film, made using standard film-making techniques with professional actors.  Yet, at the same time, the film bears the unmistakable stamp of its creator, both in the film’s subject matter (the necessity for redemption in spiritual fulfilment) and its directness.   In comparison with Bresson’s final film, L’Argent (1980), there are probably more similarities than differences, even though the visual style of the two films could scarcely be more different.  Les Anges du péché is perhaps the more complex film, because it deals with the idea of redemption from two quite different perspectives, that of Thérèse and Anne-Marie Lamaury.  The sinner and the saint are equally deserving of spiritual renewal, and the fact that both find grace through each other is a typically Bressonesque comment that in human nature there are no absolutes in good or evil.

Les anges du péché (1943) Gladsome Morning

Redemption stories are everywhere. Take a character down on her luck; watch her stagger through the mud of life for two hours; then rejoice as she comes out clean on the other side of her trials. Such stories are common because they reflect a deep desire in human beings to rise above the temporal cares and tribulations of life and grasp onto to something pure and real and true.

Filmmakers have been exploring and capitalizing on this universal human desire since the cinematic medium was invented. But few have explored redemption with as much formal interest, and, in certain cases, rigor, as Robert Bresson did in his first feature, Les anges du péché (The Angels of Sin).

The story follows a group of nuns as they bring two new members, Anne-Marie and Thérèse, into their family. This particular community of nuns specializes in serving imprisoned women while they are in prison, and offering them a place in the convent when they are freed. Anne-Marie comes to the sisters from a bourgeois life. With no prison in her background, she stands apart from most of the nuns. Thérèse on the other hand, begins the film as the most feared inmate in the prison. Only through Anne-Marie, an instrument of grace in the film, does Thérèse finally find her redemption. What makes Bresson’s film both interesting and excellent is not in his choice of tales, but rather in how he executes this telling of that old redemption story.

Undergirding Anne-Marie’s redemptive function is a maxim she receives, the maxim being a short quotation that each nun will seek to embody throughout the year. Anne-Marie’s maxim comes from Catherine of Siena, who wrote, “If you hear the word that ties you to another human being, do not listen to any others that follow—they are merely its echo.” The redemption in Les anges du péché only occurs when, as in the quote from Catherine, one person is tied to another. Redemption requires identification and union. Bresson illustrates these requirements in numerous ways throughout the film, but one scene stands out from among the rest (at least until the ending, which I won’t give away here, but which certainly underlines and continues what Bresson sets up in the following scene).

The scene in question takes place nearly halfway through the movie’s run time. The connection between Anne-Marie and Thérèse has already been established, the former somewhat pridefully, though genuinely, expressing her desire to raise up Thérèse from her lowly state. Only Thérèse has unexpectedly—at least as far as Anne-Marie is concerned—rejected the offer of help. Anne-Marie returns to the convent undaunted by this setback, and enters the chapel to pray that her desires will be fulfilled. The screen captures below offer a sense of the two shots following the close-up of Anne-Marie’s prayer, a wide shot of Anne-Marie bowing to pray in the chapel, and a well-designed tracking shot of Thérèse in a hallway, on her way to kill the man who wronged her.

Bresson’s mise-en-scene connects these two women beautifully. The echo of the banister in the first shot appears in shadow in the second. This visual element sets up the tension between the women, at once connecting and distinguishing the women. Could the use of shadow in the second shot indicate that Thérèse’s state is somehow lesser than Anne-Marie’s? Bresson heightens the contrast between the women by the difference in setting, rich and comfortable in the former, barren and stark in the latter. Yet even with this contrast, Bresson manages, at the same time to frame it with an underlying unification between the women, as Thérèse moves into the stairwell to occupy the exact space in the frame that Anne-Marie occupied in the previous shot.

At once distinct from and identified with one another, Anne-Marie and Thérèse occupy drastically different places in their lives, though despite that, their fates are inextricably linked one to another. Bresson makes this formal connection in the most significant scene of the movie (at least until the ending), the scene that will determine the ultimate fate of both of these women, a moment of life and death. Redemption will ultimately occur through this union, and because of it. In this darkest of moments for Thérèse, she shares a deep connection with Anne-Marie, even if, at this point, Thérèse has not reciprocated. In this brief sequence, we see a prayer being answered; we see the deep meaning of Christian love and concern for another person; and we see grace on the move, even as a woman guns down another human being. Both the mystery and the clarity of redemption are on full display in these two shots—a microcosm of the entire film, and of life.

Robert-Bresson.com Doug Cummings

Les Anges du péché | Senses of Cinema Erik Ulman from Senses of Cinema, November 2001

Robert Bresson: Les Anges du Péché / Angels of the Street (1943) Troy Olson from Elusive As Robert Denby

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

Angels of the Streets - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

THE LADIES OF THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE (Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne) C+ 78

France (84 mi) 1945

A rather insufferable melodramatic chamber drama that struggles with a suffocating, contemptible tone and a monotonous interior theme, where love is used in a cruel and manipulative manner as a blunt instrument of revenge, where characters jump back and forth between friendship, loathsome feelings for one another, and downright distrust, yet they continually end up back in one another’s company, even after vowing to never see one another again. At the center of it all is a French film star, Maria Casarés, born in Spain, forced to flea from the Fascists, taking refuge in Paris where she starred in Marcel Carne’s LES ENFANTS DU PARADIS (1945), later playing Death in Jean Cocteau’s ORPHEUS (1950). Here she is an aristocrat, Hélène, a woman of means and social status who uses her wealth like a sledgehammer, continually reminding others of the power she possesses while pretending to offer a helping hand through friendship. The object of her wrath is her ex-lover, Jean (Paul Bernard), a suave, galavanting opportunist who is tricked by Hélène into admitting he’d rather remain friends than lovers, which sends her into a swooning caricature of wicked cruelty, sneering behind the scenes while pretending to be looking out for his best interests. High on her list is finding the right woman who will bring about his downfall, someone who can pass for polite society and cultural refinement with a secret past that can blow up in his face.

Enter Agnès (Elina Labourdette), a young cabaret dancer living with her mother who dreams of performing at the opera, but dances in nightclubs and reportedly sleeps with men for money in order to pay the long overdue rent. Hélène feigns friendship with the mother and agrees to pay their debts and move them to a new apartment near the Bois de Boulogne park, which, unknown to them, is a neighborhood known for prostitutes, so when they do move, it’s more like a prison, as they can never leave without an everpresent reminder of what they’re running away from. Meanwhile, Hélène cleverly introduces Jean who can’t take his eyes off young Agnès, so the trap is set. Loosely based on Denis Diderot’s short story Jacques le Fataliste et Son Maître, the film is at times a play, at other times a variation on the French comedy of manners with the literary dialogue written by Jean Cocteau, giving the characters a modern, somewhat novelistic subtext, where each is beset with their own emotional complexities. Despite the dour feeling of hopelessness throughout, the comic element is not forgotten, occasionally veering towards farce, reaching epic proportions of melodramatic hysteria by the end. A much better drama about a woman hellbent on revenge is Jean Moreau in Truffaut’s THE BRIDE WORE BLACK (1968), a Hitchcock tribute where the husband is murdered on the steps of the church just prior to the marriage ceremony, where she spends the rest of the film tracking down each and every man responsible, becoming a ferociously black comedy by the end.

A more recent film that takes a rags to riches revenge melodrama to hilarious extremes is Ozon’s ANGEL (2007), a deliciously exaggerated, campy tribute to Douglas Sirk, immersed in flamboyant color schemes that attempt to express the inexpressible through overblown melodrama, where he uses artificial means to get at the truth that is hidden underneath the repressed surface of human love and anguish. Bresson’s film doesn’t have the element of delusion and hysteria for a farce, yet all the characters are deluded from reality, each blinded by their own selfish obsessions, where love is an illusion, yet even at the moment when all is revealed, when Jean embarrassingly realizes he’s been tricked, there’s a ridiculous sequence where he gets trapped from making an escape by parked cars, where Hélène, of all people, blocks him in, where he makes 3 or 4 attempts to turn the wheel to free himself, each time returning to the exact same shot of Hélène gloating through the car window at his pathetic state of frustration. The actual finale couldn’t feel more artificially contrived, as no one deserves redemption in this film, as both Hélène and Jean feel like contemptible, overindulged aristocrats who are so used to getting their way, they feel too pampered by the luxury of always having money to help them out of a jam, as if money is the real redemptive modus operandi in this movie. This is an overly solemn and somewhat grotesque caricature of good and evil, easily the least compelling Bresson film, where the angelic goodness of Agnès eventually rises above the cloud of suspicion and human deceit, expressed with all the consumptive subtlety and melodramatic fatalism of Camille, everything he eventually railed against, but it does typify Bresson’s love of setting innocent characters in a downward spiraling morally corrupt world.

Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne | Chicago Reader Dave Kehr

Robert Bresson's ravishing second feature (1945) relocates a self-contained anecdote from Diderot's 18th-century Jacques le fataliste in a modern setting, with dialogue by Cocteau, about a jealous woman (Maria Casares), ditched by her lover (Paul Bernard), who takes her revenge by tricking the man into marrying a prostitute (Elina Labourdette). Like much (if not all) of Bresson's best work, it can't be assimilated to realist criteria, but it's unforgettable for its fire-and-ice evocations of tragedy in an unlikely setting. It's the last time that Bresson worked with professional actors, but his procedure of paring away the drama to its essentials is already fully in place; his visual style is more obviously striking here--slicker and more dramatically lit, with high-contrast photography and prowling camera movements--than it was to become later.

Time Out Tom Milne

Like Les Anges du Péché, Bresson's second feature, based on a self-contained anecdote in Diderot's novel Jacques le Fataliste, is in many ways atypical of his oeuvre. He uses, quite brilliantly, professional actors. The visual texture is not muted grey, but sharp and contrasty. The camera is constantly prowling and tracking. The dialogue (by Cocteau) is brilliantly jewelled, literary to the point of preciousness, the very antithesis of the later monosyllabics. Yet as one watches the elegant socialite (played by Casarès with superbly steely venom) spin a cold-blooded plot to destroy her rival after being humiliatingly spurned in a liaison in the interests of true love, one could hardly be anywhere but in Bresson's world. Sexuality takes precedence over salvation, but there is the same interiority, the same intensity, the same rigorous exclusion of all inessentials.

CINE-FILE: Cine-List Michael Castelle

Bresson's last film featuring trained actors and his last before his legendary period of stylistic radicalism extending across the 50s and 60s, LES DAMES DU BOIS DE BOULOGNE combines the fussy fatalism of Jean Cocteau's implausible screenplay (based on a story from Diderot's Jacques le Fataliste et Son Maître) with a preview of Bressonian things to come: understated line delivery, extended fade-outs, and distinctive, poetic framings. The narrative involves an subtly insidious plot by one ex-lover (Maria Casarés) against another (Paul Bernard) in their relation with the young prostitute Agnès (Elina Labourdette); filmed over an extended period in Vichy France, one struggles to read the film as a political allegory: perhaps one should consider the isolating confinement of Agnès and her mother in their apartment, or the pervasive romantic pessimism (love here seems not just impossible but a contributing source of detached anguish). Alternatively, if one takes into account an intriguing biographical curiosity—Bresson's reputed former career as a gigolo in his youth—LES DAMES could be approached as the most personal film of a most impersonal auteur. (1945, 86 min, 35mm)

Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne (1945) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

Upset when her lover loses interest in her, a society lady, Helène, determines to have her revenge.  She contrives for him to meet and fall in love with a former caberet dancer, Agnès, a woman who, unbeknown to Jean, has a reputation as a prostitute.  Agnès, tired of men, is living in seclusion with her mother near the Bois du Bologne in Paris, and initially spurns Jean’s advances.  Over time, Jean’s persistence manages to win him Agnès’ affections and the two decide to marry.  After the wedding, Helène claims her revenge by revealing Agnès’ unsavoury past to Jean.

Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne is an unusual film for director Robert Bresson, primarily because it adheres, more than any of his other films, to the film-making conventions of the day.   As a consequence, the film is more accessible than some of his subsequent works but, lacking Bresson’s idiosyncrasies and religious symbolism, seems to have less of an impact.  Nonetheless this is a commendable film and it is reputed to have had a great influence on the New Wave directors such as François Truffaut and Jean-Luc Godard.

The most striking thing about the film is the characterisation, the emphasis of good and evil, achieved through some fine acting and careful lighting. Maria Casarès is so obviously wicked as the vindictive Helène that it is surprising her ex-lover and her soi-disant protegée, Agnès, cannot see through her evil schemes.  This serves to highlight the apparent goodness in the targets of her spite, Jean and Agnès, neither of whom is a particular angel of virtue.  The placing of inherently good characters in a morally corrupt setting is a recurring theme in Bresson's later films.

The film is a very perceptive study of the power of revenge and the strength of true love.  We can understand and sympathise with Helène’s behaviour even though her objective is thoroughly cruel.  She is portrayed every much a victim as Jean and Agnès and, in the end she is the one that loses out.  Jean’s infatuation with Agnès is proven to derive from a love that not only conquers the former dancer’s ambivalence but thwarts Helène’s evil schemes and offers Agnès the chance of a new life.

The story of a cheated lover taking her revenge is as old as antiquity.  However, Bresson’s treatment of the subject is striking in its depth of character analysis.  The result is a very moving piece of cinema.

not coming to a theater near you [Matt Bailey]

Hélène, a beautiful and wealthy Parisian aristocrat, pretends to be bored with her lover, Jean, to test his love for her. To her shock and dismay, he dumps her. Hélène vows to get revenge on Jean for his coldness. Her motives remaining hidden for the time being, Hélène approaches a pair of acquaintances, mother and daughter, who have fallen from her social circle onto hard times. The daughter, Agnès, supports herself and her mother by dancing in a seedy club and by entertaining men for money on the side. Hélène makes a seemingly magnanimous offer to help restore the mother and daughter to their former social status if they agree to cloister themselves in an apartment bordering a large Parisian park, the Bois de Boulogne, that (perhaps unknown to them) has a reputation as a haven for prostitutes. While Agnès doesn’t want to give up dancing, she realizes that Hélène’s offer is the only way out of her current lifestyle. Once the pair is comfortably secreted away from their former lives, Hélène arranges a “chance” meeting between Jean and Agnès in the Bois. Jean immediately falls for Agnès. Hélène and Agnès both make disingenuous attempts to dissuade Jean’s affections, but it only makes Jean more persistent. Eventually, Jean marries Agnès. At the wedding, Hélène calmly approaches Paul and tells him, “You have married a whore.” Jean is devastated and Agnès collapses from the stress on her weak heart. Jean’s love for Agnès is so strong, however, that he vows to love her always.

Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne, Bresson’s third film after a forgettable comedic short, Affaires publiques, and the little-seen convent melodrama, Les Anges du Péché, is often considered to be “Bresson before Bresson,” meaning that although he is the director of the film, it is not in the same vein (nor the same league) as his later masterpieces beginning with Le Journal d’un Cure de Campagne. True, Les Dames is a fairly straightforward melodrama of the upper classes, one that would be long forgotten by now if it were not for the later fame of its director and the fame of its screenwriter, Jean Cocteau. However, the film does show the beginnings of Bresson’s spare visual style and his insistence on stripping down the drama to its barest essentials.

If we think about the ways this story could have been filmed, perhaps by a Wyler or a Minnelli — full of lush parties, tables heaving with untouched food, lavish shots full of the objects collected by the idle rich — we begin to see the artistry of Bresson’s approach. Look at Hélène’s apartment — it is Spartan in its appointment, a stage set of a living space. No doubt this is due somewhat to the restrictions of filming in France under the German Occupation, but it is also Bresson’s choice to limit severely the spaces in which the drama can play out. The film is a chamber piece for four archetypal characters — the femme fatale, the ingénue, the lover, and the mother — each playing off the other until their lives are irreversibly altered emotionally by the end. Bresson removes any other possible distractions for the audience until it can rest its attention on the action only. Even the lush beauty of the Bois de Boulogne of the title is only seen in brief glimpses and only when the narrative dictates that it should be seen.

Bresson’s film is a strange hybrid of romantic and modernist ideals and one that marks both the beginning of his signature filmmaking style and the end of his collaboration with other screenwriters, his use of professional actors, and one of the last times he would use a specially-written score. It is not, by any means, the best film made during the Occupation, but it is a key work in Bresson’s oeuvre and one that is surprisingly absorbing even today.

Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne: The Earrings of Robert Bresson Criterion essay by David Thomson, February 14, 2002

Criterion Collection essay by David Thomson

Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne - Senses of Cinema Wheeler Winston Dixon, March 2008

Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne: DVD Review Colin Burnett from Offscreen

The Film Sufi

Les Dames Du Bois De Boulogne - Reverse Shot Andrew Adler, April/May 2003

The DVD Journal | Quick Reviews: Les Dames Du Bois de Boulonge ... DSH

DVD Savant [Glenn Erickson]

Les Dames Du Bois De Boulogne Doug Cummings

filmcritic.com Jake Euker

clydefro » Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne

digitallyOBSESSED.com Jon Danziger

Q Network Review James Kendrick, Criterion Collection

Ozus' World Movie Reviews Dennis Schwartz

Epinions [Stephen O. Murray]

Movie Gazette DVD review [Anton Bitel]

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

Les dames du Bois de Boulogne (1945) « Cinema Sights James Blake Ewing

Movie Magazine International [Moira Sullivan]

The Films of Robert Bresson [Michael E. Grost]

Retrospective of French director Robert Bresson at Film Forum Turner Classic Movies

Overview for Maria Casares Turner Classic Movies

DVD Talk Matt Langdon

FilmFanatic.org

The New York Times Bosley Crowther

DVDBeaver.com - Graphic Review [Gary W. Tooze]

DIARY OF A COUNTRY PRIEST (Journal d'un curé de campagne) A 99

France (110 mi) 1951

Easily the most personal film in Bresson’s lifetime, a deeply Catholic experience that comes closest to defining his mortal soul. This is the film that set the tone for Bresson films to follow, all dealing with grace and redemption, spare, minimalist, no excess emotion, without a single shot that is not needed, carefully creating a visual sphere of what it is to be human, recreating mechanical gestures, physical movements, parts of the body, like hands and feet, using a voiceover narration that reads what the audience sees written into a Priest’s diary (in Bresson’s own hand, by the way), adapting a novel written by Catholic author Georges Bernanos, who also wrote Mouchette (1967), perhaps approaching the concept of God’s grace from opposite directions. Non-professional actor Claude Laydu, a devout Catholic who spent several months fasting and living among priests prior to the film, is excellent as the frail young country Priest who feels irrelevant to the surrounding rural community that all but ignores him. Eating little more than stale bread mixed with wine due to a painful stomach condition, he struggles to fight against his own physical and human limitations throughout the entire film, where he approaches each person from the position of goodness, love, and God’s grace, person to person, soul to soul, never proselytizing or reading scripture, never defending his own actions, but taking the unpopular view that we can all grow closer to God in the way we lead our lives, something mocked and scoffed at as irrelevant and naïve by most, yet he persists, never gaining the upper hand, but matching the cynicism of the local community that feel church only exists for marriages, funerals and Sunday services. The Priest, on the other hand, sees every living moment as a conversation between heaven and earth, where humans can only persevere to lead better lives and become more devout believers.

Of interest, there is a musical score by Jean-Jacques Grunenwald that plays throughout, though never interfering or rising at climactic moments, also several of the central characters had professional film careers, including Nicole Maurey as Miss Louise, the only one to attend mass every day, but also the mistress of the richest and most influential man in town, the Count (Jean Riveyre) and his wife the Countess (Rachel Bérendt), whose spoiled and manipulative daughter Chantal (Nicole Ladmiral) generates much of the action by feigning thoughts of suicide (Ladmiral committed suicide in real life 7 years later) in order to prompt the young Priest’s urgent involvement in her unhappy family life, taking advantage of his inexperience and naïveté, but he soon finds himself wallowing in turbulent waters, especially facing the unruffled pillars of high society in the well educated and placidly confident Countess who has little use for the Priest’s ideas, finding him childish and out of place, but politely tolerates his presence in her home, all leading to one particular moment in the film, a transcendent moment that is excruciatingly intense, where the core of a man's beliefs are challenged, even shattered momentarily, but where the Priest exercises his free will as a man in the hands of God, acting on his own terms in accordance with spiritual values, not those of the local church and social hierarchy, but surprisingly persuasive nonetheless in order to ascend to a place reached by no one else in the film, and certainly no one else we know in our own lives. This character's struggle can’t help but guide our own actions, which is the effect of the film, turning this socially isolated and personally anguished individual into a modern day saint, where leading by example brings us closer to a state of grace.

As it happens in small towns, the Priest’s presence becomes fodder for gossip and scandal, where the Count and his bratty daughter start vicious rumors about having him removed for needlessly interfering in his family affairs, whose own scandalous behavior, of course, is wiped under the rug in an attempt to divert attention away from his own public scrutiny. An elderly Priest (Adrien Borel) is brought in to consult with the young priest, finding no fault in his scrupulous methods, understanding that Priests are not expected to be liked, but feared and respected through the implementation of rigid discipline and authority, reminiscent of Dostoevsky’s The Grand Inquisitor from The Brothers Karamazov where the church would no longer recognize the humble origins of a human Christ even if He should return, having converted Him into eternal perfection incapable of human flaws. But this young Priest has no use for implementing a fictitious or condescending order in the universe that he doesn’t believe in himself, instead finding each day such a painful struggle that he has his own personal difficulties praying, feeling himself unworthy. This struggle takes an interesting turn by the end, where the Priest gets a taste of his own mortality, growing weak and delirious from his illness, having visions blend into real life that can only exist in a Bresson film, where he remains the picture of innocence throughout, guided perhaps by the purity of youth, the uncorrupted souls, where he continually walks among them to become an illuminating light. There’s a wonderful image of the Priest riding on the back of a young man’s motorcycle that nearly brings a smile to his face, another image of liberation and transcendence. While the Priest is completely unassuming, there are prevalent images of iron gates, as if a human life is imprisoned in pride and arrogance while on earth unless adopting a spiritual transformation of forgiveness and love, learning to love even one’s enemies, lessening the weight on each human soul that has its own baggage to carry. There are Christ-like references throughout, a profoundly contemplative work where pain and suffering may be the conduit that drives us closer to the Divine. One of the great religious works, rivaling Dreyer’s THE PASSION OF JOAN OF ARC (1928), one that turns questions of the everlasting into an everyday, ordinary experience.

Jean-Michel Frodon from 1001 MOVIES YOU MUST SEE BEFORE YOU DIE:

One of cinema’s greatest artists was searching for inspiration and he found it in the Diary of a Country Priest. With imagination, courage, and rigor, Robert Bresson discovered that filmmaking did not require big budgets, stars, or special effects. The cinema could tell any story, provoke any emotion, open itself to all the material and immaterial, private and collective themes through the most elementary uses of its true nature.

George Bernanos’s novel tells the tale of a young priest living in the countryside dealing with the difficulties of everyday life and the interrogation of his actions and his faith. Bernanos refuses to leave either believers or atheists in peace, opening up chasms in the concrete world. Bresson’s adaptation of the Diary of a Country Priest is a humble achievement, one that shows what the Christian message is based upon—a message that the cinema is designed to translate into images and sounds: the world made into flesh.

Cinema is the concrete and communal accomplishment of the Mysteries of Incarnation. Bresson’s film demonstrates that everything can become possible: joking with death, writing on the screen, playing with desire, watching the insights of the psyche, generating fascination for life in rural France in the mid-20^th century, and confronting religious questions.

Diary of a Country Priest Tom Milne from Time Out London

Alone and dying of cancer, a young curate faces the mortal torment of failure in his task of saving souls. What he finds in the ultimate victory over self is that mysterious touch of grace which remains one of the immutable signs of a Bresson film. Watching this spiritual odyssey is almost a religious experience in itself, but one which has nothing to do with faith or dogma, everything to do with Bresson's unique ability to exteriorise an interior world.

Journals - Intellect Thomas Deane Tucker, excerpt from the book Studies in French Cinema

In an essay titled ‘The Stylistics of Robert Bresson’, André Bazin discusses the problem of fidelity surrounding film adaptations of literary works exemplified by Robert Bresson’s Journal d’un curé de campagne. Despite Bresson’s avowed intention to follow the book word for word, Bazin recognizes that the film is not a literal translation of Bernanos’s novel, but that Bresson achieves a more ‘insidious kind of fidelity’. Bazin argues that Bresson’s textual fidelity to the novel is so contradictory that the film version of Journal d’un curé de campagne is more literary than the novel, and the novel more cinematic than the film version. Bazin maintains that Bresson is faithful to the original text in his narrative emphasis upon its literary character, but also ironically in his stylistic ‘cutting’ away of parts of the novel. This fidelity is so paradoxical that the fragments left over are still part of the original. Although adaptation and translation are not identical operations, the screenplay adapter is confronted by many of the same problems as the translator of literary texts. Employing some of the ideas of philosopher Jacques Derrida on the subject of the translation, in this paper I argue that one way to make sense of Bazin’s claim about Bresson’s adaptive fidelity is to view Journal d’un curé de campagne as a cinematic translation of the Bernanos novel rather than merely an adaptation.

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias] also seen here: Onion A.V. Club Review

Rarely have form and content been married as harmoniously as in director Robert Bresson's 1951 breakthrough Diary Of A Country Priest, which honors the piety of a besieged young man of the cloth with the unsparing rigor of a traditional Catholic mass. On the helpful DVD commentary track, historian Peter Cowie contends that no other director has ever matched Bresson's "simplicity of expression," his sculptor's impulse to chisel away any extraneous elements. Nothing in Diary Of A Country Priest, Bresson's fourth feature, happens by accident: The stark images suggest a village bereft of natural and spiritual life, the camera moves only to emphasize key moments, and the soundtrack enforces the title character's isolation from the outside world. Bresson's extraordinary economy and precision of language give his films a special intensity, but the same elements can also make them seem so airless and worked-over that the viewer has no access point. Based on a Georges Bernanos novel, Diary Of A Country Priest never strays from the perspective of priest Claude Laydu, and it layers the scenes with prolonged entries from his diaries, which are intended as a window into his suffering. Yet Laydu, cast as one of Bresson's opaque "models" (i.e., not quite "actors"), never yields palpable motivations and emotions, which is especially remarkable considering how directly his thoughts are communicated. Minding a flock that's long since strayed into faithlessness, Laydu comes to town as an outsider viewed with suspicion and contempt, but he lacks the strength to turn the tide. Even his most devout parishioner—the only person to show up for daily mass—writes him an anonymous poison-pen letter advising him to "get out." In spite of the common-sense advice of André Guibert, a priest in a neighboring town, Laydu's ineffectual personality only exacerbates the problem, particularly in his dealings with a local family torn by blatant infidelity and personal tragedy. Much like his Danish contemporary Carl Dreyer, Bresson approaches cinema with a near-monastic obsession to detail, and that style limited both men to a relatively sparse filmography over several decades. As Cowie notes, Dreyer and Bresson drew intensity from extreme isolation; it's no coincidence that each did a movie about Joan Of Arc. If nothing else, Diary Of A Country Priest makes Laydu's isolation so vivid that it jibes with the ordeal of watching the film, which involves making a connection with him that seems like an act of faith. Only in the transcendent closing minutes is that faith rewarded by grace, for priest and spectator alike.

Decent Films - faith on film [Steven D. Greydanus]

Robert Bresson’s Diary of a Country Priest is one of the most deeply Catholic films I’ve ever seen. Faithfully adapting its source material, Catholic novelist Georges Bernanos’ fictional autobiography of a soul, the film profoundly contemplates the spiritual meaning of suffering and persecution, conversion and incorrigibility, and the dark night of the soul with a rigor and insight evocative of Augustine’s Confessions or Thérèse’s Story of a Soul.

The story is simple. A sensitive, frail young priest (Claude Laylu) arrives in a rural parish in spiritual decline. Vulnerable in his inexperience, he meets with indifference, polite toleration, even open mockery. An older, experienced priest from a neighboring parish, a worldly but not unspiritual man, gives him advice that is striking both for its practicality and its cynicism: "Keep order all day long, knowing full well disorder will win out tomorrow."

But whether due to idealism or naivete, the younger priest is unable to accept this pragmatic view of things. At the same time, his physical sufferings as well as spiritual dryness make it almost impossible to pursue his spiritual life and duties as he feels he should.

At first it seems that his bodily ailment, a stomach condition that he finds permits him to eat little more than bread and wine, mirrors his troubled spiritual condition. Yet as his physical condition rebounds while his inability to pray worsens, it becomes apparent that the connection between body and soul is more subtle, and that how one feels, physically or spiritually, is not always a reliable indication of one’s true condition.

Amid constant failure and rejection, the priest has only a single, striking victory: a spiritual exchange with a bitter countess recalling the dialogues of The Brothers Karamazov or the debate with Count Smokrev in Michael O’Brian’s Father Elijah. Yet even his failures, dryness, and persecutions he accepts with submissiveness, turning them into a kind of victory, a grace.

Bresson cast Laylu, a devout Catholic with no previous acting experience, in part because of his faith, and the actor reportedly spent months living with young priests to absorb their mannerisms, as well as rigorously fasting to achieve the character’s wan, ascetic look. Yet it was only on seeing the finished film that Laylu realized he had played a saint.

Journal d'un curé de campagne (1950) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

A young priest arrives in a small village in Northern France to take on his first parish.  Although he performs the duties of a priest with diligence and humility, he remains an outsider, shunned and even reviled by his neighbours.   His feeling of isolation and apparent inability to improve things bring on a depression that puts his faith to the test.  Worse, he is suffering from an illness which compels him to live on a meagre diet of bread and wine, and his fear of dying places a greater strain on his faith.  He manages to achieve some good, by persuading a countess to give up her hatred for God.  However, the countess dies a short while after, and her husband suspects the priest of being an evil influence.  The priest’s state of health is misinterpreted as dipsomania by his enemies, who intend to have him replaced.  When the priest’s health worsens, he journeys to town to consult a doctor.  The news is not good.  He is dying of cancer.

In his film adaptation of Bernanos’s tragic novel, Robert Bresson paints a deeply moving picture of the triumph of faith over worldly suffering and the worst in human nature.  As the young priest writes his diary, we see the world through his eyes – the cynicism, the hypocrisy, the injustice, the pain.  As he struggles to contain his illness, his genuinely sincere attempts to minister to his parishioners are rejected and he is humiliated.  He knows he is dying, but he still clings to his faith, hoping that he might survive, that all might be well.  He has a taste of youth when he accepts a ride on a motorbike – but that pleasure is lived for but a brief moment.  A great moment of tragic irony. 

As in his magnificent Le Procès de Jeanne d’Arc and Au hasard, Balthasar, Bresson is painting the portrait of a saint, with apparently simple but highly effective brushstrokes.  It is a very austere view of religious experience, almost to the point of devaluing completely this physical life.  The priest’s destiny, Bresson tells us, is to be rejected, shunned and suspected, to live a life of poverty and solitude, scarcely able to eat, periodically coughing up blood and fainting.  Nature’s victim is mankind’s outcast.  The cross which the young priest bears seems far greater than that of Jesus Christ, but his faith, his only source of strength, is all too weak. 

The religious allegory is hardly subtle, but it is, all the same, very moving and memorable.  No director has ever been this successful at conveying to a cinema audience the sense of religious experience without succumbing to phoney sentimentality. 

Bresson uses his simple film-making techniques to great effect.  The remoteness of the location reinforces the priest’s isolation, as does the constantly recurring metaphor of the glass window to divide the priest from his parishioners.   The priest is played very ably by Claude Laydu.  The actor’s lack of professional training gives his performance an air of genuineness, greatly accentuating the emotional impact of the priest’s suffering.

This is a great film which offers a unique and uncompromising view of human nature. 

Diary of a Country Priest 1950 - digitallyOBSESSED! Jon Danziger

Filmmakers long before Mel Gibson understood that one of the most challenging and rewarding things to shoot is the pure and ecstatic faith of the devout; no preachy moralism, no sanctimony, no judgment, just a connection with something deeply spiritual and divine. And Robert Bresson met this challenge as well as anyone ever has, in this lovely character study of a film that's liable to appeal to you, no matter the character or depth (or lack) of your own religious beliefs.

Claude Laydu plays the otherwise unnamed title character, newly assigned to a rural church; his parishioners are a tightly knit bunch, and this man of the cloth is decidedly not one of them. We see the priest face down a variety of crises—those who doubt his authority and wonder if he doesn't take a few too many sips from the chalice; the charge that he's meddling inappropriately and without authority or wisdom into the lives of those he's prescribed to counsel; a variety of physical maladies, leaving him able to digest almost nothing; and battling with his nominal superiors in the church hierarchy, who by and large don't approve of his character or his professional performance. There isn't a whole lot of conventional plotting to this movie; largely, the protagonist stumbles from one failure to another, but manages to do so while imbued with a certain amount of what we could only call grace.

It's a radical departure from the melodrama of Bresson's previous film, Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne, and it's almost as if he's willfully discarded most conventional storytelling techniques. The priest spends a good amount of time recording his thoughts in his journal, and Bresson frequently goes against conventional filmmaking wisdom, having the priest narrate something, and then showing us exactly the same thing. Perhaps it's because Bresson's visual sense is so acute that we don't recoil at this; and in Laydu, Bresson has found the face of an angel. His sad, expressive eyes speak volumes, and he goes through the story knowing full well that most of his striving will be in vain, but that there's worth in taking the journey. It's a performance that merits comparisons with that of another great French actor in another film about faith: Laydu's performance could almost be twinned with that of Maria Falconetti's in The Passion of Joan of Arc.

It's also physically and technically a beautiful and accomplished movie. In many ways it's a pastoral, with glorious shots celebrating the French countryside; and in its odd way it's almost a coming-of-age story, as the man of faith learns the hard lessons once he's no longer cloistered from the world. Bresson lingers on actors in stillness, or on empty frames, giving his shots a serenity that have an affinity with Atget's photographs; his use of sound is equally extraordinary. As the priest writes in his diary, for instance, "The countess died last night," we hear the sounds of footsteps on stairs, and the metaphorical implications are obvious yet subtle—whether it's the sound of an ascension to heaven, or literally, or death at the door, doesn't need to be spelled out explicitly, but there's an aura of faith and the hereafter that's unmistakable.

The inevitable and necessary crisis of faith pushes the story on to its conclusion, and it's done without feeling forced; amazingly, Laydu's beatific, faraway look carries him through the run of the picture, and we come to have a profound compassion for this devout, suffering, and in many ways deeply misguided young man. The film's profound combination of art and faith make it a landmark work, and if Bresson had directed nothing else, this would have secured his reputation as one of France's masters.

Criterion Collection film essay [Frédéric Bonnaud] initially published in Film Comment, May/June 1999

Diary of a Country Priest (1951) - The Criterion Collection

Journal d’un curé de campagne: DVD Review   Colin Burnett from Offscreen, April 30, 2004

Diary of a Country Priest | Senses of Cinema Dan Harper, July, 2003

Sins of Omission: A Dissenting View of Robert ... - Senses of Cinema Dan Harper, May 2007

Diary of a Country Priest Doug Cummings from Masters of Cinema, also seen here: [ robert-bresson.com | DVD Review: Bresson's Diary of a Country ... and here: Diary of a Country Priest - filmjourney . org

Journal of Religion & Film: Diary of a Country Priest: The ... Wanda Avila from The Journal of Religion and Film, October 2006

The Film Sufi

Only the Cinema [Ed Howard]

Klymkiw Film Corner [Greg Klymkiw]

Images Movie Journal Gary Morris, also Bright Lights Film Journal [Gary Morris]

Epinions [metalluk]

Diary Of A Country Priest (Robert Bresson) - Film Reviews - No ... Dan Schneider from No Ripcord

Keeping the Faith in Of Gods and Men and Diary of a Country Priest J. Hoberman from The Village Voice

Diary of a Country Priest | Film Review | Slant Magazine Rob Humanick

Diary of a Country Priest Read TCM's Home Video Review on this film Paul Tatara from Turner Classic Movies, also seen here: Home Video Reviews

not coming to a theater near you [Matt Bailey]

Film-Forward.com [Kevin Filipski]

Diary of a Country Priest | DVD Video Review | Film @ The Digital Fix John White, Region 2 DVD

DVD Savant Review: Diary of a Country Priest Glenn Erickson, Criterion Collection

Criterion Confessions [Jamie S. Rich] Criterion Collection

DVD Journal Clarence Beaks, Criterion Collection

DVD Movie Central Ed Nguyen, Criterion Collection

DVD Verdict - Criterion Collection Dan Mancini

Diary of a Country Priest (Journal d'un curé de campagne)  James Kendrick, Criterion Collection, also seen here: Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick)

KQEK DVD Review [Michael John Derbecker] Criterion Collection

Diary of a Country Priest - Criterion Collection : DVD Talk Review of ... John Sinnott, Criterion Collection

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

Armond White reviews Of Gods and Men and Diary of a Country Priest February 23, 2011

Strictly Film School Acquarello

2010 Arts and Faith Top 100 (Voted #11) Jeffrey Overstreet, also seen here: the Arts and Faith Top 100 Films List

Critic After Dark: Journal d'un curé de campagne (Dairy of a Country ... Noel Vera, May 12, 2007

MovieMartyr.com Jeremy Heilman

Cinema Sights [James Ewing]

Combustible Celluloid Jeffrey M. Anderson

Diary of a Country Priest John White from 10kbullets

A Film Canon [Billy Stevenson]

Diary of a Country Priest - LARSEN ON FILM: Movie Reviews

New subtitles for 'Diary of a Country Priest' leave artistry intact ... John P. McCarthy from New Catholic Books & Media

Of Gods and Men, Heartbeats | Divine Beauty ... - Wall Street Journal Joe Morgenstern

Diary of a Country Priest Christopher Null from AMC filmcritic

FilmFanatic.org

Diary of a Country Priest Showtimes & Reviews | Chicago Reader ... Dave Kehr

Reeling Reviews [Robin Clifford, Laura Clifford]

The Lumière Reader (capsule) Mubarak Ali

Robert Bresson - Journal d'un curé de campagne AKA Diary of a Country Priest (1951) good photos from Cinema of the World

DIARY OF A COUNTRY PRIEST - Movies - Film Forum

• View topic - 222 Diary of a Country Priest Criterion Forum, a film discussion group, February 12, 2005

TV Guide review

Diary of a Country Priest - Film - Time Out New York Keith Uhlich

Diary of a Country Priest | Film review - Film - Time Out Chicago Ben Kenigsberg

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams] comparing the film to Mel Gibson’s THE PASSION OF THE CHRIST

Movie review: 'Diary of a Country Priest' - Los Angeles Times Kenneth Turan

Diary of a Country Priest :: rogerebert.com :: Great Movies

Diary of a Country Priest - Movies - New York Times Bosley Crowther, also seen here: The New York Times (Bosley Crowther)

DVDBeaver.com - Review [Gary W. Tooze]

Diary of a Country Priest, by George Bernanos — Catholic Fiction Rachel Murphy book review from Catholic Fiction

Diary of a Country Priest Amy Wellborn book review from Ligourian magazine

Georges Bernanos - The Diary of a Country Priest - The Journey ... Dan Clendenin book review from Journey with Jesus

Georges Bernanos's Classic Novel, 'The Diary of a Country Priest ... Janice Harayda from One-Minute Book Reviews

Diary of a Country Priest brief book review clips from Aquinas & More

Claude Laydu obituary Ronald Bergan from The Guardian, August 11, 2011

Diary of a Country Priest - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

A MAN ESCAPED (Un Condamné à Mort s'est échappé) A 99

aka: The Wind Blows Where It Wills

France (102 mi) 1956

Cinéma vérité, employed before the New Wave filmmakers coined the term for their own films, this is one of Bresson’s most perfectly constructed films, a marvel in minimalist detail, a poem of liberation based on the text from the memoirs of the celebrated 1943 escape of French resistance fighter Lieutenant André Devigny from Lyon’s Ft. Monluc prison just hours before his scheduled execution. This prison held 10,000 prisoners where 7000 perished. Using real locations, this is a meticulous re-creation revealed in a totally authentic, painfully simplistic representation narrated by the prisoner, a study of one man’s obsessive dedication to freedom, Fontaine (François Leterrier), revealing the most minute of details, shown through the continuous repetition of daily routines, where reality is broken only by the intermittent use of music, the Kyrie Great Mass in C minor - Kyrie - K. 427- WA Mozart - Bernstein – YouTube (7:40) from Mozart’s Mass in C Minor. There is a secondary title added to the film, The Wind Blows Where It Wills, which comes from John 3:8 and is not in Devigny’s book, but refers to a brief discussion between prisoners on spiritual rebirth, where escape offers the opportunity to literally be born again. Bresson is suggesting there is an unseen spiritual force at work that’s driving the prisoners to stay alive, where mental alertness is paramount to escape. What’s interesting is how once Fontaine has managed to find a means to escape from his cell, which is the result of many months of monotony devising tools and chiseling away, where time literally stops, he doesn’t act right away, which adds plenty of tension due to the possibilities of what might happen. Only after handed his death sentence is he forced to act. Particularly memorable is the huge significance of the character Orsini, one of the other prisoners whose own failed escape, and subsequent execution, provided Devigny with the necessary information he needed.

This is the first Bresson film with an entirely non-professional cast, using only brief dialogue and non-emotive performances, relying heavily upon narration, like his previous film, also a reliance on offscreen sound effects. Through precise editing that may as well serve as an introduction to film construction, Bresson brilliantly establishes the hypnotizing rhythm of prison life that almost dulls the senses, showing no variance, where Fontaine’s escape has as much to do with boredom as courage, as a man must make use of his time, where the subtle interplay between prisoners takes on greater significance with the passage of time, as they pass notes, exchange ideas, look out for one another, and even encourage disillusioned souls to keep the faith. Confined to a 6 foot by 9 foot cell with no toilets for 23 hours a day, allowed less than one hour to clean themselves and throw away their waste, which includes walking in formation up and down the stairs to the designated wash site, much of it in silence as the prisoner’s are forbidden to talk, the solitude of each man alone in such constricted space takes its toll on many, exacting a price in personal torment. Rarely showing the faces of the captors, whose impending footsteps or the rattle of keys are heard instead, men are routinely removed from their cells for interrogations, official hearings, or executions, where the pipeline of news spreads fast. Speaking to an unseen prisoner in an adjacent cell through windows may help pass the time, or often they just tap on the walls between cells to let people know they’re still alive, as building a network of fraternal friendships is all they have in the way of offering encouragement or hope.

Nearly perfectly realized, the film is one of Bresson’s greatest achievements. Set up by the monotony of earlier routines, the escape itself breaks the cycle, lasts most of the night, and is a marvel of what can be revealed in near darkness, using only the briefest glimpses of light, particularly one shot which must have lasted a lifetime in the prisoner’s eyes when he is atop a roof, protected by the darkness, but his eyes peek out in the light and stare, assessing the right moment. Their meticulous preparation leaves them ready and well-prepared, having to scale several high walls, but adrenaline and a fear of the unknown keeps them anxious ridden. Always avoiding sensationalism, Bresson ceases the narration and uses sound to lead the action, such as the unseen marching of sentry guards, or a guard making the rounds on a squeaky bicycle literally for hours on end, where changes in sound alerts them for the right opportunity to move ahead, where we hear whistles and the rumblings of incessant train sounds passing nearby, always accentuating the heightened tension of the escape, but also ironically commenting on the so-called perfect techniques of the German Gestapo who used the scheduling of trains to send Jews to the gas chambers. André Bazin called this film “an unusual film that resembles no other,” winner of Best Director at the 1956 Cannes Film Festival. Eternally connected, both Devigny and Bresson, who himself spent 18 months in a German prison camp, died in the same year of 1999.

* * * * * * *

I've always been fond of personal anecdotes from filmmaker's lives.  Before Rainer Werner Fassbinder made his first film at the age of 20 in the spring of 1966, he failed the entrance exam to the German Film and Television Academy which opened in September 1966, where the initial class was comprised of 32 male and 3 female students.  Of interest to many, the actual test results were made public afterwards when Fassbinder's talent and fame surpassed anyone in that class.  An incredulous public had grown curious how he had been overlooked.  It is published in a book called "Rainer Werner Fassbinder," edited by Laurence Kardish as part of the MOMA film retrospective exhibition of most of his films in 1997.  

825 requested application forms, out of which 245 submitted timely applications.  There was an age requirement of 23 to 28, but exceptions were taken into consideration with accompanying recommendations, proof of employment, samples of their work, etc.  Fassbinder sent neither recommendations nor proof of employment.  Instead he wrote:  "I am an actor but I only just had the opportunity of taking final exams at the Theater Association.  The date is April 18, 1966.  As of now, I have not been employed in the theater."  As a sample of his artistic work, he submitted "Parallels: Notes and Text for a Film."

Fassbinder was one of 74 applicants invited to take the entrance exams in Berlin, from May 23rd to the 26th in 1966, which included both a written exam and an exercise with an 8mm camera, where they were given film with instructions to make a work of less than 8 minutes which would be comprehensible without sound.  Unfortunately, Fassbinder's submittal film has not survived, but his test questions and answers have.  The first part consisted of 26 questions, while the next part was an analysis of a sequence in a feature film.  The applicants were presented with a sequence from Bresson's A MAN ESCAPED (1956).  The title was not revealed.  The test required careful observation of detail, recognition of style, description of how it was achieved, and an overall evaluation.

Fassbinder's Analysis

The filmed sequence shows a prisoner's unsuccessful escape from a prison van, from the first attempt to the last consequence. The sequence consists of about forty setups, each one clear and simple, with no regard for superficial beauty.

Each setup makes sense only in connection with the preceding one and the one that succeeds it.

The necessary prerogatives for the escape - the fugitive, his hand, the door handle inside the car, a vehicle and a streetcar which force, or almost force, the prison van to stop - are clearly shown in their interrelationships. In relatively quick succession, we see first the fugitive, who stares ahead; then the road, where in a moment a vehicle may force the prison van to stop; then the fugitive's hand reaching for the door handle.

Up to the moment of the escape, the setups change fairly rapidly; later they markedly slow down, as the main character is forced from activity into passivity. He has had little time for his flight, the police have ample time for his punishment.

The immense power of the police and the actual importance of the escape is less evident in the last setups with the battered fugitive than during the flight, where the other two prisoners don't even turn their heads when the shots ring out behind them.

With great sensitivity, the director refrains from showing the brutality visited on the escapee, who is carried, covered up on a stretcher. It is left to the viewer to use his imagination to picture the beaten-up man, so that later, when he sees the distorted, bloody face, he is not totally overcome by horror but is able to reflect on his attitude to such treatment. 

The sequence has been thought through down to the smallest detail. It has been stripped of everything superfluous. The director sticks to the essentials. 

Adrian Martin from 1001 MOVIES YOU MUST SEE BEFORE YOU DIE:

If anyone needs to be won over to the joys and rewards of minimalism in cinema, A Man Escaped is the best place to start. Much of it shows Fontaine (François Leterrier) alone in his cell, making contact with his fellow prisoners and slowly chipping his way to freedom.

Like all Bresson films, this one illustrates his long-developed theories of the “cinematograph”: non-professionals giving strictly de-dramatized performances; enormous emphasis on off-screen sound and the information it carries; music held off until a final, glorious moment. And like the other great prison films of French cinema, Jacques Becker’s The Hole (1960) and Jean Genet’s A Song of Love (1950), A Man Escaped offers a remarkably potent allegory of human suffering and the drive to liberation. At the same time, it delivers an attenuated, taut form of suspense to rival the best of Alfred Hitchcock.

For many years, A Man Escaped was appreciated for its existential and spiritual dimensions: man’s solitude, the fragility of communication with others, the gift of God’s grace. More recently, its political dimension has been foregrounded, as a reflection of Bresson’s experience in the Resistance—thus giving his entire career, with its themes of subjection and “souls in torment,” a socially grounded urgency.

Un Condamné à mort s’est échappé Nigel Floyd from Time Out London

The true story of a French Resistance worker's escape from imprisonment by the Gestapo in the Montluc fortress at Lyon was the inspiration for A Man Escaped: 'The story is true. I give it as it is, without embellishment,' claimed Bresson. However, by pushing through the authentic details into a more transcendental realm, Bresson in fact subtly transforms the simple story into a metaphysical meditation. This he does by introducing an unseen, transcendental force which helps the young man in simple but crucial ways: 'I would like to show this miracle: an invisible hand over the prison, directing what happens and causing such a thing to succeed for one and not another...the film is a mystery...The Spirit breathes where it will.' The kind of film which inspires awe, even in an atheist.

A Breakout Role David Denby from The New Yorker

Robert Bresson’s “A Man Escaped,” from 1956, begins with a shot of a young man’s hands as he is taken to a prison in Lyon during the German Occupation of France, and it returns to those hands as they scrape, cut, twist, bend, climb, kill, and, finally, release a rope that leads to freedom. It is not only the greatest of all prison-break movies but also an astoundingly detailed account of the activities of homo faber—man the toolmaker, or, in this case, man the escape artist, who begins with only a heavy spoon and, piece by piece, creates the means of his physical and spiritual liberation. Bresson shot the movie in the Montluc fortress; most of it takes place in the cell of a Resistance fighter named Fontaine (played by François Leterrier, a philosophy student from the Sorbonne). You rarely see the faces of the Germans, and among the French there is an intense solidarity. The prisoner’s lonely ardor is enhanced by Mozart’s Mass in C Minor; the ending of the movie, as the music wells up, is pure elation.

CINE-FILE: Cine-List Elspeth J. Carroll

There's little dialogue in A MAN ESCAPED. The story is told largely through the voice-over narration of Fontaine (François Leterrier), the condemned man. What little there is is mostly shared with a fellow prisoner--a pastor arrested mid-sermon--and largely concerns matters of freedom and faith. "He'll save us if we give him the chance," Fontaine responds to the pastor's advice to pray, "It would be too easy if God saw to everything." That Bresson, here, is concerned with faith is clear (the longer title "The Wind Bloweth Where it Wants" refers to the bible passage the pastor passes Fontaine) but it's a very specific kind of faith- one which both inspires and rewards careful, considered action. Fontaine's escape is neither an act of desperation nor one of bravado. It is the result of calm deliberation and clearheaded execution, aided by either luck or grace. It is as meticulously carried out by Fontaine as it is captured by Bresson. The director has much in common with Fontaine, the man, escaped, and André Devigny, the prisoner of war upon whose memoir the film is based. There are the biographical similarities--fighters for the Resistance imprisoned by the Gestapo for their parts. There is also their focus on transcendence through action. Here, Bresson is at the peak of his mature, pared-down style. DIARY OF COUNTRY PRIEST is his first film to employ a cast of non-professionals--models, not actors--chosen for their blankness of expression, this his second. Bresson reveals little of Fontaine's thoughts and hopes. Nor is he given much background--we don't know where he comes from, the nature of his role, his family life, or the obstacles he'll face beyond the prison walls. We know him and we judge him only by his actions, and that is enough. What appears on camera is significant. What does not is not. Every detail is deliberate and revelatory. A MAN ESCAPED is Bresson at his best--the perfect marriage of form and content.

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez]

An excellent companion piece to the similarly existential Pickpocket, Robert Bresson's A Man Escaped (based on a book of the same name by André Devigny) is the suffocating yet hopeful story of a Resistance fighter's daring escape from a Gestapo prison. The genius of the film is obvious from the start: The way Bresson breathlessly postures Devigny's autobiographical account as a modern spiritual fable and the intensely suffocating aesthetic that truly evokes the squashing of the human soul. In prison, the meek Fontaine (Francois Leterrier) awaits his inevitable execution, and in an attempt to forge a human connection with his fellow prisoners, he begins to scratch and pick at the walls of his cell. This struggle for humanity is devastating, and certainly there's no sadder scene in the film than "the death of an unseen friend." The walls of Fontaine's cell represent not only his disconnect from the world but a disconnect from himself, and his escape from prison comes to symbolize the rebirth of his spirit. That's not to say that Bresson lays on the spiritual allegory thick. Yes, there's plenty of talk about ghosts, temptation (one prisoner must decide if he wants to escape with Fontaine), the purging of sins, and relationships to no doubt sacred mothers, but A Man Escape isn't so much an avowal of religious dogma as it is a deeply humanistic proclamation of the power of faith. When Fontaine and his roommate Jost (Charles Le Clainche) scale the roofs of the prison complex, the former stares into the black night and Bresson confronts him with an uncertain vision of the future. Fontaine is like a blind man using sound to decode the world around him and perpetuate his escape. In the end, physical confinement forces him to connect to his spirit and allows him to embrace the future.

Un Condamné à Mort s'est échappé by François Truffaut François Truffaut written in 1956, published in The Films in My Life, also seen here: World Cinema: Films -- A Man Escaped (1956) - Reocities

To the degree that Un Condamné à Mort s'est échappé is radically opposed to all conventional directorial styles, it will, I believe, be better appreciated by audiences who go to the movies only occasionally, say once a month, than by the nonmovie-loving but more assiduous public whose sensibilities are often confused by the rhythm of American films.

What is striking when one sees the film for the first time is the constant contrast between what the work is and what it would be, or would have been, if it had been made by another filmmaker. At first all one sees are its deficiencies, and for a while one is tempted to redo the cutting and indicate additional shots so that the film would resemble "what a film is supposed to be."

Indeed, everybody pointed out the lack of any establishing shots—one would never know what Fontaine saw through his tiny window or from the roof of the prison. Thus, at the end of a first viewing, surprise might win out over admiration. And André Bazin felt moved to explain that it was easier to describe what the film was not than what it was.

It really must be seen again to appreciate its beauty perfectly. On second viewing, nothing any longer gets in the way of our keeping up, second by second, with the film's movement—it's incredibly swift—and walking in Leterrier's or Bresson's still-fresh footprints, whichever of them left them.

Bresson's film is pure music; its essential richness is in its rhythm. A film starts at one point and arrives ultimately at another. Some films make detours, others linger calmly for the satisfaction of drawing out a pleasant scene, some have noticeable gaps, but this particular film, once set on its perfectly straight path, rushes into the night with the same rhythm as a windshield wiper; its dissolves regularly wipe the rain of images at the end of each scene off the screen. It's one of those films which can be said not to contain a single useless shot or a scene that could be cut or shortened. It's the very opposite of those films that seem like a "montage," a collection of images.

Un Condamné à Mort s'est échappé is as free-style and nonsystematic as it is rigorous. Bresson has imposed only unities of place and action; it's not only that he has not tried to make his public identify with Leterrier, he has made such identification impossible. We are with Leterrier, we are at his side; we do not see everything he sees (only what relates to his escape), but never do we see anything more than he does.

What this amounts to is that Bresson has pulverized classic cutting—where a shot of someone looking at something is valid only in relation to the next shot showing what he is looking at—a form of cutting that made cinema a dramatic art, a kind of photographed theatre. Bresson explodes all that and, if in Un Condamné the closeups of hands and objects nonetheless lead to closeups of the face, the succession is no longer ordered in terms of stage dramaturgy. It is in the service of a preestablished harmony of subtle relations among visual and aural elements. Each shot of hands or of a look is autonomous.

Between traditional directing and Bresson's there lies the same space as between dialogue and interior monologue.

Our admiration for Robert Bresson's film is not limited to his wager—to rest the entire enterprise on a single character in a cell for ninety minutes. The tour de force is not all. Many filmmakers—Clouzot, Dassin, Becker, and others—might have made a film that was ten times more thrilling and "human" than Bresson's. What is important is that the emotion, even if it is to be felt by only one viewer out of twenty, is rarer and purer and, as a result, far from altering the work's nobility, it confers a grandeur on it that was not hinted at at the outset.

The high points of the film rival Mozart for a few seconds. Here, the first chords of the Mass in C Minor, far from symbolizing liberty, as has often been written, give a liturgical aspect to the daily flushing of the toilet buckets.

I don't imagine that Fontaine is a very likable personality in Bresson's mind. It isn't courage that incites him to escape but simply boredom and idleness. A prison is made to escape from, besides which, our hero owes his success to luck. We are shown Lieutenant Fontaine, about whom we shall know nothing more, in a period of his life when he is particularly interesting and lucky. He talks about his act with a certain reserve, a bit like a lecturer telling us about his expedition as he comments on the silent movies he has brought back: "On the fourth, in the evening, we left the camp...."

Bresson's great contribution clearly is the work of the actors. Certainly James Dean's acting, which moves us so much today, or Anna Magnani's, may risk our laughter in a few years, as Pierre-Richard Wilm's does today, while the acting of Laydu in Le Journal d'un Curé de Campagne and of Leterrier in Un Condamné will grow more forceful with time. Time always works for Bresson.

In Un Condamné the Bresson style of directing achieves its finest results. We are no longer offered the quiet voice of the little parish priest of Ambricourt, or the gentle look of the "prisoner of the holy Agony," but the clear, dry diction of Lieutenant Fontaine. With his gaze as direct as that of a bird of prey, he hurls himself on the sacrificial sentinel like a vulture. Leterrier's acting owes nothing to Laydu's. "Speak as if you were talking to yourself," Bresson commanded him. He exerts all his effort to filming the face, or, more accurately, the seriousness of the human countenance.

"The artist owes a great debt to the countenance of man; if he cannot manage to evoke its natural dignity, he should at least attempt to conceal its superficiality and foolishness. Perhaps there's not a single foolish or superficial person on this earth, but simply some who give that impression because they are ill at ease, who have not found a corner of the universe in which they feel well." This marvelous reflection of Joseph von Sternberg's is, to my mind, the most apt comment on Un Condamné.

To think that Bresson will be an influence on French and foreign contemporary filmmakers seems highly unlikely. Nonetheless, we clearly see the limitations of the other cinema to the advantage of this film. The risk is that it may make us too demanding of the cruelty of Clouzot, the wit of René Clair, the carefulness of René Clément. Much remains to be discovered about film art, and some of it can be found in Un Condamné.

A Man Escaped Doug Cummings and Trond Trondsen from Masters of Cinema, also may be seen here Filmjourney

On the PAL Speedup of the NTSC A Man Escaped DVD from Masters of Cinema

Raging Bull [Mike Lorefice]

A Man Escaped | Senses of Cinema Noel Vera from Senses of Cinema, May 2007

Bright Lights Film Journal :: Bresson's A Man Escaped and Lancelot ... Two by Robert Bresson: A Man Escaped and Lancelot of the Lake, by Gary Morris, February 2005, also seen here: Images Journal or here: Morphizm.com -- Body and Soul

A Man Escaped The World Is a Prison, by Pierre Pageau from Offscreen

The Film Sufi MKP

Only The Cinema [Ed Howard]

Epinions [metalluk]

Movie Vault [Mel Valentin]

DVD Times Noel Megahey

DVD Outsider Slarek

Critic After Dark Noel Vera

Epinions [Stephen O. Murray]

not coming to a theater near you [Matt Bailey]

Cinescapade - Bresson's world of sound Briana Berg

Slant Magazine [Jaime N. Christley]

A Man Escaped | Wall of Paul Paul Tatara

eFilmCritic Reviews Jay Seaver

Strictly Film School Acquarello

DVD Verdict David Ryan

DVD Talk (Matt Langdon)

filmcritic.com Don Willmott

Decent Films - faith on film [Steven D. Greydanus]

The Films of Robert Bresson [Michael E. Grost] Michael Grost from Classical Film and Television

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez]

Ferdy on Films [Marilyn Ferdinand]

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

Un condamné à mort s'est échappé  (1956) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

A Film Canon [Billy Stevenson]

A Man Escaped John White from 10kbullets

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

EatSleepLiveFilm.com [Jordan McGrath]

A Man Escaped Matchless Realism, by Robert Stewart from Glyphs

Edinburgh U Film Society [Andrew Abbott]

HollywoodSoapbox.com [John Soltes]

Arts & Faith Top100 Spiritually Significant Films

A Man Escaped - Movies - New York Times Bosley Crowther

DVDBeaver.com - Review [Gary W. Tooze]

PICKPOCKET A- 93

France (75 mi) 1959

This film is not a thriller. —Opening inner title sequence

Coming directly after A Man Escaped (Un Condamné à Mort s'est échappé) (1956), this meticulously spare film serves the exact opposite function, as the protagonist spends the entire film disregarding all morals and rationality in order to get himself locked up into prison. Perhaps Bresson’s most mathematically precise film, as the entire editing structure couldn’t be more stripped of all essentials, where the prevailing mood of indifference creates a suffocating noose around the neck of Michel (Martin LaSalle), in an uncomfortable performance that’s likely to divide audiences, as he rarely utters a word, as everything takes place through his dry inner narration, where the intellectualism may not be translated to the screen. Stripped of all artifice and emotion, there may not be a more wooden performance in the entire Bresson repertoire, with a blank, never changing facial expression, making it difficult for audiences to relate to this doomed individual who seems to have no redeeming qualities except he’s obsessed with becoming an excellent pickpocket, an occupation requiring contemplated skill and dexterity. An adaptation of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, the film exists on a much smaller scale and is an example of repressed emotions, where Michel is continually driven to carry out the perfect crime, perhaps not even knowing why, but he’s driven nonetheless. Locked up in this stiflingly tiny room, where dirt and grime are everywhere, wallpaper peeling, where he rarely even locks the door, but while it’s his refuge, it’s also a place he never wants to return to due to the unpleasant gloom. Often, especially at the beginning, when he’d otherwise turn around and go home without committing any offense, it’s the revolting thought of the room that compels him to keep trying, to find any excuse to be anywhere but there. One could easily think the room stands for the claustrophobic confines of being stuck inside your own head in an existential void, where nothing matters except the exhilarating rush of adrenaline that comes from pulling off heists, where at least for a moment you don’t feel imprisoned by the monotonous world of apathy and alienation.

Easily the most rigorously austere film in all of Bresson’s works, making it uniquely weird and mysterious, to say the least, cast in a dreamlike netherworld, much like Dreyer’s VAMPYR (1931), the eerie minimalist detail is pure Bresson, where years can be condensed into mere seconds. This was a film Jean-Luc Godard watched over and over again before filming BREATHLESS (1960), trying to capture the rhythmic design through such basic film construction, where each featured an outlaw blind to the conventions of others who was resistant to change, leading to an eventual calamity. What’s interesting to consider is that The French New Wave was in effect railing against the conservatism of this film, giving it more energy and life, adding cinematic devices that Bresson abhorred. Yet in the same breath the New Wavers revered Bresson, calling him the patron saint of French cinema due to his uncompromising methods. So the film has a provocative and divisive nature built into it. American screenwriter/director Paul Schrader has attributed this film to writing his depiction of a man outside society in Scorsese’s Taxi Driver (1976), where interestingly each of these films adds an element of a love story, where Bresson’s probably gets the least screen time, but may be the most influential, as the entire film may be considered one meandering diversion away from any meaningful love, where continually dwelling on oneself is not the road to romance. Nonetheless, Bresson’s portrait is a bleak expression of an utterly self-absorbed, soulless wretch who believes that by ignoring society’s rules that he is above society, creating a balancing act of occasional elation and huge doses of self-loathing, where miserablism accounts for his typical frame of mind. There seems to be nothing this guy cares about other than himself, including his sick mother and a beautiful neighbor that looks after her, Jeanne, Marika Green (who had a long career mostly in television after this film), a caring woman who is the antithesis of Michel, who willingly gives to others without asking for anything in return.

The film is largely constructed around his lifestyle, defined by repetitive movements walking in and out of rooms, down hallways, and in and out of bars, where he always seems to be passing through a door of some kind, but also as a pedestrian on the streets or a passenger on public transportation, where his close contact with crowds of people allows him the incidental contact he needs to steal a watch or a wallet. The best sequences in the film are given a choreography of crime, where working with partners, the camera follows their hands in motion, constantly moving in and out of purses and coat pockets, where they gain such confidence in their success that they even return the wallet back to the pocket minus the money, The edited montage of rhythmic hand movements is simply stunning, establishing what amounts to cinematic ecstasy in carrying out the criminal act, before returning to the dreary monotony of daily living afterwards. Simply by the film construction itself, Bresson has validated for the audience how this “action” is unlike anything else in the film, as it is far and away the most pleasurable and singularly intense moments onscreen. The interplay with the police is interesting, as Michel has a running dialog with a police inspector (Jean Pélégri), where he is even warned of an impending arrest before it happens, but nothing stops this guy from returning to the scene of the crime, which is the sole purpose of his existence. Once arrested and imprisoned, Michel has a complete transformation, discovering the significance of human contact only after years of alienation, and only when the confined limitations of his physical surroundings limit his prowling behavior, mandating he make an existential shift in his core beliefs, finally discovering love from behind prison bars, where the love element is reduced to about one minute of screen time. This is an interesting comment on free will, suggesting beliefs evolve through changing circumstances, such as death, divorce, or incarceration, when people are actually stripped of their choices, allowing a Nietzschean superman, once completely outside any moral bounds, to be humbled in the process and actually rejoin the ranks of society. What's fascinating, however, is his apparent lack of contrition, where some may see a transcendent conversion, while for others his self-styled philosophy may continue to suit his own needs.   

Rahul Hamid from 1001 MOVIES YOU MUST SEE BEFORE YOU DIE:

Robert Bresson uses film to express the spiritual inferiority of life in a uniquely paradoxical way: by revealing the indescribable through an intense concentration on concrete images and sounds. Every detail and every nuance of the physical world is exposed by Bresson’s intently focused camera. Eschewing traditional dramatization in the form of emoting actors, melodramatic situations, or intricate plots, Bresson allows the action to tell the story. Deadpan voice-over is used to nominally explain the motivations and feelings of characters. Bresson often used nonprofessional actors, whom he tellingly called “models,” and directed them to strenuously avoid any theatricality and to simply move through his films. He uses music sparingly as well, allowing it be heard only during key moments of the story, to express something that cannot be verbally articulated. His films are pared down to the essential elements. This simplicity and lack of manipulation allow the audience a great deal of freedom to interpret the actions on screen, so viewer and character alike are involved in the same process of questioning and trying to understand the dilemmas posed by the picture in question.

Pickpocket is among the most perfect examples of Bresson’s style. It tells the story of Michel (Martin LaSalle), a disaffected young intellectual who becomes obsessed with picking pockets. At first he sees it simply as a means to further his own ends, but he soon comes to view it as an end in itself and as a creative act. After an amateurish attempt at the crime, which gets him caught almost immediately, he apprentices himself to a professional thief to really learn the craft. The scenes of pickpocketing are breathtaking and rival any in cinema for their excitement and sheer cinematic virtuosity. Although Michel has contact with his sick mother and is involved with a girlfriend, Jeanne (Marika Green), the pickpocketing provides him with his most emotionally and sensually satisfying human connections. This becomes more and more obvious as Michel no longer steals for financial gain. He even seems indifferent about being caught in the end.

Although Bresson avoids the typical tools of drama, Pickpocket is completely engrossing and Michel’s moral questioning and sense of displacement are deeply affecting. This is one of those pictures that completely changes one’s understanding of what cinema is or can be. Bresson is one of the most novelistic of filmmakers, in that he is able to depict the inner world of characters and abstract philosophical concepts that are more easily expressed in language. His achievement here is all the more ingenious because he uses the literal quality of the cinema to achieve his ends, using and shaping the very specific material of the real world. Pickpocket expands the vocabulary of the movies. Watching a Bresson film is a demanding but extremely satisfying and enjoyable experience

Pickpocket Time Out London

Released in the same year as Godard’s ‘Breathless’ (1959) and filmed on the same sun-dappled Parisian streets, Bresson’s mid-career tale of the mysterious operation of grace and redemption on the fate of a young thief is considered by many to be his masterpiece. Newcomers to Bresson’s films may be surprised to hear that this is perhaps his most optimistic, open, sensuous and sexually charged film, given its dark Dostoyevskian subject matter. Even for those used to Kiarostami’s minimalism, this is a further step into essentialism. Bresson’s actors – ‘models’ – are non-professional and strictly coached; but there is no mistaking the orgasmic pleasure that sweeps the face of indolent, penurious student Michel (Martin LaSalle) as he succeeds on his first ‘dip’ at Longchamps racecourse; nor his despair as his world begins to fall apart. Bresson’s goals were deep; to sweep away the dross of expectation and viewing conventions by means of a purified cinema. At times in this thief’s journal – the extended train station robbery sequence, for instance  – his visual discourse touches the sublime.

Ripple Effects

Robert Bresson’s modern version of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. Caught in his own desensitized internal world, our protagonist Michel commits acts of theft as a desperate measure to fill the void in his existence. He goes through his days in a haunting vacuum devoid of meaning and emotions. He is unfeeling even towards his own dying mother, reminds me of Meursault in Camus’s The Stranger. Although not an axe murderer, like Raskolnikov in Crime and Punishment, Michel theorizes that those with superior talents and intelligence, the supermen in society, should be free to disobey laws in certain cases. He is numbed by his own hubris, and stifled by his cold and absurd worldview. Outright violence is not visible here, but we see the battle of wits he engages with the police inspector behind his trails, and we see him struggle in an amoral and meaningless existence.

Grace comes as Jeanne, a neighbor and carer of Michel’s ailing mother. Jeanne lives on her own looking after her younger brother. Her father is a drunk and her mother has deserted them. But she continues to live and care. She accepts her circumstances calmly, and extends kindness to those unrelated to her, caring for Michel’s mother, a neighbor on another floor. She stands as a stark contrast to Michel’s aloofness. At the end of the film, Jeanne came to visit Michel in prison after he was arrested, the two separated by the cold iron bars. For the first time, Michel feels love and wants to reciprocate it. And thus the cathartic ending as he totally melts in the presence of pure love and grace, wrapping up the film with this last line:

“Oh, Jeanne, to reach you at last, what a strange path I had to take.”

The Village Voice [J. Hoberman] reviews PICKPOCKET and MOUCHETTE (excerpt)

Bluntly put, to not get Bresson is to not get the idea of motion pictures—it's to have missed that train the Lumiére brothers filmed arriving at Lyon station 110 years ago.

The late French filmmaker made 13 features over the course of his 40-year career; each is a drama of faith so uncompromising as to border on the absurd. Bresson's actors do not act, they simply are; his favorite effect is the close-up. His movies may be cerebral, but their effect is primarily emotional—or physiological. They naturally induce a state of heightened awareness. Some might call it "grace."

One of two Bresson features revived in new prints this month at Film Forum, Pickpocket was shot during the summer of 1959—the same season as Godard's Breathless. Like Breathless, Pickpocket is the story of a petty criminal, and even more than Godard's first feature, it is designed to confound audience expectations. The opening title, "This film is not a thriller," has the effect of Magritte's famous surrealist painting Ceci N'Est Pas une Pipe.

Pickpocket was inspired by Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment, but all incidental anecdote and psychology has been stripped away. Employing few establishing shots and little camera movement, Bresson distills narrative down to a particular essence of looks, gestures, and precisely placed audio effects. ("The noises must become music," he wrote in his notebooks.) His mise-en-scéne is as understated as his montage is aggressive—creating performances out of reaction shots, using sound to signify offscreen events. Bresson refers to this method as cinematography, opposing it to "the terrible habit of theater."

Indeed, Pickpocket might be described as a solemn carnival of souls. There's something almost medieval about it. The city is inhabited by angels—fallen and otherwise. In the movie's most elaborate scene, the antihero and his cohorts create an assembly line of theft at the Gare de Lyon. These unstoppable blank-faced thieves descend like a plague upon the world. Ultimately inexplicable, this concentrated, elliptical, economical movie is an experience that never loses its strangeness.

dOc DVD Review: Pickpocket (1959) - digitallyOBSESSED! Jon Danziger

Grace isn't usually an attribute we associated with a proletarian entertainment medium like motion pictures, but in many respects it's the signature aspects of the movies of Robert Bresson. His films are poetic without being precious, careful without being solipsistic; it's hard to think of a director who consistently maintains this high level of control over his movies, and to such quietly devastating ends. Pickpocket is exemplary Bresson, and at just over an hour and fifteen minutes, retains a breathless quality for almost all of its brief running time. It's a narrowly focused world, and one that's drawn exquisitely and movingly.

The hero and title character of the piece is Michel, who plies his trade on the streets of Paris—Bresson, though, isn't interested in gritty, noiry urbanity, but in what you'd have to call a crisis of conscience on the part of the pickpocket. Michel's crimes are fetishized, shot in extreme close-ups as he slips wallets out of pocketbooks and watches off wrists—some have called these sequences almost sexual in nature, but they strike me more as images of a man in the throes of an addiction, Michel as a junkie in need of a fix. Anyway, his world is limited—his room is bare, he has few acquaintances, let alone friends, and the best he can do for his ailing mother is to drop off some of his pilfered earnings with a neighbor, unable to bear even being in the same room with the dying old woman. That neighbor, though, is crucial—her name is Jeanne, and she's the one ray of hope in the darkness of Michel's seemingly amoral world.

Bresson insists that we empathize with his hero, and we do—it's hard to think of a movie with more shots of its protagonist walking directly toward the camera, not quite confronting us, but making us complicit; and the candor of Michel's voiceovers makes them resonant, even if he's really no more than a petty criminal. And one of the astonishing things about Bresson's achievement is that, with even a modicum of reflection, we realize that we don't know anything about Michel at all, really—he's a perfectly existentialist character, he is what he does.

That's not to say, though, that this is all just a meditation on the human condition, which would likely be unbearable. A tour-de-force sequence on the trains of Paris showing Michel and some comrades in action is terrifically vital and fluid filmmaking—the bad guys delicately lift their marks' wallets, empty them of their useful contents, and return them just as delicately to their handbags and breast pockets. It's an incredibly influential bit of filmmaking, as well, echoing through decades of caper films. And Bresson's careful eye extends of course to casting—the actors aren't always given a whole lot to say or do, and many of them aren't professionals, but their faces overflow with expressiveness, bringing us into the inner emotional lives of these characters.

I don't think I'm giving anything away by mentioning that Michel comes to the inevitable bad end—it's the necessary conclusion for a movie like this one, but the film is about a whole lot more than whether or not crime pays. But it's the contours of Michel's emotional journey that make this such a powerful movie, and a reminder that the most punishing prison of all can be the one inside of your own head.

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez]

I came to Pickpocket (or was it Pickpocket that came to me?) at a time, I think, I needed it most. The attraction was immediate. My mother—born in Cuba and raised on a ridiculous amount of Russian literature—turned me on to Dostoevsky in high school. Crime and Punishment was my favorite book and the correspondence between the text and Bresson's film was exciting. Also enticing was Martin LaSalle. Tall, dark, lanky, and Latino, we could have been related (we even have a mole in the exact same spot on our right cheek), a confession that probably pegs me as a narcissist, but let's not pretend the movies we love most are not the ones that most forcibly hold a mirror to our faces. LaSalle was beautiful but it's his turmoil and haunted eyes I found most attractive and, finally, instructive. Lonely, just barely out of the closet, and recently divorced from God, I also used to steal, getting caught a number of times but always weaseling myself out of potential jail time. Godard famously said Au Hasard Balthazar was "life in 90 minutes"; for me, though, Pickpocket was "my life in 75 minutes." It was my life to live but one I didn't necessarily want to—except I knew no other.

Bresson profoundly understood this kind of torture, confusion, and crippling sense of spiritual and emotional emptiness, and every image in Pickpocket evokes the director's idea of the soul in transition. This is why Michel is always passing through doors and ascending and descending stairways: Like the characters in the director's equally fine L'Argent, Michel is a slave to his material world, and he spends his time looking for a passage into a realm that promises more meaningful, less transitory, rewards. But Bresson connects us to Michel's plight sexually as well as spiritually. Make no mistake: there's a psychosexual urgency to the film's thieving scenes that is perverse and thrilling. This is not an insult to Bresson, who understands that Michel steals in the same way a person does drugs (in Jeanne, he not only finds a healthy, albeit specious form of spiritual salvation but an inhibitor for his reckless self-abuse). Though he pickpockets in order fill a spiritual void, to pretend that he doesn't derive some kind of pleasure, however fleeting, from stealing is to misunderstand the way we cheat and compromise our deepest and most meaningful desires.

What is it about Bresson's films that inspire such personal reactions and frank admissions from their admirers? The Village Voice's J. Hoberman understands that his favorite directors do not work on his heart and mind in quite the same way they do on the person sitting next to him in the theater, but he reaches the edge of his tolerance in the case of Bresson: "Bluntly put, to not get Bresson is to not get the idea of motion pictures—it's to have missed that train the Lumiére brothers filmed arriving at Lyon station 110 years ago." And in his liner notes for The Criterion Collection's Pickpocket, Gary Indiana dares to tell us he was on LSD when he saw the film for the first time, the first of many revelations that surely raised the ire of Armond White, whose response to Indiana's article in The New York Press is one that may now overshadow the film's DVD premiere but is one that cannot be discounted. If I don't fully align myself with the arguments pitched by either White or Indiana it's because they're both right. Bresson so completely understood the full spectrum of our human condition that to ignore the sexual and spiritual elements that run concurrently through his films is to not get Bresson at all.

"Pickpocket: Robert Bresson—Hidden in Plain Sight" Criterion essay by Gary Indiana, November 2005

Pickpocket (1959) - The Criterion Collection

Pickpocket | Senses of Cinema Rick J. Thompson from Senses of Cinema, June 2000

The Film Sufi

Pickpocket (1959) - #314 | Criterion Reflections David Blakeslee

Pickpocket: A Statistical Analysis   a shot by shot analysis by Anna Romatowska from Offscreen

Reflections on the Pickpocket Statistical Analysis by Donato Totaro from Offscreen

Robert Bresson: Pickpocket | Features | Guardian Unlimited Film Derek Malcolm from the Guardian, August 19, 1999

DVD Times Noel Megahey

Epinions [metalluk]

Film Freak Central Review [Walter Chaw]

Pickpocket Review (1959) - The Spinning Image Dan Schneider

Decent Films - faith on film [Steven D. Greydanus]

Critic After Dark Noel Vera

Robert Bresson Girish, June 12, 2006

Movie Vault [Vadim Rizov]

DVD Savant Review Glenn Erickson, Criterion Collection

DVD Verdict [Joe Armenio] Criterion Collection

The DVD Journal | Quick Reviews: Pickpocket: The Criterion ... DSH

Pickpocket - Movie Review - Movie Gazette Anton Bitel, Criterion Collection

DVD Talk [Stuart Galbraith IV] Criterion Collection

Q Network Review James Kendrick, Criterion Collection

PICKPOCKET - DVD review | Movie Metropolis Christopher Long

pickpocket - review at videovista Alasdair Stuart

Mystery Man on Film: Robert Bresson's "Pickpocket"

Pickpocket (1959) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

Pickpocket Chris Barsanti from Filmcritic

New York Sun [Nathan Lee]

Great Movie Reviews [Pseudonymous author Ankyuk] June 30, 2008

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

Movie Reviews UK Damian Cannon

Film School Rejects [Loukas Tsouknidas]

Strictly Film School Acquarello

DearCinema Ankur Agarwal

FilmFanatic.org

The Films of Robert Bresson [Michael E. Grost] Michael Grost from Classic Film and Television

A Film Canon [Billy Stevenson]

Subtitledonline.com [Thomas Knight]

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

• View topic - 314 Pickpocket Criterion Forum, a film discussion group, July 21, 2005

314 - Pickpocket - Criterion Forums Criterion Forum, a film discussion group, February 20, 2009

Robert Bresson's PICKPOCKET at Film Forum in New York City

Pickpocket (1959) - (The Criterion Collection - #314 ... - AvaxHome film photos

TV Guide review

BBCi - Films Tom Dawson

Guardian/Observer

"Film-makers on film: Paul Schrader" Sheila Johnston interviews Paul Schrader about Robert Bresson's Pickpocket (1959), from The Daily Telegraph, January 25, 2003

Baltimore City Paper Review Bret McCabe

Chicago Sun-Times [Roger Ebert]

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

Pickpocket (film) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

THE TRIAL OF JOAN OF ARC (Procès de Jeanne d'Arc) B 89

France (65 mi) 1961

Bresson, like Carl Dreyer before him, had notorious difficulties obtaining financing for films, according to film critic Andrew Sarris. It has been said that “such intransigent individualists as Buñuel and Stroheim seem like Dale Carnegies by comparison. At least Buñuel and Stroheim could promise the titillation of shock and sacrilege; Dreyer, like Bresson, could offer nothing but austerity and eternity.” By paring away the irrelevant, “flash and fluff” that pads most movies, they hope to lay bare the human essence of the story, or as Bresson himself once wrote: “You have to drain the pond to catch the fish.” Certainly this rarely seen film is one of the most extreme examples of Bresson’s spiritual realism, his de-dramatizing technique that attempts to capture the actual tone and form of the original event, Joan of Arc's 1431 trial by the English for heresy at Rouen, the seat of the English occupation government in France, and her subsequent execution, using as a basis the actual historical trial records. That being said, this a most peculiar film, largely due to the complete impassivity of the actors on the screen. It is startling just how undramatic, unemotional, and uninvolved they are, just the antithesis of Dreyer’s 1928 silent film, perhaps one of the greatest films of all time, THE PASSION OF JOAN OF ARC, which features extreme close ups revealing extraordinary passion and human emotion. So while that was probably one of the motivations to differentiate this film, it may not work for everyone and some may call it a failed experiment, while others may call it visionary.

Bresson makes excellent use of the thundering sound of the military tympany drum, which is meant to be intimidating when heard, used exquisitely here at both the beginning and end of the film, almost as if it is a clear reflection of the unspoken voice of God. While the austerity of the film is severe, continually showing Joan subject to harsh treatment and condemnation, with cries of “Burn the witch” heard offscreen throughout, what’s perhaps forgotten is Joan was a simple farm girl, only 19 and illiterate, who couldn’t even sign her name, using a cross instead, yet she was resolute and unwavering, holding her own without the aid of counsel against the finest educated judges and lawyers from England, demonstrating a remarkable intellect. Her judges couldn’t fathom that she could realize the divine by avoiding the church’s aid and instruction, feeling compelled to lecture her about religious faith, testing her mettle under dire circumstances, forcing her to show them her divinity. Despite using actual transcripts, what the film doesn’t show is the duration of the trial, how the many months of relentless personal assault both in court followed by more interrogation sessions inside her prison cell, where she was continually spied upon by her captors, eventually took its toll and physically wore her down. Of interest, Florence Delay, the university student that played Joan went on the write novels and narrate Chris Marker’s Sans Soleil (1983), eventually elected to the Académie Française in 2000.

Bresson’s film is a perfect example of Brechtian theater, which, of interest, was a rebellion against the German emotional expressionist theater of the 20’s by attempting to destroy any dramatic illusion of reality, making it apparent to the audience that they were not witnessing real events happening before their eyes at that very moment, but were instead sitting in a theater listening to an account of things that happened in the past in a certain time in a certain place. Brecht’s epic theater was strictly historical, reminding the audience that they were getting a report of past events, very much in a documentary manner. So Brecht eliminated stage decor, suspense leading to a dramatic climax, and any audience identification with the characters on stage, allowing no emotional connection, creating a distance between them, enabling the audience to view the action with a detached and critical spirit, to see familiar things in a different light. This is theater of reason, not theater of emotion, or unreason. While this may work in theory, it all remains pretty grim, and by the end Joan is engulfed in smoke and fire, while a dove lands and then flies away. The final image reveals a burnt stake with chains on the ground, smoke rises, and there is a final abrupt strike of the drum. Dreyer’s last shot showed Joan burning, where off in the corner one can see a cross, while Bresson’s last shot is a still shot of the stake, smoldering. The film won the Special Jury Prize at the Cannes Film Festival in 1962.

Trial of Joan of Arc Jonathan Rosenbaum from The Reader

The Trial of Joan of Arc (1962) is perhaps the most extreme instance of Robert Bresson's dedramatizing technique, exercised here in a rigorous treatment of its subject that couldn't be further from Dreyer's handling of the same subject. It's been more than a quarter of a century since I've seen this spare, elliptical work, so it would be unfair to make a judgment, but as one of the most infrequently screened works of one of the greatest living filmmakers, I'm sure it warrants a look.

Time Out

Based on the minutes of Joan of Arc's trial, this can be seen as Bresson's essay in sado-masochistic voyeurism. Joan (Carrez) is manacled, spied at through peepholes, genitally scrutinised, and forced (by the director) to squat on a wooden stool as if on a toilet seat. The tension generated by juxtaposing such humiliation with the serenely beautiful text (from the transcription of the trial) resolves itself in the unforgettable final image of Joan's charred remains like a burnt-out firework.

Le Procès de Jeanne d'Arc (1962) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

Having been arrested for her part in an unsuccessful uprising against the French government, Joan of Arc is to face a trial led by the Bishop Cauchon.  Her enemies have already decided that she should be burnt as a witch, but the trial must first establish her guilt – which means torturing her until she confesses…

This depiction of the Joan of Arc story is typical of Robert Bresson’s austere style of cinema, stripping the story to its bare bones and concentrating far more on the nature of the human ordeal than historical detail.   In stark contrast to Dreyer’s La Passion de Jeanne d’Arc (1928), the film is far more restrained in its use of cinematographic technique to paint Joan as a victim.  If anything, Bresson paints a distinctly atypical view of Joan, not a Saint or a martyr, but a fairly ordinary peasant girl who is out of her depth. 

As in all of his films, Bresson attempts to go beyond the surface and reveal the soul of his subject, his purpose here being to show how it was, from an inner perspective, that Joan was driven to recant her faith and thereby seal her fate.  Whilst the film is far less moving than Dreyer’s masterpiece, it is an effective work which says a great deal about human nature, particularly the resilience of the human spirit.  The script is based on a transcript of notes taken from the actual trial of Joan of Arc, something which gives the film a curious timeless quality.  The film won the Special Jury Prize at the Cannes Film Festival in 1962.

Raging Bull [Mike Lorefice]

Telling the truth was the most important thing to Robert Bresson, and he accomplished his goal of creating the most historically accurate account of Joan of Arc's trial imaginable. Though masters Carl Theodor Dreyer & Jacques Rivette also based their very worthy films on the transcripts, Bresson barely has Joan say a word that isn't directly lifted. He downplays every other aspect to make the text the film; simplistic visuals merely complement the audio. The total lack of gesture and inflection force us to focus on the dialogue. In a sense it's the least dramatic film ever, but Bresson's economic reenactment of the interrogations makes every sentence important by eliminating everything that could separate one from another. One reason it works is Joan's trial obviously isn't fair; her accusers are just looking for any misstep to burn her over. Beyond focusing on the trial, Bresson opposes Dreyer at every turn. In The Passion of Joan of Arc, Dreyer depicted the internal by accentuating Joan's external physical torment. Bresson depicts the internal by downplaying the external, focusing on the spirituality contained in Joan's words of faith. In a sense Bresson is the films only villain, as his intrusive interrogating style makes Joan yield to and fight with Leonce-Henri Burel's camera. Florence Delay isn't even allowed to gaze into the camera, she must keep her eyes down. Bresson has her surrounded by hostile beings at all times, torturing her psychologically to break her faith while making sure Delay remains gentle in the face of the relentless onslaught. Delay's Joan is very human, she's uncertain how to respond since she's allowed no counsel, which perhaps leads us to believe her thoughtful and restrained answers are sincere. Joan is scared but courageous, resolute, and dignified. Joan is acting on faith, the basis of any religion, but the church is making a political power play asserting their earthly stranglehold over the ability to represent God. Bresson doesn't need to force any judgements on us; his cinema of restraint based on the removal of falseness allows us to come to his truth on our own. His style is ritualistic and spiritual, so whether we believe Joan actually communicated with angels and God, we at least believe she's sincere in believing she did. Joan finds her promised freedom when she realizes the available escape is to the heavens, where men can't tell God who to work though or dictate "God's justice".

Articles James Steffen from Turner Classic Movies, also seen here: Turner Classic Movies

Trial of Joan of Arc (1962, aka Proces de Jeanne d'Arc) opens with Joan of Arc's mother reading a request for the posthumous rehabilitation of her daughter. The remainder of the film depicts Joan of Arc's 1431 trial for heresy at Rouen and her subsequent execution. The court, working in collaboration with the English, subjects her to relentless interrogation and even torture, but she refuses to renounce her stand. Only under duress does Joan eventually sign a confession; as a result, she is sentenced to life imprisonment. However, she later recants and is burned at the stake.

Robert Bresson's Trial of Joan of Arc is noteworthy for its rigorous construction and economy of means. Nine interrogations in the courtroom and in Joan's cell are compressed into a little over an hour of running time. Working from actual trial transcripts, Bresson deliberately avoids the expressionistic imagery and heightened acting style of Dreyer's The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928). In contrast, he shot the trial scenes as simply as possible, relying mainly on medium shots alternating between Joan and her interrogators. His goal was to place maximum emphasis on what was being spoken; Bresson writes: "My film was born of words, was constructed from words. My film is in questions and in answers, for it was in this form that the interrogations were registered." While dressing the characters in costumes, he also tried to avoid the usual trappings of costume drama. In his book Notes on Cinematography, Bresson writes: "Reject historical films whose effect would be 'theater' or 'masquerade'. (In my Trial of Joan of Arc, I have tried to avoid 'theater' and 'masquerade', but to arrive at a non-historical truth by using historical words.)" He says of Joan of Arc herself, "One would say that she was a more perfect being than we are, more sensitive. She combines her five senses in a new way. She sees her voices. She convinces us of a world at the limit of our faculties. She penetrates into this supernatural world but she closes the door behind her."

Robert Bresson (1901-1999), one of France's greatest filmmakers, directed only one medium-length film and thirteen features in a career spanning nearly fifty years. This was due partly to his meticulous work habits, partly to the inherent difficulties in getting financing to realize his idiosyncratic vision. Notoriously, Bresson preferred to work with non-professional actors because they don't "act." Referring to his performers as "models" (in the painterly sense), he liked to exercise complete control over their movements, rehearsing each gesture until it became automatic. In Notes on Cinematography, he writes: "To your models: "Don't think what you're saying, don't think what you're doing." And also: Don't think about what you say, don't think about what you do." In a similar vein, he tended to avoid overtly emotive facial expressions and line deliveries, hoping to reveal a character's underlying spiritual state by paring away the inessentials. He writes: "Movement from the exterior to the interior. (Actors: movement from the interior to the exterior.)"

Another of Bresson's distinctive traits as a director is his carefully constructed counterpoint between image and sound. There is no music in Trial of Joan of Arc aside from a drum roll at the beginning and a trumpet fanfare introducing the first interrogation. Instead, Bresson provides a carefully woven tapestry of dialogue and natural sounds such as footsteps, clanking chains and a dog's bark. Like the often fragmented visual details, the sound at times suggests Jeanne's point of view. Bresson said of the soundtrack as a whole, "I tried to render the rhythm of the text like a musical score."

Bresson's deliberately ascetic portrayal of France's most revered saint and greatest cultural icon was bound to generate controversy. Even the film's cinematographer, Leonce-Henry Burel, found himself at odds with Bresson; he recalls: "Here we had this sweet, simple, charming girl with the most marvelous, beautiful eyes, and Bresson would never let her look up at the camera. Never. She always had to look down, even when she was answering her judges. I told Bresson that if I believed in God, which I don't, I would look up when I thought of Him. [...] She was a mystic, a visionary... you have to be to lead soldiers into battle without even knowing how to use a sword. I was so furious I really let myself go, and Bresson didn't like it. He didn't want to have Joan look up because Dreyer had done that." As a result of the quarrel that ensued, it was Burel's last collaboration with Bresson.

Trial of Joan of Arc opened in Paris in 1963; it later played in New York Film Festival that year, but didn't open commercially in New York until February 1965. Bosley Crowther, reviewing for the New York Times, compared it somewhat unfavorably to Dreyer's The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928), particularly in terms of Florence Carrez's performance versus the classic interpretation of Maria Falconetti. He says of the acting in general: "The accomplishment of the participants is their ability to be consistently motionless and either passive or severe. The impact--what there is of it--comes from the starkness of the scene, the monotony of the rhythm, the austerity of the end. One must commend the director for making his film state these things. One has to be frankly regretful of the lack of dramatic highs and lows." However, the reviewer for Variety was considerably more sympathetic to Bresson's approach: "Using non-actors, there are no false dramatics. This unveils another side of this oft-filmed tale, and the state and church politics of that century. [...] This has a simple beauty and depth that make it different from other forays into this territory."

The Film Sufi [MKP]

Epinions [virtuelle2]

The Films of Robert Bresson [Michael E. Grost] Michael Grost from Classic Film and Television

Home Cinema @ The Digital Fix - The Trial of Joan of Arc Noel Megahey, also seen here: DVD Times

Village Voice Melissa Anderson, also seen here: The Village Voice [Melissa Anderson]

Cinepassion.org [Fernando F. Croce]

Screen Fanatic [David O'Connell]

Oggs' Movie Thoughts [Oggs Cruz]

Westminster Wisdom Gracchi

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

Strictly Film School Acquarello

The Cinematic Threads Matthew Lotti

Variety

DVDBeaver.com [Henrik Sylow]

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze] also reviewing PICKPOCKET and L’ARGENT

AU HASARD BALTHAZAR A 100

France (95 mi) 1966

A near perfect film, one of the great metaphysical films of all time and one of the most unique religious expressions, Bresson rids his actors of any facial emotion, yet this film never fails to provide an excruciating emotional release, offering a precise, yet extraordinary poetic glimpse into the sublime by identifying human suffering with a common farm animal. People's lives revolve around Balthazar, yet their lives become increasingly insignificant as time goes by, as we identify instead with a donkey. Voted among the Top-Twenty all time films from the most recent 2002 Sight and Sound Critic’s Poll (Read the critics’ complete list), this is a film that inspires without grandiose imagery or any memorable tricks or techniques, instead relying upon superb visual storytelling, which leaves out all the unnecessary little details as it follows the spiritual odyssey of a donkey named Balthazar, whose brays at birth are interspersed between the sublime Andantino piano movements of Schubert’s A Major Piano Sonata No. 20 (D. 959) Franz Schubert - Sonata Wilhelm Kempff on YouTube (7:35), among the best and most effective uses of music anywhere in cinema, especially the very sparing use, which provides a haunting sensitivity to the character of Balthazar, and therein lies the essence of this film, as it’s a view of the divine through one of the most common and durable farm animals among us.

It’s a bit like a Buñuel film, as there’s something of the absurd underlying this exercise of following the life of a donkey in a story that is enveloped in Christian themes, as from birth to death this film examines the human condition through the silent suffering of this animal, who represents a state of grace while all around him self-centered humans reveal themselves to be so much more miserable and wretched creatures, personified by the influence of a bad seed teenage sociopath Gérard (François Lafarge), a sadistic altar boy gone astray, but he is the love interest of an innocent young girl named Marie, Anne Wiazemsky, who later married Jean-Luc Godard and also wrote a book Jeunne Fille describing her experiences during the making of this film, who falls under Gérard’s charm, but he seems to bring havoc and ruin into everyone’s lives. It’s a near wordless film, where cinematographer Ghilsain Cloquet effortlessly captures the rhythms of life with characters who come and go, their passing lives a story within a story. One is even a Mary and Joseph (Marie and Jacques) story where Balthazar’s misfortunes parallel that of Marie, continually seen with best friend Jacques as children, but is continually abused and mistreated throughout her adolescent life, where characters are making choices that they end up spending the rest of their lives trying to undo, regretting lost opportunities that seem to have evaporated into thin air. Some are seen as humorous, others are sad and pathetic, but all pale in comparison to the noble dignity of this silent creature, a saint who walks among us like a cloud, seen but unseen, used but unappreciated, as humans are too busy selfishly seeking life’s personal rewards by ignoring the natural mysteries that surround them.

While this doesn’t have the spare minimalism of Bresson’s previous films, allowing brief interludes from a classical piano soundtrack to intrude throughout the film, even the use of a trained, professional donkey (see the mathematics circus sequence), it is one of his most accessible and easily his most transcendent, perhaps the best balance and purest expression of Bresson’s art, plumbing the depths of his own concept of spirituality, especially in connection to the physical world around us, as the profound emotional connection between this film and a universal audience is undeniable. The entirety of this film makes all the difference, especially the effect the finale has on everything that comes before, moving through ebbs and flows of what life has in store for us, featuring petty characters overcome by pride or stubbornness, often exhibiting senseless or even idiotic behavior, expressing stupidity, meanness or drunkenness, where the hostile mistreatment of others can at times feel overwhelming, creating an indomitable mood of oppression. But these human characteristics are always shown through vignettes, suggesting they are not a permanent human condition, but transitional episodes, where there is the feeling that evil is not inevitable, but correctable, just a behavior flaw, like a form of temporary insanity. Bresson always finds harmony and balance by returning to the poetic grace of Balthazar who quietly endures despite his continual mistreatment. By the end, Balthazar is centered in an idyllic pastoral paradise, where he walks among the flowers and the sheep and finds a kind of inner peace and contentment, a transcendence from all things earthly and human, so poetically rendered in the film’s enormously effective final scene.

Steven Jay Schneider from 1001 MOVIES YOU MUST SEE BEFORE YOU DIE:

Robert Bresson’s penultimate black-and-white film—a companion piece to the 1967 film Mouchette—is a study in saintliness, a powerful and poignant tale of wickedness and suffering, and a grim look at the innate cruelty and destructive impulses of man. By treating the eponymous donkey as a symbol of purity, virtue, and salvation, a by giving his picture a simple yet effective episodic structure, Bresson invests Au hasard Balthazar with a remarkable intensity that is only enhanced by the stark visual style.

Balthazar is an oft-exploited burro who gets passed from owner to owner, in the process experiencing and observing all manner of human good and evil. His harsh and sorrowful existence, in which he is frequently mistreated, is paralleled by that of Marie (Anne Wiazemsky), a reserved young woman who becomes involved with a cruel and sadistic man, Gerard (François Lafarge), who eventually rejects her. Toward the end of his difficult life, however, the former children’s pet, circus attraction, and beast of burden becomes the property of a gentle old miller who views him as a reincarnated saint.

Bresson’s film has been labeled by at least one critic “the zenith of purity in the cinema.” But the highest praise of all comes from none other than Andrew Sarris. In his classic Village Voice review of the film, Sarris writes that Au hasard Balthazar “stands alone atop one of the loftiest pinnacles of artistically-realized emotional experiences.”

Time Out Geoff Andrew

Animal as saint: Bresson's stark, enigmatic parable, a donkey (named after one of the Three Wise Men) is both a witness to and the victim of mankind's cruelty, stupidity - and love. Taking his lack of faith in theatrical acting to its logical limit, Bresson perversely places the mute beast centre-screen as he passes from owner to owner, giving rides, heaving agricultural machinery, and receiving beatings and caresses in a coolly observed landscape of poverty and folly. The effect could not be more different from that of other films (Disney's say, or Jaws) that centre around animals; Balthazar's death during a smuggling expedition, amidst a field of sheep, is both lyrical and entirely devoid of maudlin sentiment. Imbued with a dry, ironic sense of humour, the film is perhaps the director's most perfectly realised, and certainly his most moving.

Au hasard Balthazar Mike D’Angelo from Time Out New York (link lost)

Of all the emotions that movies can inspire and provoke, pity seems to me both the easiest and the least useful. One of the reasons I've never agreed with the critical consensus about French filmmaker Robert Bresson is that much of his work seems to take an ascetic pleasure in the stoic suffering of its protagonists, who exist largely as beacons of nobility in a harsh and forbidding world. Au hasard Balthazar, which many cinephiles consider one of the greatest films ever made (it placed 19th in last year's Sight and Sound poll, tied with Jules and Jim and L'Avventura), is in many ways the apotheosis of Bresson's late, transcendent style, and those who respond to it will require multiple handkerchiefs, if not heavy sedation. Those who resist, as I did—at least until the sublimely tender conclusion, which could make a cinder block weep—will resent watching a defenseless creature being made to suffer for our sins.

To Bresson's credit, he doesn't exactly anthropomorphize the title character, a donkey passed from owner to owner—some loving, others indifferent or cruel—over a period of many years. Neither, however, does he address his own complicity in Balthazar's struggle, as Lars von Trier scrupulously does in his own parables of forbearance and martyrdom. That's not a surprise, perhaps, since Bresson was the least reflexive of filmmakers, yet it's hard to watch Balthazar and not be conscious, on some level, that this is a real animal being placed in what appear to be genuinely uncomfortable positions (however fleetingly) for our entertainment, or at least our edification. What makes Bresson so different from the donkey's fictional masters? The question isn't rhetorical.

The Village Voice [J. Hoberman] considers it one of the greatest films of all time

To cut to the chase, Robert Bresson's heart-breaking and magnificent Au Hasard Balthazar (1966)—the story of a donkey's life and death in rural France—is the supreme masterpiece by one of the greatest of 20th-century filmmakers. Bringing together all Bresson's highly developed ideas about acting, sound, and editing, as well as grace, redemption, and human nature, Balthazar is understated and majestic, sensuous and ascetic, ridiculous and sublime. It would be a masterpiece for its soundtrack alone. Before the credits are over, solemn Schubert is interrupted by a prolonged hee-haw. Balthazar, Bresson once explained, was inspired by a passage in The Idiot where Prince Myshkin tells three giggling girls of the happiness he experienced upon hearing the sound of a donkey's bray in a foreign marketplace, and the movie's premise is suitably "idiotic."

Three children baptize a baby donkey and thereby give him a soul. This innocence lasts about five minutes: A brief montage has Balthazar hitched, shoed, and sentenced to a lifetime of labor. Marie, the girl who names him, grows up somber and slack-jawed, regarding the world with a kindred steady gaze. (As noted by Jean-Luc Godard, who later married the actress, Anne Wiazemsky, Marie too is a donkey.) Barefoot in her shift, she makes a garland for Balthazar and nuzzles him—then hides as the town punk, Gerard, and his friends jealously beat the animal.

Marie's schoolteacher father is a man whose pride leads him to make one mistake after another; Marie (Nastasya to Balthazar's Myshkin) helplessly gives herself to her family's tormentors. Meanwhile, Balthazar is sold and resold; he's saved by a drunken vagabond named Arnold; he briefly joins the circus (a truly magical interlude) and falls into the hands of the town miser (novelist Pierre Klossowski), who emerges from the midst of a teenage bacchanal in an example of Bresson's unfailingly brilliant method of introducing characters. In the end, Balthazar reverts to Marie's father—who has lost everything and is about to lose even more.

For years Au Hasard Balthazar could only be seen here in a beautiful but unsubtitled print at Anthology Film Archives. With a year of high school French, I understood somewhat less of the dialogue than the donkey, but seeing alone was sufficient to convince me that Bresson was the greatest narrative filmmaker since D.W. Griffith. No one has ever made better use of close-ups, more precisely delineated off-screen space, or so flawlessly established a dramatic rhythm. Balthazar is predicated on an astonishing tension between formal rigor and, as embodied by its protagonist, the random quality of life. At the same time, it recognizes the thingness of things—as in the stunning sequence wherein mystery tramp Arnold bids farewell to a stone marker and a power line, then slips from Balthazar's back, dead.

Oblique as it is, Bresson's narrative hints at an immense story involving betrayal, theft, even murder. But its real concern is the state of being. Crowned with flowers, spooked by firecrackers, struck without cause, Balthazar bears patient witness to all manner of enigmatic human behavior. (Even more than Myshkin, he is a spectator.) This expressionless donkey is the most eloquent of creatures—he is pure existence, and his death, in the movie's transfixing final sequence, conveys the sorrow that all existence shares.

Slant Magazine [Eric Henderson]

Somewhere in the fabric of Chris Marker's eternally astute Sans Soleil (a masterpiece in its own right), the female narrator orates from her cameraman pen pal's observations from Japan: "I have returned from a country where death is not a partition to cross through but a road to follow…The partition which separates life from death does not appear so thick to us as it does to a Westerner. What I've read most often in the eyes of people about to die is surprise. What I read right now in the eyes of Japanese children is curiosity, as if they were trying, in order to understand the death of an animal, to stare through the partition." Robert Bresson's 1966 masterpiece Au Hasard Balthazar is a film about a donkey who embodies the essence of Marker's "partition." And like Marker's sanctified chatter, Balthazar possesses a strictly balanced, bemused-unto-neigh-indifferent attitude toward delineating between the wry and the glum, the sacred and the profane. Separating those elements, Bresson seems to demonstrate, only robs each element of its consequence and mystery.

But let's take just a moment to set aside all due praise for what might be the most rewarding film in the upper reaches of virtually every last "greatest film ever" poll—if it can be said being the most transcendental provides the richest repayment plan—to reflect on the indescribable oddness of the film; a quality that almost gets glossed over in the hunt for the buffet of "pure cinema" (as though one needed to search to find it) and the quest for the deliverance of cinema from vulgarity, to the approval of both Paul Schrader and Thomas Aquinus. I'm not merely referring to Bresson's celebrated formal extremity—the tight, oblique framing, the hot Foley sound collage, the disorienting clarity of the editing. No, the "oddness" of Balthazar can be summed up in the question: Why a donkey—a mutt among Equii, truly God's jester (with a voice that suggests God's whoopee cushion)? More to the point: Why a donkey that is treated, on the surface anyway, as a character over being presented as a symbol or cipher?

Balthazar begins with a sonic gesture of equanimity between human concerns and the animal kingdom when, under the credits, the music of Schubert is brought to an abrupt halt to allow a donkey diva to have her crack at accompanying the scroll. It provides the blueprint for the rest of the film, in which a young French farmgirl, Marie (Anne Wiazemsky), and her companion donkey Balthazar grow up together, learn the rules of the game separately, and ultimately fall victim at the hands of vice. That "vice" is embodied mainly in the character of Gerard (François Lafarge), a young punk prone to throwing firecrackers on the ground in front of Balthazar and leering at Marie and whose presence in the film could almost be said to interrupt the oasis of idyll of the film's opening 10 minutes like the braying donkey interrupts Schubert. Gerard is the first character in the film that seems conscious of his own capacity for abuse, though to characterize the beginning of the film as idyllic would be to ignore the more benign disappointments of life represented, for one, in the form of a terminally ill girl whose family seems to be "caring" for mechanically, waiting for her to die as the cards of chance (the "hasard" of the title) have dealt.

The handling of Gerard, who at one point smashes up an entire bar simply because he knows the town bum-cum-noveaux-riche-heir will write a check in his drunken revelry to cover the damages, proves Bresson is still careful not to pass easy judgment on the character, just as he appears to attribute very little Christian significance to morality. (The baptism of Balthazar is staged as a moment of muted slapstick, when the ass's tipped-forward head allows the holy water to run off of his gargantuan forehead in a steady stream.) By binding any emotional lattice and stripping even the most harrowing passages from reactionary justifications, foremost when Marie's mother, very late in the film, sits on a hill with her back to both the camera and the gang of thugs led by Gerard, exclaiming flatly that they shouldn't take Balthazar away from her because he's "a saint." It's a proclamation that invariably gets taken at more than face value, but Bresson's staging of Balthazar's final moments among a flock of guileless sheep is without a single trace of martyr signifiers.

If saintliness is to be equated with undiluted acceptance, then the proposition turns Balthazar into the rare spiritual film that lowers the bar for saintliness, rather than elevating its chosen characters above the din of humanity. So, why a donkey? It's the mundanity, stupid. To turn back to ruminations from Sans soleil, the lens of dispassion Bresson invites us to look through during Balthazar embodies "a prayer which slips into life without interrupting it."

Au hasard Balthazar Criterion essay by James Quandt, June 13, 2005

Donald Richie Live! Conversation with Telluride director Tom Luddy, May 6, 2009

Au hasard Balthazar (1966) - The Criterion Collection

Daryl Chin on Au Hasard, Balthazar The Strange Luck of Au Hasard, Balthazar, from Masters of Cinema

Robert-bresson.com Doug Cummings and Trond Trondsen from Masters of Cinema, also reviewed here: filmjourney.org [Doug Cummings]

[ robert-bresson.com | Words: Daryl Chin on Au Hasard, Balthazar] The Strange Luck of Au Hasard, Balthazar, by Daryl Chinn September 2003

My Gleanings: Anne Wiazemsky : le mystère Bresson review of Anne Wiazemsky's new book Jeune Fille, about her relationship with Robert Bresson during the filming of Au Hasard Balthasar, which appeared in Le Monde on January 11, 2007

Au Hasard, Balthazar and Mouchette Bill Mousoulis from Senses of Cinema, June 2000, also seen here: Comparison of Au hasard Balthazar and Mouchette

The Film Sufi

Au hasard Balthazar | Reverse Shot Damon Smith

AU HASARD BALTHAZAR (Bresson, 1966) « Film and Felt

Dan Schneider On Au Hasard Balthazar also seen here from Blog Critics: Detailed criticism of Au hasard Balthazar

Critic After Dark Noel Vera

Epinions [metalluk]

Au Hasard Balthazar - Not Coming to a Theater Near You Leo Goldsmith

Au hasard Balthazar - Movie Review - Stylus Magazine Josh Timmermann

New York Sun [Gary Giddins]

The Passion of the Donkey: Au Hasard Balthazar « A Laughter of ... N.P. Thompson from NPT on line, not feeling the love

A Regrettable Moment of Sincerity Analysis from various walks of life, also a film discussion

Au Hasard, Balthazar (no 9) « Wonders in the Dark Allan Fish

Not Just Movies: Au hasard Balthazar Jake

Au hasard Balthazar Kylie Little from the International Cinephile Society

Classic Throwback: Au Hasard Balthazar (Robert Bresson, 1966) Andy Buckle’s Film Emporium

Robert Bresson’s “Au Hazard Balthazar” (1966) and “Devil probably” (1977) – Balthazar, Marie, Charles, Alberte, Edvige, Valentine… To Be Victimized Against Our Will as an “Existential” Law, visual essay by Victor from Acting Out Politics, September 27, 2010

Magic In Movies: Notes On Au Hasard Balthazar - The Rumpus.net Greg Gerke visual essay

DVD Talk [Bill Gibron] Criterion Collection

DVD Savant [Glenn Erickson] Criterion Collection, also seen here: Au Hasard Balthazar - Turner Classic Movies

Criterion Confessions [Jamie S. Rich]

dOc DVD Review: Au hasard Balthazar (1966) - digitallyOBSESSED! Matt Peterson, Criterion Collection

The QNetwork Film Desk [James Kendrick] Criterion Collection

The DVD Journal | Quick Reviews: Au Hasard Balthazar: The ... DSH, Criterion Collection

DVDTown [Christopher Long] Criterion Collection

DVD Verdict [Joe Armenio] Criterion Collection

DVD Verdict- 10 Years Of Rialto Pictures: Criterion Collection [Dan Mancini]

DVD Review: Au Hasard Balthazar (Criterion Edition) Aaron Beierle

Au hasard Balthazar (1966)  James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

Filmcritic.com James Morgan

Decent Films - faith on film [Steven D. Greydanus]

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

CineScene.com [Chris Dashiell]

eFilmCritic.com [Elaine Perrone]

Cinema Sights [James Ewing]

Sound On Sight Justine

MOVIE OF THE MOMENT: AU HASARD BALTHAZAR Dennis Cozzalio from Sergio Leone and the Infield Fly Rule

About.com [Ivana Redwine]

Strictly Film School Acquarello

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

About World Film Jürgen Fauth

FilmFanatic.org

Au Hasard Balthazar | The New York Observer Andrew Sarris

In the Realm of Cinema [Joseph Pellegrino] painfully dull and pretentious

Welcome to Emanuel Levy » Au Hasard, Balthazar (1965)

Arts & Faith Top100 Spiritually Significant Films Listed as #5,

2010 Arts and Faith Top 100 (Voted #6) Jeffrey Overstreet

I Found It At the Movies: 1966--Au Hasard Balthazar (Robert ... Jeffrey Goodman from MovieMaker

Au Hasard Balthazar - review - AMC Movie Guide Wheeler Winston Dixon from Rovi

Movierapture [Keith Allen]

Au Hasard Balthazar Review (1966) - The Spinning Image Andrew Pragasam

EyeForFilm.co.uk Angus Wolfe Murray

DVD Holocaust [Tim]

Au hasard Balthazar - Film Forum on mubi.com

• View topic - 297 Au hasard Balthazar Criterion Film Forum, a film discussion group, March 31, 2005

Au hasard Balthazar (1966) | Bonjour Tristesse, Foreign Indie & Cult ... film photos

AU HASARD BALTHAZAR - Movies - Film Forum

TV Guide

Anne Wiazemsky's relationship with Robert Bresson | Books | The ... Anne Wiazemsky's biography Jeunne Fille reveals the nature of her relationship with director Robert Bresson, reviewed by Hannah Westley from The Guardian, October 11, 2007

An engrossing view of sin, sainthood - Boston.com Ty Burr from The Boston Globe

Movies | Bray for us - Boston Phoenix Peter Keough

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Seattle Post-Intelligencer [William Arnold]

Brilliant `Au Hasard' shines anew - Chicago Tribune Michael Wilmington

Chicago Sun-Times [Roger Ebert]

New York Times (registration req'd) Roger Greenspun

Critics' Picks Video: 'Au Hasard Balthazar' - NYTimes.com Mekado Murphy summarizes A.O. Scott video YouTube comments (2:36)

DVDBeaver.com [Trond Trondsen]

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

Au Hasard Balthazar - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Au hasard Balthazar - opening sequence - YouTube (5:08)

MOUCHETTE A- 94

France (78 mi) 1967

MOUCHETTE has always suffered from coming so close on the heels to Au Hasard Balthazar (1966), sharing so many of the downbeat aspects of the human condition, where unfortunately it will always remain second fiddle in that regard, as MOUCHETTE explores human misery while BALTHAZAR defines poetic grace. Adapted from a novel by Catholic writer Georges Bernanos, who also wrote Diary of a Country Priest, it’s as if Bresson decided to make a film accentuating a world without God, coinciding, perhaps, with Ingmar Bergman’s Trilogy (1961 – 1963) of chamber dramas, Through a Glass Darkly, Winter Light, and The Silence, exploring a crisis of faith in the modern age, each deeply personal films utilizing little dialog, isolated settings, and searing performances from an exceptional group of actors.

Bresson creates perhaps his bleakest film, nothing less than the descent of Man, a heartbreakingly sad portrait of human suffering as seen through the life of a young 14-year old girl, the beautifully expressive non-professional Nadine Nortier, the only film she ever made, whose descent into abject hopelessness becomes a parable for the absence of God, as she has nowhere to turn, no friend to call upon, and no way to stop the bleeding without taking her own life. What’s particularly devastating is the way she is beaten down into submission, a brutal exposé of the torment of an innocent soul, an interesting comment on the similar treatment of Christ, but Bresson’s film offers no transcendence from Calvary, no ascension into heaven, no spiritual relief, only the portrayal of a human crucifixion.

Using unrelentingly raw detail in a world stripped of artifice, much of the film plays out like a crime scene, as if we in the audience are implicated for the sin we are about to witness, as in Catholicism, suicide is a sin, where we must collectively bear responsibility, each of us in our own way. This plays out like a kind of living theater, where having born witness to this kind of earthly torment, the audience must find a way to be reborn and find spiritual renewal. Do we relapse into the same old bad habits, showing indifference to the suffering of others, or does this film literally touch the soul?

Opening and closing with sacred music from Monteverdi’s “Magnificat” Monteverdi "Magnificat" fragment (Vespers of 1610) on YouTube (11:19), Bresson frames the film in the beauty of Renaissance classicism and what would be considered the heart of European civilization. The startling opening question is asked by Mouchette’s dying mother even before the credits appear, “What will they become without me?” Much like BALTHAZAR, we return to the same rural countryside setting, focus on another teenage girl’s experience, and follow another path of human mistreatment and cruelty. However in this film, Mouchette is already an outcast, mistreated by her dysfunctional parents, excluded by others at school, the object of namecalling and derision, even mistreated by her teacher, driven to tears, seen here: Mouchette on YouTube (2:14) in a lamenting song of despair aboard the ship of Columbus, believing they are lost at sea and doomed, crying out “Hope, Hope Is Dead.”

Relentlessly dour, the portrait of an unsympathetic world, there are dual narratives, the rape of nature and man, where one metaphorically comments upon the rabbit hunting sequence from Renoir’s THE RULES OF THE GAME (1939), where a gamekeeper and a poacher are at odds, where the matter of justice in the wild is seen as a violation against nature, where hunters can be seen shooting rabbits at will, where overpowering force tips the balance of man against nature, while the other allows a troubled and wayward girl to get lost in a storm and lose her way, never managing to find her way back, showing events taking place over the course of a 24-hour day.

Making her way through life friendless and alone, Bresson’s narrative is uncompromising throughout, where Nortier’s face is the picture of bewilderment, continually used to hardship and solitude and abuse, as nothing else exists for her in the harsh conditions of rural life, where the influence of traditional support from family and church are absent. While she’s something of a tomboy forced to fend for herself, she also exhibits moments of tenderness and fragility, where her need for human contact is so overwhelming that she confuses physical abuse with compassion, where the person offering her the most kindness also rapes her. Where does one turn when there is no one? Without faith, her life is a spiraling descent into the void of worthlessness. If faith is to be found in this film, it must come from the audience.

Mouchette Time Out London

Adapted from a Georges Bernanos story, Mouchette describes the life and tribulations of a poor, barely mature peasant girl (played with sullen but affecting grace by non-professional Nadine Nortier), and remains a magnificent and deeply rewarding example of Bresson's stripped-down methods of cutting and framing, sound and dialogue, performance and movement. Mouchette's suffering has been read as religious parable, whereby her ostracism at school, the cruel neglect by her father, the insinuating glances of the villagers and her gruelling domestic duties stand for the Stations of the Cross. But whatever Bresson's spiritual intentions the film provides boundless examples of cinema at its most sublime. In his angry yet compassionate denunciation of a rural society corrupting and undoing an unorthodox angel by self-interest, immorality, alcoholism and spiritual bankruptcy, the director conducts you to the heart of life's paradox.

Mouchette | All-TIME 100 Movies | Entertainment | TIME.com Richard Corliss (capsule)

Robert Bresson, his detractors would say, has a lot to answer for. In 13 films over 40 years, he developed the whole slim repertoire of exalted minimalism. Blank glances that suggest both sanctity and reproach; pregnant silences that speak libraries of meaning; an hour of mundane injustices that often explode into beatings, murders, suicides galore—these have become the vocabulary, the very clichés, of European and Asian art-house cinema. But just as we needn’t hold Steven Spielberg accountable for every crappy-sappy kids’ adventure, we shouldn’t blame Bresson for creating an art form that literally hundreds of imitators reduced to non-movie sterility. Bresson’s films, however austere and obsessed with each man’s own private Calvary, have a precision of imagery, an understanding of character, that gives them life, makes them a joy to watch. Mouchette, one of the purest Bressons, is the story of a teenage outcast (Nadine Nortier) so abused by everyone in her village that death seems like God’s caress, and so maladroit that she must try three times before she succeeds in drowning herself. Its effect as you watch it is beautifully unforgiving; as you recall it, brutally radiant.

CINE-FILE: Cine-List Tristan Johnson

The bleakest of Bresson's meditations on misery, MOUCHETTE feels every bit the logical extension of his previous AU HASARD BALTHAZAR, but here with specific focus on the realm of human suffering. Abused and overburdened at home, ridiculed at school by classmates and teachers alike, the life of country schoolgirl Mouchette is presented on no uncertain terms; the world for her is a living hell. In the title role, Nadine Nortier is the apotheosis of Bresson's actor/model doctrine. Her one-off performance is heartbreaking, but also honest and raw, stripped of artifice to a degree rarely seen in child actors. Her finest moment lies in the joyful release of the carnival scene, where an oppressive world takes a backseat to bumper cars and a boy, and from under her downtrodden façade emerges genuine warmth. But with the arrival of her alcoholic father, this exuberant reprieve is cut unceremoniously short, and Mouchette slides back into her role as supreme pariah of 60s cinema. Bresson had always possessed a fascination with the human spirit under desperate times (he had, after all, spent a year in a POW camp during World War II), but by 1967, this was coupled with an underlying cynicism present in the 65-year-old director's films. That cloud hangs over MOUCHETTE right up through the cold and uncompromising final scene, a testament to the devastating punch minimalism can pack, and an all-around unshakable slice of filmmaking. (1967, 78 min, 35mm)

Mouchette (Robert Bresson, 1967) Eric Henderson from When Canses Were Classeled, also seen here: When Canses Were Classeled... [Eric Henderson]

Among the great films about suffering teens, valiant is the word for Carrie compared to Robert Bresson’s understated Mouchette. OK, it’s a shoddy pun, but the urge to do as the destitute, adolescent schoolgirl Mouchette does for her ill mom’s tightening trachea -- namely crack a window to let some air in -- is unavoidable. It is, after all, a film in which the central pariah cries more often in her sleep than she does during her meandering, hollow waking hours. Mouchette is wrenching, and Bresson’s unsentimental portrait of a sullen, entirely forgettable soul is as detached from pathos as it is plugged directly into the fabric of cinema logos. Far from an exercise in paring down to the bone, Bresson’s filmmaking style provides a heady variety of sensualisms that give us, the audience, an understanding of exactly what the title character is, for a number of reasons (i.e. poverty, hormones, misplaced self-esteem), unable to absorb. Which is why, when Mouchette finally and rather secretly (spoiler warning, et al) comes to decide that there is no benefit to continuing her own life, her abrupt suicide carries with it the extra sting of weighing the balance of Bresson’s careful mise-en-scene and judging it irrelevant, negligible, inadequate. Of what use are bumper cars, gin, carefully-layered foley bottle sound-effects, immaculately framed torsos, and the beauty of a parable well told in a bleak world that can’t even predict the impending suicide of a young girl? (Or, worse, consciously causes?) The demise of Balthazar (Mouchette’s maternal twin, nearly as ass-stubborn) is depicted with calm rationalism. Dredging up the au hazard of Job, Bresson refuses to endorse the donkey’s selflessness or even ascribe any sort of summational, sentimental thesis to the white-waves-of-sheep tableau. Replacing latent-theologic rationality with a mysticism (unto near-irreverence), the denouement of Mouchette is as disorienting as any film that would serve up, as a structural denouement, the main character’s suicide. One would be tempted to call the film Ophelia, Like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, is Dead weren’t Mouchette’s facsimile of Hamlet -- a seizure-prone, drunk, poacher, and statutory rapist named Arsène -- even less noble than the mud-slinging Mouchette. But Bresson’s devastating and trenchant point is that neither have to be noble to deserve more compassion than they’re ultimately given.

The Village Voice [J. Hoberman] reviews PICKPOCKET and MOUCHETTE

Do this job long enough and you learn to accept certain realities. Some people will laugh at Written on the Windand cry over Sleepless in Seattle—instead of vice versa. There are reviewers who find Godard boring and think Lukas Moodysson is a genius. And although it is tiresome to hear two-buck chuck extolled as Château Lafite Rothschild, you realize that hey, this is America—everyone's got an opinion, and if it weren't for bad taste, many folks would have no taste at all. But I reach the edge of my tolerance in the case of Robert Bresson.

Bluntly put, to not get Bresson is to not get the idea of motion pictures—it's to have missed that train the Lumiére brothers filmed arriving at Lyon station 110 years ago. The late French filmmaker made 13 features over the course of his 40-year career; each is a drama of faith so uncompromising as to border on the absurd. Bresson's actors do not act, they simply are; his favorite effect is the close-up. His movies may be cerebral, but their effect is primarily emotional—or physiological. They naturally induce a state of heightened awareness. Some might call it "grace."

One of two Bresson features revived in new prints this month at Film Forum, Pickpocket was shot during the summer of 1959—the same season as Godard's Breathless. Like Breathless, Pickpocket is the story of a petty criminal, and even more than Godard's first feature, it is designed to confound audience expectations. The opening title, "This film is not a thriller," has the effect of Magritte's famous surrealist painting Ceci N'Est Pas une Pipe.

Pickpocket was inspired by Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment, but all incidental anecdote and psychology has been stripped away. Employing few establishing shots and little camera movement, Bresson distills narrative down to a particular essence of looks, gestures, and precisely placed audio effects. ("The noises must become music," he wrote in his notebooks.) His mise-en-scéne is as understated as his montage is aggressive—creating performances out of reaction shots, using sound to signify offscreen events. Bresson refers to this method as cinematography, opposing it to "the terrible habit of theater."

Indeed, Pickpocket might be described as a solemn carnival of souls. There's something almost medieval about it. The city is inhabited by angels—fallen and otherwise. In the movie's most elaborate scene, the antihero and his cohorts create an assembly line of theft at the Gare de Lyon. These unstoppable blank-faced thieves descend like a plague upon the world. Ultimately inexplicable, this concentrated, elliptical, economical movie is an experience that never loses its strangeness.

Mouchette, made eight years later, is less celestial and more grounded, based on a novel by Georges Bernanos (who also provided the source for Bresson's 1951 Diary of a Country Priest). Bernanos is a Catholic writer, but in adapting his story of a wretched adolescent girl, Bresson evokes a world from which something—perhaps God—has withdrawn. "What will they become without me?" Mouchette's mother asks the camera in a stark, pre-credit prologue.

The girl lives with her sick mother, drunk father, and squalling baby brother in a hovel by the highway somewhere in rural France. She's stubborn, sullen, and secretive; her thoughts are scattered. School is torment, home is worse. Midway through the 78-minute movie, Bresson allows Mouch-ette something approaching happiness—there's a scene, not in the novel, in which she's treated to a ride in a fairground bumper car. The unexpected collisions are a kind of setup for the unfortunate encounter, soon after, when Mouchette is lost and raped in the woods.

The film's final movement, following the heroine through her last morning, might be called "The Passion of Mouchette"—it ends on a note that is at once utterly inconsequential and irrevocably final. As always, Bresson signifies rather than dramatizes action. The filmmaker professed to hate theater, and yet in Mouchette, the world itself is a mystical stage. Like any genius, Bresson made rules in order to break them.

Au Hasard, Balthazar and Mouchette Bill Mousoulis from Senses of Cinema, June 2000

Raging Bull [Mike Lorefice]

Critic After Dark Noel Vera

not coming to a theater near you [Matt Bailey] comparing the book version to the film

Mouchette Read TCM's Home Video Review on this film Michael Atkinson from Turner Classic Movies

DVD Verdict [Bill Gibron] Criterion Collection

DVD Savant [Glenn Erickson] Criterion Collection

DVD Talk [Jamie S. Rich] Criterion Collection, also seen here: Criterion Confessions

DVD Town [Christopher Long] Criterion Collection

The DVD Journal DSH, Criterion Collection

digitallyOBSESSED! [Jon Danziger] Criterion Collection

Mouchette James Kendrick from QNetwork, Criterion Collection

Bright Lights Film Journal :: Bright Sights: Recent DVDs Gordon Thomas, May 2007

DVD Times [Mark Boydell] Criterion Collection

About.com - DVD Review [Ivana Redwine] Criterion Collection

Surrender to the Void-[Steven Flores]

Independent Film Quarterly Magazine - Mouchette Todd Konrad

“La Moustache,” “Mouchette” – IFC Michael Atkinson

Salon.com [Andrew O'Hehir] also reviewing PICKPOCKET

Mouchette (1967) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

Mouchette - The Brooklyn Rail

Ruthless Reviews ("potentially offensive") Matt Cale can’t take the tedium

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

CineScene.com [Chris Dashiell] (capsule review)

Strictly Film School Acquarello

The Defeatist Completist [Mike Maguire]

Criterion on the Brain: #363: Mouchette

Urban Cinefile (Australia) Andrew Urban

Cinema Sights [James Ewing]

EyeForFilm.co.uk Angus Wolfe Murray

Mouchette Mark Deming from Rovi

Bresson's Mouchette Look Who’s Talking

Mouchette (1967) - The Criterion Collection

Mouchette Nick Wrigley from Masters of Cinema

Ingmar Bergman on Mouchette John Simon interview with Bergman, from Masters of Cinema, 1972

Mouchette (1967) - (The Criterion Collection - #363 ... - AvaxHome photos

TV Guide

Variety

New York Times [A.H. Weiler] (registration req'd)

DVDBeaver.com - Graphic Review [Gary W. Tooze]

Mouchette Trailer, 1967 - YouTube Jean-Luc Godard’s heralded trailer (1:38)

Bresson (on the set of Mouchette) - YouTube documentary with English subtitles (7:28)

Mouchette - YouTube the entire film may be seen subtitled in Italian (77:58)

UNE FEMME DOUCE B+ 92

aka: A Gentle Woman

France (88 mi) 1969

A film of transience, illustrated by the everpresent sound of street traffic heard throughout the film, where the moment one steps outside the Parisian streets are jammed with flowing traffic, seeing cars, buses, and even trains as they move from one station to the next, where life has a similar transitory theme where our time is fleeting. The first Bresson film in color, also featuring the only one of his typically non-professional actors (Dominique Sanda in her first film) to ever become an international star, which she did shortly afterwards in her next film, Bertolucci’s The Conformist (Il Conformista) (1970), which remains one of the greatest films ever made, so this is not your typical Bresson, though it retains his uncompromising nature featuring a spare and emotionally detached performance, but Sanda (as Elle) is unimaginably gorgeous. Adapting the Dostoevsky short story A Gentle Creature, it opens with a suicide where Elle flings herself off a balcony onto the street below, where we only see the curtains fluttering in the breeze and a white scarf floating in air as the sound of traffic comes to a screeching halt, where the film is a flashback recalled in a narration by her husband Luc (Guy Frangin), a local pawnbroker, to his maid (Jeanne Lobre) as they stand next to the body which they’ve moved to a bed inside, where in a unique twist the entire film is really taking place inside his head. At first, he barely pays any attention to her when she brings in various items for money, mixing her with others who come streaming in, but soon he keeps awaiting her return, singling her out, paying more than her items are worth, until all she has to offer is a crucifix, where he strips the Jesus from the gold backing, a sign of his spiritual void, though he eventually offers to help her out of debt through marriage. Without any backstory to her situation, or a date, or any romantic inclinations, they marry.

Bresson fills the screen with fleeting moments, as they are continually moving up and down the stairs, coming in and out of the apartment, moving in and out of rooms, where rarely do they actually spend any real time together. It’s apparent Luc filters everything through himself, rarely expressing any interest in her life, using love as a means of possession, as a way to keep her all to himself, where she remains affectionate and sexually submissive as a wife, but unfulfilled. Luc is such a self-centered and insecure guy that it’s difficult to listen to him ramble endlessly about himself, while she remains a quiet mystery, never one to reveal herself, yet luxuriously beautiful in her passivity, rendered almost as a saint by Bresson for her enduring patience and state of grace. Luc, on the other hand, grows more distrustful and anxious by her silence and occasional absences, which he treats as a game, trying to outlast her indifference as if she is testing him, also becoming instantly jealous, always thinking the worst, and occasionally follows her surreptitiously on the street. While in the apartment, there’s an interesting use of television, as neither actually sits and watches, but initially motor racing serves is a prelude to intimacy, much like Fassbinder uses World Cup Soccer in THE MARRIAGE OF MARIA BRAUN (1979), while later historical scenes of the Royal Air Force (RAF) battling the Nazi Luftwaffe in the air during the prolonged Battle of Britain sets the tone for their marital disintegration. There’s an accompanying theme of being a bird locked in a cage, as Elle reads aloud from a book that suggests each bird has a unique call that they’re born with, a distinct sound that forever becomes synonymous with their identity.

Perhaps the most unusual Bressonian device in this film is the play within the play, as they both see a live theatrical performance of Shakespeare’s Hamlet where the finale, featuring swordplay and a poisoned cup, plays out in real time where all the central characters drop dead within a few short minutes. Shortly afterwards, Elle falls into an inexplicable illness of lengthy duration where Luc promises steadfast devotion and love, which feels almost comically absurd to her, as she seems to understand the deeper motive, where she’s never felt more stifling oppression and where she can’t bear the thought of spending another day in his suffocating presence. The picture of him hovering over her declaring his love holds little meaning, as he’s a man that doesn’t know the first thing about love, and yet somehow the two are eternally linked together. What’s peculiar about this couple is their inability to communicate, where Elle offers few clues as to how she feels, where she sings to herself when he’s not around, or listens to music, but shuts it all down when he arrives, returning to a web of gloomy silence that is impenetrable. Without ever expressing what’s wrong, both remain stuck in perpetual restraint, immobile, paralyzed by their own indecisiveness. It’s a relationship that remains polite and civil but feels doomed, especially narrated by the rather heartless and shortsighted Luc, as even by the end of the film when he’s nailing the screws into her coffin, he’s no nearer to understanding what went wrong or why any of this happened. It’s an extremely fragile expression of the tenuousness of life, showing how easily life can suddenly and mysteriously disappear, often without any good reason or explanation, simply by illness or accident. Death becomes more pronounced in Bresson’s later films, as does suicide, where this feels like a prelude to the dance.

Une Femme Douce | Chicago Reader Don Druker

Robert Bresson's 1969 film begins with a woman's suicide and ends with the lid of her coffin being screwed into place. In between is a description by her husband of the events that led up to the suicide. In updating this Dostoyevsky story of a woman's loveless marriage to a pawnbroker, Bresson infuses it with his characteristic technical severity and his persistent refusal to offer interpretations. Contemplative and not for all tastes; Bresson's first film in color. Also known as A Gentle Creature.

Une femme douce (1969) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

When his young wife commits suicide, leaving no explanation for her act, an introspective pawnbroker looks back on their life together and tries to understand why she had to kill herself.

Robert Bresson’s first colour film sees a marked change in the director’s style from the cold austerity and intensity of his earlier works, such as Au hasard Balthazar (1966) and Mouchette (1967).  Although the film deals with familiar Bresson themes of suicide and domestic repression, his approach in this film is far more accessible, making the film attractive to a mainstream cinema audience (for perhaps for the last time in Bresson’s film-making career). 

Bresson cast a successful model Dominique Sanda in the role of the ill-fated heroine of the film, allegedly for the sound of her voice rather than her more obvious attributes. Sanda’s celebrity may have been another important factor which contributed to the film’s popularity.

Une Femme Douce Review. Movie Reviews - Film - Time Out London Tom Milne

Bresson's first film in colour, a wonderfully lucid adaptation of Dostoievsky's enigmatic short story about a young woman who kills herself for no apparent reason. An elliptical intimation of the suicide; a shot of the husband staring at his dead wife's face in an attempt to understand; then in a flat, even monotone, his voice embarks on its voyage of exploration - part confession, part accusation - and a series of heart-rendingly non-committal flashbacks fill in the details of their story. By the end, in a sense, one is no wiser than before. Was it because he loved her too much or too little, because he gave her too little money or too much, because he felt she was too good for him or not good enough? The extraordinary thing about the film is that any or all of these interpretations can be read into it, still leaving, undisturbed at the bottom of the pool, an indefinable sense of despair. Time was when Bresson's characters could look forward to salvation as a reward for their tribulations; but around this time the grace notes disappeared, his world grew darker, and the people in it - like this haplessly unhappy husband and wife - seemed doomed to a pilgrim's progress in quest of the secret which would allow the human race to belong again.

Oggs' Movie Thoughts

Adapted from Dostoyevsky's short story, A Gentle Woman, Robert Bresson's first feature film in color, is as elusive as the title character's intentions. The film opens with the woman's suicide by jumping off her apartment. It's a suicide scene that is uncharacteristically filmed --- a sudden noise from the balcony erupts the serenely lighted apartment room, Bresson then cuts to the exterior, the woman lands violently while her white scarf floats in what may seem like a peaceful release. The rest of the film evokes the total opposite of the suicide: dark, trapped, and suffocating.

Dominique Sanda plays the woman. Her skin is pale and her gentle facial features resemble an delicate marbe statue, worthy of admiration and idolatry. A pawnbroker (Guy Frangin) does exactly that. When she was living, the pawnbroker takes an attraction upon first sight. Impoverished, the woman pawns her crucifix. The pawnbroker takes the golden cross and offers back the statue of Christ, and paying the woman more money than what the golden cross is worth. Unaffected by the pawnbroker's expectant generosity, the woman gives back the excess of what the golden cross is worth. Undaunted, the pawnbroker offers something more: a life of happiness where the poverty she has lived through will never happen again. The two marry and try to live off a loveless relationship. Outwardly normal, the two challenge each other in bouts of jealousy and struggles for control.

Even at death, the woman is subject of adoration. The pawnbroker recalling their relationship to his elderly maid Anna (Jeanne Lobre) surrounds the body of the woman in pious reverence. The pawnbroker walks around the still beautiful corpse, trying to objectively determine the cause for the woman's emotional demise. He does point out several instances where an obvious emotional void is present --- the woman purposely puts herself in a position wherein the pawnbroker would catch her and consume himself of an unbased jealousy. Yet there are no outward signs of hatred or marital discord. Everything is shown in quiet touches and gestures that dictate a deeply rooted source of marital dysfunction.

It's a questionable salvation, the woman's suicide. But in Bresson's mind, it perhaps may be a valid release from the earthly pains of a loveless relationship. One may argue that a more rational resolution for the woman's dissatisfaction is a legal divorce or an informal separation. In my opinion, the release or salvation that is sought here should elicit permanence. In Bresson's claustrophobic portrayal of a dead end relationship where the beginning is already met with a misunderstanding of the primaries of a smooth marital relationship, the woman's choice of release seems appropriately (although questionable in terms of morality and social acceptability) realized. The woman's face upon death evokes a quiet peace that cannot be found when she was living. During her lifetime, her eyes contain a fiery and purposeful force that antagonizes her gentle outwardly ways. In her death, she is truly an immobile idol, her soul released from an earthly prison that is also imprisoned in a marriage that is unevenly invoked. The pawnbroker pleads for the woman to open her eyes for at least a second, praying to the idol for a momentary miracle that can never happen. Why succumb to a second of human conflict when the soul has already reached pacification?

A Gentle Woman Scott Tobias from Glyphs

Epinions [metalluk]

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

Strictly Film School Acquarello

The New York Times (Roger Greenspun)

FOUR NIGHTS OF A DREAMER (Quatre nuits d'un rêveur) A 98

France (87 mi) 1971

One of the hardest Bresson films to track down, nearly inaccessible for 30 years, yet one of the most exquisite reveries in cinema, also one of the few Bresson films with an optimistic sense of humor, a perfect antidote to the searing realism and depths of despair from Eustache’s The Mother and the Whore (La Maman et la Putain) (1973), often viewed as the end of the French New Wave and the best expression for the end of optimism from the 60’s, where Eustache’s suicide confirms a terminal collapse of will and hope, though this is actually one of the better 60’s films out there, perfectly capturing the love of an ideal, only instead of viewed through the politics of student protests and demonstrations this is seen through the unique vantage point of two young lovers who meet accidentally in Paris. Easily Bresson’s most luminous and stunningly beautiful film, whose use of music, color, and gorgeous locations perfectly capture the gentle tone of innocence and the first pangs of love, a film that simply takes one’s breath way. Like his previous film Une Femme Douce (1969), this is another film of transience, a film nearly defined by fleeting moments, like an impressionist stream-of-conscious series of thoughts strung together over a short period of time that literally radiate with bursts of life. Adapted from another Dostoevsky short story, White Nights, gorgeously made by Visconti with Marcello Mastroianni in White Nights (La Niotti Bianche) (1957), but rather than dwell on the wrenching disappointment of a lost dream, Bresson amusingly accentuates the fickle behavior of youth, often showing groups of young bohemian kids singing and playing music on the streets as characters pass by, much like the mod kids seen in Antonioni’s BLOW-UP (1966), which serve as momentary interludes of love poems, where the characters stop and listen before moving on with their lives. Told with a decided existential twist, the film expresses how isolated and self-absorbed kids are in the innocent throes of youth, where they’re still discovering who they are and what they believe in, not sure yet where they fit into society, yet ready to impulsively make that leap.

After spending a delightful sunny afternoon walking through the countryside (Four nights of a dreamer - Robert Bresson - YouTube see the opening ten minutes of the film), a young painter Jacques (Guillaume Des Forêts) returns to the picturesque Pont Neuf bridge over the Seine River in Paris, where the despondent Marthe (Isabelle Weingarten, who also appears in Eustache’s film) is contemplating jumping off. In this manner, they introduce themselves, as Jacques quickly persuades her to change her mind, but only if they agree to meet in the exact same spot the following night, which continues over the course of four nights. When she asks about himself, he bashfully responds he has no story, which is quickly followed by a humorous sequence entitled “Jacques’ Story,” where he dreams of finding an idyllic love, wordlessly following girls on the streets of Paris, one after another, imagining how each could be his one and only love before returning alone back to his studio apartment where he paints and records personal reflections on a tape recorder, an inner monologue of his secret desires, often playing it back as he paints. His recordings are the source of continued humor throughout, as he often plays them back in public places, like buses, where they’re completely out of place. What follows, of course, is “Marthe’s Story, which is a little more involved, a young girl living at home with her mother, feeling imprisoned, like a caged bird who dreams of flying away. In one of many poetic sequences of the film, Bresson, with his typical economy of means, wordlessly shows how she falls in love with their roomer, a young man renting the room next to hers, who she has never even seen, but only imagines in a kind of innocent ballet, alone and naked in front of the mirror, yet she loves him the moment he enters her room. Since he’s leaving the country for a year to attend school, they agree to meet at the bridge in exactly one year, and if they still love one another they’ll get married. Marthe is dejected as she believes she has lost him, that he has moved on without her.

Jacques, of course, harboring his own secret love, agrees to help her get him back, appealing to various friends, reminding the absent partner of the urgency of their planned rendezvous. Over the next few nights, they spend most of their time walking through the illuminated streets of Paris, hearing musicians on the street, watching the lively street life, and seeing the boats pass by on the river, where perhaps the most intoxicating scene of the film is discovering what may be Portuguese singers Bateau Mouche (from Bresson's "Four Nights Of A Dreamer", 1971 ... on YouTube (3:40) on an evening dinner cruise in a glass-covered boat along the Seine, following them with heightened interest as they gently drift by, another perfect example of the idyllic romanticism of Paris. What happens, of course, is that these two quickly become more than just friends, as they’re continually pouring out confessional secrets to one another, where it’s as if they only have each other to hold onto in the entire world. Marthe holds out hope that she still loves her roomer, but what does she really know about someone she’s only spent a few minutes with? Insistent that he’s still the one, Jacques plays along, offering full support and encouragement until by the fourth night she’s convinced he’s disappeared, left her for another, finally settling on Jacques as the kind of man who’s really right for her, gentle and kind, with an easygoing manner and someone who definitely appreciates her. While she realizes this, it’s a mix of heartbreak and illusory love streaming through her veins, comforting herself with the thought as the gentle waves of the Seine lap to the shore, where the peaceful flow of the river harmoniously represents a transitional change. No sooner are they rapturously in each other’s arms, problems solved, lovers for life, where a surge of happiness floods the screen, until she awkwardly spots her absentee lover, quickly offering Jacques a kiss and an embrace before she runs away with him, disappearing quickly from view. In Visconti’s movie and the book, the man is devastated by the wrenching agony from the sudden shift of his changing fate, but Bresson’s film takes a lighter view, making a prescient comment on youth itself, suggesting nothing is permanent at an age when hope springs eternal.

Time Out

Adapted from Dostoevsky's story of a couple's chance encounter and the advance of their parallel obsessions over four successive nights. The hallucinatory light and colour of Paris at night act as both mirror and landscape for their fragile relationship. Shot through with a mystical, almost frosty compassion, the film is rescued from occasional moments of pretension by the gentle eroticism and absolute conviction with which it is made. The Dostoevsky story, White Nights, was filmed under that title by Luchino Visconti in 1957.

Chicago Reader [Dave Kehr] (capsule review)

An adaptation of Dostoyevsky's White Nights, Robert Bresson's 1971 film is an exploration of romantic love rendered in the precise, austere style of his better-known studies in spirit (Lancelot du lac, Une femme douce). In the secular turn Bresson reveals an unexpected sense of humor and worldly irony. The transformation of Paris at night into a dream landscape pulsing with electric mystery is reminiscent of Minnelli, although the economy of expression is clearly Bresson's. A very beautiful and essential film.

CINE-FILE: Cine-List Michael Castelle

A film so good it ought to be illegal, FOUR NIGHTS OF A DREAMER has been so inaccessible in the last 30 years it might as well have been illegal: the best existing copy is a rip of an atrocious, low-res projectionist cam, and perhaps its comparative unavailability inspired the legions of filmmakers who have cribbed from it profitably. Adapted (like James Gray's TWO LOVERS) from Dostoyevsky's White Nights, one immediately recognizes its sensitive, romantically misguided flâneur protagonist from TAXI DRIVER or José Luis Guerín's IN THE CITY OF SYLVIA; and certainly the great recent films of Eugène Green (LE PONT DES ARTS, THE PORTUGUESE NUN) can be seen as reworkings of the essential FOUR NIGHTS vibe: the urban contradictions of expressionless emotion, passionate observation, and effortless virtuosity. Produced just as the radical innovations of the late 1960s in American (and South American) folk music were reaching France, the plot is increasingly interrupted by unforgettably sublime outdoor musical performances, as if the film itself had become lost in some reverie, undistracted by the demands of narrative. (Those demands are also comically parodied in a film-within-a-film that basically resembles RESERVOIR DOGS.) Today, above all, FOUR NIGHTS represents the opposing art-house pole of the Oscar-nominated MIDNIGHT IN PARIS: on the same dimly lit streets that led Woody Allen to celebrate the self-congratulatory, nostalgic aesthetics of institutionally-educated dilettantes, Bresson divines what infinite melancholy remains for the increasingly individualized, isolated connoisseurs. If only there was a way to tell them to come see this on 35mm.

Moviegoing at Cannes: Classics without labels (1971) Jonathan Rosenbaum from The Village Voice, June 17, 1971

Robert Bresson’s Four Nights of a Dreamer transforms Dostoevsky’s “White Nights” into a graceful poem about romanticism and solitude. It also suggests that Bresson’s style is far more flexible than many of us have assumed. Relocating the original story in contemporary Paris and objectifying its plot into an inventory of elegant surfaces, his adaptation is no less lyrical in its depiction of youthful passions and sorrows. Jacques (Guillaume Des Forêts) shelters his love for Marthe (Isabelle Weingarten) within an ideal mental universe charted by the op art canvases of faceless figures he paints and the soliloquies he recites into a cassette recorder. Bresson’s encounter with both characters seems to liberate him from the uncertainties of his last film [Une Femme Douce, 1969], and it came as no surprise to learn, in his press conference, that he wants to work with young people again. The use he makes of Des Forets and Weingarten, however untheatrical, effective turns their luminous presences into performances — the latter, in particular, brings the spring, flat-footed Bresson-walk to a kind of perfection. With a hero even more isolated than the one on Pickpocket, and a determined heroine whose flowing black cape seems to carrus all the way back to Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne, Bresson finds himself completely at home in the world of their fragile spirits. If the interpolated “texts” in Une Femme Douce — scenes from Hamlet and Benjamin, noisy TV images — were somewhat cryptic interruptions, the interludes that function similarly in this film are even stranger: two pages of an erotic book, a film-within-the-film that hilariously parodies melodramatic movie violence, two atrocious folk-pop songs in English and a surprisingly pretty one in Portuguese. The latter is heard from a tourist boat on the Seine, whose mysterious passage provides a few of the most beautiful and magical moments in all of Bresson.

Strictly Film School Acquarello

Based on Fyodor Dostoevsky's short story, White Nights, Robert Bresson's Four Nights of a Dreamer may also be seen as a paradigm for José Luis Guerín's In the City of Sylvia, capturing the romanticism of longing, the voyeurism inherent in an artist's gaze, and the creation of idealized memory. Like the dreamer in Guerín's film, Jacques (Guillaume des Forêts) is a restless artist searching anonymous, city streets in pursuit of an elusive, ideal woman (the dreamer's journey in In the City of Sylvia is similarly chronicled through enumerated nights spent in his hotel room). For Jacques, the quixotic quest would lead him one night to the Pont Neuf, where a despondent Marthe (Isabelle Weingarten) has stepped out onto the ledge to end her life by jumping into the river. Convincing her to climb back just as a patrol car stops to intervene, Jacques takes her hand and walks her home with the promise that he would appear at the same time at the bridge on the following evening. The encounter would mark the first of the dreamer's four nights with the fragile Marthe, bound together by their fateful connection and the melancholy of elusive love - Jacques, in the fleeting pursuit of unattainable women with whom he has fallen in love from a distance (and whose embodied idea becomes the inspiration for his fanciful, tape recorded messages and a series of faceless, work-in-progress portraits scattered in his studio), and Marthe, in the apparent rejection by a lover (Maurice Monnoyer) who did not return to her after studying abroad. Offering to act as an intermediary and deliver a letter to the wayward lover's friends in an attempt to reconcile the couple, Jacques becomes increasingly drawn to Marthe and, in the process, finds his new, unrequited object of desire.

Perhaps the lightest and most idiosyncratic film in Bresson's body of work, Four Nights of a Dreamer nevertheless broaches his recurring themes on the division between the physical and the ephemeral. Within this framework, the film serves as a deconstruction of the romantic myth in all its manifestations and illusions. This idea of artificiality is first explored during Marthe's recounted story of receiving tickets from her then presumptive lover to attend the premiere of a trite potboiler entitled The Bonds of Love that ran the gamut of popular film conventions from extended shoot-outs to the clutching of a beloved's photograph - accompanied by swelling music - in the moments before death. But Jacques coming to Marthe's aid at a bridge is also a familiar scenario - the proverbial rescue of the damsel in distress - a romantic sentiment that is further reinforced by his continued arrangements to meet her on the same bridge as their relationship develops (the bridge itself suggesting a metaphoric point of convergence between these two drifting souls). This sense of contrived romantic destiny is also reflected in Jacques's recorded messages describing his beloved's separation from him for six months that alludes to Persephone's descent into Hades (further elevating the idea of love into the realm of mythology), as well as the musical interludes that seem to coincidentally insert themselves during key moments throughout their brief encounters. In this respect, Bresson reflects on the role of the artist as a creator of images, where the ideal lies in the pursuit of the elusive - in the empty spaces that reveal the essential "gesture which lifts its presence from the object" - the illusion of transcended love.

New York Times (registration req'd) Roger Greenspun

In the two years since "Une Femme Douce" played at the Seventh New York Film Festival, there have been three commercial openings of films by Robert Bresson, accompanied perhaps by a growing public appreciation of the very special cinematic vocabulary of this great and austere French master.

In "Four Nights of a Dreamer," which played last night in the Vivian Beaumont Theater as part of the present film festival, the Bresson vocabulary remains intact, but in the service of a different and more worldly subject matter.

Consider a scene at the beginning of "Four Nights of a Dreamer" in which the young hero, Jacques (Guillaume des Forets), takes an outing in the country. All we see in Jacques thumbing a ride out from Paris, doing two straight-faced somersaults in a field of flowers, and, at night, stepping out of the car that has returned him to the city. The point is not that Jacques doesn't have a good time, but that the strict economy of gesture that conditions the Bresson universe requires no larger notation for this moment.

When a greater expansiveness is required, it will be supplied, but in recent Bresson films it has been carefully reserved for those fleeting indications of spiritual transcendence that have seemed his special interest in the cinema.

In "Four Nights of a Dreamer," it is more openly supplied, but it is no less special. The story, adapted from Dostoyevsky's "White Nights," concerns a solitary man, a romantic dreamer, who one night befriends a distraught young girl and for the next three nights meets her to tell about himself and listen to her story of what may be unrequited love.

On the last night the girl encounters her lost lover, and goes off with him — leaving the dreamer, who has fallen hopelessly in love, with only a memory for another dream.

Bresson has moved the story from Petersburg to Paris, from the 1840's to the 1970's. He has enlarged its scope, and—by making his hero an artist for whom dreams beget realities — he has provided something of a happy ending.

But although the dreams translate to art, their theme is love, and "Four Nights of a Dreamer" is very much a movie about the condition of being in love. The intense covert eroticism of the earlier Bresson (in all the films except "A Man Escaped", 1956, and "The Trial of Joan of Arc," 1961) is here overt and even lyrically sustained.

The effect on the film's quality is inescapable — not only in a superb purple passage in which the girl (Isabel Weingarten, another of Bresson's hauntingly beautiful heroines) examines her naked body, but in every private embrace and public encounter, in the sights and sounds that fill the city seemingly made for love.

Jacques becomes a slave to his passion. He carries next to his heart a tape recorder that in his own voice repeats the girl's name, Marthe, as if that were his heart's beating. But he has always been a slave to love, and even before Marthe, he has walked entranced through a Paris that is defined by its young girls' glances.

Jacques among the girls of Paris is a sequence that in its balletic purity directly recalls the great theft sequences of "Pickpocket," (1959), also set in Paris and also, in a sense, a study of an artist transformed by a woman's love.

But the new sequence is also very funny — not an achievement one usually associates with Bresson—and, in general, the theme of love has released not only the director's graciousness but also his wit, so that whole scenes together have an emotional complexity to match their deep, refreshing cinematic purity.

I doubt that "Four Nights of a Dreamer" is Bresson's greatest movie, but it may well be his loveliest. Time and again, it is shockingly beautiful, and I can think of nothing in recent films so ravishing as his strange romantic vision of the city, the river, the softly lighted tourist boats in the night.

Four Nights of a Dreamer (quatre nuits d’un rêveur [1971]): A Post-Romantic’s View of a Robert Bresson Film M.C. Zenner from Senses of Cinema, April 2000

Oggs' Movie Thoughts

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

The Defeatist Completist [Mike Maguire]

Four Nights of a Dreamer Review (1971) - The Spinning Image Graeme Clark

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

J.B. Spins: Bresson at Film Forum: Four Nights of a Dreamer

Four Nights of a Dreamer (1971) Directed by Robert Bresson Kevin Vu from In Review Online

Quatre nuits d'un rêveur (1971) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

User reviews from imdb Author: michael_chaplan from Japan

User reviews from imdb Author: ametaphysicalshark from prejudicemadeplausible.wordpress.com

User reviews from imdb Author: matthew wilder (cosmovitelli@mediaone.net) from los angeles

TV Guide

"New York Times: Four Nights of a Dreamer" Roger Greenspun

LANCELOT DU LAC B+ 92

aka: Lancelot of the Lake

France Italy (85 mi) 1974

One of the unique works of Robert Bresson, bringing to life the legend of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, where the film opens with the staggering failure of the Knights to find the Holy Grail, returning empty handed after a two year search, demoralized by their leaders killed or missing and their troops decimated. This defeatist Shakespearean gloom has a Macbethian fatalistic tone, where much of the film is shot in barely seen darkness, where the predominate sounds lingering in the air are Knights clanking around in their armor along with the everpresent sound of horse’s hooves, while the sound of an offsceen whinny is probably used about a hundred times, like a train whistle in A Man Escaped (Un Condamné à Mort s'est échappé) (1956). Lancelot (Luc Simon), the Queen’s Knight, blames himself, thinking his illicit romance with the young Queen (Laura Duke Condominas, looking about age 15) may have aroused the wrath of God and damnation to his beloved Knights, vowing to end their unholy alliance upon his return, a vow he has difficulty keeping. Making matters worse, the King is anguished about what to do, keeping the men languishing in a state of limbo where resentments fester, specifically Lancelot at Mordred (Patrick Bernhard) for refusing to join the quest for the Grail, thinking him cowardly, while Mordred spreads rumors of Lancelot’s dalliance with the Queen, rallying many of the others against Lancelot, putting the King in an awkward position. In the spirit of brotherhood, Lancelot offers his hand of friendship to Mordred, but he refuses, which sets the stage for the rest of the picture, as the atmosphere is poisoned.

After the powerful opening of death lurking everywhere in the forest, Bresson returns to his minimalist style, using massive doses of understatement, detachment from non-professional actors using non-expressive dialog, a rhythm of repetitive images, like the constant presence of Knights in their armor, Lancelot secretly meeting with the Queen, horses being led back and forth behind the scenes while Knights continually arrive by horseback, often with news to report, where Bresson often chooses to shoot only the feet, showing only the bare minimum while still expressing the essence of the story. This is perfectly expressed at a tournament, a display of the Knight’s bravery, including a jousting tournament where Knights on horseback use a long spear to knock a fellow Knight off his horse. Backed by Gauvain (Humbert Balsan), Lancelot is urged to retaliate against Mordred, as his honor has been challenged, but Lancelot thinks otherwise, thinking courage is displayed at the appropriate moments, not needlessly, and actually backs out of the tournament. But when an unknown, helmeted Knight with his visor down continually displays valor in the jousting tournament, knocking off one man after another, word is spread that this could only be Lancelot. The tournament itself is almost completely shown offscreen, where only the thud of a Knight landing on the ground is heard followed by the roar of the crowd. In this manner, Bresson’s comment on heroicism is not the act itself, but the reverberations spreading throughout the community of the noble hero, where the resulting mythology is larger than life. Bresson also amusingly chooses to focus on the hooves of the horses, where often the rider can’t even be seen, instead the suspense is elevated from the relentless montage of repetition, the dropping of the spear after each round, the replacement of a new spear, the turning of the horse in ready position, the acceleration of the horse, the rumbling of the hooves, and the violent sound of the impact of the spear on the shield, resulting in a man falling off his horse as a flag is raised and the sound of bagpipes announces the next round.

While there are continual hints of Mordred secretly waylaying Lancelot by hiding behind doors or curtains, the themes of honor and bravery are continually disgraced with the threat of resurrection in the air. When Lancelot disappears following the tournament, Mordred spreads the rumor that he is dead, and that the Queen needs to choose a new protective Knight, which only leads to more bickering and backstabbing. Bresson turns the era of chivalry on its ear, where the peace abiding brotherhood offered by Lancelot is seen as a weakness to be used against him, where there’s a continual jostling behind the scenes for more favoritism by the King and Queen along with a ruthless hunt for power. This contrasts beautifully with the young age of the Queen, whose purity and innocence is under question, tainted and soiled by the vicious rumors spreading throughout the castle, where to dishonor her is to render her protector and savior powerless in the eyes of others, as it dispels the notion of mythological heroicism. By failing to take decisive action, Lancelot allows the poison to fester, weakening his status in the eyes of others, even after the heroic display of valor in the jousting tournament. Love of the King and the Queen and of his fellow Knights, rather than the transcendent source of power, is ultimately his weakness and his undoing. He may be the mightiest and the strongest, but he is not immortal, like the mythological gods. This humanness is what interests Bresson, as the flaws and imperfection of men have a way of overshadowing their strength and valor, undermining the essence of what constitutes courage and bravery. In Bresson’s eyes, this lofty idea of chivalry is dead, suggesting it dies with the death of every man. Not only does the man die, but so do all the noble ideas and values he stands for, dying out generation by generation, where only the myth of gallantry remains. Bresson interestingly chooses to use the percussive roll of the drumbeat, as he did in The Trial of Joan of Arc (Procès de Jeanne d'Arc) (1962), which punctuates the military ritual along with the devastating impact of finality, not to mention rampant killing in the name of God.

Time Out Capsule Review

Malory, Tennyson, Richard Thorpe and Richard Harris wouldn't recognise Bresson's Knights of the Round Table. They clank around the Camelot area making more noise with their armour than a one-man band, confused about their purpose and even about people's identities; at the end they lie dead in a gloomy forest piled up on a scrap-heap. This is the Arthurian legend stripped bare, spotlighting the characters' cruelty, pride, and the aching need for human affection. Bresson's shooting style has always been bare, and he manipulates his small inventory of images and sounds with masterful ease. The tournament provides a virtuoso example: the cameras mostly stick with the horses' feet or the jousters' weapons, and refuse to show us the whole spectacle; the tension which builds up as a result ought to make Michael Winner throw in his cards. It's stunningly beautiful, mesmerising, exhausting, uplifting, amazing - all the things you could possibly expect from a masterpiece.

CINE-FILE: Cine-List Michael Castelle

The best way to describe Bresson's intense, stilted adaptation of the concluding book of Le Mort le Roi Artu is essentially as an unfunny version of MONTY PYTHON AND THE HOLY GRAIL. For the first two minutes of LANCELOT DU LAC—especially if you've been attending the rest of the Siskel's Bresson retrospective—are truly alarming: unnamed Knights of the Round Table, in awkward forest battle, decapitate and bludgeon each other, resulting in fountains of stage blood. Returning to a humble, tented Camelot, the knights shuffle around with loudly clanking armor, and other sound effects (such as a whinnying horse) are repeated until they become obviously artificial to the viewer. What was for Bresson intended as sources of poetic estrangement became in the hands of Terry Gilliam groundbreaking middlebrow ensemble comedy. The plot, if you're unfamiliar with late Arthurian legend, is not exactly well-telegraphed: Bresson is even more concerned than usual with a relentless experimentation in framing and editing which prefers movement, sound, and details of objects to any particularly coherent narrative exposition. (This becomes highlighted in a central jousting sequence that tries as hard as possible to break all the rules of sports television.) It is ultimately a film suffused in temporal paradox: while Bresson's typically catatonic dialogue and repetitious cadences might seem a postmodern invention, in LANCELOT DU LAC they tend to sound closer to the original medieval rhetoric than anything else. (1974, 85 min, 35mm)

Slant Magazine [Zach Campbell] also seen here: Slant

Lancelot du Lac is one of Robert Bresson's late films—his 11th feature and his third in color (after Une Femme douce and the rarely-seen Four Nights of a Dreamer). What sets these later color films apart from the earlier ones is that they offer little to support the dominant, and at least partially inaccurate, approach to Bresson's cinema. The general idea is that Bresson is an austere and spiritually troubled Jansenist. (Jansenism is a type of Catholic heresy that, loosely put, emphasizes original sin, divine grace, and predestination.) To be certain, Bresson is a slow, peculiar, and deliberate filmmaker. But he also inspires passionate devotion in those who react positively to his work, and this is largely because his films are richer than their mainstream characterizations suggest.

Commentators often overlook Bresson's penchant for beautiful young women, his fascination with youth and popular culture (The Devil Probably), and his formal playfulness, streaming in an unpredictable narrative rhythm in Pickpocket or reworking some of his old teacher René Clair's tricks in his rare 1934 short A Public Affair. Compared to John Boorman's Excalibur, Lancelot du Lac is a relatively uneventful interpretation of Arthurian myth, told over the course of a short period of time during Lancelot and Guinevere's love affair. Admittedly, there is little in the way of youth culture or a playful modernist sensibility, but this is also far from a pious retelling of the Arthurian heroes' quest for the Grail. The film focuses much more of its surface attention on the day-to-day living of Arthur's court, the passions of Lancelot (Luc Simon) and Guinevere (Laura Duke Condominas), and the matter-of-factness of battle and jousting.

One suspects that Bresson wanted to interpret Arthurian legend in a way that would emphasize its petty emotions and physicalities. Why else should he stage Guinevere and Lancelot's solitary moments in a hay-strewn loft? Why else should he let the camera linger a moment on Guinevere's sensuous backside? Why else should he shoot a jousting match from the knights' knees down? However, because Bresson's cinematic personality is as deliberate and clean as it is, the viewer is tempted to chalk up the bizarre and moving experience of watching Lancelot du Lac to some latent spirituality or grace. Those of us with dissenting opinions can stretch out inside of Bresson's films a little more, though—because the director is so fascinated with the visual, aural, and tactile worlds he films, it's very easy to respond with equal fascination.

One could say that Lancelot du Lac is about nothing more than the clanging of armor or the movements of legs, but the fact that he cares about the way situations look and feel, its textures and emotional tones (even as filtered through the singular Bressonian personality) is exceedingly important—and exceedingly cool. The chances that Bresson will impress those entirely and happily bred on contemporary Hollywood cinema are, sadly, not very good. His thin plots often elide psychology and conventional pacing, his actors' distinctive line readings don't initially appear very interesting, and some are bound to be puzzled by his fascination with unusual shots (such as extended close-ups of single body parts). But it's not Bresson's fault for being an uncompromising and distinctive artist—it's to his credit.

NY Times Original Review Vincent Canby, also seen here: The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

It's said that at one time or another every film director yearns to make a spectacle, one of those multimillion-dollar epics with lots of horses, costumes and extras, the sort of film that has to be directed from a raised platform with an electronic voice-magnifying system. To the extent that "Lancelot of the Lake" has horses, costumes and extras (a few), and to the extent that it's inspired by some of the tales in Malory's "Morte D'arthur," it may be called Robert Bresson's spectacle, but it's unlike any conventional film spectacle, you've ever seen.

The film, which was shown last night at Alice Tully Hall in the New York Film Festival, will be repeated Thursday evening.

"Lancelot of The Lake" is about the last days of King Arthur's Round Table when, after the bloody, fruitless quest for the Holy Grail, the knights return to a fading Camelot and fall out among one another.

The age of chivalry is over but no one knows why. Arthur suspects that God has been provoked. He urges his knights to forget their enmities and to better themselves.

Lancelot, who once was allowed a vision of the Grail, thinks God is punishing them all for his being Guinevere's lover. When he asks her to release him from his vows to her and to surrender to God, she refuses. "If I surrender," she says, "it will be to you not God."

Although Mr. Bresson ("Diary of a Country Priest," "Au Hazard, Balthazar," "La Femme Douce," etc.) is not especially interested in visual spectacle, he has made a stunning-looking movie that often pares down spectacle to what seems to be an irreducible minimum. Virtually an entire tournament is photographed with the camera's eye focused between the horse's hoofs and midsection.

Mr. Bresson once said that the true calling of cinema "is first to be exact, and then to be interior — rather than exterior or decorative."

"Lancelot" could never be called decorative, but it is sometimes breathtaking in its exterior details, which is not the same as being realistic. The concluding sequence of the film, after chivalry's final upheaval, is one of the most beautiful and strange the director has ever done:

A riderless horse charges aimlessly through a twilight forest as the world's last knight, wounded and dying, staggers slowly toward the bodies of other armor-clad knights. It looks simultaneously mysterious, like the remains of the civilization on another planet, and banal, like a pile of damaged gasoline pumps.

What's missing from the film is any urgent interior meaning, and this it may be because of the distractions of the exterior details. It may also be because the conflicts that rage within Lancelot — between duty and desire, courtly love and physical love — simply aren't complex enough to bring out the best in Mr. Bresson. There are times, too, when the armor seems to get in the way of ideas or any sense of passion. There's something essentially comic about the sight of a knight impetuously trying to tear off his gear for a quick roll in the loft.

As usual in a Bresson film, the actors are unknowns or nonprofessionals, chosen by the director for their faces and their willingness to be drilled into that state of somnambulance by which he is best able to create his interior visions.

Laura Duke Condominas is a lovely, young, girlish Guinevere, who is both passionate and demanding. Luc Simon also looks right as a Lancelot who is no longer young, and whose trials have given a firm set to ascetic features that, in youth, would have seemed soft.

In "Lancelot of the Lake," which the director first announced in 1957, the style is intact but the content is missing.

Lancelot du Lac Doug Cummings and Trond Trondsen from Masters of Cinema, also listed here: Filmjourney

Bresson interviewed: the official Lancelot du Lac press book Official 16 page LANCELOT DU LAC Pressbook, translated into English by Jon Lomax, from Masters of Cinema, also seen here: www.mastersofcinema.org

The Rattle of Armor, the Softness of Flesh: Bresson’s LANCELOT DU LAC Jonathan Rosenbaum from Sight and Sound, summer 1974

Critic After Dark Noel Vera

Directors' Cup - Film Analysis: Lancelot du Lac by Robert Bresson ... Apursansar from Mubi

The Resolute Æsthetic: Bresson's Lancelot du Lac | Senses of Cinema Alex Lipschultz from Senses of Cinema, July 2005

The Buffalo Film Seminars Conversations about great films with Diane Christian and Bruce Jackson (pdf)

Bright Lights Film Journal Gary Morris also reviews A MAN ESCAPED, also seen here: Images - Two by Robert Bresson: A Man Escaped and Lancelot of the Lake and here: imagesjournal.com

Epinions [metalluk]

Lancelot du Lac (1974) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

The Films of Robert Bresson [Michael E. Grost]

Decent Films - faith on film [Steven D. Greydanus] also seen here: Decent films

Review: Lancelot du Lac (1974) - Row Three Marc Saint-Cyr

DVD Times Noel Megahey

DVD Outsider Slarek

DVD Verdict Neil Dorsett

Lancelot of the Lake : DVD Talk Review of the DVD Video Matt Langdon

James Kendrick also seen here: Q Network Review

Ozus' World Movie Reviews Dennis Schwartz

Lancelot of the Lake (Lancelot du Lac) - Culturevulture.net Phil Freeman

Lancelot of the Lake John White from 10kbullets, also seen here: 10kbullets.com

Not Coming to a Theater Near You Review Matt Bailey

One Hour Mark: Lancelot du Lac | Pussy Goes Grrr Andreas

Lancelot | Alex Bledsoe

Next Projection [Guido Pellegrini]

CineScene Review Les Phillips

The Defeatist Completist [Mike Maguire]

Combustible Celluloid Review Jeffrey M. Anderson

FilmFanatic.org » Lancelot of the Lake (1974)

EyeForFilm.co.uk Angus Wolfe Murray

Lancelot of the Lake (1974) | Bonjour Tristesse, Foreign Indie & Cult ... excellent photos

1000 Nights in the Dark [Iain Stott]

Baltimore City Paper Review Eric Allen Hatch

DVDBeaver.com - Review [Gary W. Tooze]

THE DEVIL, PROBABLY (Le diable probablement) C+ 77

France (95) 1977

If I did anything, then I'd be useful in a world that disgusts me. —Charles (Antoine Monnier)

Lessons of living, or perhaps moral tales of alienated youth, in the manner of Rohmer, late Bresson finally shows a director who incorporates a cinematic style of others while also remaining, at core, a Bresson film, as if he’s doing a variation and fugue on how he sees the world around him at this stage in his life, even doing riffs of himself. Opening with what could easily be outtake footage from Four Nights of a Dreamer (Quatre nuits d'un rêveur... (1971), a lit river boat at night floating down the Seine in Paris, offering a kind of harmonious view, from which Bresson precedes to one by one reject the various hopes of mankind, ending with a repudiation of a soulless modern society. A newspaper clipping shows an article on a suicide, which may also be investigated as a potential murder as well, but then Bresson backdates several months showing the events leading up to that day. Bresson already filmed two movies on suicides, Mouchette (1967) and Une Femme Douce (1969), while the year after this film was released, Rainer Werner Fassbinder released In a Year of 13 Moons (In einem Jahr mit 13 Monden) (1978), inspired by the suicide of his own lover, which is one of his most searingly personal works, revisiting the various places of a man’s life, where on the 5^th day the case is made that no more days will be allowed to pass, where the suicide is not only understandable, but according to the director, “perhaps even acceptable.” Bresson seems to be on a similar crusade, where Charles (Antoine Monnier), a 20-year old Parisian college student of the 70’s, adamantly rejects every attempt he makes at love, education, politics, science, religion, music, friendship, and drugs before deciding to end his life, where presumably Bresson’s aim is the same as Fassbinder’s.

This is one film where Bresson’s core of detached actors exhibiting no emotions in their performances works to the film’s disadvantage, as despite knowing the outcome of the disillusioned youth ahead of time, this story unravels in the form of a human drama, where there is plenty of interaction between characters. Using political chants and slogans that would be right at home in a Godard film, schools in Paris are in revolt, caught up in the aftereffects of the 60’s student strikes, the student protest movement of the 70’s, where a television of all things is used to show the broadcast of the spread of poisonous toxins in food and in the atmosphere, nuclear fallout, depleting the ozone layer, contaminated water, deforestation, and other human atrocities. Charles is seeing two women, Alberte (Tina Irissari) and Edwige (Laetitia Carcano), who are themselves both friends, while Alberte is the former girlfriend of Michel (Henri de Maublanc), an environmental activist who believes the only way to correct the damage that has already been done from shocking ecological and political disasters is by raising the public’s awareness, eliciting help from Charles in distributing pamphlets. These four characters comprise the center of the film, as they are continually intersecting with one another, shown with the typical minimalist rhythm of characters moving through the city streets, in and out of doors, moving up and down stairways, elevators, or long hallways, where they spend a good deal of their time just trying to get somewhere.

Through a kind of trial and error method, Charles goes through the motions of giving each method a try, but ends up thoroughly denouncing every one, where even when arrested by the police, seen here set to the music of Monteverdi ROBERT BRESSON - EGO DORMIO de CLAUDIO MONTEVERDI ... (4:40), he is at a loss to explain to the police just what he is trying to do. His emphatic detachment at every turn suggests he is simply negating his humanness, where he is consciously choosing not to care or participate in class, in human relationships, in helping others or changing the world, where he is instead continually turning away from the rest of the world, choosing to actively “not” participate. This of course worries his girlfriends, who constantly worry and overprotect him, perhaps from himself, but no one shows much insight into his particular malady. Despite being involved and spending so much time with him, what do they really know about him? He has pulled away from them all, leaving no choice left but to follow the advice of a psychiatrist, who inadvertently mentions during a session how the Romans handled their individual fear of committing suicide, where they hired a Roman soldier to do the job for them. There’s a certain irony in the cluelessness of the psychiatrist, as he’s society’s chosen agent to responsibly prevent exactly what happens from happening, also in how easily Charles is able to obtain a gun from so-called peace activists and flower children singing songs by the riverbank. God is almost non-existent in this film, where man is simply disgusted with himself. God is nowhere to be seen. Instead man’s indifference borders on aristocratic arrogance, as his passive refusal to be human, in accepting the good and the bad and everything associated with it, forces others to carry his weight, making it that much more difficult to eventually change the negative direction of modern society. Outside of Au Hasard Balthazar (1966), this is the only other film written entirely by Bresson, but a somewhat theatrical wordplay expressing the meaninglessness and futility of it all likely ends up being his least effectual work overall.

The Devil, Probably Jonathan Rosenbaum from The Chicago Reader

Robert Bresson's penultimate feature (1977)—his only original script apart from his early short Affaires publiques and his masterpiece Au hasard Balthazar—is a ringing indictment of the modern world, centered on the suicide of a disaffected 20-year-old Parisian. There's something mannered and at times even freakish about Bresson's handling of well-clothed adolescents and his multifaceted editorializing—which improbably recalls Samuel Fuller in its anger and dynamic energy—but the power and conviction of this bitter, reflective parable are remarkable. Not a masterwork perhaps, but certainly the work of a master, and, judging from the work of many of his young French disciples (including Leos Carax), one of his most influential features.

Le Diable Probablement Time Out London

Bresson observes his Parisian student protagonist in numb recoil from a culture, almost a species, compromised beyond recall. As so often in Bresson, the process of detachment ends in deliberately sought death. Here Charles' proxy suicide stands, as Jan Dawson has perceptively noted, both as an affirmation of a purity no longer possible within society, and 'as a portent of the millions of deaths, not self-willed, which must inevitably follow', given the ruthless course of society's crimes. Charles and the two women in his life are offered less as convincing portrayals of life on the student fringe than as indices of a particular state of consciousness. Beside the toughness of Pickpocket, the depth of feeling of Une Femme Douce, the rigour of Lancelot du Lac, The Devil, Probably has a certain opaque quality. Its case is presented rather than argued: one buys its cosmic bleakness or one doesn't, but there is no doubt about the conviction with which it is put.

Le Diable probablement (1977) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

Disillusioned by the failings of a materialistic society, a young man, Charles, searches in vain for meaning in his life.  Education, physical love, religion, politics, religion, even psychiatric treatment…  Nothing, it seems, can offer him a reason for living.  But he cannot bring himself to commit suicide...

Robert Bresson’s darkest film, probably.  Filmed in the minimalist, yet effective, style that distinguished Bresson’s later films, Le Diable probablement is a film which reflects both Bresson’s belief in the sanctity of the human soul and the growing public concern arising from shocking ecological and political disasters of the mid 1970s. 

Bresson relieves his audience of the burden of suspense by telling us the film’s outcome in its opening shot.  Likewise, his technique of getting his actors to display no visible emotions in their performances and avoiding filming dramatic sequences directly (except for the remarkable tree-felling sequence), bleeds the film of any theatrical artifice and melodrama.  What is left is a cold, cynical portrayal of one man’s journey towards self-destruction. 

A compelling and thought-provoking film which is as relevant today as it was when it was first released.

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Though most are available on video, there's hardly been a rush to release Robert Bresson's films on DVD; only the distinctly un-Bressonian Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne has made it to disc. There's something appropriate about the way Bresson's oeuvre has calmly resisted the rush to digitalization. For one, any kind of hurry is antithetical to Bresson, and for another, like any films that demand rapt attention and resist easy consumption, they're particularly unsatisfying on video.

"Everybody said, 'Don't rent tapes. Wait until it plays [theatrically], no matter how long it takes,'" recalls Richard Hell, who will introduce this one-time screening of Bresson's The Devil, Probably (1977). Hell calls it "the most punk film ever made," and he should know, since his Blank Generation album, released the same year as Devil, is a key document of the New York scene. (Not that Hell's always happy about the association; even over the phone, you can hear the quotes around the word "punk.")

The link between punk (or "punk") and Bresson, who was in his 70s when he made Devil, might occur to no one but Hell; Devil's actors (or "models," as Bresson preferred to call them) look more like the student revolutionaries of '68 than the slashed-T-shirt crowd. But they're surely members of Hell's blank generation, stunned into inaction by the world's corruption. Says long-haired, androgynously sexy Charles (Antoine Monnier): "If I did anything, then I'd be useful in a world I despise."

Though it's unlikely Bresson was explicitly commenting on punk, Hell was stunned at the movie's resonance. Hell had always found Bresson's movies timeless, even perplexingly so, but when he saw Devil, it took him right back to the time of its creation. "I had a very personal reaction, which really surprised me. Instance after instance of the way he looks at things reflects, with the utmost fidelity, the same sorts of things that I was feeling and thinking, the same things I was trying to express at the time." Though Bresson's ultra-reserved style might seem the polar opposite of the hard, fast assault typically associated with punk, Hell sees a clear similarity between Bresson's methods and his own. "It's very much a do-it-yourself thing, using the simplest of means. It's like the way we were making music; there were no frills, it's extremely honest. In a way, that's its highest value."

Though Hell didn't become a devout Bresson convert until the Museum of Modern Art's Bresson retrospective in 1999, he's become not only an admirer, but something of a champion; this will be Hell's third public introduction of The Devil, Probably in the last year. If a full-on Bresson revival is unlikely, there are signs of hope, notably the decades-delayed American release of Au Hasard Balthazar (1966), often called Bresson's masterpiece. (Cross your fingers, Philadelphia.) Hell hopes to "prepare" Bresson neophytes for the film, which he admits can be hard, if worthwhile, going. "It's very deliberate," he says. "It's not bim-bam-boom, bang-flash-pop. You have to release yourself into its zone to really appreciate it."

The Devil Probably - Movies - New York Times Vincent Canby, also seen here: The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

"THE DEVIL PROBABLY" ("La Diable Probablement") is the 12th feature film by Robert Bresson, the rigorously original French film maker who was 70 years old last Sunday. This fact should be mentioned immediately because this latest Bresson is very much the work of a man taking stock, which is not to say that it's by any means sentimental or gently autumnal.

Time hasn't softened the Bresson esthetic. The world he perceives still looks unlike that of any other director. Objects, people, places—everything is seen with a clarity so fine that his images achieve something beyond realism, as if clarity so intense could distort truth, at least as we have come to accept it.

The film will be shown at Alice Tully Hall tonight at 9:30 and tomorrow evening at 6:15.

"The Devil Probably" has the air of something out of the 1960's in that it recalls a time when dropping out was so fashionable it was virtually epidemic among the young of the bourgeoisie. But Bresson is not a film maker of fashion. Fashions rise and fall around him like tides around a continent.

This film, Bresson's first to be based entirely on his own screenplay, is about a young man who, realizing that he cannot support the world as he finds it, nor hope to change it through revolution or religion, nor even to adapt to it through psychoanalysis, chooses the way of the ultimate dropout—suicide. In telling you this, I'm not giving away a plot point because Bresson, as is his custom, refuses to allow us to watch his movies in anticipation of what's going to happen next.

He reports this suicide in newspaper headlines in the opening sequence, then proceeds backwards from there as he coolly presents us with the picture of an age that, like his hero, Charles (Antoine Monnier), whose androgynous beauty is a directorial position, is systematically destroying itself, though in preposterous arrogance and innocence. Charles's choice is an intellectual statement.

So, too, are all Bresson films, which may explain why they are so difficult on a first viewing and become, with repeated showings, increasingly rich and rewarding. One of the difficulties, as others have noted, is that Bresson films simply do not operate on the same senses that most other films do. There's no easy identification through primary emotions. His actors don't act. They exist to be moved around and so lighted and photographed to fit the director's line, which is simultaneously instinctive and stern, like a poet's.

Two recent Bresson films that have given me more and more pleasure over the years are "Lancelot of the Lake" (1974) and "La Femme Douce" (1969), both of which I found almost impossible when I first saw them. I didn't find "The Devil Probably" at all impossible, which makes me wonder whether I'm tuning into Bresson or if "The Devil Probably" doesn't really measure up.

The new film looks and sounds like a Bresson work, but it's not especially difficult. Furthermore, though no one comes close to smiling within the film, there are times when it's almost funny. At one point Charles and a friend, riding on a bus, argue about the responsibility for the world's dreadful state, involving suddenly the other passengers and finally the bus driver who, when he turns around to speak, rams into something. Only Bresson would have the nerve to keep his camera on the feet of the passengers instead of showing us what then happens in the street.

The pollution of the contemporary world—intellectual as well as physical—is the apparent subject of the film but a contemplation of idealized beauty is the method, which is why the looks of the actors are so important. It's no accident that the actor who plays Charles looks startlingly like Tina Irissari, the girl Charles sometimes lives with, or that they both look like Dominique Sanda, who had never acted before she made "La Femme Douce."

No other director I can think of has come as close as Bresson to molding his players into what are, in effect, variations on a continuing personality, much the way a painter might.

What sets apart "The Devil Probably," though, are social concerns that are sometimes expressed with irony and wit. "Isn't there a limit to doing nothing?" asks Charles's friend Michel. "Yes," says Charles, "but after that there's extraordinary pleasure."

When Charles and his friends go on a picnic, ordinarily blasé Parisians exclaim when they see an old man catch what one of them describes with wonder as "a live fish!" In the world that Bresson shows us in "The Devil Probably," the catching of a live fish has become not only very rare, but also a crime.

Richard Hell on The Devil, Probably from Masters of Cinema

A Case Study of Le Diable Probablement   Colin Burnett from Offscreen, Part 1

Le Diable as a Reflection on Film’s ‘incommunicability’ Colin Burnett from Offscreen, Part 2

Hell on Robert Bresson Richard Hell from Mojo Collection magazine, 2001, also seen here at Masters of Cinema: Richard Hell on The Devil, Probably

The Devil, Probably « boredom is always counter-revolutionary

At the Movies Michael Wood from The London Review of Books, June 5, 2008

Epinions [metalluk]

Robert Bresson’s “Au Hazard Balthazar” (1966) and “Devil probably” (1977) – Balthazar, Marie, Charles, Alberte, Edvige, Valentine… To Be Victimized Against Our Will as an “Existential” Law, visual essay by Victor from Acting Out Politics, September 27, 2010

DVD Times Noel Megahey

DVD Outsider Slarek

Talking Pictures [Howard Schumann]

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

The Devil, Probably (1977) | Bonjour Tristesse, Foreign Indie & Cult ...

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

The Devil Probably - BAM/PFA - Film Programs Juliet Clark

EyeForFilm.co.uk Angus Wolfe Murray

THE DEVIL PROBABLY - Movies - Film Forum

Austin Chronicle [Marjorie Baumgarten]

L’ARGENT A- 94

aka: Money

France Switzerland (85 mi) 1983

The corruption of an innocent soul is a familiar theme in Bresson’s works, adapting a Tolstoy short story The Counterfeit Bill, where oddly each are the last works of the two great masters. But unlike previous works, where the soul is eventually cleansed and finds redemption, not so here, as the misguided protagonist instead becomes consumed by society’s picture of him as damaged goods, tainting him with a Macbethian stain of impurity and corruption that doesn’t wipe off, where his life takes a downward descent into what can only be called Hell. There was little evidence of God in Bresson’s last picture, but there is none here. At 82, the French director has created one of his most radical works, where this is another uncompromising glimpse into the human soul, branded with a kind of scorn and bitterness non-existent in other Bresson works. The finale of this film is simply unfamiliar territory, handled with some of the most exacting filmmaking in Bresson’s career, where the framing and lighting and precise compositional camerawork couldn’t be more sublime, yet the bleak subject matter is shattering. It’s quite a leap from the banal simplicity of the film’s first hour to the profound devastation of the finale, where the culmination of raw power by the end is unprecedented with this director. This is hardly the kind of film one enjoys to watch, but this is certainly the kind of storytelling and cinematic art one can’t help but appreciate.

The story concerns the passing of counterfeit notes, how the passing from one to another only enlarges the scope of the crime, especially when the passing is not accidental but intentional, where individuals may feign innocence to protect themselves, unaware of the damage they cause to others. Yvon (Christian Patey) is that unlucky someone who just happens to have been stuck with the notes, completely unaware that the money is counterfeit, who picks up a payment during the regular rounds of his delivery, accompanied by a receipt. When the police pick him up with false money, he returns to the store that handed it to him and they deny any knowledge, even pay off one of their clerks to lie in court to protect the store’s reputation. Despite a show of leniency by the court, Yvon loses his job anyway, which starts his circuitous path into a life of crime, eventually ending up in jail for a bungled robbery, where he eventually meets one of the clerks from the store that passed him the notes in the first place, who still believes his crime was one without victims. Yvon’s imprisonment is proof otherwise, where it’s clear all who passed the money are in some way tainted by the crime. By changing the title of the story, Bresson has also shifted the emphasis to money as a means of exchange, which includes all the nefarious acts associated with it, including lies, embezzlement, and theft, all of which have greater implications than the two individuals making the transaction.

Once released from prison, the story takes on an onerous shift. Discovering his wife is lost to him and his daughter dead with diphtheria, Yvon moves far away, staying in a countryside inn where he can’t seem to stop himself from taking advantage of the situation, as rural ways are more lax, and to him, more inviting, beckoning him to rob the place, which he does easily, but also leaves no trace behind, all of which happens offscreen. What happens next is simply baffling, as the color pattern of the film alters sharply, where the rich hues of a forest colored green meet Yvon just after he passes next to an old woman (Sylvie Van den Elsen), as both quickly pass glances, where his mysterious behavior is just as shocking, as if he internally recognizes this change, suddenly confessing his crime to this woman, who doesn’t seem the least bit phased by it. As he enters into this new realm, Bresson’s focus couldn’t be more mesmerizing, as his attention to detail is meticulous, using an oil lamp in an otherwise darkened space, adding richness to the color while the film composition by Pasqualino De Santis, who shot the two previous films by Bresson, is equally as masterful. Because so much happens offscreen, and what remains onscreen is so gorgeously visualized, this has a surreal quality to it, given a very painterly look by Bresson, who was initially a painter, but the dark and dreamlike tone adds so much complexity to the constantly changing atmosphere, as it sneaks up on the viewer and comes out of nowhere. The finale is simply stunning. By the end, of course, we are all implicated in this human drama, where absent the guiding hand of God, man has plunged off the edge and fallen into the abyss.

Adrian Martin from 1001 MOVIES YOU MUST SEE BEFORE YOU DIE:

An hour into Money, a sudden burst of whiteness introduces a new turn in the narrative. A gray-haired woman (Sylvie Van den Elsen) walks by, with a subtle glance passing between her and a criminal fugitive, Yvon (Christian Patey). A few moments later, everything is green and natural for the first time in the film.

Mystery is a watchword in the cinema of Robert Bresson, but the relationship that begins here between Yvon and his benefactress is the most mysterious of all. The woman seems to realize that she has a murderer on her hands. Her submission to his is masochistic, spiritual, and sexual all at once—not to mention, eventually, suicidal.

Is this woman a fool doomed by her own code of misplaced goodness, or a saint who brings temporary grace to a damned soul? And what is Yvon by this stage of his harrowing journey—the premise, borrowed from Leo Tolstoy, of a 500-franc note forged by a trio of schoolboys triggering the inexorable dissolution of every structure in his life—an alienated madman, a cold manipulator, or a victim in search of his lost innocence?

The world of Money is barren and bare. The cold architecture of middle-class shops, courtrooms, and prisons is matched by an equally harsh sound collage of sirens, cars, and machinery. Bodies are frequently pinned within the lines of doorways and windows.

Is Money Bresson’s most secular, materialist work a logical culmination of the despair about modern industrialized life enacted in The Devil Probably (1977), or is there a glimmer of hope buried somewhere in it bleak vision? Some poignant details escape the determinist grid, like the shots of Yvon collecting hazelnuts from tree leaves and sharing them with the woman, as white sheets gently blow in the breeze—one of the simplest but most beautiful passages in any Bresson film. Here we intuit the profound mystery of beings who move through landscapes of dehumanizing violence with their capacities for evil and goodness locked silently inside them—and we witness fleeting moments of absolute, natural purity in a world gone to hell.

L'Argent Time Out London

A single 500 franc forged note changes hands as a schoolboy prank; and with remorseless logic, an innocent is led down the path to becoming an axe-murderer. Taken from a Tolstoy short story, this is a return to the extremes of crime and punishment that Bresson last used in Pickpocket; and as in that film, crime is a model of redemption and prison a metaphor for the soul. True to a taste for Catholic paradox, the murderer may or may not 'find' himself through his acts; the family is axed in the name of spiritual release; and most powerful of all, Evil is not demeaned by any vacuous sociological explanation. Filming with his usual tranquil, austere feeling for the miraculous, Bresson still manages to make most other film-makers appear hysterical over-reachers; at nearly 80, his power to renew our faith in cinema is as firm as one could wish for. Gold, pure.

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson]

Robert Bresson's final film—made when he was 81—is a harrowing scour of ideological cinema, based on a sermonic Tolstoy story about greed but turned by Bresson into a pantomime stations of the cross, so completely focused on sensuous minutiae, moral interrogation, and the fastidious lasering away of movie bullshit (like acting and action) that it comes as close as any movie has to 15th-century Christian icons. Except the film's not expressly Christian—Bresson is far less a spiritualist than a precision pragmatist—and it is totally modern. Bresson may stand as the most elusive master filmmaker; the large corpus of critical scholarship hasn't fully sussed him out, or fully translated his intensely particular strategies into an unimpeachable aesthetic. (Of course, with his Manichaean declarations and acres of silence, Bresson himself was no help.) Every viewer has their own evaluative task ahead of them: Kent Jones's audio commentary offers a rich and close reading of the film, but two 1983 French TV interviews with Bresson and a snippet of Marguerite Duras extolling his virtues only muddy the waters. And muddy they should well be.

CINE-FILE: Cine-List Brian Welesko

At once a thoroughly depressing and exhilarating affair, Robert Bresson's L'ARGENT tracks a counterfeit bill through wretched hands. The film begins in medias res—a timeless moment in a society characterized by greed and pettiness, loosely stitched together by deceit. Much of the film's narrative follows Yvon, a truck driver who happens to be caught unwittingly passing the phony bill. A victim of circumstance, Yvon's day in court turns in favor of the shopkeepers who lied to shirk responsibility. From there, corruption is further rewarded and a struggling Yvon becomes irredeemable. The deadpan delivery of Bresson's non-actors betrays no sentimentality, giving L'ARGENT's forthrightness hints of a moral tale, but none really exists. Yvon pairs with the shopkeeper's clerk: both are relatively untouched by the system at the outset, but by chance and their human nature, one advances with corruption and the other spirals downward through it. If they are two sides of the same coin, it's less good-and-evil and more like tainted and less-tainted. Jonathan Rosenbaum wrote that L'ARGENT struck him as an "atheist film." And as Bresson's last film in a march away from what Rosenbaum called "grace" in his characters, it may be true. Consider Bresson's precise framing—faces are often omitted and hands become the object of focus—the odds on each random human exchange is a coin-flip. (1983, 85 min, 35mm)

L' Argent - Movies - New York Times Vincent Canby, also seen here: The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

That Robert Bresson, the veteran French director, is still one of the most rigorous and talented film makers of the world is evident with the appearance of his beautiful, astringent new film, ''L'Argent,'' which will be shown at the New York Film Festival in Lincoln Center today at 12:30 P.M. and tomorrow at 7 P.M. Mr. Bresson does not make films casually - ''L'Argent'' is only his 13th since his first feature, ''Les Anges du Peche'' (Angels of the Streets), was released in 1943.

The man who made ''Diary of a Country Priest,'' ''Pickpocket'' and ''Lancelot du Lac'' is at the top of his very idiosyncratic form with ''L'Argent,'' which has nothing to do with the Emile Zola novel or Marcel L'Herbier's film adaptation of that novel. The Bresson film is inspired by a Tolstoy short story, and though I've never read it, I would assume that Mr. Bresson has turned it to his own purposes.

Set in contemporary France in an unidentified city that sometimes seems to be Paris but probably isn't, ''L'Argent'' (Money) is a serenely composed film that tells a ruthless tale of greed, corruption and murder without once raising its voice. It goes beyond the impartiality of journalism. It has the manner of an official report on the spiritual state of a civilization for which there is no hope.

The narrative is mainly concerned with Yvon, a young truck driver framed by some bourgeois shopkeepers who identify him as the source of counterfeit notes. Because he has no criminal record, Yvon is given a suspended sentence, but he loses his job anyway. Soon he agrees to participate in a bank holdup to obtain money to support his wife and child.

The holdup fails and Yvon is packed off to jail, where things go from very bad to far, far worse. He loses all sense of compassion and, when he is paroled, he is beyond any redemption except God's.

Like all Bresson films, ''L'Argent'' can't be interpreted exclusively in social, political or psychological terms. Mr. Bresson's characters act out dramas that have been in motion since the birth of the planet. He's not a fatalist, but he insists on recognizing inevitable consequences, given a set of specific circumstances.

''L'Argent'' would stand up to Marxist analysis, yet it's anything but Marxist in outlook. It's far too poetic - too interested in the mysteries of the spirit.

As usual, Mr. Bresson has cast the film largely with nonprofessionals, a practice that contributes importantly to the film's manner. Christian Patey, the young man who plays Yvon, possesses the dark, almost pretty good looks of something idealized, apotheosized. He is not only Yvon, but also the representation of all innocents who have been betrayed by a system that rewards corruption.

Mr. Patey's is what amounts to a carefully designed nonperformance. He doesn't act his lines. He recites them as simply as possible, as do all of the performers. They give the impression of traveling through the events of the narrative without being affected by them, which reduces any chance that the film will prompt sentimental responses.

The look of ''L'Argent'' accentuates this chilliness. The images have the clean, uncharacterized look of illustrations in the annual report of a large corporation. They are perfectly composed and betray no emotions whatsoever. This distance between the appearance of something and what it means is one of the methods by which the power of any Bresson film is generated.

''L'Argent'' is not an easy film. It's tough but it's also rewarding, and it's the kind of film that justifies film festivals.

Robert-bresson.com Doug Cummings and Trond Trondsen from Masters of Cinema, and may be seen here: Filmjourney

L'Argent — an Introduction by Tim Cawkwell from Masters of Cinema

Interview with Tim Cawkwell, Part I (Background,...) from Masters of Cinema

Interview with Tim Cawkwell, Part II (Jansen, Pascal and Bresson,...) from Masters of Cinema

World Socialist Web Site David Walsh, full of Bresson quotes

Inside Bresson’s L’Argent Colin Burnett interviews crew-member Jonathan Hourigan from Offscreen

How Art Turned into Shmart: Utility in L’Argent M. C. Zenner from Senses of Cinema, April 2000

L’Argent Adrian Miles from Senses of Cinema, June 2000

Jones and Rosenbaum Critical Consensus: Kent Jones and Jonathan Rosenbaum Discuss Robert Bresson and Jean-Luc Godard from indieWIRE, January 6, 2012, also seen here: Critical Consensus: Kent Jones and Jonathan Rosenbaum Discuss ...

Jonathan Rosenbaum an overview of Bresson, January 26, 1996

film > Remembering a Master of Precise Gestures ... Remembering a Master of Precise Gestures and Cinematic Emotion, Amy Taubin and others memorialize Bresson from the Village Voice, January 4, 2000, also seen here: Kent Jones

L'Argent - Nitrate Online Store Gregory Avery

Slant Magazine [Eric Henderson]

notcoming.com | L'Argent - Not Coming to a Theater Near You Leo Goldsmith

Wednesday Editor’s Pick: L’argent (1983) clips from various reviews at Alt Screen

DVDTown [Christopher Long]

L'Argent : DVD Talk Review of the DVD Video Glenn Erickson

DVD Times Noel Megahey

DVD Verdict Review - L'Argent Joe Armenio

L'Argent Nick Davis

girish: A Cinema of Sensations

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

L’Argent (1983) James Travers and Adam Gai from FilmsdeFrance

The Films of Robert Bresson [Michael E. Grost] Michael Grost from Classic Film and Television

Film Monthly.com – L'Argent (1983) Parama Chaudhury

the art of memory: robert bresson, murder sequence from l'argent photo sequence

L'argent (1983) | Bonjour Tristesse, Foreign Indie & Cult Cinema

Strictly Film School Acquarello

MovieMartyr.com - L'Argent - Movie Martyr Jeremy Heilman

Anthony Lane capsule review from The New Yorker

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

Kehr Dave Kehr on New DVD’s from The New York Times, May 24, 2005

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

Breton, Pascale

ILLUMINATION A- 94

France (135 mi) 2004 d: Pascale Breton

Written by the director, this is a bizarre, somewhat off-the-wall, and completely unpredictable film. Until the last scene, you really haven’t a clue where this is going. What’s appealing here is the strikingly different style, including a repeating, barely audible three chord bass riff that underlines an interior psychological world. Beautifully shot on picturesque locations, following the fishing boats in the rough waters of the Northwestern coastal region of Brittany, France, and perhaps Scotland as well, this director establishes an assured, unhurried pace as we follow the strange journeys of a most unlikely subject, a quiet, aloof, shaggy haired boy in a black leather jacket, the kind of kid who always has spitballs thrown at him in school. While nothing definitive is ever established about his disturbed psychological state, plenty is hinted at, as he seems to be something of an extremely shy social misfit who’s probably never had a girl friend before, who may be delusional, even schizophrenic. On the other hand, he may be prescient, as from time to time he mumbles to himself, giving us plenty of insight into how he feels, and he seems to hear thoughts before they are spoken. He’s a likable enough character, played by Clet Beyer, with a talent for fixing cars or mechanical equipment. There’s a wonderful scene where he removes the battery from an idling car, with sparks flying all over the place, allowing the car to run without a battery, which makes him an instant hero with the girls who are trying to make it to a rave, and everyone in town seems to treat him well, reminding me of the simpleton or holy fool in WERCKMEISTER HARMONIES, or even L’HUMANITÉ. However, he’s constantly troubled and down in the dumps and spends much of his life in a state of perpetual confusion, so he sets his sights on a cure for himself and goes on a quest for normalcy, a strange odyssey that includes the love of an impetuous young girl who is always left heartbroken, his grandmother’s nurse, Mélanie Leray, who is brash enough to include him on her night rounds at the clubs. What follows is some terrific writing and unique filmmaking, as it continues to find fertile ground with one perplexing sequence after another, some are simply hilarious, others are quiet scenes that reveal his complete alienation. There’s a captivating style throughout that doesn’t feel forced, that just allows the story to unravel in its own way, and is never in any hurry to bring this to a resolution. But when it does, this film has a simply sublime finale.

On the Occasion of Remembering the Golden Gate: The 49th San ... Jay Kuehner from Senses of Cinema (excerpt)

Generally yielding some of the better films in the festival, the Skyy Prize competition for new directors (first and second time) held some minor gems. I missed the eventual winner, Ying Liang’s Taking Father Home (Bei Ya Zi De Nan Hai, China, 2005), which was rumoured to be in the vein of Jia Zhangke; it must have been good, as it nudged out Illumination (2005, France), Pascale Breton’s moody portrait of a young, scruffily inscrutable fisherman named Ildut who, returning to his parents’ home in Brittany, appears to have been out to sea too long. His deteriorating mental state is given analogous expression in the film’s ruggedly beautiful landscapes (incredibly photographed, the film’s look is defining in a way similar to Siegrid Alnoy’s Elle est des notres [She’s One of Us, 2005]). Don't be put off by Ildut’s, and the narrative’s, detour into mysticism – Illumination recovers on a more redeeming note (it’s a promising take on the “some dudes just need some loving” sub-genre).

Distributor Wanted Chris Chang from Film Comment

The main character in Pascale Breton’s hypnotic debut feature has an unusual, yet intuitively spot-on name, Ildutt. As played by Clet Beyer he’s a very French, very shaggy existential antihero: a nowhere man completely adrift, even when he’s in his own ramshackle bedroom at his family home, ensconced in the dreary and forever-damp landscape of Brittany. A part-time fisherman, he gets more than a touch of clinical melancholia when, for example, it comes time to reluctantly gut his piscine prey; and he’s fallen hard for Christina (Mélanie Leray), a visiting nurse who tends to his grandmother. (When he takes a shower, about 30 minutes into the film, it comes as a relief to all involved.) Ildutt is well aware of his own debilitating depression: he tries both psychoanalysis and a brief stint with a New Age cult led by a messianic figure intent upon removing all traces of identity from a comatose cadre of dim-witted supplicants.

Director Breton excels in the precise invocation of place—particularly the nexus at which land- and mindscape merge. The sea, the shore, and the creatures that traverse the boundaries between the two are, in this film, her operative agents. Small-town folk (in general) forever dream of life elsewhere; in this particular hamlet, they don’t even bother—they seem perfectly resigned to their peaceful oblivion. But even with its dead-end inertial feel there’s a bit of hope here and, in the film’s conclusion, a quiet catharsis.

Georgia Straight (Ken Eisner)

In Pascale Breton's riveting Illumination, blue-eyed newcomer Clet Beyer plays Ildutt, an introspective, early-20s type still living with his rough-hewn parents (Catherine Hosmalin, Hervé Furic) on the quietly ominous coast of Britanny, here photographed with gritty physicality by Philippe Elusse. Ildutt works part-time as a fisherman, although he's ill-suited to the work””he has a tendency to throw fish back if they're still alive””and he has no interest in camaraderie with his hard-drinking peers.

His brusque behaviour gets him sent to a sympathetic shrink (Kamel Abdeli). The lank-haired lad refuses to be medicated, however, and soon runs off, selling his bass guitar to fund a hitchhiking trip to parts, and mental places, unknown. In secondary scenes, he wanders in the Scottish Highlands, where he appears to have lost his bearings while trying to find his own authenticity.

Later, he sinks into silence on his return to France's rugged north, but something snaps the first time he spies his kind grandmother (Albertine Dagand)””who, cryptically, claims to have raised the lad herself””being tended by a pretty, outgoing home nurse called Christina (appealing Mélanie Leray).

His sudden obsession with the friendly young woman borders on the fanatical. But it is also motivation to get his act together in a series of picaresque adventures that include, most amusingly, a smarmy guru (Jean-Jacques Vanier) who gives him a number of rectifying tasks. The most alarming requires that he talk a strange woman into donning a T-shirt bearing a photo of his mother so that he can berate her during sex!

The only gal he meets as he rambles about the countryside, however, is the off-duty Christina, and how she ends up in the shirt, much to his dismay, is one of the film's many sharp-edged ironies. The main point, eventually, is that Ildutt's overly idealized version of love both gets him up to the plate with his beloved and keeps him from connecting with her.

This wide-travelling, multilayered tale well earns its two-hour-plus length, although at that scale, viewers could perhaps come away understanding a bit more about the protagonist's rocky relationship with his parents, who remain sketchy figures. Still, Breton, a first-time writer-director, makes it clear that she's less interested in conventional back-story setups than in the subtleties that send us where we're going.

Brewer, Craig

HUSTLE & FLOW A- 94

USA (114 mi) 2005

It’s hard out there for a pimp

when you’ve got to make money for the rent

A film that breathes life into the word life, that thrives on authentic atmosphere and terrific performances, as the story itself seems less than inspiring, offering instead a beautifully textured realism, shot on location in and around the rough neighborhoods of Memphis by a white writer/director who grew up there, and whose wife, as it turns out, was an exotic dancer at a strip club, and whose real-life father died young from a heart attack, using part of his inheritance to start making films. Terrence Howard plays an otherwise forgettable small-time hood, DJay, a pimp with a beat up Cadillac, one teenage white girl with braids in his stable who he sells out of his car in the sweltering heat (Taryn Manning), another works as a lap dancer in a strip joint at night (Paula J. Parker), while a third stays home as she’s 8-months pregnant (Taraji P. Henson). Along the way, he also sells bags of reefer to Isaac Hayes, the caretaker of a local bar. There is nothing here to pull us into this world except the cinematic vision of the director, realized by cinematographer Amelia Vincent, and the exceptional performances of everyone involved. Howard, who is onscreen in nearly every frame, brilliantly portrays a man on the edge of a precipice, desperately trying to hold his world together while it’s splitting apart at the seams, a small-timer who wants to be more, but who’s stuck in his dead-end world. The film is layered with the rhythms of his life, the places he visits on his daily routines, the people he encounters, and reveals just what kind of man he is – smart, ambitious, firm, yet frustrated, easy to anger, yet soft-spoken, likeable, even tender, the kind of guy who’s probably never left the poor side of Memphis, who at heart, is a low down hustler, a bottom-feeder looking for a way out, a tinderbox ready to explode, a man whose father’s heart gave out at about his age. Already approaching forty, he senses his mortality drawing ever nearer.

In a key scene, he meets an old high school friend (Anthony Anderson), a part-time music producer who brings him (and his girl – they are inseparable) to a recording of a gospel singer at a local church, a genuinely moving performance that adds the element of faith and inspiration to this story. Using an old scrap Casio keyboard, he starts jotting down rap lyrics in a small pocket notebook, and asks for Anderson’s help in getting recorded. What transpires in a makeshift recording studio in DJay’s home “is” the film. It’s simply wonderful, as little by little, they get to know one another, including a white techno-track percussionist (a stand-in for the director?), where initially the issue of race stares in our face but is set aside for a common goal. They start to trust each other. Layer by layer, they slowly create a series of sound tracks, even asking for the exquisite help of Taraji P. Henson, who is simply sublime adding her delicate and sumptuous voice, initially terrified, but gains confidence until she exudes soulfulness. Somehow they turn his rap lyric into an anthem for street frustration with classics like “Whoop That Trick” or “It’s Hard for a Pimp.” This studio sequence brings all the players working together to create a positively exhilarating musical love fest, before the harsh world of reality sets in again, and life goes on, much like it did before. DJay pins his hopes on a coming home party of a local platinum selling rap star, thinking if he can get his music in the right hands, he’ll be able to write his own ticket out of there. Their pivotal scene is tense, filled with unanticipated detours, creating an atmosphere thick with suspense. Despite the overly simplistic elements, the director deserves credit for bringing to the screen authentic people who are so easily stereotyped, actually transcending the genre, as he does a terrific job creating a specific time and place, inhabited by people we normally scorn or don’t want to see, exposing us to an entirely different universe that feels all too human.

Reel.com [Tim Knight]

Long touted as a star in the making, Terrence Dashon Howard (Crash) makes very good on that hype with his extraordinary, magnetic performance in Hustle & Flow, the winner of the Audience Award at the 2005 Sundance Film Festival. The remarkable debut feature of writer/director Craig Brewer, Hustle & Flow is a grittily authentic and immensely compelling film of welcome nuance and intelligence. With an unerring eye for emotional truth, Brewer depicts a small-time Memphis pimp's attempts to start a new life as a rapper. It's a familiar tale, to be sure, but Brewer wisely emphasizes character and verisimilitude over urban clichés in this absorbing drama.

Filmed on location, Hustle & Flow unfolds during a steamy, humidity-drenched summer in Memphis, where DJay (Howard) lives in grinding poverty. Although bright and articulate, he's fallen into the rut of pimping two women, Nola (Taryn Manning) and Lexus (Paula Jai Parker), to johns. A third prostitute, Shug (Taraji P. Henson), is pregnant with his child. While he's relatively decent to these women—even the foul-mouthed, rancorous Lexus—DJay is dying on the inside. Becoming a rapper, like Memphis-born hip hop sensation Skinny Black (Ludacris), seems to be DJay's only way out of the ghetto. Yet even though DJay has a natural gift for self-expression, he has neither the experience nor the sound equipment to make a demo tape. Fortunately, he reconnects with an old school friend, Key (Anthony Anderson), a church sound engineer. And through Key he meets Shelby (DJ Qualls), a musician with a beat machine. With their invaluable assistance, DJay finally cuts a demo tape, which he intends to give Skinny Black at a 4th of July party thrown by mutual friend Arnel (Isaac Hayes)—that is, if DJay can "hustle" his way into Skinny Black's inner circle.

Co-starring Elise Neal as Key's no-nonsense wife, Hustle & Flow immediately draws you in and never loses its grip on your attention. It's a raw, hard-hitting film that convincingly evokes the sordid, dead-end world of DJay without glamorizing it. There's no glorification of "thug life"—just the sad inevitability of what the future holds for these marginalized characters unless they make a change. Happily, Brewer doesn't drive home this point with the cinematic equivalent of a jackhammer. He doesn't cheapen the film (or insult the viewer's intelligence) by turning DJay's story into a hip-hop melodrama, full of preachy, simplistic moralizing.

Admittedly, a few of the narrative elements border on predictability, yet overall, Hustle & Flow neatly sidesteps contrivance to present DJay as a richly multi-faceted character, equally capable of tenderness and ruthlessness. It's a dream role for an actor, who must be able to convey DJay's vulnerability without softening his very rough edges. And he must convince us that he's got both the talent and the charisma to make it in hip-hop. In Howard, Brewer has found his ideal DJay. Always impressive (watch him in HBO's Boycott), Howard brings an electric, volatile energy to Hustle & Flow that's mesmerizing. There's a thrilling unpredictability to his acting here, as there is in Crash, wherein he plays the diametric opposite of DJay (although both characters are simmering with a barely contained rage).

Howard may dominate Hustle & Flow, but it's no one-man show. He receives near-flawless support from the entire cast, particularly Anderson, Manning, and Henson (Baby Boy). Usually cast as the roly-poly buffoon in schlock like Kangaroo Jack or worse, Anderson is terrific as Key. Manning (8 Mile) cuts a poignant figure as Nola, while Henson quietly steals scenes as the guileless Shug.

According to the press notes, director John Singleton (Boyz N the Hood) was so knocked out by Brewer's script that he completely financed the production himself. Suffice to say, his money was extremely well spent.

The New Yorker (David Denby)

As a South Memphis pimp named DJay, Terrence Howard, the star of “Hustle & Flow,” speaks in a soft, smoky voice that trails off into nothingness. DJay is very shrewd, but his life is at a dead end, and he knows it. He runs three girls out of an old multicolored Chevrolet; the tricks who roll up next to him have air-conditioning in their cars, and DJay doesn’t. He sells drugs on the side, but he’s halfhearted about it—the drugs are most useful not for making money but as a way of bribing a neighbor into doing a favor. It is the conceit of “Hustle & Flow” that this petty criminal is a man of decency and promise, and Howard, a major actor (he was the harassed TV director in “Crash”), anchors the conceit in flesh and blood. His chattering hustler has the obscure, ruminative wit of a street-corner philosopher who implies more than he says; Howard turns his come-ons and rants into a sullen art. The movie asks whether that particular art is convertible yet again—whether DJay’s hustle can be transformed into the thumping flow of the Memphis-style rap known as crunk. As Howard develops DJay’s frustration and rue, he avoids the obvious, the overemphatic. His self-mocking performance is so ironically refined and allusive that one might think that Duke Ellington himself had slipped into an old undershirt and hit the fetid streets of Memphis.

The movie is at its best when the writer-director, Craig Brewer, a white man from Memphis, simply noses around the scraggly neighborhoods and down-at-the-heels clubs of his old home town. This is a hot-weather picture: everything unfolds in the kind of Southern steam that wilts any effort aimed at more than mere survival. Such cinematic time-passing is fine with me. I could easily spend two hours just watching Howard hassling the working girls (Taryn Manning, Taraji P. Henson, and Paula Jai Parker, all terrific) or listening to Howard and Isaac Hayes, who plays a club owner, greet each other—their conversational manner is that rich. But, with an awkward lurch, and an eye on DJay’s possible redemption, the movie shifts into a conventionally upbeat show-business story: DJay assembles a group of irregulars, including a henpecked sound engineer (Anthony Anderson); a skinny white guy (D. J. Qualls) who makes his living servicing concession machines but knows how to lay down crunk’s bass-heavy tracks; and one of DJay’s women, Shug (Henson), who learns to sing an introductory hook. Using DJay’s bottom-dog laments (“It’s hard out here for a pimp when you’re trying to get the money for the rent,” etc.), this gang works up a song, “Whoop Dat Trick,” which they hope will be a hit. As a myth of creation, the putting together of the song, element by element, over a period of days, is enormously enjoyable, even if it isn’t especially convincing.

“Hustle & Flow” may resemble other show-business fables in its over-all shape, but it has an acrid flavor all its own. DJay places his bets for success on presenting “Whoop Dat Trick” and other songs to a Memphis-born rapper named Skinny Black—Chris (Ludacris) Bridges—who has made a fortune in the music business and is back in town for a few days. Howard and Ludacris memorably met once before, in the front seat of an S.U.V. in “Crash.” This meeting, which goes through assorted moods of screw-you indifference, drunken bonhomie, and crazy violence in about ten minutes of hair-raising screen time, tops the earlier one. “Hustle & Flow” ends with a burst of movie-ish mayhem, and then a burst of sentiment, but when Brewer, Howard, and Ludacris stick to the bitter texture of South Memphis failure and success they produce a modest regional portrait that could become a classic of its kind.

Salon.com [Stephanie Zacharek]

Writer-director Craig Brewer's remarkable "Hustle & Flow" is a movie with heat, and not just the figurative kind. This rags-to-possible-riches story -- its ending is both satisfying and ambiguous -- about a hustler who chases down his dream of becoming a hip-hop star, takes place in Memphis, Tenn., a Memphis of summer dresses clinging to sticky skin, and of cars that seem to move far slower than usual, like tired animals conserving their energy in the midst of a heat wave. In this Memphis, convenience stores are desert oases of mythical proportion: A popsicle will cost you, but the air conditioning is free, and no matter how little money you've got, that momentary blast of coolness can make you feel like royalty.

"Hustle & Flow" suspends you in its spell of mood, of feeling, of climate. It's a pop picture that finds its richness in peeling down to the essentials of good storytelling. In a world of movies that try far too hard to move, entertain and dazzle us, the artistry of "Hustle & Flow" lies in the way it waits for us to come to it. We can walk as slowly as we want, but sooner or later, it's going to get us.

Terrence Howard (who gave a subtly layered performance in Paul Haggis' droningly didactic "Crash" ) plays DJay, a small-time drug dealer and pimp who presides over a household of women that includes tough-cookie prostitute Nola (Taryn Manning) and sweet-natured Shug (the marvelous Taraji P. Henson), who's taking a break from working because she's heavily pregnant. DJay makes money any way he can: As a character, he's attuned to his own survival, not our approval, and while we're immediately intrigued by him, we don't automatically like him. At one point early in the movie he throws one of his hookers (played by Paula Jai Parker) out of the house because she has become a squalling nuisance. But he also throws out the woman's infant son, to whom Shug has become deeply attached, along with her: He picks up the baby in his little walker and plops him on the doorstep with his weeping, cussing mother. It's a moment that tears you in two -- even the tough-as-nails Nola runs away from the scene, unable to bear it -- and while the sequence throws the movie momentarily off-balance, it serves an important purpose: DJay isn't the kind of protagonist we can cuddle up to.

As much as we want to believe he's a good guy at heart, Brewer isn't going to make things cushy for us by rushing our sympathy for him. The movie demands that we accept DJay on purely human terms -- in other words, that we acknowledge the ugliness of his flaws before we're allowed a glimpse of his latent decency. In a later scene, he pimps out Nola against her will in a way that strips her of her dignity, and she turns on him with a jagged directness that's heart-rending. (Manning, with her hard-looking eyeliner and coolly appraising stare, resembles the original 1959 Barbie, but unlike Barbie, her Nola has soul.) DJay may be a charming underdog, but he's also a growly, unpredictable one; as charismatic and achingly, painfully human as he is, he never fully earns our trust.

But our conflicted feelings about DJay -- drawn out by Howard's supple, jaguar-cool performance -- are a reflection of this deceptively straightforward movie's complexity and power. And even when we're not sure we like DJay that much, we always believe in him: "Hustle & Flow" is an old-fashioned story of redemption, and it delivers on every promise of uplift and euphoria the genre demands. DJay gets ahold of an ancient, plinky Casio and decides that if an old semiacquaintance of his by the name of Skinny Black (played with shimmery slyness by Ludacris) can become a rap star, so can he. By chance, he reconnects with an old pal, Key (Anthony Anderson), a sound engineer who makes a meager living committing gospel choir recordings (as well as court depositions) to tape. And along with Shelby (DJ Qualls), a square-looking church musician whose hipness far transcends his scrawny whiteness, they sit down in DJay's modest, jerry-built home studio to make a hit.

"Make" is the operative word here, because in addition to being a story of redemption, "Hustle & Flow" is also about the deep pleasures (and the mystery) of making music out of nothing, of telling a story that amounts to something much greater than the specific lyrics sung or notes played. Against the half-reassuring, half-uncertain-as-hell chug of Shelby's beat machine, with Key at the soundboard and Shug stepping in, on a whim, to sing backup, DJay reads off the words he has written on a small pad, learning as he goes which beats to stress and which ones he should let ride.

The song doesn't sound so great at first, but before long it starts to grow with the same assured mightiness of Jack's beanstalk, sprouting fat branches and leafy digressions -- it stops sounding like an amateurish, homegrown track and turns into something essential and alive. When sweet, insecure Shug hears the glory of her voice on the playback, her face registers such joy and astonishment that you can't help laughing with her, caught up in the pure rush of her exhilaration. (Henson's performance here is both quiveringly delicate and potent; it's one of the movie's key compass points.)

The music opens something up in DJay, too. His cocky desperation begins to smooth down into something resembling relaxed confidence. The song (its lyrics are an un-self-pitying, critical lament about the rough life of a pimp) isn't just an accessory or prop in the movie; it becomes its nerve center and its racing heart, a driving force in the narrative.

"Hustle & Flow" is Brewer's second feature (his first was "The Poor & Hungry," a small indie that played the festival circuit and the Independent Film Channel), and although it's a renegade, heartfelt picture made on a smallish budget, it's also an inspiring example of how far good instincts and intelligence can take a filmmaker. Brewer has a knack for finding the small details that open up the secrets of even a minor character. (There's a wonderful sequence in which Key's wife, Yevette, played by Elise Neal, makes a lonely supper for herself, since Key has become consumed with working on DJay's record. Frustrated and depressed, she shows up at DJay's house, even though it's on the "other" side of town and inhabited by disreputable women; we think she's going to berate her husband, but instead, she has brought sandwiches for everybody -- she opens herself to this small ragtag community, and they're happy to welcome her.)

Brewer grew up in Memphis, and he lives there now: His love for this vivid, confounding city -- including the parts of it that are far from pretty -- informs every frame of the picture. He shows us cars beat up and patched up to within an inch of their lives, groups of smallish houses lined up in tight rows, and streets so dismal they make the Boulevard of Broken Dreams look like Candyland. Yet there's nothing depressing about the look of "Hustle & Flow" -- Brewer understands that what's most vital about Memphis can't be found in its more conventionally attractive tourist haunts. This is a city where blues and R&B, rock 'n' roll and hip-hop (the songs in the movie are by local Memphis artists Three 6 Mafia and Al Kapone), have thrived so vigorously it's almost mystical. You can't believe in pop music if you don't believe in Memphis.

And whether it was purely intentional or just a stroke of luck, Brewer found a lead actor with one of the greatest voices in the movies today. I once had an art teacher who, as a way of getting us kids to capture the essence of an object instead of just making a visual approximation of it, explained that not every line we drew had to be one continuous flow; if we were to occasionally lift the pencil from the paper, in just the right place, the eye would automatically leap the gap. "The eye loves it," she explained. "It loves connecting that line." In "Hustle & Flow" Howard's speaking voice is like that broken line: It has an opaque, husky, graphite richness, but now and then bits of it fall away, leaving just a rasp of a whisper.

Howard has all the Memphis locutions down cold, but almost any talented actor could do that with just a few weeks of study: We're not just talking about Meryl Streep learning an accent, but about a character owning a voice. I found myself leaning closer to the screen to listen to Howard; I instinctively wanted to be closer to that sound. The eye loves "Hustle & Flow," and the ear does too. This is heat you can see and hear.

PopMatters Cynthia Fuchs

Epinions.com [Steven Flores]

Austin Chronicle [Marjorie Baumgarten]

CineScene [Chris Knipp]

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

3 Black Chicks ("The Diva") including and interview with the director

Movie House Commentary Johnny Web

World Socialist Web Site David Walsh

DVD Town (Yunda Eddie Feng)

Film Journal International (Kevin Lally)

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

Slant Magazine [Akiva Gottlieb]

The Nick Schager Film Project

In Review (Adam Suraf)

digitallyObsessed! - DVD Reviews Dan Heaton

James Berardinelli's ReelViews

Washington Post (Ann Hornaday)

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

New York Times (registration req'd) A.O. Scott

BLACK SNAKE MOAN B 88

USA (115 mi) 2007

Love makes you do things you don’t wanna do.

This is a fairly outrageous vision of redemption and racial reconciliation, challenging the viewer to metaphorically accept some of the worst stereotypical racial depictions in order to disarm their power and get to the heart of the matter, which is to believe in a society that is colorblind, gossip free, and where we are all seeking the same things. Asking viewers to set aside their own personal feelings in this film is like watching von Trier’s DOGVILLE and NOT reacting to the ultimate slavery of Nicole Kidman’s character. Our revulsion to what we see onscreen is expected, so its intentions are meant to produce the greatest outrage, yet it still remains so utterly ridiculous that it largely defeats the purpose of the film. BLACK SNAKE MOAN uses a blues anthem to express its own outrage at that evil that lives inside every one of us, which must be cast out like an exorcism, excoriated from our souls if we have any chance at being a free society. To bring that theme home, Brewer uses two highly visible actors, Samuel L. Jackson as a poor but righteous Southern vegetable farmer whose wife has just left him for his younger brother, and Christina Ricci as a sexualized and drug-ridden Daisy Mae, a girl who spends much of the film wearing only panties and a barely concealing flimsy blouse, a girl whose sexual urges are as pronounced as Linda Blair’s demonic possession. In order to rid that girl of her evil, Jackson announces, “God seen fit to put you in my path and I aim to cure you from your wickedness,” and promptly chains her up to a radiator for days on end, defiantly pronouncing “We will not be moved!” She remains in chains for a good portion of the film, which is the highlight picture on the movie poster.

Bookended by old black and white documentary footage of blues legend Son House talking about the blues, telling the age-old story about the love between a man and a woman, and how one of them deceives the other, leaving a hurt so bad that it aptly describes the blues. Jackson plays Lazarus, a former blues performer that hasn’t played in ten years, while Ricci plays Rae, whose guy (Justin Timberlake) heads for Marine boot camp, leaving her alone to fend for herself. Timberlake’s brother gets in the way, beating her horribly and leaving her for dead in a country ditch on the outskirts of town. When Lazarus finds her, it’s like he was struck by lightning, her overt sexuality immediately sends him for the protection of his Bible, as she precipitates images of his own deserted wife, while she spends plenty of time in flashback mode as well, reliving some of the sexual abuse heaped upon her as a child. Needless to say, there’s a powerful connection between the two, much of which seems like a choreographed mythology of the spirit, guided by the voices of old blues legends that play throughout this film, which is dedicated to R.L. Burnside, a Mississippi Delta blues musician who spent a little time in prison for shooting a man, but released, so the story goes, so he could work the fields, as he was a sharecropper who passed away shortly before the making of this film.

Some of the best scenes in the film take place in bars, early on where Lazarus confronts his brother, alone and in a rage, and later where he makes his surging comeback, to a packed house that comes alive with a dancing spirit, where even the preacher man takes a sip, which represents the worst and the best of the man, beautifully played by an always composed, yet acid-tongued Jackson, playing an older man who is at a crossroads in his life. Doing his own singing reveals his obvious limitations, yet it also provides a tinge of authenticity in the character, the one true thing we can always count on in a Samuel L. Jackson performance. Like Anthony Anderson in HUSTLE AND FLOW, the lead has a brilliant side kick, in this case from John Cothran Jr, known as the Reverand R.L, the down home preacher who is called upon to drive the evil spirit from Rae, a man who is a friend and a steady force throughout who works overtime to find a path of salvation for the derelicts in this film. Still, despite the obvious trashy overtones, there are some brilliant moments in this film, like the way this strange and reticent family comes together over a meal for the first time, like the storm scene where Lazarus pulls out his guitar and rediscovers the meaning of the blues after all these years with Rae sitting like a scared cat at his feet, or any of the scenes where he goes into town and draws the idle stares of the layabouts while attempting to sweet talk the local pharmacist, S. Epatha Merkerson, but especially the joy of singing and dancing expressed in the juke joint, a communal moment where everyone puts aside their differences and comes together to enjoy the spirit of the music, which at least for the moment, drives the devil as far out of the hearts of man as any other home grown remedy known so far on this planet.

Reel.com [Tim Knight]

For a film touted as a lurid, blues-themed Southern Gothic melodrama evocative of William Faulkner at his most decadent, Craig Brewer's Black Snake Moan turns out to be a disappointingly tame and rather conventional morality play steeped in deep-fat-fried clichés. What begins as a provocative and knowing riff on Faulkner's 1931 novel Sanctuary, infused with a perverse dash of Tennessee Williams' Baby Doll and the politics of race and religion, slowly loses its way on the back roads to become just another none-too-convincing story of redemption and overcoming abuse. Although both Samuel L. Jackson and Christina Ricci throw themselves into their quasi-archetypal roles with gutsy abandon, they're undermined by Brewer, who seemingly can't decide if he's making a hyperreal pulp film or a straightforward narrative dressed up with atmospheric flourishes.

The blues motif runs throughout Black Snake Moan, which takes its title from the 1927 song by Blind Lemon Jefferson. Set in the contemporary rural South, Brewer's perspiration-soaked narrative depicts the unlikely bond that develops between Lazarus (Jackson), a middle-aged, deeply religious blues guitarist whose wife left him for his brother, and Rae (Ricci), a poor, white nymphomaniac in the grip of an insatiable "itch." Hours after bidding a tearful goodbye to her fiancé, Ronnie (Justin Timberlake), who's joined the Army, Rae's at it again, entertaining a bunch of local boys at a keg party, only to get beaten up and dumped unconscious on the side of the road, where Lazarus finds her. Taking her back to his house, Lazarus is so shocked by her brazen, almost feral sexuality that he decides to "cure" Rae's nymphomania by chaining her to the radiator. Thus ensues a heated battle of wills between the Bible-quoting blues guitarist and his skimpily dressed captive, who's no sex addict, but just a vulnerable young woman desperate to assuage painful memories of sexual abuse. As Rae finds a newfound emotional stability through her time with Lazarus, he in turn lets go of the bitterness eating at his heart to find love with Angela (S. Epatha Merkerson), a local pharmacist.

As he demonstrated in his far superior Hustle & Flow (2005), Brewer has a solid feel for the milieu and vernacular of rural, working-class Southerners, black and white. There's a down-home, gritty verisimilitude to both that film and Black Snake Moan, which is only enhanced by Brewer's use of music for emotional texture. Unlike Hustle and Flow, however, Black Snake Moan is a vague and unfocused film, pitched uncertainly between steamy exploitation flick and character study, which promises far more than it delivers. Touching, albeit in cursory fashion, on long-standing social and racial taboos vis-à-vis the power dynamic between Lazarus and Rae, Brewer apparently loses his nerve at about the halfway mark, for the rough, sexually charged edge to their relationship dissipates, giving way to a safe, surrogate father-daughter bond. As it turns out, all poor little trampy Rae needs is a hug—ditto that for Lazarus, who rediscovers his love of blues by performing at a local juke joint. It's a simplistic and unsatisfying narrative turn, regrettably one of many in the second half of Black Snake Moan, a frustrating film that ultimately leaves you singin' the blues about Brewer's dual failure of imagination and nerve.

Black Snake Moan Nathan Lee from Film Comment

Black Snake Moan is the heartwarming tale of how a white-trash crack whore confronts her demons with the help of a backwoods negro who chains her to his radiator. I intend neither sarcasm nor racism—and neither does Craig Brewer, who follows his affable if overrated Hustle & Flow with a hardcore exploitation flick that also happens to be the most impassioned spiritual parable in recent memory. The guy could’ve done anything; like most H&F skeptics, I figured he’d hustle his way into some big, dumb studio picture. Bankrolled by Paramount, starring Christina Ricci and Samuel L. Jackson, and teased into yahoo consciousness via the trailers before Snakes on a Plane, BSM isn’t exactly the quintessence of indie, but it takes bigger chances, make bolder moves, and goes deeper into hearts, minds, addiction, and redemption than any half-dozen Half Nelsons.

Did Brewer conceive the thing as a vehicle for Ricci’s intense, insatiable eyes? They’re just about the only recognizable thing on the former go-to girl for plump sexpot sass, here slimmed down to knuckles and elbows, with hair the color of piss on linoleum, and squeezed into filthy little panties, ass-flappin’ daisy dukes, mangy Confederate T-shirt cut off just below the nipples. Perpetually erect nipples, aching to be sucked, pinched, bit, bled. Her name is Rae. She lives in the funkiest crack of Tennessee goddamn. Ronnie, her lamb of a lover (a brilliantly cast Justin Timberlake), is off to serve (or rather, slaughter) in Iraq. She got an itch ain’t never been scratched. Next-level nymphomania, feeling the urge come on like a hurricane gathering momentum, decimating everything in its path, big black eye of the storm going wide and wider, gobbling up every fuck and drug in sight. Hearty helpings of cock and Oxycontin? Tic Tacs for the ravenous. The girl can’t help it.

Meanwhile, crusty old bluesman Lazarus (Samuel L. Jackson) has gone half mad with grief. Wife left him for his brother. Drowning his troubles in booze and anger. Wakes up one day, goes for a walk, and finds a skinny white girl beat half to dead in a ditch. Like a gentleman—or a lonely pervert—Lazarus takes her in and nurses her back to health. One night, blotto from six kinds of withdrawal, Rae tries to lam it. Out come the chains and the unbelievably outré reverse-slavery conceit. By now, Brewer’s shown us some fierce stuff in the degradation department, and pushed our noses in the most outlandish race/class/gender representation. What’s this crazy honky think he’s doing? It’s as if he absorbed the criticism leveled at the second sexism of Hustle & Flow and decided to throw it back in everyone’s face times ten. But here’s where BSM switches gears, first by complicating Rae’s rehabilitation with a wild erotic charge—black snake moan, y’all—then doubly complicating it when Lazarus hallucinates his wife in Rae’s place. Brewer keeps his motivations elusive and indeterminate, and keeps us on our feet questioning where the hell this insane material is going.

The answer is simple. Hustle & Flow was a (wack) hip-hop joint; Black Snake Moan sings the blues—hard, long, from the bottom of the gut, slushing around in bile and Jack Daniels and yesterday’s grits, wailing on a slide guitar, thunder, lightning, heartbreak, death, regret, baby Jesus, gravy. Life hurts bad, and Brewer doesn’t shy from real suffering. Snarky retro camp has nothing to do with it. There’s no condescension here. Rae’s road back to something like self-control is hard won, fraught with slippage, as serious and persuasive as the journey of L’Enfant. Brewer’s recipe is solid: home-cooked meals, hothouse blues, God’s love, patience. Ricci’s performance is so fearless, specific, and blazingly committed it carries the second half of the picture over the slight underwriting of Jackson’s character and his clear limitations as an actor. She’s the white-hot focal point of Brewer’s loud, brash, encompassing vision of the soul’s dark night survived, peering into the dawn. That’s right, haters, I said “vision.” And one so honest and healthy and against the grain of indie solipsism and Hollywood cynicism that it’s just about visionary.

Mike D'Angelo

AMERICAN MOVIES HAVE BECOME SO TIMID, so pathologically leery of giving offense, that unapologetic trash wielded with bulldozing conviction now has the power to inspire something like awe. Black Snake Moan, Craig Brewer's follow-up to last year's Sundance sensation Hustle & Flow, comes as close to exploitation heaven as any studio-based film made in the past 20 years. You watch it unfold--detonate, more like--with giddy incredulousness, stunned that somebody actually had the guts to put such supercharged images on the screen. That doesn't automatically make it a great movie, but it does make it a valuable one, especially in a culture given to endless hand-wringing over dull, mealymouthed Ron Howard versions of airport novels. One glance at Christina Ricci, clad in a T-shirt and panties, sporting a shiner, and affixed to Samuel L. Jackson's radiator via a massive chain around her waist, and the question of who Jesus did or didn't bone 2,000 years ago quickly starts to seem academic.

Brewer wastes no time getting flagrantly, joyously offensive, superimposing the film's title (borrowed from an old blues number) over a slow-motion shot of Ricci's Rae sashaying down a country road in a midriff-baring top and hot pants, blocking the path of a massive tractor trailer and giving it (and us) the finger when it honks for her to move her ass. The next time we see Rae, she's writhing around on the ground in what appears to be pain but turns out--I kid you not--to be heat. In interviews, Brewer tends to bristle when the word nymphomaniac is invoked, but that's gotta be a calculated put-on; Black Snake Moan is a serious portrait of sexual addiction the way Deliverance is a serious portrait of congenital birth defects. Rae's gotta have it, and when Lazarus (Jackson, shaved partially bald), a farmer and sometime blues musician still smarting from his ex-wife's infidelity, finds her lying unconscious in a ditch not far from his home, he determines to change her evil ways--by force, if necessary.

Needless to say, this is patently absurd and becomes even more so when Lazarus, in what seems like a wholly unconscious gesture of pitch-black irony, breaks out the chains. But while it's possible to dismiss Black Snake Moan intellectually or to bemoan its Neanderthal retrogressiveness, the sheer primal force of the film's imagery is both undeniable and oddly liberating. At first, I thought Ricci an odd choice for this particular role. With her otherworldly Kewpie-doll features and aloof demeanor, she's not the first actress you'd think of to embody unadulterated carnality. In true exploitation fashion, though, Rae isn't so much a character as a body with an attitude, both of which Ricci has here in spades. Both Ricci and Jackson trust Brewer not to make them look like cretins, and he rewards their trust, at least for a while, by treating this ludicrous scenario as if it were unholy writ. Exploitation films admittedly cater to our least refined emotions, but by asking us to grapple with ideas that make us uncomfortable or even angry, they also, in a weird way, treat us with uncommon respect.

Alas, Brewer ultimately chickens out. Once the chains finally come off, Black Snake Moan loses the courage of its convictions. Rae's affliction, which was unproblematic so long as it bore no relationship to the real world, gets laboriously explained (yep, the usual childhood trauma), transforming her from nutzoid case study to just another screwed-up victim of circumstance. The movie itself devolves into a soggy redemption drama, with everyone involved (including Justin Timberlake as Rae's long-suffering beau) learning valuable life lessons and other standard-issue indie-film bullshit. In short, Brewer covers his ass. But, paradoxically, the less offensive Black Snake Moan gets, the more truly offensive it becomes. Wrapping everything up in a neat, morally defensible package only serves to make the twisted smackdown at the film's center feel hypocritical and opportunistic. Brewer wants to tear the lid off, and he clearly has the instincts to do it. But he also wants us to really, really like him. Should he ever reconcile those warring instincts, multiplexes may go up in flames.

Slant Magazine [Nick Schager]

The South isn't just in Craig Brewer's heart but underneath his fingernails as well, and with Black Snake Moan he gives his home region a kick-ass modern exploitation film to call its own. Whereas hip-hop was the groove underscoring Brewer's overvalued Hustle & Flow, it's the blues that infects his latest, a sonic substitution that goes hand in hand with the writer-director's storytelling maturation from a Little Pimp That Could fable to his current tale, which ultimately exudes skepticism over the possibility for personal transcendence and redemptive happily-ever-afters. Yet before such conclusions can be drawn about the filmmakers' evolution (which also includes a more finely honed and controlled aesthetic), first one must make it through the provocative—and occasionally borderline-misogynistic—content that he serves up in bucketloads. Drenched in explosively charged imagery, Black Snake Moan is exploitation cinema of the grungiest, nastiest, and thus finest order, delivering a volatile batch of extreme sex, extreme profanity, and—most of all—extreme racial and gender dynamics. A B-movie with an A-list cast, it's an audaciously confrontational, button- and boundary-pushing work, marked by a sharp wit and a gleeful desire to see just how much it can get away with.

As it turns out, that's quite a lot, thanks in large part to Christina Ricci. Left to her own devices after boyfriend Ronnie (Justin Timberlake) heads off to Iraq, notorious blow-up doll Rae (Ricci) finds herself powerless to repress her nymphomaniacal itch, temporarily satiating her carnal appetites with anyone who has a pulse and an erection. Sporting filthy blond hair, a body that's all sharp, skinny angles, and often nothing more than a teensy Confederate Flag-adorned cut-off top and white panties, Ricci embodies Rae with debased fierceness, her giant eyes radiating a voracious, self-destructive, animalistic sexual hunger. She's a bitch in perpetual heat, so, naturally, after being beaten and left for dead on the side of the road, she's discovered by a churchgoing farmer and former blues singer named Lazarus (Samuel L. Jackson) who, horrified by the girl's condition—and, after she awakens, her unbridled libidinous cravings—chains her to his radiator like a dog in need of housetraining so as to cure her of her wickedness. It's slavery role-reversal with a porno twist, featuring a grizzled, scripture-quoting African-American as plantation massa, and a feisty, semi-nude white girl as his captive, the latter a feral creature apt to snatch and swallow up any unsuspecting virgin visitors to her new abode.

In this contentious arrangement, Rae, turned rotten by childhood abuse from one of Mom's boyfriends, gets a caring but stern father figure; Lazarus, still bitter over his cheating wife's desertion with his brother, gets someone at whom he can direct both his anger and his Christian benevolence. Brewer, meanwhile, initially treats his scenario as a vehicle for sleazily amusing and erotic kicks. Lazarus's name is a tip-off to his role as an agent of Rae's—and, via their chaste relationship, his own—resurrection, and the crudity of the biblical reference is indicative of Black Snake Moan's charm-through-rawness, which permeates everything from Rae crawling like a mutt across Lazarus's living room floorboards, to her wrapping herself in chains on a couch as a means of staving off her relentlessly impure thoughts. Yet despite the fact that the rowdy narrative itself is comprised of spit, sweat, writhing, weeping, growling, and grinding, the film nonetheless treats the emotions of its characters and situations with surprising seriousness, thereby bringing touching tenderness to its odd couple's gentle embrace after Lazarus strums a song for Rae, and palpable heat to Rae's euphoric dance at Lazarus's bruising, blistering comeback show.

Intimately familiar with his milieu, Brewer doesn't strain to oversell his setting's dusty, sticky, so-hot-you-only-need-wear-a-wife-beater atmosphere. Similarly, his camerawork is less showy than in Hustle & Flow, here the director's primary stylistic flourish being a series of well-calibrated juxtapositions and match cuts linking his protagonists' concurrent paths. Since Rae and Lazarus's relationship is, at heart, a dual exorcism, the story is forced—to its detriment—to progress past its electric, incendiary girl-in-chains middle act and toward a wrap-up that's light on out-there material and heavy on heartwarming healing. Ricci's ability to deftly segue from hellion viciousness to urgent desperation partially offsets this predictable and unfortunate plot development, as well as helps compensate for skin-deep turns by an only adequate Jackson and Timberlake. Yet what eventually gives heartrending intensity to Rae and Lazarus's spiritual journey from the dark, stank, STD-infected bowels of individual hell to the sunshiny warmth of mutual renewal is the filmmaker's apparent distrust of his upbeat conclusion, his final scene casting ambiguous light on the attainability of sustained salvation. Brewer's prior film may have argued that it's hard in the South for a pimp, but with Black Snake Moan, he confirms that what's even harder is finding peace with one's own inner demons.

Salon (Stephanie Zacharek)

In his passionate and rapturously entertaining 1995 book "It Came From Memphis," Robert Gordon explains how, in the summer of 1966, the Ku Klux Klan held a rally at the city's Overton Park Band Shell, attracting an audience of about 400. Just a week later, more than twice as many people showed up for the first Memphis Country Blues Festival, an event organized by a bunch of, in Gordon's words, "beatnik blues fans," and one in which black and white performers shared the stage. Among the former were blues artists like Bukka White and Furry Lewis, two gentlemen who, in 1966, were already approaching senior citizen status. "The corporeal spirituality of the blues musicians was as gripping as their music," Gordon writes of the event. "What they played was unencumbered by progress, as relevant in 1966 as in 1926. They cut through the urban soundtrack, transporting listeners back in time with them. At their feet, confronted by them, one could not help but be moved. They physically embodied the music: leathery and worn, dusty, dry. The repetition in what they played, the hypnotism, was the sonic equivalent of a plowed field, row upon row."

Writing about a specific event and specific performers, Gordon captures some of the elusive, mystical qualities of the blues in general, particularly with that seemingly contradictory phrase "corporeal spirituality." Can the blues save us, or is it the tool of the devil? Are our bodies, with all their built-in wants and needs, a gift or a burden? The only way to answer those questions is with more questions, and more music, which is the approach Memphis-based filmmaker Craig Brewer takes in "Black Snake Moan," a wild and sweet little picture about sex, redemption and music, though perhaps not necessarily in that order.

In "Black Snake Moan" -- which Brewer also wrote -- Samuel L. Jackson plays Lazarus, a juke-joint bluesman who's given up music for farming. He's bitter, disillusioned and more than a little screwed up: His wife has just left him for his brother, and although he's a God-fearing man, tight with his local preacher (played by John Cothran), he talks some crazy talk about taking vengeance on the ex. He's distracted, though, when he discovers a young woman, who's been beaten into unconsciousness, lying by the side of the road near his property. He carries her to his home, a haven of weathered floorboards and sagging sofas, and administers medicine he's charmed out of the local pharmacist, Angela (S. Epatha Merkerson).

Lazarus learns that the young woman's name is Rae -- she's played by Christina Ricci -- and that her problems run so deep they can't be cured with drugstore medicine. Rae is the town's bad girl, a young woman who was neglected by her mother and abused by men all her life, and who sleeps around compulsively as a way of staving off fear and loneliness. She has a steady boyfriend, Ronnie (Justin Timberlake), who has helped keep her grounded. But he's just headed off to boot camp, and Rae is so distraught, she lapses into her old habits. She doesn't even have to go out looking for trouble; it finds her. A pal of Ronnie's, who's supposed to be looking after her, rapes her and beats her, leaving her for dead, which is where Lazarus steps in. But as Rae recuperates on his couch -- dressed in the clothes she was wearing when he found her, a pair of cut-off shorts and an abbreviated T-shirt adorned with crossed Confederate and American flags -- Lazarus comes to realize that she has the "sickness." She's writhing, burning with fever: In her delirium, she dashes out of the cabin, ready to do herself harm. So he chains her to his radiator to rid her of the demons that control her.

That's the gimmick of "Black Snake Moan," a gimmick that leads us, like a trail of manna bread crumbs, to the movie's soul. Brewer is a provocateur, a troublemaker, and the first act of "Black Snake Moan" is clearly designed to throw us off our game, to make us wonder where in tarnation this aggressively outlandish picture is going. The poster for "Black Snake Moan," designed to look like a comic-book cover, shows the muscular Lazarus looming, in a stance that could be either protective or threatening, over the saucy Rae in her rebel dishabille: He grips the sturdy iron chain that encircles her waist. The image meets at the crossroads of biblical symbolism and exploitation cinema, with a little Frank Frazetta thrown in.

I wouldn't call the "Black Snake Moan" campaign false advertising. But I would call it a mischievous bait-and-switch. "Black Snake Moan" is ultimately about damaged people helping one another to become their best selves, but come on: What person with a grain of sense would see a movie with that on its poster? The picture is very obviously crafted as a fable. Its characters are stereotypes at the beginning, but our focus sharpens as we watch them: They sneak out of the roles we've assigned to them and become people instead.

I think, with "Black Snake Moan," Brewer's secret is finally out of the bag: For all that he wants to rattle and disarm us, he's really a humanist in wolf's clothing. His 2005 "Hustle & Flow" gave us Terrence Howard as the pimp DJay, the kind of guy who throws one of his hookers out on the street because she's become a nuisance to him -- and also boots the woman's infant son out with her, plopping the child's walker on the stoop before slamming the door.

The moment is horrifying, but it's also a challenge: Can we -- or should we -- feel any sympathy for this guy? What does it say about us if we do? I remember reading my colleagues' reviews of "Hustle & Flow," after I'd written my own, and being baffled by many of them. Some had decided the picture was misogynist because it asks us to feel something for a guy who exploits women, as if compassion were the same thing as approval, a response I could understand on some level even if I didn't share it. But I was more puzzled by the critics -- most of them men -- who seemed to be airing their thinly disguised fears that DJay was going to move into their comfortable neighborhoods and prey on their daughters. They seemed more deeply invested in protecting the notion of the "threatening black male" than in even daring to look under its hood.

Brewer, and Howard, took a risk in asking us to connect with a guy we couldn't respect, trust or even really like. "Black Snake Moan," its potent imagery notwithstanding, is in some ways a much less sensationalistic picture. In both movies, Brewer shows a gift for building mood and atmosphere: "Hustle & Flow" -- set, and filmed, in Memphis -- is a summer-in-the-city movie in which the heat hangs so heavily in the air you can practically see it. "Black Snake Moan" takes place in the country, a world of bean fields and dirt roads and little towns where you can stop in and buy whatever you might need -- a bucket or a shovel, a new dress or a shirt that's nicer than your everyday clothes, a cup of coffee if you're looking for a pick-me-up. Beautifully shot by Amelia Vincent (who was also the director of photography on "Hustle & Flow," as well as "Eve's Bayou" and "The Caveman'sValentine"), the picture has the soft glow of a Sunday-school picture book. Which is not to say it doesn't have its moments of horror, as well as some touches of sick humor. When we first see Ricci chained to that radiator -- and catch a glimpse of the zealous, though in no way sexual, gleam in Jackson's eyes -- we're getting bits of Southern biblical obsessiveness mingled with gothic horror. Rae also has a bodaciously foul mouth: "Kiss my rebel cooch!" she growls at a guy who's bugging her.

But Rae's vulnerability is never in question: Her near-nekkidness is obviously an exploitation turn-on, but it also makes you want to wrap a blanket around her (which is exactly what Lazarus promptly does). It's difficult to look at Ricci, in her early scenes, because Rae's face is so badly bruised. But if the makeup were less realistic, the seriousness of Rae's plight wouldn't hit so hard. Sure, Lazarus is patronizing her, but it's also clear she might have died without him. Since she's incapable of steering on her own, it's his job to take the wheel for a spell.

Brewer takes pleasure -- sometimes it's impish pleasure -- in giving us gorgeous images that are also slightly jarring, like the sight of Lazarus showing the chained-up Rae (this is a pretty long chain) around his bean field, proud of the work he's put into it. In another scene, he prepares a meal for her, urging her to enjoy her food instead of just scarfing it down: He tells her he put "a lot of backache" into growing those greens and a lot of love into cooking them. "You slow down and just enjoy some of it."

Lazarus' interest in Rae is in no way lascivious. In her semi-conscious state, shortly after he's rescued her, she plants an aggressive, assertive kiss on his lips, and he recoils: The dismay and anguish on Jackson's face shows us very clearly that he's both shocked by her and afraid for her -- she's foreign to him, both sexually and morally, a sharp twist on the cultural stereotype of the black man as sexual predator and conqueror. Ricci and Jackson both give lovely performances, perfectly in tune with the picture's gradual shifting from metaphorical darkness into light. She's a google-eyed angel on a highway to hell; he's a hardy fellow not yet stooped by age, but you can see it coming: Together, their frailties blend into a kind of strength. And Timberlake (the only actor worth watching in the dreadful "Alpha Dog") plays a guy who has to wrestle his own demons of jealousy and anxiety; skinny and haunted, he captures perfectly the essence of a man who's dying for a good night's sleep, or 10.

"Black Snake Moan" is a road movie set in a house, a story of coming a long way while staying put. It's also, as much as anything, a story about music, a distillation of what music can mean to one person, or to many. Brewer frames the picture with archival footage of Son House, explaining that the blues is all about love between a woman and a man: It's the heaven, the hell and everything in between.

Lazarus and Rae bring that idea to life over and over again in "Black Snake Moan." Jackson does his own singing in the movie; he also plays guitar. (Brewer and music coordinator Scott Bomar sent him to study with Mississippi musicians like Big Jack Johnson, Kenny Brown, Cedric Burnside and Sam Carr. One of the inspirations for Lazarus' character was R.L. Burnside, who died before the movie was completed.) When Lazarus finally comes 'round to pulling his life together -- doing so involves picking up his long-dormant guitar -- instead of offering a song of praise to God, he takes a stab at "Stackolee," a story of blood and murder that's been rewritten and reinvigorated almost as many times as it's been sung. It's a very dark song, and Lazarus, finally back from the dead, goes at it with wicked glee: The song's rhythmic repetition is exhilarating, but it's also as comforting and familiar as the rocking of a cradle. Lazarus, performing in a club for the first time in a long while, is surrounded by dancers -- Rae is one of them -- who look as if they're in the throes of ecstasy, sexual or religious or very likely both.

"Stackolee" isn't a particularly nice song, but it's an enduring one, reborn each time it's reinterpreted, reinvented. And so a song about death is also one about everlasting life. Is that a contradiction, or a self-evident truth? When it comes to the blues, sometimes the only answer is another question. And as Lazarus and Rae know, sometimes that's enough.

"We're bound to each other" In this interview and podcast, director Craig Brewer talks about the spirit of the South, the power of the blues and tackling tough issues in delicate times, by Stephanie Zacharek from Salon

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Brewster, Joe

THE KEEPER A- 93

USA (90 mi) 1995

Written, produced, and directed by Brewster, who worked as a prison psychiatrist before making this film, a powerful look at the life of Paul, a corrections officer played by Giancarlo Espisito, an aspiring law student, often giving prisoners free legal advice, who is caught between two worlds, the human side of the prisoners and the violent, brutal nature of the prison guards, where he feels alienated from both sides. There is an eerie parallel examined here between the role of penal institutions in our society and the work of an exterminator working in the prison, developing a scientific understanding of the rats and roaches he is paid to keep in line, with posters on the wall classifying the entire rat and roach species showing in huge letters “Know Your Enemy,” who becomes for Paul a wise, father figure. Paul becomes convinced that a Haitian prisoner, Jean-Baptiste, is innocent of rape, and bails him out, actually allowing him to live in his own home against the objections of his wife, beautifully and intelligently played by Regina Taylor. This generosity begins to haunt Paul, as his wife begins to warm up to Jean, particularly the charm of the man and his misunderstood Haitian culture and religion, which so typifies the misunderstanding of blacks at large in America, but he also painfully reminds Paul of his own Haitian father, of whom he is ashamed, and whose existence he all but denies, culminating in a wonderful scene at a Haitian dance club where Paul stands alone, while his wife freely dances with a passion that he cannot provide or understand. So Paul starts losing his identity and starts behaving more like the brutal prison guards, paranoid and confused, accusing his wife of infidelity, then, in a rage, accusing Jean, who suggests Paul should look within himself, causing Paul to shoot him, leading to his own arrest and imprisonment, an alien to his own culture, his wife, and his spiritual identity. He becomes a stranger in a strange land, permanently exiled from his African heritage which he chose to reject.

Bricker, Eric

VISUAL ACOUSTICS: THE MODERNISM OF JULIUS SHULMAN B 89

USA (84 mi) 2009 Official site

"Modernism is characterized by an optimistic spirit, a belief that the future holds great promise and technology will improve civilization. Julius was perfectly suited to translate the tenets of optimism." —gallery owner Craig Krull, who represented Shulman

From a visual point of view, these are a treasure-trove of wondrous architectural delights that hit the screen like eye candy, but from a cinematic point of view, this is a fairly traditional biopic, the highpoint being a stunning catalogue of architectural images contained in this film portrait of architectural photographer Julius Shulman, including magazine spreads from the 50’s that have a Jetson’s look to them, ultra modern houses always spruced up, spacious, clean, with plenty of glass windows and open air, and views to die for. This is the trendy look of Southern California for the rich and famous, which when captured in an idyllic photograph have a sense of eternity about them, as they become timeless art objects, like a living, breathing entity stuck in that moment in time, already immortalized. One of the fascinating aspects of these photos is the viewer sees in them what they want, projecting their own dreams and fantasies, all of which play into the commercial advertising aspect of photography, as in reality, these architectural glass house jaw droppers are hardly practical and require plenty of financial upkeep to maintain decent living standards, a side of them not seen in the near perfect visualizations. They’re more wondrous to look at than to live in. The structures themselves are highly innovative, but finding just the right position to maximize their visual interest actually makes them look better in a photograph than they really are, as they are idealizations of reality. As most architectural structures are never viewed onsite, more likely they are seen in photographs which present them in the best possible light. In this way, Julius Shulman brought the power of architecture to our fingertips and helped showcase a generation of powerful new architects in America from the 1930’s through the 1960’s.

Shot during the last few years of his life, Shulman even in his 90’s is alert, witty, playful, and even jovial most of the time, so he comes across as a most charming and gracious man, opinionated yet fun loving, the kind of guy who sings the loudest at his own birthday. This may be somewhat misleading, as he had several wives, and seemed especially meticulous when it came to his work, where there is a common theme of highly disciplined Germans working as assistants with him, an actual photographer, a book designer, and the Taschen magazine publishers. There’s a telling scene where he meets with Benedikt Taschen, a highly successful and powerful publisher, a guy who wastes no time, where Taschen is about to release a coffee table sized book of Shulman photographs and wants to finalize the look of some of the larger and more impressive photos. Shulman immediately remarks that they need little to no touch ups whatsoever, that they’re just fine as is. Taschen makes polite conversation for a minute or so before concluding their meeting on a gracious agreement that the photos are perfect as is. So much of his folksy charm may be a cover up for a far more demanding perfectionist who doesn’t let anything stand in the way between himself and his work. Little information is revealed about this personal side of his life and history, though it is intriguing that one of his daughters inexplicably spoke with a thick British accent. Without that personalized background, this film instead places Shulman directly into his rightful place in history. The filmmakers spend great effort memorializing him while he was still alive, but unfortunately at 98, he passed away three months before the release of the film, which is a lovely testament. The jazzy music by Charlie Campagna captures the breezy feel of the 50’s while also keeping the film moving along at a brisk pace.

VISUAL ACOUSTICS Facets Multi Media

Narrated by Dustin Hoffman, Visual Acoustics celebrates the life and career of Julius Shulman, the world's greatest architectural photographer, whose images brought modern architecture to the American mainstream. Shulman, who passed away this year, captured the work of modern architects since the 1930's, including Frank Lloyd Wright, Richard Neutra, John Lautner and Pierre Koenig. His images epitomized the singular beauty of Southern California's modernist movement and brought its iconic structures to the attention of the general public. This unique film is both a testament to the evolution of modern architecture and a joyful portrait of a talented artist who chronicled it with his unforgettable images. Featuring: Julius Shulman, Frank Gehry, Tom Ford.

Christian Science Monitor (Peter Rainer) review

It's an obvious but overlooked fact: Most of our knowledge of modern architecture comes not firsthand but from photos. Eric Bricker's documentary "Visual Acoustics: The Modernism of Julius Shulman" chronicles the career of the most important of architecture photographers, who died in July at age 98 but was extensively interviewed for the film. Bricker doesn't have much filmic pizazz, but Shulman's photos encompass the entire history of modernist architecture, especially in southern California, including such names as Rudolph Schindler, Richard Neutra, and Pierre Koenig, whose glassed-in Hollywood Hills home – officially known as Case Study House No. 22 – is iconic. (It seems to extend into thin air.) Shulman was around so long that he even got to weigh in on Frank Gehry's Disney Hall. He was skeptical once but came to love it. Grade: B+

Village Voice Ella Taylor

Just about everyone in Eric Bricker's festschrift seems to love Julius Shulman, including (adorably) the unstoppable old gent himself. What's not to like? Ninety-three years old at the time of filming, the great photographer of modernist architecture was still working ("What else is there?"), laying down the law and running around in red suspenders to bask in his celebrity. Narrated by Dustin Hoffman, Visual Acoustics shows off the stark beauty of flat-topped Southern California homes—with their pools and low couches designed by architectural titans from Frank Lloyd Wright to Frank Gehry—and then shows how they've been re-interpreted and romanticized by Shulman. Though he dismissed contemporary Los Angeles as "a pile of junk," the passionate early environmentalist believed in the integrity of things in their natural place—preferably, the desert. His pictures refresh the region even for those of us who live here. Enjoyable as it is, Bricker's giddy hagiography could have used a little pushback, especially in the matter of Shulman's airy dismissal of the postmodernism that, he claimed, forced him into "retirement." Shulman died this summer, aged 98, doubtless sounding off as he went. If Visual Acoustics doesn't make you envy his life and his legacy, you haven't been paying attention.

User comments from imdb Author: moberhofer

A must see, if you care about Modern Architecture and the most seminal and influential architects of the 20th Century.Photographed by a Master photographer with photographs that are even better than the great buildings they portray are featured throughout together with Julius Shulman's observations on life, architecture and photography as he takes you on a walk through his garden and the his past as well. He is widely recognized as the best architectural photographer of all time. His photograph of the cliff hanging Stahl House, Case Study #22 made it the most famous house and architectural photograph of all time! California , Los Angeles and Palm Springs were at the forefront of a new wave of Modern Architecture that combined inside and outside that had not been done before. It benefited from the California climate and melded the buildings into their sites using topography, light and view. It featured groundbreaking new ideas of "form following function" and even "ornament is crime." It enabled a new era and lifestyle to emerge and become iconic. Wonderfully brought to the screen and fully realized and crafted with vintage footage , interviews and photographs revealed here for the first time for new audiences and old fans.

It's really a "Homage" to Julius Shulman , Modern Architecture and Southern California in its Golden Age.

Time Out New York [Keith Uhlich]

Eric Bricker’s documentary is as clean-edged and polished as its subject, photographer Julius Shulman, who spent a good many years lensing the architecture and surrounding landscapes of Southern California. Draftsmen like Richard Neutra, Rudolph Schindler and Frank Lloyd Wright did the building; Shulman was the one who preserved their work for history and, in the process, built his own distinct portfolio.

His images are striking—typically using one-point perspective, so that each edifice appears to extend into infinity—and particularly commanding in their play of light and shadow. Cinephiles should be especially interested in the interlude in which cinematographer Dante Spinotti talks about the influence these pictures have had on his frequent collaborator Michael Mann. Indeed, Mann’s crime thriller Heat clearly drew inspiration from Shulman’s oft-reprinted photograph Case Study House #22, with its shimmering background cityscapes and near-limitless depth of field.

The artist, sad to say, is not as interesting as his art. That isn’t really Shulman’s fault: Despite what appears to have been unrestricted access, Bricker never probes that far into his subject’s life. A first wife is given a cursory mention, and Shulman’s daughter talks tantalizingly, yet briefly, of her father’s my-way-or-the-highway stubbornness. But any discord, here and elsewhere, is quickly glossed over. Visual Acoustics goes out of its way to remain as kindly and pleasing as Shulman himself.

Slant Magazine review Bill Weber

Amplifying the legacy of architectural photographer Julius Shulman in the context of his vital twilight years, Eric Bricker's art-doc Visual Acoustics gives a convincing, contagious taste of its protagonist's playful optimism. Not content merely to roost in the dense, overgrown garden of his Los Angeles home, Shulman is seen peering through his lens at Frank Gehry's new Disney Concert Hall, revisiting the mid-century modernist buildings he made into icons (like a glass-box house in the Hollywood Hills from an immortal 1960 nocturnal shot), and rather regretfully preparing his archives for shipment to the Getty Museum. Bricker, despite the presence of Shulman's supportive and amiable daughter, mostly steers clear of the fotog's tempestuous side and family history (his wives receive one passing mention each) in favor of his life's work ("What else is there?" asks Shulman in a '70s TV interview). Tracing his artistic path from his initial pictures of new buildings in the '30s and his recruitment by architect Richard Neutra to serve as "a filter" to promote modernist ideas about living space, the film identifies Shulman with the growth, decline (represented by the ornamental postmodernism that drove Julius into temporary retirement), and putative rebirth of metropolitan Los Angeles over the course of the 20th century.

Both witty and proportionately immodest about his gifts, Shulman is rendered as a sweet codger who, leaning on his cane as he gives precise instructions to his assistants on a shoot, is unchanged in his essence from the man who 60 years earlier brought a carful of "prop" furniture to give Neutra homes a lived-in look before he trained his camera on them. Whether working on assignment for Arts & Architecture or Good Housekeeping, Shulman used his one-point perspective to thrust the simple, clean lines of the modernist aesthetic upon the eyes of both the architectural professionals and the general public. While Dustin Hoffman's narration occasionally grows needlessly antic, especially as it accompanies an animated crash-course on the birth of modernism, Visual Acoustics situates the energy and ideals of the era in the steady aspirations of Shulman, as an artist, environmentalist, educator, and idealist. "In a way, you can stop time," he muses on his captures of space in the moment; sitting with his publisher poring over a book proof, he compares two adjacent light sources with a wry comment on his model for control: "This is God; this is Julius."

Art in America The Tenor of Julius Schulman, by Darrell Hartman from Art in America, October 9, 2009

Shulman died last July at the age of 98, making Eric Bricker's film an elegy of sorts. It's a fond portrait of a photographer whose images helped immortalize the buildings of Frank Lloyd Wright, Rudolf Schindler, and John Lautner, among others; like art publishers Taschen and the Getty Center, which exhibited the archives it acquired from Shulman in 2005, Visual Acoustics cements the reputation of a man who was himself a preserver of architectural legacies.

Born in Brooklyn in 1910, Shulman moved to Southern California as a teenager. His gifts were evident from a young age—one of his early photos, of the 6th Street Bridge in Los Angeles, won a national photography competition—but it took him awhile to find his muse. On a whim, he photographed a Richard Neutra house in 1936 and sent the prints to the architect. "Within a week, I was a photographer," he recalls in the film. Neutra helped Shulman develop an eye for architecture, but the relationship cut both ways. Shulman hauled in his own furniture to give his shots of Neutra's houses a more lived-in feel; even if Neutra didn't always agree with his stage-dressing, as a chuckling Shulman relates in the film, the architect took credit for it when he liked the results.

Shortly after World War II, Shulman was doing commissions for the country's top architects. He wowed Frank Lloyd Wright with his photos of Taliesin West and introduced the world to Lautner's 1961 "Chemosphere" house in the pages of Life. Shulman's magazine-friendly imagery was perfect for a postwar era in which the Southern California lifestyle seduced America with its apparent ease and glamour. "You can practically hear the Sinatra tunes wafting in the air and the ice clinking in cocktail glasses," Newsweek wrote of his work.

Bricker films Shulman reuniting with old friends, like Frank Gehry, and the couple that restored Neutra's 1946 Kaufmann House using photos Shulman had printed for them. Visual Acoustics (which is narrated by Dustin Hoffman) spends a generous amount of time discussing the architects whose work he shot, but breezes through an analysis of what differentiates a Shulman from, say, an Ezra Stoller or a Hedric-Blessing; enthusiasts will have to settle for one talking head's observation that while those photographers used elevation and light effects, respectively, to bring buildings to life, Shulman mastered a one-point perspective that almost physically draws the viewer into the image.

If Shulman has a masterpiece, it's his 1960 photograph of Pierre Koenig's Case Study #22, a glass-walled house overlooking Los Angeles. In a composition that's pure velocity, the house's living room seems to hang in the night air. It's a perfect encapsulation of mid-century America at its most stylish and confident-or oblivious, take your pick. Cinematographer Dante Spinotti says that he and Miami Vice director Michael Mann once shot a scene at the house in an attempt to reproduce the photo's effect. Deciding he'd failed, Mann never used the footage.

Presumably at Bricker's request, Spinotti lays down some dolly track and gives it another shot-this time, with Shulman pacing the room. Spinotti's second go probably doesn't get any closer to the original image, to crystallizing a moment in time and space, than the first one. But it does do something else. As an ancient Shulman peers through the glass, the camera stalking him with its silky movements, it tells the story of his photo, much like Shulman's photo told the story of Koenig's building and the landscape beyond it. With Shulman no longer around to narrate, it's a poignant scene worth holding onto.

Austin Film Society (Chale Nafus)

Critical Mass Film House [Deborah Dearth] also seen here: The Desert Sun

PopMatters (Cynthia Fuchs) review

dandyspoke, one person's reaction to the movie [Mike Hawkins]

The NYC Movie Guru [Avi Offer]

User comments from imdb Author: tedg (tedg@FilmsFolded.com) from Virginia Beach

Variety (Robert Koehler) review

San Francisco Chronicle (Walter Addiego) review [3/4]

Los Angeles Times Kenneth Turan

Chicago Tribune Michael Phillips

Chicago Sun-Times Bill Stamets

New York Times The Lens That Loved Modernism, Steven Kurutz from The New York Times, September 30, 2009

A Man With a Camera and an Architectural Eye Andy Webster from The New York Times, October 9, 2009, slide show included: Building Photography

VISUAL ACOUSTICS The Modernism Of Julius Shulman film website

Visual Acoustics: The Modernism of Julius Shulman About the Film

Julius Shulman - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Q&A from 1994: Capturing the Essence of California Architecture   Interview by Steve Proffitt from The Los Angeles Times, October 9, 1994

Capturing Modernity in Architecture slide show from The NY Times

AP Obituary Los Angeles Times, July 2009

Julius Shulman, Photographer of Modernist California Architecture ... Obituary by Andy Grundberg from The New York Times, July 17, 2009

Julius Shulman dies at 98  Claudia Luther obituary  from The Los Angeles Times, July 17, 2009

Julius Shulman | 1910-2009   slide show from The LA Times

Julius Shulman (1910-2009) | ArchDaily  David Basulto obituary with accompanying photos from Arch Daily, July 17, 2009

Remembering Julius Schulman « memestream Mark B. Jacobs, July 18, 2009

Julius Shulman   Architectural photographer Julius Shulman talks about his most famous photograph (video)  (1:45)

Julius Shulman: Man Behind the Camera (kcet.org) People & Buildings, The Architectural Photography of Julius Schulman, essay and slide show by Wim de Wit, The Getty Research Institute

Julius Shulman Resources. Getty Research Institute, Research Library. Los Angeles, California

Julius Shulman photography archive, 1936–1997. Getty Research Institute, Research Library. Los Angeles, California.

Julius Shulman prints & photographs at SHPcontemporary fine art

An online collection of Shulman photographs at USC

The German publisher Taschen has released several books and photographic editions by Shulman

Photography Julius Shulman & Juergen Nogai / partnership since 2000

Photographs of Julius Shulman in the collection of the Canadian Centre for Architec

Julius Shulman Institute at Woodbury University

L.A. Obscura: The Architectural Photography of Julius Shulman  Fisher Galler at USC, March 4 - April 19, 1998

Julius Shulman, Modernity and the Metropolis. October 11, 2005–January 22, 2006    exhibit article and exhibition photos from Getty Research Insitute

Julius Shulman: Modernity and the Metropolis National Building Museum, April 1, 2006–July 30, 2006

Julius Shulman: Modernity and the Metropolis.  Art Institute of Chicago, September 2, 2006–December 3, 2006

Julius Shulman's Los Angeles. October 6, 2007–January 27, 2008  Los Angeles Public Library, also seen here: Julius Shulman's Los Angeles

Annenberg Space for Photography's L8S ANG3LES

Friday Architecture Photos from Around the World. We Are Super Famous, December 12, 2008

Image results for Julius Schulman

Bridges, James

CHINA SYNDROME

USA (122 mi) 1979

Edinburgh U Film Society [Kathryn Parkerson]

During the 1970s Jane Fonda starred in many excellent "serious" films, but The China Syndrome is most definitely the best of these. Fonda produced the film with co-star Michael Douglas and plays a TV reporter investigating an attempted cover-up of an accident at a Californian nuclear plant.

That the film uses no music (all too frequently required to gloss over bad editing and induce emotions that the script and performances fail to create) is a testament to its excellence. Instead, The China Syndrome relies on the tightly-written script (by Mike Gray, T. S. Cook, and the director James Bridges), and the compelling performances of its three stars - with Jack Lemmon proving the most astonishing as a dedicated plant executive - to thrust the story to its shattering climax.

Jane Fonda's aim to make "responsible films" was commercially justified when shortly after The China Syndrome opened there was grave danger at a Pennsylvanian nuclear energy factory. However, you don't have to have been recently threatened by an explosion at a nuclear plant to fully appreciate this film. It is a gripping piece of drama which also manages to successfully examine the machinations of television news reporting - another potentially dangerous phenomenon of the 20th Century.

The Onion A.V. Club [Nathan Rabin]

Throughout his career as an actor and producer, Michael Douglas has shown a remarkable skill for exploiting the cultural zeitgeist. At the height of the rebellious, anti-authoritarian '70s, he helped bring Jack Nicholson to the screen as an antihero for the ages with One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. During an era of greed and sexual loathing, he starred in Wall Street and Fatal Attraction. But it's possible that no film he produced or starred in benefited more from its eerie parallels to current events than 1979's The China Syndrome: The jittery thriller about the perils of nuclear power arrived in theaters a mere 13 days before the disaster at Three Mile Island.

Co-written and directed by James Bridges, The China Syndrome famously predicted America's biggest nuclear fiasco, but its swinging-'70s milieu, its news-station hijinks, and the caveman sexual politics of its male newsmen all equally anticipate Anchorman. Jane Fonda stars as a spunky reporter aching to do hard news, but stuck serving as eye candy in degrading puff pieces involving zoo animals and singing telegrams. While doing an innocuous segment on a nuclear power plant, Fonda and dashing cameraman Michael Douglas (who also produced) stumble upon an accident that brings them into the orbit of Jack Lemmon, a true-believer power-plant employee who becomes an unlikely whistle-blower.

In every sense a film of its time, The China Syndrome is the kind of nervous thriller where powerful, pasty white men in expensive suits make sinister decisions in dark, luxurious offices and entrenched powers conspire against the interests of the little guy. There's an element of bitchy social satire, too, in its cynical take on the petty machinations of the news business and the way it fuses so seamlessly with entertainment that it becomes impossible to tell where one begins and the other ends. Like a lot of paranoid thrillers of the era, The China Syndrome boasts a visual style deeply indebted to documentaries, television news, and cinéma vérité. It maintains a certain distance from its characters both emotionally and physically, dropping them into giant sets that possess an almost Stanley Kubrick-like chilliness. Oscar-nominated production designer George Jenkins crafted a frightening, inhuman universe inside the power plant, full of blinking lights and huge machines but devoid of anything resembling warmth. It doesn't seem at all coincidental that Jenkins' credits also include All The President's Men and The Parallax View, two other exquisitely paranoid thrillers about dark doings among the Powers That Be. But ultimately, Lemmon's performance is what makes The China Syndrome work: The script contains its share of technical jargon and clunky exposition, but his subtle transformation from complacency to anger to panic tells the story in raw emotional terms. The China Syndrome is ultimately a story about how the potential for human error can trump science and reason, and few actors have ever been as unmistakably human as Lemmon.

Turner Classic Movies Rob Nixon

The China Syndrome Meltdown in Hollywood, by Michael Gallantz from Jump Cut

The China Syndrome The Genre Syndrome, by Doug Zwick from Jump Cut

China Syndrome Film + Reality = Awareness, by Gary Weimberg from Jump Cut

Film Freak Central Review [Travis Hoover]

DVD Town [James Plath]

Reel.com DVD review [Pam Grady]

Movie Reviews UK Damian Cannon

DVD Verdict Steve Evans

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Jon Danziger)

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

New York Times (registration req'd) Vincent Canby

Brisinger, Johan

SUDDENLY (Underbara älskade) B- 82

Sweden (96 mi) 2007

A film that has had huge box office success in Sweden, which for a first time director pretty much sounds the death knell for the rest of his career on the festival circuit, as there are already signs of commercial compromise, suggesting the offering of money may change the direction of his career forever. There is the potential for a great film here, beautifully shot on a remote island, with truly superb performances all around, but the director ruins his own film. Brisinger and his producer were present at the screening and indicated their initial cut was two and a half hours long, but then a Finnish editor was called in and started renaming certain sections “This is shit,” and cut it down to size, where the director seemed overly concerned about whether there was enough dialogue, as Swedish films today feature plenty of dialogue. Initially Stellan Skarsgård was asked to play the lead role, but he passed as there wasn’t enough dialogue to suit his taste, so now, like the idea of plastic surgery, that’s all this director can think about. Claiming he was looking at Swedish films from the 70’s, which feature large master shots and sparse dialogue, relying on the performances of the actors, this film feels like a cross between Robert Mulligan’s SUMMER OF ’42 (1971) and Bergman’s THE PASSION OF ANNA (1969), where the suppressed inner rage from the Max von Sydow role perfectly matches the wordless anguish of the father in this film, and there’s that once in a lifetime summer fling for that sensitive young teenage boy who’s having a particularly rough summer.

Opening with sure signs of family bliss, a giveaway that some major catastrophe is about to occur, a car accident takes the lives of the mother and younger son, leaving a crestfallen, emotionally crushed father and his sullen, permanently limping son to pick up the pieces of their lives, where the son blames the father for everything that happened and the two can barely tolerate each other’s company, much less communicate. Nonetheless, after the father’s failed disguised attempted suicide, they retreat to their summer home on an idyllic island. Michael Nyqvist as the father just compounds his troubles through his own neglectful behavior, while his son Jonas, Anastasios Soulis, sort of a young Ryan Gosling, broods and feels sorry for himself. The grandparents arrive with an ultra-cantankerous, overbearing grandfather, Sten Ljunggren, a Swedish staple who wants to whisk the child away to safety, where the father has to climb out of his doldrums and actually stand up to his old man. And then voilà, another woman materializes for each guy, one the wife of an old family friend on the island, and the other a gorgeous blond who prefers swimming topless, which perfectly suits the needs of any morose teenage boy. If all of this sounds like it’s by the numbers, it is, but Nyqvist is really brilliant fucking up his life, and the gorgeous blond (Moa Gammel) with the husky voice is amazingly good as every kid’s ideal, sexy, extremely candid and direct, sympathetic, and most of all available. Relationships ensue, shots of the island are picture perfect, and despite leading us at every turn to believe that these guys just can’t make the effort, as the film is really more about hurting than healing, then a completely unnecessary montage of family memories floods the screen and there’s a commercially viable ending. The Bergman half, a tearjerker, with spare, occasionally contemptuous dialogue of people fuming or staring off into space, is especially effective, as these actors have dramatic presence and it’s a stunning location, but the director then has to oversell his product, prefacing it with tears, then using commercially appealing shots that send the audience out the theater smiling. It’s not a bad film, the spaces between people are extremely well earned, but it’s the Mephistophelian question: would you rather make a film that everyone sees or would you rather make a good film? This director chose the former.

Variety.com [Gunnar Rehlin]

Briskie, Zana and Ross Kauffman

BORN INTO BROTHELS

India USA (85 mi) 2004

Strictly Film School review Acquarello

In 1998, photojournalist Zana Briski came to Calcutta's red light district to live in the subhuman conditions of a typical area boarding house among the prostitutes in order to chronicle their existence and soon became drawn into the world of their children who, because of their parents' involvement in the sex trade, are denied acceptance to schools and a proper education that, in essence, condemns them to the same fate as their parents. Returning to the boarding house with several point-and-shoot cameras, Briski begins to teach the children about photography, composition, and editing, often taking them on field trips to idyllic locations - zoos, rural farmlands, and the beach - that seem far removed from their circumstances in order to inspire their creativity (and perhaps, to show them the possibility of a world outside the red light district). However, realizing that these diversionary excursions were only a transitory escape for these children, Briski then committed herself to finding a way out of the brothels for them. The film then chronicles her attempts to raise awareness for the children's plight with the goal of raising enough money to send them to a boarding house for an undistracted education (and away from the sex trade where a girl is often brought in to work in "the line" by the time she is 14). Perhaps the singularly most humbling and remarkably inspiring film I have ever seen in a long time on selflessness, compassion, instilling hope, and human decency, Born into Brothels is a lucid and unsentimental, yet profoundly moving document of humanitarianism. (For more information on the project, visit: kids-with-cameras.org.)

Brisseau, Jean-Claude

SECRET THINGS (Choses secrètes) C+ 78

France (115 mi) 2002

Cahiers du Cinema’s number one film of the year in 2002, and it starts out brilliantly with a sexually alluring opening that screams with overly melodramatic operatic overtones, a scene that is unforgettable if only for its blatant nudity and stylish sexual provocation. The film features two beautiful women, a young sexual apprentice, Sabrina Seyvecou, and the more promiscuous Coralie Revel, who is featured in the film’s opening. They become roommates and decide, a la Neil LaBute, to turn the tables on men, to sexually set them up only to lure them into their devious trap in a blatant power grab, targeting rich, successful businessmen. Their goal is to climb the social ladder of success as quickly as possible, using their sexual prowess, which, in this film, is the ability to control others through the art of masturbating openly either in public, or in just the right business setting to catch their man. However, when the film introduces a male business character in the firm that is as lascivious as the women are, a man with even fewer moral attributes, the film degenerates from there and becomes unbelievably stupid, as the human dimension of the women never expands and actually becomes tiresome. They remain sexual objects throughout, never once rising above this slavish male sexual image. The entire experience resembles the indulgences of a young male twenty something fantasy, never exploring what it is to be female, or human. I guess that will remain a “secret thing.” However the brilliance of this film is the beautiful, over exaggerated operatic style as well as the equally sumptuous beauty and alluring acting of the female protagonists.

Slant Magazine review Ed Gonzalez

Stanley Kubrick envisioned Eyes Wide Shut as an Odyssean chronicle of marital drift. After a series of absurd encounters with the unseemly, naughty bourgeois and the diseased rejects that pander to their ludicrous peccadilloes, Tom Cruise's wandering soul gets the hint: don't stray! Jean-Claude Brisseau's subversive Secret Things is nowhere near as structurally rigorous as Kubrick's swan song, but it certainly feels more daring. First, think Celine and Julie Go Masturbating. On what appears to be a lonely stage, the sexy Nathalie (Coralie Revel) begins to pleasure herself. Then the delirious swell of an opera piece, perfectly timed to the movement of Brisseau's camera, which pans to the right to reveal a roomful of bar patrons, including innocent barmaid Sandrine (Sabrina Seyvecou), ogling the spectacle of Nathalie's uninhibited libido. Right away, this is a woman in full control of her sex, and her relationship to Nathalie suggests a confrontation between id and ego (critic Zach Ralston rightfully draws allusions to David Fincher's Fight Club). She's fucking hot, but the sexual-political implications of her dance are hotter. This is a powerful ritual of self-actualization, and Brisseau envisions in it a postmodern collision of reality-challenging signs that carries over into the rest of the film: the extras happily stare into the camera, the mise-en-scène is meticulously anti-artifice, and the characters giddily speak the director's subtext. Brisseau doesn't mess around. In stripping Secret Things of any and all aesthetic bullshit, he mediates the relationship between Sandrine and Nathalie by bringing us closer to them. Call it an anti-distancing approach. This erotic chronicle of two ball-busting, social-climbing women takes place in the present but could just as easily have taken place in the Middle Ages, or in the same future as Ridley Scott's Blade Runner. Nathalie and Sandrine's struggle to conquer a demonic hottie's empire is the same struggle of disenfranchised masses trying to overthrow despotic leaders. Their weapon is sex (coy glances, hushed whispers, public wanking) and every assault is contrived as a political maneuver. Alliances repeatedly shift, and the higher they move up the social ladder the more dangerous things get. By film's end, the very-straight Brisseau threatens to destroy his women warriors. But despite the overwhelming power of the incestuous demigod played by Fabrice Deville, the spoils of war are theirs and the film ends with a discomfiting role reversal that daringly questions the progress the women have made. Happily and ridiculously over the top, Secret Things is a war of anarchic, sexual primitivism.

SECRET THINGS Steve Erickson from Chronicle of a Passion

SECRET THINGS is a put-on  that takes itself extremely seriously. Kicking off with a first reel bordering on Skinemax softcore porn, it pushes the viewer’s buttons much like its protagonists jerk other people around. Fairly controlled in mood for its first two thirds, it then introduces an anti-hero who stages orgies (in obvious parody of EYES WIDE SHUT) when not spouting Nietzschean aphorisms and bizarre religious references. The angel of death makes a few cameo appearances. By that point, my hopes for the film as anything more than a goofy whatsit had also died.

Nathalie (Coralie Revel) and Sandrine (Sabrina Seyvecou) work in a strip club. Nathalie is a dancer, Sandrine a bartender. One night, both get fired after a manger suggests that Sandrine start turning tricks.. Nathalie invites Sandrine, who’s on the verge of getting evicted from her tiny room, to stay with her. Giving  lessons in the ways of wanking and fucking her way to the top,  she gets Sandrine to experiment sexually. The two women find jobs at the same bank and get to work on seducing their bosses in order to maintain power. Christophe (Fabrice Deville), a handsome yet extremely unpleasant man, is the heir to the business’ fortune and their ultimate target.

Brisseau’s reflexivity is apparent from the very beginning. Lit like a Rembrandt painting, Nathalie lies in bed. After stroking herself, she gets up, walking awkwardly. We then discover that she’s actually performing onstage at a strip club. She considers herself the consummate femme fatale.  Her pedagogy  consists of ways to manipulate men by cutting off one’s emotions and - even while flaunting sex - libido, although she can’t always follow her own advice. If the film were made now, I can imagine Brisseau taking a cue from THE FOG OF WAR and structuring it as a series of lessons. 

Like many films big and small (from Russ Meyer’s FASTER, PUSSYCAT! KILL! KILL! to CHARLIE’S ANGELS: FULL THROTTLE and KILL BILL, VOL. 1), SECRET THINGS rests on the fine line between ogling or fetishizing strong women and genuinely respecting and admiring them. Does the empowerment exist to justify the T&A or are those wires terminally confused? SECRET THINGS is a straight male fantasy, especially  about female bisexuality. That’s as obvious as the fact that it’s in French. It’s also a fantasy about class and the workplace. The two fantasies combine explosively, but not particularly enlighteningly.  Neil LaBute’s IN THE COMPANY OF MEN is an obvious touchstone for SECRET THINGS, but Brisseau’s insistence on the specifically sexual nature of his heroine’s travails is his own invention.

Delacroix, the first man seduced by Nadine and Sandrine, seems like a fairly nice, genuinely vulnerable guy. Naturally, he falls, managing to keep his position at the bank only through Sandrine’s kindness. The women’s next target, Christophe,  is a larger-than-life character who derails any pretensions of naturalism. Once he appears, important moments are signaled by very loud blasts of classical music. He challenges God to punish him - and in a roundabout way, He does, but not before lots of over-the-top symbolism.

It’s become a commonplace for art films to justify showing extremely explicit, even real sex by  offering a grim view of sexuality. Brisseau certainly intends to turn his audience on, but sex in SECRET THINGS is a means of manipulation, rather than communication or pleasure. (No wonder it emphasizes masturbation so much.)  Love is a weakness, which just allows one to be used. Kindness is a rare gesture, one often exercised as a willful reminder of power.  Sandrine narrates the film,  which becomes her story  even if it doesn’t seem that way initially.

In the end, SECRET THINGS goes off the rails, growing increasingly silly. Brisseau refrains from showing his hand by making the OTT melodramatic tone overtly comic:  the more risible moments could be intended seriously. Laughing at films about sex is a depressingly common American response (one not helped by the likes of Catherine Breillat’s ROMANCE), but this one is outrageous enough that it’s unavoidable. Unfortunately, it’s also laughable as a morality play, drawing on notions of human nature stemming mostly from cheap fiction. Unlike LaBute, Brisseau doesn’t have much sense of workplace dynamics. At Christophe’s bank, everyone seems too busy having sex or masturbating to get much done. I suppose the sexual power struggles serve as a metaphor for larger ones, but in the end, economic power looks like a symbol of sexual mastery: cock and pussy have an iconic power all their own. Brisseau’s delirium  makes mincemeat out of his agenda. 

Deep Focus (Bryant Frazer) review [B]

There's a certain, distinctive sound -- at least there was in the days before six-channel digital mixes came into vogue, with their full dynamic range and dead-empty silences -- made by a woman's moans on a film's soundtrack. Especially if you're watching a worn print, the sound will be distorted. Every gasp surges up from near-silence, the speaker crackling with each breath drawn. It's a harsh sound, not much like the noises that real people make. But it's also a very distinctive sound. The dirtier the film print that you're watching, the more noise that ecstasy makes.

The print of Secret Things that was screened for critics in New York was pretty dirty, in more ways than one. The frequent heavy breathing had that familiar movie-sex sound, and there was also a strange thumping noise rising up in the silence between drawn breaths. (I was with Steve Erickson, and he remarked afterward that he almost mistook that sound for the lub-dub of a heartbeat in the film's audio mix.) Maybe that's why the first few reels of this film have the low-down, disreputable feel of old-school sexploitation. I thought of those nude-for-art's sake Euro-horror pictures from the likes of Jean Rollin.

In fact, the opening sequence of Secret Things is very similar to that of Rollin's Vampyros Lesbos, with a nude Nathalie (Coralie Revel) masturbating by candlelight. She gets up out of bed, struts a few steps, then sits in a chair and masturbates some more. She struts a few more steps, then drops to the floor, spreads her legs wide and finishes herself off. Tracking off to the right, the camera reveals that she is performing on a stage, the nightclub patrons who acknowledge her with polite applause mirroring the movie audience, sitting in the darkness outside the movie world and looking in.

Secret Things is a film, in part, about liking to be watched — and by the very nature of cinema, it's implicitly about liking to watch. That state of spectatorship is shared by the film’s director, who runs his actresses through a variety of softcore porn-film paces, by the human voyeurs who populate its narrative, and of course by the moviegoers who view it. But because Brisseau is willing to follow through intellectually on the titillating premise, it's also about different levels of exploitation, and how the exploited underclass (not just the poor, but the female poor) might seek to turn the tables.

Watching Nathalie from a distance in that opening sequence is the prim, pretty barmaid Sandrine (Sabrina Seyvecou), experiencing the first stirrings of what will become a scheming sexual relationship. The two women bond when the club’s owner tries to pimp Sandrine to a regular customer; Nathalie defends her, declaring that she doesn't have to do anything she doesn't want to do. The owner agrees, but displays a handful of money and declares that it's her choice — her dignity and autonomy versus the money to pay her back rent. That's a distillation of how exploitation really works in an allegedly free capitalist society – those who control the wealth can exert overpowering influence over those who have nothing, and yet the poor are expected to embrace some degree of illusory freedom. Nathalie wants to manipulate her social standing as well as her vulva, and instructs Sandrine clearly: carefully select your men according to the economic station they hold. Choose when to provide sex and when to withhold it. Never allow yourself the luxury of falling in love.

This may sound like a tongue-in-cheek variant on Dangerous Liaisons, and I suppose on one level it is. On another level, the early sections play like a series of episodes on the road to feminine self-actualization. There's one funny and sexy scene where Sandrine exposes herself in a subway station at Nathalie's urging, with most of the men around her oblivious; in another, Sandrine directs the younger woman to masturbate beneath a blanket and then, once she finds her rhythm, to pull the blanket away. Like the stage performance that opens the film, these scenes are not short – each constitutes a significant chunk of the narrative. They're unabashedly sensual, and the actresses are terrific in them. Revel is dark and handsome, with a face that reveals itself in new ways every time Brisseau's camera catches it from a different angle and a body to match; Seyvecou has a blue-eyed freshness yet ably transforms herself as the film progresses and the two women began to swap personality traits, Persona-style.

Nowhere is the weird balance Secret Things consistently strikes between the sublime and the ridiculous more apparent than in the scene where Sandrine's employer Delacroix (Roger Mirmont), a middle-aged businessman whom the women have identified as a suitable target for destruction, checks up on her on a sick day. He finds her front door unlocked and bedroom wide open. Of course she's in there, kneeling on the floor and finger-fucking Nathalie, when Delacroix arrives. Brisseau shoots the two women making love in the soft light with an unmoving camera, explicitly mimicking Delacroix's point of view — of course he just stands there, gaping and gobsmacked — and also highlighting the similarity of their bodies and the mechanical nature of their sex act. You can read the scene as inept and unintentionally funny, or you can find in it a very dry joke having to do with the notion that men are horny, hapless dogs easily manipulated by any beautiful woman sporting a fab body and ravenous sexual appetites who aspires to fucking with their heads. (It's similarly funny when Sandrine schemes to ingratiate herself to him by capitalizing on his status as a Mama's boy.) Brisseau never goes into tragic-romantic mode, a la Louis Malle's Damage, nor does he tip his hand by playing it as outright comedy. And the subtext remains intriguing – its easy to take a rooting interest in working girls as they go up against The Man. In fact, it's a little depressing when one of them turns out to be a sucker.

So what's silly about this is all the sex and nudity, which lends an aura of dorky fantasia to the entire exercise. And what's exciting about it is, right, all the sex and nudity. In some ways Secret Things is thrilling — partly because Revel and Seyvecou are fabulous babes, yes, but also because Brisseau is reclaiming a potent mode of storytelling that has been hijacked by lowbrow narratives for so long that audiences — at least American audiences — snap into ironic-distance mode the moment a naked boobie appears on the screen. (This is why audiences rejected Eyes Wide Shut, whose dreamlike approach to impersonal sexuality is seen and raised by Brisseau, and why certain segments of the U.S. population got so twisted up about Janet Jackson's right tit — there is no room for irony during as guileless an American spectacle as the Super Bowl.) The idea of being turned on by a film and simultaneously taking it seriously is so alien these days that when a picture like The Dreamers is actually released with an adults-only NC-17 rating, it's time to start writing headlines.

By the time the last reel spools through the projector, Secret Things has plunged so deep into melodrama, with an appropriately operatic soundtrack, that viewing it becomes a disorienting experience. What sort of heaviness is portended by that ominous Angel of Death who graces the opening sequence and reappears in later scenes (and, if reports are to believed, in other Brisseau films)? What’s up with Christophe (Fabrice Deville), the slick heir apparent to corporate fortune who makes out with his sister and seems to represent – occasionally hilariously, as when he starts setting fire to 500-pound notes over the dinner table – everything that’s wasteful, turgid and cruel in this world? Are we meant to be moved politically or ideologically by the arrival on the scene of a luxury car branded inconspicuously with the legend “American Limousines?”

And what, after all, about all that moaning? Maybe it’s real ecstasy, expressing the gratification of being watched, or of taking sensual pleasure into one's own hands, or maybe it’s just part of a performance piece, a whopping fake orgasm delivered by an ambitious phony. Maybe — is this too ridiculous? — it's the heavy breathing of the working class, oppressed by rich weirdos who control the world’s money and power, yearning and plotting to turn the tables. But however you decode its sexually charged images and sounds, Secret Things is a bracingly personal film; it's a world-class misanthrope’s erotic fantasy.

Anti-Social Realism: Jean-Claude Brisseau - Film Comment Frédéric Bonnaud, January/February 2004

Jean-Claude Brisseau is the most atypical of great French filmmakers. His themes, his career, his influences, his personality all conspire to make him truly marginal. He belongs to none of French cinema’s “families.” He’s a lone wolf, and pays a high price for his independence. His integrity and meticulousness scare off producers, and each of his 10 films was the result of a fierce struggle. His nonprofessional debut, La Croisée des chemins (75), has never been seen; he only became known following the 1987 Cannes premiere of Sound and Fury (De bruit et de fureur) and the film’s subsequent critical and box-office success. During the long years in between, Brisseau relied on the friendship and support of Eric Rohmer, who encouraged this schoolteacher and part-time filmmaker (a double life that Rohmer himself led 20 years earlier).

Sound and Fury was the first French film to depict the youth of the suburban housing projects and the gangs they formed in those zones of exclusion. At the time, gang culture was just beginning to alarm mainstream society—years before the triumph of Mathieu Kassovitz’s Hate and the subsequent wave of banlieue films. But even as Sound and Fury marked the emergence of a singular cinéaste, it also laid the groundwork for the misunderstandings that have continued to dog him. For the PC leftist critics, Brisseau was simply a “socially concerned filmmaker,” committed to revealing the violence and exclusionary politics at work in the projects and the dead-end life of the underclass. But that perception ignored the fantasy elements, surreal touches, and strong sense of the grotesque that constantly disturb the film’s apparent naturalism, much as in Buñuel’s Los Olvidados, Brisseau’s acknowledged model. Brisseau was thereafter doomed to live with the reductive, burdensome label of “realist.” As a result, he has consistently disappointed those critics who believed they had finally found a filmmaker capable of tackling the country’s big issues and social evils—for which he paid a very high price.

During the release of his previous film, Workers for the Good Lord (Les Savates du Bon Dieu, 99), Brisseau told me, “None of my films are realistic, and certainly not naturalistic, including Sound and Fury, even though it touched on a certain social reality. They all contain a shadow zone. I do like to come back to social reality, but I do it through the mixing of genres and the insertion of surrealist elements. When the Cinémathèque Française asked me to select some films that had influenced me to accompany a retrospective of my work, I realized that I’d chosen movies that all assumed an air of realism while completely evading it. Take Alain Resnais’s La Guerre est finie: the film seems to deal with the political reality of the time, and yet that isn’t what Resnais filmed. In my own work, the subject is never naturalism but a certain kind of relation to reality. With each film, I try to find a new way to confront these complex relations. Watching one of my movies, you always have to ask yourself if you’re reading it correctly—for instance, should you be laughing at a film that began in such a somber way. During the first screening of Sound and Fury, the younger audience members laughed, and I was more or less with them. Meanwhile, the more serious viewers felt the kids had no right to make fun of such things.”

The American viewer, encountering Brisseau for the first time via his most recent film, Secret Things (02), won’t have to deal with the thorny—and very French—issue of naturalism. From the opening strip-club scene, the tenuousness of the film’s attachment to realism is apparent, and this first impression is confirmed by the fanciful job-interview sequence, in which two ambitious young women instantly land secretarial positions simply by crossing and uncrossing their legs—despite the fact that they’re absolutely unqualified and France has three million unemployed!

Secret Things is an amalgam of genres bringing together an apprenticeship narrative à la Balzac (Lost Illusions is an explicit citation), softcore porn, a conte cruelle, and Hitchcockian suspense. The film describes the rapid social rise of Sandrine and Nathalie, two young women of now (and forever) who set out on a quest for power using sexuality as their principal weapon. They learn to arouse themselves, to control and simulate pleasure as needed, and to guard against love with a capital L, the main obstacle for aspiring femmes fatales. It may be the product of naiveté, and it certainly leads to a bloody catastrophe, but their program of political resistance is directly related to the imaginary.

In essence, Sandrine and Nathalie are actresses both playing the roles of maneater. But above all, they are spectators, the kind of people who voraciously consume imagery both high and low, from melodramas to soaps. The basis of Brisseau’s film isn’t social reality but reality as deformed by the society of the spectacle. He’s not trying to film the real world but rather a world haunted by the phantasms its inhabitants have created, a world in which everyone turns their lives into their own movies or novels, in which everyone gorges on clichés that could be titles of shallow, mass-market fiction: Sex in the Subway, Love at the Office, How to Seduce Your Boss, Fatal Passion. Sandrine and Nathalie realize their own threadbare phantasms with complete success—until they encounter a figure who could have stepped straight out of a tragedy, whose family history includes destruction and sacrifice. At this point the film takes on a true grandeur.

Having exhausted its heroines’ trajectory and swept away all the sentimental images and erotic clichés, Secret Things rises above these shreds and tatters and reveals itself for what it is: a melodrama of today, of the here and now, with an eye on the crumbling state of our colonized imaginations, before re-establishing itself on the side of pure lyricism, finally purged of everything that has stood in the way of its expression, finally cleansed of impurities. Fundamentally, Secret Things is about redemption, in the Catholic sense of the term: redemption of the characters, redemption of the images. But it goes down a long, painful road only to rediscover the original purity of classic melodrama. A brilliant reflection upon the degraded state of the contemporary imagination, Secret Things is difficult to grasp. Difficult because Brisseau treats, in a resolutely classical fashion, the postmodern condition in which images mediate our relationship with reality and the world. Working with hackneyed material—a tale of social climbing with a heavy erotic charge—Brisseau refuses to play to highbrow viewers by adopting an ironic or detached stance. He tackles the clichés head-on, without winking. As he says: “I like to play with the iconography because it allows you to make yourself understood faster, to speed up the story. And all of us live in an imaginary space that we can never completely escape.” But Brisseau doesn’t condescend to the popular types he uses. His method is to gradually exhaust them, until others take their place. He sets his sights more on the neighborhood movie theater than the cinémathèque, and dreams of reaching a mass audience—speaking to them through an only slightly skewed imitation of current pop-culture forms. The great subject of all his films is communication—at heart he’s still a teacher, always hoping for a final catharsis. Brisseau is a filmmaker in search of transcendence.

For he is a profoundly religious artist. Which is to say, he practices cinema as if it were a religion of which he is the last devoted priest. He claims to have learned how to make movies by taking apart Psycho innumerable times. Even today, he still enjoys inviting friends to his home to show and then analyze his pet films. Brisseau is a great connoisseur of classic American cinema (and a hopeless admirer of Gary Cooper), and his imagination is filled with dark plots, femmes fatales holding both the secrets of sex and the workings of social class, and naive heroes forced to confront the world’s horrors head-on. Brisseau’s project consists of applying the plots and codes of American film noir to the reality of French society, not unlike Claude Chabrol under the influence of Fritz Lang. The difference is that, like Lang, Chabrol always positions himself as the omniscient demiurge, even if he is careful to disguise his despotism under the appearance of a gentle and comprehending acceptance of human foibles. Brisseau, however, is more profoundly Hitchcockian. He projects himself willingly onto his damaged protagonists and allows the spectator to empathize and identify with them.

Five years after the huge public success of White Wedding (Noce blanche, 89), with Bruno Cremer and Vanessa Paradis—yet another pure melodrama dealing with the difficulty of communication and the impossibility of achieving true romantic fusion between a man and a woman—Brisseau (for once with a comfortable budget) threw himself into the film of his cinephile dreams: The Black Angel (L’Ange noir, 94). François Mauriac’s novel, set in Bordeaux and France’s prosperous Southwest, enters new territory: the haute bourgeoisie. And of course, he shows everything he believes to be wrong with this luxurious vipers’ nest of hidden horrors. But he moves beyond this somewhat banal discourse to focus on the opaque Stéphane (played by the singer Sylvie Vartan), an exterminating angel as well as a black one, an ice block of hatred inhabiting the film’s plush interiors. She is the worm in the apple, the envoy of a world of suffering and humiliation, sent to subvert the tranquility of the rich from within. She’s waging a covert war against respectable society, mimicking bourgeois propriety the better to destroy it, using sex as the ultimate weapon. Retracing the course of her life by way of a police investigation, which becomes a fascinating interplay of clues and suggestions, the film conveys the hopelessness of revolt and the inevitability of romantic betrayal. Like its main character, The Black Angel walks the razor’s edge, running the risk of ridiculousness and camp as it twists a classic Hitchcockian melodrama (Rebecca, The Paradine Case, and Vertigo are cited) into an incendiary political declaration. This explosive cocktail produces a proudly unique film, a grand slam from a filmmaker still hanging on to the cinema of his masters and his own fantasies on the one hand and his anger toward an all-too-well-established social order on the other, the former shaping and illuminating the latter. One scene repeats word for word the famous exchange between the lovers in Nicholas Ray’s Johnny Guitar: “Lie to me. . . . Tell me you still love me like I love you.” But this is a scene in which a young woman masturbates in front of her lover while he videotapes her—a typical deviation of the “project Brisseau.”

The Black Angel found only a handful of defenders, among them Cahiers du cinéma, which did a cover story. The film, a commercial catastrophe, was widely ridiculed. Following this serious and undeserved setback, Brisseau found it difficult to get his projects off the ground and endured a five-year silence, which ended with Workers for the Good Lord, an apparent return to the proletarian atmosphere of Sound and Fury that becomes a delirious philosophical fable. This epic film, with its abrupt shifts in rhythm and tone, featuring an African shaman who performs miracles, enabled Brisseau to finally shake off his reputation as a socially themed, naturalistic filmmaker. But it proved to be another commercial misstep. And so it was only with reduced means and inadequate distribution that he was able to make Secret Things. Boosted by almost unanimously enthusiastic reviews, the film was relatively successful—a nice surprise for a man who would rather be a working filmmaker than a professional bad boy.

Choses secrètes The Anti-Christ, by Chris Fujiwara from the Boston Phoenix, also seen here: The Boston Phoenix review

Reverse Shot review Nick Pinkerton, Spring 2005

d+kaz. Intelligent Movie Reviews (Daniel Kasman) review [B+]

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

culturevulture.net, Choices for the Cognoscenti review George Wu

Salon.com [Charles Taylor]

The Village Voice [J. Hoberman]

DVD Times [Anthony Nield]

New York Observer (Andrew Sarris) review

Secret Things Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

Film Freak Central review Walter Chaw

Movie Martyr (Jeremy Heilman) review [4/4]

Harvey S. Karten review [A-]

DVD Verdict (Rob Lineberger) dvd review

DVD Times Noel Megahey on a French release without English subtitles

hybridmagazine.com review Edward Rholes

Reel.com review [2/4] Tim Knight

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson) review

DVD Talk (Matt Langdon) dvd review [3/5]

filmcritic.com (Christopher Null) review [4/5]

Variety (Lisa Nesselson) review

Guardian/Observer

Boston Globe review [1.5/4] Ty Burr

Austin Chronicle (Marc Savlov) review [1.5/5]

San Francisco Chronicle (Mick LaSalle) review

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [3/4]

The New York Times (Dave Kehr) review

DVDBeaver dvd review Henrik Sylow

EXTERMINATING ANGELS (Les anges exterminateurs) C- 68

France (100 mi) 2006

Not far removed from porn, much of which takes place in a similar non-descript hotel room, which even includes a crescendo of lush orchestration of lightly percussive elevator music, featuring women who willingly perform for a *male’s* fantasies, oftentimes claiming it is their own, believing that’s what a man wants to hear, where beautiful young women having naked sex together, without men, just women, is the main feature, occasionally masturbating in front of the leering eyes of just one man, a stand-in for the director himself who asks women to audition for a film that supposedly challenges women’s sexual taboos. One after another, women walk into this man’s offices and hear his ludicrous offer, which many simply laugh at and walk out, while others, supposedly the more fierce and independent minded, willingly strip and do anything he asks, so long as he only looks. The onscreen sex is in no way realistic, as it’s connected to cardboard cut out characters that are no more than disposable parts, having been created with no emotional center, so when the women turn into party animals that just want it all the time, who willingly fulfill a male-only fantasy, and then pretend this is so liberating, that the experience is freeing them from all their pent-up inhibitions, transforming their lives, even pretending this is their first orgasm, or their first experience with a women, or this experience turned one into a lesbian, all are absurd contentions that exist only in the not too deep recesses of a man’s imagination. Why this is exhibited onscreen, and why some feel this movie offers artistic or social merit, I can’t explain, it just reeks of adolescent male masturbatory pretentiousness.

If some of this film pertained to authentic emotions, if there was any genuine connection to the audience, perhaps this might lead somewhere, instead the story is lead by a passionless self-centered director who exhibits absolutely no interest onscreen. There’s simply no reason for any woman to “perform” for him, reveal their naked bodies, have sex in a hotel room in two’s and three’s, all initially *without* a camera rolling, claiming it’s just a rehearsal, this is just mind-blowingly absurd. And when one woman actually reveals her own fantasy which includes multiple guys, her thoughts are all but ignored, despite the director’s deluded claims that the film is not about his own fantasies. Just because a man wants them to is not reason enough for women to suddenly feel comfortable with exhibitionist sex (a common element of both Brisseau films viewed thus far), and only in front of him as a leering and arguably pathetic father figure, especially when they have communicated previous unease, so for an instant shift to becoming women who have multiple orgasms on cue isn’t in the least bit believable. So what’s the point? How is this somehow different from hiring women for sex, which is what this film feels like, and which is eventually how the man makes his movie, hiring a porn actress when the others lost interest in the movie project. This film is decorated with stylized, artificial devises, such as two dead women angels who chat about the ensuing action, appearing and disappearing on cue, following the director, talking to him like his alter-ego, occasionally making dark references to the scene taking place. Despite its aspirations to be more, something along the lines of Christophe Honoré’s graphic and much more controversial MA MÈRE, which was adapted from a legitimate source, a Georges Bataille novel that offered a unique and highly original philosophical foundation, this totally unchallenging film offers instead silly pop up phrases to remind the viewers it’s about more than sex. But here, it’s just about voyeuristic nudity and sex, and like porn, utterly forgettable.

'The Host,' 'Maxed Out,' 'Exterminating Angels,' and 'Behind the ... David Edelstein (Page 2) from New York magazine

Jean-Claude Brisseau’s Exterminating Angels centers on the efforts of a writer-director, François (Frédéric Van Den Driessche), to capture, on film, “the grace of pleasure” on the faces and bodies of women in the throes of sexual ecstasy. The brave fool doesn’t realize what a dangerous game this is, female sexuality being as primal, as Camille Paglia–esque, as it is. That François will be punished for meddling with “the infernal machine” is foreshadowed by the sporadic appearance of two “fallen angels”—black-haired harpies who gaze on him balefully as he privately auditions actresses to gauge their “potential for exhibitionism.” One actress, the lovely and tremulous Charlotte (Maroussia Dubreuil), has plenty of exhibitionistic potential indeed, mainly owing to mental illness and a history of sexual abuse. She has (very explicit) sex with Julie (Lise Bellynck) and then with Julie and Stéphanie (Marie Allan) together—and it all goes like gangbusters until the first day of shooting …

François is apparently the director’s alter ego, which makes it sad he’s such a lox, and that his face conveys nothing as he watches these women (laboriously) getting one another off. Exterminating Angels is meant as an autocritique—and yet the director can’t get past his notion of himself as a fearlessly transgressive artist-hero, a martyr to the limitations of male gaze. With all those lovely naked women helping him act out his own Promethean fall, it’s less autocritique than autoeroticism, an especially pretentious entry in the French cinema du wank.

Bright Lights Film Journal [Robert Keser]

Hell hath no fury like art-porn actresses scorned, argues The Exterminating Angels (Les Anges exterminateurs), the colossally disingenuous yet very fancy highbrow production wherein director Jean-Claude Brisseau takes the real-life sexual harassment lawsuits brought against him by four actresses whom he put through their erotic paces for Secret Things (2005 in the U.S.) and turns this experience into a dotty and risibly self-justifying portrait of innocence damaged, i.e., his innocence. Choosing the doe-eyed Frédéric Van Den Driessche as his alter ego, he depicts himself as a dedicated investigator of erotic taboos, though confined to ones that involve female-on-female performance in tastefully glazed lighting and costumed where possible in nothing more than stiletto heels. In his office the director entertains a parade of hilariously hot-to-trot young foxes, exhibitionists in hormonal overdrive who gamely volunteer to flesh out his research by stripping off and inviting him to witness (and film) their sexual solos and duos (even trios). Unlike the findings of the actual court case, where the off-screen Brisseau was convicted of pleasuring himself repeatedly in these situations, the only sexual exertion the onscreen Brisseau enjoys is expended on his somewhat surprised spouse. Otherwise, he’s a choirboy bathed in sympathetic light, 100% sinned against and zero percent sinning, who eyes the goings-on with simpering objectivity, like a wary soccer dad interviewing nubile au pairs while his wife watches from the next room. This would all play out as an absurdly literal indulgence, like a Euro-Ed Wood exploitationer with color and a lavish budget for his facile images, but Brisseau adds shrewd touches of faux surrealism, in which the titular “angels,” a pair of baleful young women in the shadows, with chignons pulled tight and severe black leotards, appear and disappear at will, glaring at him like grim modern dancers whose paychecks bounced. What is the honey-coated secret they are waiting to impart? That his actresses were all in love with him, the clueless lug! After Brisseau stages an eleventh-hour attack by black-clad Euro-ninjas with baseball bats, some viewers will feel he should be prosecuted for this movie too.

filmcritic.com (Chris Cabin) review [3/5]

In Jean-Claude Brisseau's 2002 film Secret Things, two women use their bodies and manipulative theatrics to get ahead at a sterile French bank, only to be flipped by a shark in a cornflake-crisp suit and a sharp tie. Ostensibly, Brisseau was being coy: Secret Things was an exercise in taboo that had the visage of breaking taboo. Following the film, Brisseau was brought up on charges of harassment by actresses that tried out for the roles in his film. Actresses accused him of pushing them to masturbate in front of him (and on camera) as a prerequisite for auditioning for the roles. He was later released with a warning and a term of probation.

Now, he attempts again to find what he calls "a relation to reality" in The Exterminating Angels, a believe-it-or-not dramatization of what occurred during the casting sessions for Secret Things and the emotional backlash felt after. Blended thoughtfully with radio transmissions of free-form poetry, the story uses Frédéric van den Driessche as a stand-in for Brisseau, here named François.

Often followed by two angels in black aerobics suits (Margaret Zenou and Raphaële Godin), François begins to cast his latest exploration of sexual taboos, being completely upfront about the fact that any girl interested will have to masturbate on camera for him. Dozens say no but one girl named Julie (Lise Bellynck), coaxed by one of the angels, agrees to the process. Two more follow, the last being intrigued after watching a public display of the audition process. They audition, tease, and attempt to seduce François and, finally, turn on him for betraying a supposed trust and bond they had with him.

Nothing if not audacious and borderline ludicrous, The Exterminating Angels finds Brisseau in decidedly more dangerous territory than Secret Things, picking at the stitches that held his previous film in such uncertain grounds. Danger never comes clean: Brisseau's purposeful clash in tone can drift from abstract to absurd without hesitation, creating an awkward, over-the top mood in the film's more erotic spots. This does not detract from the film's brute complexity, as one might assume. The Lynchian grandmother scenes forgiven, Brisseau engages directly with the director and his three beauties, giving the film a bewildering focus.

The level of the filmmaker's pomposity seemed a point of heavy arbitration at the screening I attended. Three seductive girls fall for an elderly director and sue him when he starts to back away from them? Hey, it's France. Self-aggrandizing aside, Angels has an imprudent fascination to its askew narrative and is, hands-down, the most blazingly erotic film to come along in some time. Whether or not Brisseau has successfully flipped his wig or not could be debated for months, but the extent of his success as a provocateur seems undeniable. The only question remaining: Can the modern man handle Brisseau's cup of tea? The answer: Dude! All-girl threesome!

The Village Voice [Rob Nelson]

Anyone who doubts that moviemaking is an essentially masturbatory endeavor would do well to come— preferably alone—to Jean-Claude Brisseau's Exterminating Angels. Women may often have the upper hand in this red-hot fantasy of distaff diddling, but the middle-aged French auteur—a former schoolteacher, believe it or not—appears largely in business to service himself.

As Gallic film devotees are well aware, the writer-director was found guilty in 2005 of sexually harassing a pair of young actresses who had been persuaded to masturbate while auditioning for parts in Secret Things, his film about female pleasure and transgressing taboos. Brisseau did receive a stiff fine, but a one-year prison sentence was suspended, and the bulk of charges against him were dropped—in other words, he got off. Around the same time, Brisseau was putting the finishing touches, so to speak, on Exterminating Angels, in which a writer-director is accused of . . . uh, sexually harassing a pair of young actresses who had been persuaded to masturbate while auditioning for parts in his film about "female pleasure and transgressing taboos." Some of the incidents have no doubt been changed by Brisseau to protect one member or another of the ménage. But the movie hardly skimps on the sex. This is risible material in more ways than one.

Hilarious from the get-go, Exterminating Angels begins by suggesting that its emotionally abusive filmmaker was himself the victim of sexual entrapment—snared by two extremely hot young apparitions in tight black tank tops. ( Disclosure only hinted at the phenomenon of the wanton harassment of men by bitchy wraiths.) Visible only to themselves and us, these fallen angels (Rapha Godin and Margaret Zenou) find the unhappily married François (Frédéric van den Driessche) in his Paris bedroom late one night and begin to strategize his slow humiliation at the hands of mortal females—the sort of work they've apparently done before. "This one will be too easy," boasts the more aggressive of the pair. Indeed, a bevy of babes, at least one of them acting on instructions whispered to her by Angel No. 1, soon head in rapid succession to the auteur's casting couch, confessing their erotic secrets and making him uncomfortably hot. François never lays a finger on the women (that'll be his defense), instead compelling two of the most eager actresses, Julie (Lise Bellynck) and Charlotte (Maroussia Dubreuil), to finger themselves (and each other) most memorably in a crowded restaurant where even a busy waitress (Marie Allan) takes notice—and gets turned on.

Despite the title, this movie is more salacious than surreal. Luis Buñuel's The Exterminating Angels is about people who come for dinner and stay for days; Brisseau's Exterminating Angels is about people who come . . . and come and come again. Charlotte, the chief beneficiary of hand-delivered gifts, eventually goes nuts in a way that only sexed-up chicks in French movies do (think Betty Blue on E). Julie goes off the deep end, too, though more gently, and the waitress voyeur gets in on the act, literally climbing atop the other two hopefuls on her way to fame. François discovers he's got more estrogen on his hands than any man can manage, but he can't say he wasn't warned: The other supernatural presence in the opening scene is his dear departed old granny, who urges, "You have to watch out for yourself."

Exterminating Angels is one audaciously, endearingly ludicrous movie. Indeed, not since Basic Instinct has a modern noir gotten so playfully aroused by straight-male sexual phobia—the twist in this case being that the maker of the film has firsthand knowledge of the subject. "I realized that sex is quasi-virgin territory," Brisseau gushes in the press kit, verily spilling innuendo. "I wanted to dive into it." Casually reaping the benefits of his celebrity, François is an immediately unreliable protagonist—his collar open far too wide, hair arrogantly unkempt, reading glasses hung from a string around his neck. (He's like a 60-year-old version of the smug shooter in Antonioni's Blow Up.) The more assertive his auditioning actress is about achieving pleasure, the more François stiffens—defensively, that is. Exterminating Angels reads like a guilt-ridden perp's absurd exoneration of himself, but it plays more like a confession. Consciously or not, Brisseau makes the women more sympathetic by far than his passively coercive, believably creepy alter ego.

There's even a sense in which the titular avengers take over direction of the movie, one of the angels calling for a suitably punitive "final act." Brisseau may imagine himself an emasculated martyr for the cause of sexual liberation in le cinéma, but somehow the women in his distinctly male fantasy have the last laugh. The key line belongs to crazy Charlotte, lounging in post-orgasmic bliss after a typically steamy screen test. "We work and come at the same time!"

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez]

Salon.com [Andrew O'Hehir]

REVIEW | Pleasure Island : Jean-Claude Brisseau’s “The Exterminating Angels” Nick Pinkerton from Reverse Shot at indieWIRE

Exterminating Angels (2006) Bryant Frazer from Deep Focus

Film Journal International (Chris Barsanti) review

stylusmagazine.com review Mike D’Alessandro

The New York Sun (Nicolas Rapold) review

DVD Verdict (Bill Gibron) dvd review

d+kaz. Intelligent Movie Reviews (Daniel Kasman) review [B-]

The Onion A.V. Club review Noel Murray

Exterminating Angels Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

EXTERMINATING ANGELS Steve Erickson from Chronicle of a Passion

culturevulture.net, Choices for the Cognoscenti review George Wu

Strictly Film School Acquarello

The House Next Door [Keith Uhlich]

CompuServe (Harvey S. Karten) review

Lessons of Darkness [Nick Schager]

DVD Talk (Svet Atanasov) dvd review [4/5] [French Release] [Region 2]

DVD Talk (Thomas Spurlin) dvd review [2/5]

cinemattraction (Carolina Larrain) review

Monsters and Critics (Ron Wilkinson)

Movie House Commentary Tuna

Movie Picture Film (Scott Hoffman) review [1.5/4]

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson) review

Variety.com [Lisa Nesselson]

Boston Globe review [2/4] Ty Burr

Los Angeles Times (Kevin Crust) review

Movie review: 'Exterminating Angels' Michael Wilmington from The Chicago Tribune

The New York Times (A.O. Scott) review

Brizé, Stéphane

NOT HERE TO BE LOVED (Je ne suis pas là pour être aimé) C 71

France (93 mi) 2005

A film in need of direction as much of this picture just sits there, not moving, never really going anywhere, which pretty much explains the characters in this film as well. Jean-Claude (Patrick Chesnais) resembles a tired, worn out looking Walter Matthau, a sad sack without an ounce of humor, a man who never smiles once throughout the entire movie, who inherited his family’s business as a bailiff, serving legal notice to unfortunate victims that they’re about to be evicted and lose their possessions, and then rationalizes his acts by telling the poor saps that he had nothing to do with it, he’s just the bearer of bad news. What a way to make a living. To take his mind off the dreary reality of his world, which includes weekly visits to the retirement home to get insulted by his even more heartless father (Georges Wilson), his eyes wander out the window to the musical sounds of a tango dance class across the street from where he works. Consequences ensue.

Françoise (Anne Consigny) is a fellow student with a shy, wonderful smile in the dance class, supposedly taking lessons in order to dance the tango at her wedding, but her dead weight of a fiancé, Lionel Abelanski, refuses to go with her as he’s too busy feeling sorry for himself because he can’t finish a book he’s been writing and loathes the thought of having to return to school to teach the little monsters. As a result, Françoise and Jean-Claude, who knows nothing about the impending marriage, unexpectedly develop feelings for one another dancing the tango. This is expressed with endless images of fairly ordinary, uninspiring ballroom dancing that consumes about one-third of the total film. Despite the fact they’re not kids, Jean-Claude goes into a pout when he realizes he’s been taken for a fool. But the truth of the matter is a wedding seems to be the last thing on Françoise’s mind, as it’s her family’s long pent up desire, not hers. There’s a few moments just before the end of real drama, but other than that, despite a warm performance by Consigny, this is a fairly forgettable work, an idea that never materializes onscreen.

Brocka, Lino

MANILA IN THE CLAWS OF NEON (Maynila: Sa mga kuko ng liwanag)

aka: The Nail of Brightness

Philippines (125 mi) 1975

Lino Brocka: Manila - In the Claws of Darkness Derek Malcolm from the Guardian

When Lino Brocka died in a car crash in 1991, the Philippines lost its outstanding director - a man who, despite the constraints of a commercial industry and vicious censorship under Marcos, succeeded in making half a dozen films of great power and universal appeal. Often they were produced cheaply and virtually on the run, with Marcos's men instructed to prevent Brocka telling the truth about the dictatorship and the country's poverty. But in the end, Brocka's international reputation saved him.

Manila: In the Claws of Darkness is the most impressive of his films noirs, made with bows to the American cinema, to Italian neo-realism and to his own country's tradition of star-driven melodramas, but with the force of a third-world director determined to say something about his own society.It is the richly romantic but realistic odyssey of a boy named Julio, who arrives in Manila from the country to search for his childhood sweetheart. The darkness of the title refers to the capital itself, which, said Brocka, exerts an invisible force on the lives of its people.

Brocka exposes the exploitation of its construction workers, some of whom were killed when Marcos jerry-built a huge complex to house his annual film festival. The movie also looks at Manila's slum dwellers, whose children pick through huge rubbish dumps for something to sell.

Finally, it casts its eye over the nocturnal underground of the city, where prostitutes ply their trade. Brocka was gay himself and half fascinated, half repelled by the scene that meets the innocent boy as he scours the brothels of the city, only to find that his girl has been enslaved by an elderly Chinese whorehouse owner. In this situation, there can be no such thing as a happy ending. The boy murders the brothel owner and dies as yet another victim of the big city.

The film has several outstanding sequences, such as when the boy first discovers the fate of his sweetheart and when he decides to take the law into his own hands. But Brocka's painting of life in the corrupt, teeming and polluted city of Manila is the movie's chief glory. It is an unforgettable portrait which invites interpretation as an allegory for the whole of the underdeveloped world. The girl's name means happiness and paradise, the boy's means patience. Ah Tek, the brothel owner, represents money ("atik"), and his recruiter of young girls is Mrs Cruz, a reference to the cross they have to bear. But though deeply romantic, the film never lets go of its central thrust - that no one has a chance in this society unless protected by the authorities or able to pay the price.

Brocka made nearly 50 films, some of which were unashamedly commercial. One of them, Bayan Ko, had to be smuggled into France to be shown at Cannes. But even Marcos could not stop him, and he and a few others made the 1970s and early 1980s a golden age for Tagalog films in a country whose people are still among the most avid filmgoers in the world.

noelmoviereviews Noel Vera

Oggs' Movie Thoughts

INSIANG

Philippines (95 mi) 1976

Channel 4 Film [capsule review]

A Filipino revenge melodrama that made a splash at the Cannes Film Festival when it was released. It's set in the slums of Manila, where a teenager (Koronel) has a rough relationship with her mother (Lisa) and her mother's boyfriend (Vernal). When the boyfriend rapes Koronel and her fiance calls off their wedding because she's no longer worthy to be his wife, she decides to take revenge on the people who have abused her. The two lead actresses contribute astounding performances and Brocka's direction brings to life the squalid lives of his characters without presenting poverty as an excuse for their behaviour.

Chicago Reader [Dave Kehr] (capsule review)

Lino Brocka's films combine popular melodrama, political import, and intense realism with a vivid, economical style. Made on impossibly low budgets on the fringes of the Philippine film industry, his movies have an urgency and immediacy that spring both from Brocka's burning ideological commitments (he was one of the most outspoken critics of the Marcos regime) and his resourceful, imaginative approach to the exigencies of borderline production. Set in the Manila slums, this 1976 effort is centered on a teenage girl struggling to stay afloat in the overwhelming, dehumanizing poverty that surrounds her. Her mother, who operates a tiny fish market, takes in a local hood as a lover, but the thuggish pretty-boy is clearly more interested in Insiang. After he rapes her (in a single-take sequence astonishing in its curtness and brutality), Insiang plans her revenge--a revenge that is also a revolution against the unseen government that endorses the system of exploitation. With Hilda Koronel.

Slant Magazine [Nick Schager]

Just as its intro's slaughterhouse apparatus violently destroys pigs, so too does the crushing poverty of the Philippines—specifically, the countryside slums of Tondo—crush the titular heroine of Lino Brocka's 1976 Insiang, a woman trapped in an environment of destitution and abuse against which she can only struggle violently, and vainly. The first Philippine film ever presented at Cannes, Brocka's portrait of familial treachery and societal abandonment (written by Lamberto E. Antonio, based on a TV script by Mario O'Hara) channels its Sirk/Fassbinder melodrama through the filter of neorealism, its story's heightened emotions kept at a simmer by an aesthetic at once verité-blunt and yet shrewdly, meticulously composed. Nowhere is the director's command more understated and potent than during a sequence in which tender melancholy music is used to link Insiang (Hilda Koronel) and boyfriend Bebot's (Rez Cortez) lovemaking to her next-morning discovery that he's absconded, the underlying connotation being that Insiang's desperate idealism and subsequent disillusionment are two sides of the same coin. Certainly, her misery's roots extend all the way home, where harping mother Tonia (Mona Lisa), bitter about her husband's departure, first kicks her financially strapped in-laws to the curb so she might have her young lover Dado (Ruel Vernal) move in, and then proceeds to badger her daughter (a similar target of husband-related anger) into a Machiavellian rage. Beset by maternal resentment, Bebot's love-'em-and-leave-'em callousness, and Dado's rapist tendencies, Insiang plots her revenge, with Brocka expertly dramatizing the (understandable, if not prudent) reasons for each character's behavior. What registers most forcefully isn't Insiang's literal plot twists and turns as much as its principal mood of lonely powerlessness and the reactionary impulse to strike back against intractable forces and situations by any means necessary, an undercurrent conveyed by Koronel's guileless countenance and the director's unaffected depiction of the impoverished setting and its beleaguered inhabitants. In a sense, Insiang's defiant machinations cast the film as a lurid, twisted ode to feminist self-actualization. But with his misery-wrought finale—and its tangled knot of obstinate, volatile, unfulfilled feelings and desires—Brocka makes sure that any minor triumph enjoyed by his morally and emotionally warped protagonist is tempered by an overriding dose of bittersweet sorrow and despair.

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young] Rotterdam Film Festival report

Widely acknowledged as one of the greatest Philippine films, gloriously full-blooded 1976 melodrama Insiang has lost none of its oomph three decades on.

Few - if any - films can begin with such a bang: in the first second of screen-time a slaughterhouse-worker inserts his knife into the neck of a live, trussed-up cow. Gore spurts out, the animal expires before our eyes, and its carcass is messily processed into meat. The message is clear: what we're about to watch will be direct, bloody and a matter of life and death. The story which slowly unfolds - and the first half-hour is a little patience-taxing - fully lives up to this a startling, gripping curtain-raiser.

Insiang (Hilda Koronel) - is a girl in her late teens, perhaps even early twenties - living with her harpy-like mother Tonia (played by an actress known as 'Mona Lisa') and various assorted relatives in a crowded, cramped, shantytown hovel on the cacophonous waterfront of a major (unnamed) city. Before too long Tonia has persuaded the relatives to move out - allowing her much younger lover, the thuggish, violent Dado, known as 'the killer' (Ruel Vernal), to move in.

Once he's got his 'feet under the table,' the priapic Dado finds himself overpowered by his lust ("I'm only a man... who could resist?") for the virginal Insiang, who herself has a couple of potential beaux among the neighbourhood lads. As passions and frictions rapidly escalate in the family's cramped quarters, Insiang is propelled towards increasingly drastic action...

The story of Insiang is by no means new - the characters in Mario O'Hara and Lambert E Antonio's screenplay are to some extent stock figures, motivated by factors which have been meat and drink to playwrights and authors for centuries, perhaps even millennia. But Brocka - who elicits suitably broad, wholehearted performances from his actors - breathes new life into predictable material, placing it in a specific socio-economic context that adds colour, texture, and powerful local atmosphere to what could in lesser hands have been a dry, schematic fable.

As R W Fassbinder and Douglas Sirk before him realised, melodrama stands or falls on its female participants - and Insiang's trump cards are Lisa as the unbearable Tonia, her every utterance some kind of a shriek ("I suffered for you! It's your turn to help now!") and Koronel, who manages to make Insiang's transition from saintly, stoic putupon girl to calculating femme fatale both believable and sympathetic.

The moment when she finally has enough of Tonia's goadings and physical abuse - returning, with interest, the latest of her mother's many vicious slaps - is a corker, setting us up for the terrific closing scenes. Brocka then (drily) rounds off with the very briefest of closing credits - "The End," and a card informing us that make-up was supplied by the firm 'O'Leary'. Because as Insiang soon learns, if you're plotting to bump off your mother's gigolo lover, it's best to ensure your lipstick is always just so.

Film Society of Lincoln Center José B. Capino from Film Comment

noelmoviereviews Noel Vera

Strictly Film School Acquarello

Brody, Samuel – radical filmmaker

Introduction Film and Photo League: Radical cinema in the 30s, by Russell Campbell from Jump Cuts

Paris hears Eisenstein (1930) and The revolutionary film: problems of form (1934): Writings of Samuel Brody from Jump Cuts

Samuel Brody interviewed The camera as a weapon in the class struggle, by Tony Safford from Jump Cuts

Bibliography Russell Campbell from Jump Cuts

Filmography Film and Photo League Filmography, by Russell Campbell and William Alexander from Jump Cuts

Bromberg, Serge and Ruxandra Medrea

INFERNO B+ 91

aka: L’Enfer d'Henri-Georges Clouzot (documentary reconstructed from 13 hours of film shot by Clouzot in 1964)

France (102 mi) 2009

A superb documentary that’s a blast to watch, which captures famous French director Henri-Georges Clouzot, nicknamed the French Hitchcock, being so influenced by Fellini’s 8 ½ (1963) and examples of the wildly liberating pop art from the era that he chose to completely alter his style of filmmaking for a 1964 film called INFERNO, where he completed a total of 13 hours before suffering a heart attack, where the film was never completed or released. Known for black and white post war film noir crime thrillers of the 40’s and 50’s that reflect a grim side of the human condition, usually tight, suspenseful narratives shot with a meticulous precision, where critic David Thomson calls Clouzot's a ‘cinema of total disenchantment,’ this was the first of his films to ever use color, but where the director also lost track of himself on the set given total artistic freedom and a supposedly unlimited budget, becoming more and more obsessed with experimentation and multiple takes, slowing the entire process down, quickly exhausting the film’s resources, where no one had a clear idea just what he intended, including himself, where he kept hoping for some kind of miracle breakthrough. However in examining what he did shoot, it’s nothing like 8 ½ , one of the most brilliantly edited films ever made, more like John Frankenheimer's dizzyingly out of control SECONDS (1966) or Hitchcock on acid.  Much of what we see is an outrageously stunning screen test shoot of 26-year old lead actress Romy Schneider with blue or purple lips, a blue tongue, or olive oil on her face with a bit of glitter thrown on where she is seen preening or smoking seductively for the camera, also run backwards, all shot with heavily expressionistic lighting designs which seem to be fed by lights on the end a moving fan, continually changing the look on her face with moving shadows of light continually traveling across her face, providing an explosive look that literally jumps off the screen. Clouzot was going for technical invention and much of what he shot is exactly that, showing manic hysteria through kinetic energy with lights pulsating on and off continually altering the look of the screen. Serge Reggiani plays her obsessive husband who’s in a state of near panic with jealousy, as he’s terrified of loosing her, ultimately convincing himself she’s having serial affairs with another man (Jean-Claude Bercq) or even another woman (Dany Carrel), turning his life into a nightmarish dream where he’s literally going out of his mind, where the film’s dazzling production design is geared towards hallucinations, psychological instability, disturbing dreams, and his mental disintegration.

Having not made a film in four years during the rise of the French New Wave directors, this was supposedly Clouzot’s answer to the New Wave, much as Bergman’s PERSONA (1966) was at least partly in response to the experimentalists of the ‘60’s, using the ‘60’s arsenal of electronic music, shock cuts, abstraction, symbolism and a jarringly experimental narrative structure. But Clouzot turned into the tyrannical Otto Preminger on the set, where his unorthodox style of yelling and berating his actors, literally wearing them down before he’d start the cameras rolling, caused much friction, especially with Reggiani, who eventually walked off the set. This was a highly ambitious film project where the subject matter began to resemble the obsessive meltdown of the director himself, where Clouzot had 3 entirely different camera teams working each day, supposedly to speed things along, but Clouzot chose to run each of the camera teams himself, which could only operate one at a time, so mostly the other two sat around with nothing to do and waited as the perfectionist in Clouzot continually ordered reshoots until it could be captured perfectly. There were so many people involved in the making of this film that they had to stagger the lunch hours, as they couldn’t all fit at the same time. Clouzot was also a known insomniac who would routinely awake at 2 am and demand that someone be present to hear his ideas and take notes, as he allegedly did daily rewrites. In this way, he eventually confused and wore out the nerves of his entire crew. They found a perfect location, an old Côte d’Azur hotel on a lake with an iron bridge where trains regularly crossed, all perfect for cinematic imagery, but they were on a time schedule, as in 30 days the water from the man-made lake was scheduled for draining. This little tidbit certainly perked up my imagination, as the idea of filming a lake receding into a dry gulch seemed particularly fascinating, especially in a film where things are not what they appear to be, where running it backwards would show the formation of the lake, where the viewer might be caught off guard wondering which one is real. Unfortunately, the production shut down before any opportunity presented itself.

Perhaps the shot of the film is Romy Schneider tied naked on the track of an oncoming train, or psychedelic shots of lights in her eyes moving in a circular motion as she makes beguiling looks for the camera. But there are also slo-mo shots of Schneider water skiing on the lake where she swivels her hips while smiling for the camera or makes out with sex temptress Dany Carrell on a boat, which was the shot that sent Clouzot into cardiac arrest, as it was intended to do for the viewers. Clouzot enlisted electro-pop star Glbert Any to develop a sound design of distorted and overlapping voices to accentuate mental deterioration, spoken through an inner narrative where words would continually repeat themselves, an eerie reflection that someone’s mind has been temporarily disabled. To read scenes that were written but not filmed, the filmmakers use two modern day actors, Bérénice Bejo and Jacques Gamblin, to reenact several scenes, an effective idea as they help extend the original narrative. Speaking to several collaborators on the set, including filmmaker Costa-Gavros who was a young assistant director on the film, their recollections help frame the confusion of this wildly ambitious project where Clouzot’s insatiable desire to create on-camera special effects is matched by some of the found footage which is near miraculous, where we see Schneider naked underneath a cellophane coat, or provocatively playing with a slinky, or the camera repeatedly zooming in and out, where Bromberg the director joins the fun and superimposes several images, placing Clouzot in the middle smoking his pipe, looking ever so grim, where the psychedelic style is so completely foreign to anything Clouzot had ever attempted before during his somewhat conservative career. This is not a biographic look at the director, simply an innovative glimpse into what could have been. The music by Bruno Alexiu is a tasteful accompaniment, but the real fun is being able to see the technological wizardry of a director trying something radically different with a more than willing participant in bouncy actress Romy Schneider who is stunningly captured before the camera’s loving adoration.

User reviews from imdb Author: writers_reign from London, England

There are several valid reasons for wanting to see this film, not least the unshown footage of Romy Schneider who had the lead role opposite Serge Reggiani, add to that a film written and directed - in so far as it went - by Henri-George Clouzot, reminiscences of the shoot by the likes of Catherine Allegret and assorted technicians, the roping in of Jacques Gamblin to flesh out (via reading) some of Reggiani's scenes and what's not to like. The film was doomed from the start. Clouzot was a changed person and thought nothing of waking the crew at 3 a.m. to discuss an idea. Reggiani finally ankled on the grounds that enough is enough and was replaced by Jean-Louis Trintignant who never got on set because Clouzot suffered a heart attack and the film was closed down. It remains fascinating for any French film buff, especially when you throw into the mix the fact that Clouzot's widow, Ines, sold the script to Chabrol who went ahead and shot it. Old School versus New Wave. It's no contest and this fragment eclipses every movie that Godard ever shot.

Time Out London (Tom Huddleston) review [4/5]

Like a hugely ambitious DVD extra for a film that never was, this documentary charts the development of legendary French filmmaker Henri-Georges Clouzot’s 1964 riposte to the new wave, to be titled ‘Inferno’, and the film’s subsequent collapse in the face of spiralling budgets, recalcitrant performers and a director spinning off the rails.

It’s a remarkable feat of cinematic archeology, taking in reminiscences from the key players plus Clouzot’s raw location footage and wildly sensuous test photography of star Romy Schneider. The director’s impulse to widen the boundaries of cinema led to a series of  experiments with all sorts of brand new psychedelic visual and audio techniques, leading to some remarkably warped and worrying imagery.

It remains unclear whether ‘Inferno’ would’ve been the masterpiece Clouzot was anticipating: his reliance on tripped-out visuals and a staunchly unreconstructed attitude to sexual politics may have dated the film rapidly. What survives is a striking cautionary tale for budding filmmakers and a haunting evocation of experimentation run amok.

The Onion A.V. Club review [B] Keith Phipps

Few directors exerted such exacting control over the medium as Henri-Georges Clouzot. In films like Quai Des Orfèvres, The Wages Of Fear, and Diabolique, Clouzot made every element work in harmony, from the remarkable work he coaxed from his cast to a command of suspense techniques that rivaled Alfred Hitchcock’s. A demanding perfectionist who, by some reports, never slept, Clouzot held tight to the reins. In 1964, those reins slipped from his hands while he was working on L’Enfer (Inferno), a story of obsessive jealousy that would have found Clouzot using experimental techniques of a sort never before attempted. Instead, he ended up with 13 hours of exposed footage and a film he’d never be able to complete.

Part reconstruction, part investigation, Henri-Georges Clouzot’s Inferno finds co-directors Serge Bromberg and Ruxandra Medrea Annonier attempting to determine what happened with L’Enfer while conveying a sense of what the film might have been like through existing footage and scenes of contemporary actors performing key moments from the film. It doesn’t do a brilliant job with any of those functions. The new performances, while fine, add little, and Bromberg’s narration takes a casual, details-light approach even when covering major developments in the film’s production. Thankfully, the story—and especially Clouzot’s existing footage—is fascinating enough to transcend the treatment.

Eager to catch up with the French New Wave, which shunned him, and inspired by Federico Fellini’s 8 1/2, Clouzot decided to go to the edge with L’Enfer. Given a virtually bottomless budget, he shot can after can of test footage for hallucinatory scenes meant to illustrate his protagonist’s madness, drawing from then-thriving movements like op art and early electronic music, and working, as one of his collaborators called it, in “the improbable colors of madness.” Seas of eyes blur as they flow into one another. The faces of two men join together at the halfway point. Abstract shapes bulge lustfully, and plants turn shades not found in nature. As glimpsed here, L’Enfer looks weird and disorienting in ways that make James Stewart’s descents into madness in Vertigo appear almost tame. Would it have worked in the finished film? Clouzot’s inability to complete the film due to conflicts with the actors and his own health problems leaves that as one of film history’s most frustratingly unanswerable questions. But folly or masterpiece, L’Enfer would still have looked like no other film ever made. While Bromberg and Annonier’s film has shortcomings as a documentary, simply bringing Clouzot’s lost work to light makes it a significant achievement.

not coming to a theater near you review Mike D’Angelo

One of the ostensible perqs of attending a public film festival like Toronto is the opportunity to see actors and directors talk about their work—sort of an in-person DVD commentary track, and one in which you can potentially ask questions yourself. As a critic attending designated press screenings, I don’t get to take much advantage of that, for better and worse. Sometimes for much, much better. One of the few public screenings I caught this year, for example, was for the documentary Inferno, which had premiered to great fanfare at Cannes back in May—and, sure enough, the film’s director, Serge Bromberg, showed up to make a few introductory remarks. If the people who invested money in this picture have any sense whatsoever, they will muzzle the guy in future, because his charming, hilarious prologue very nearly killed the movie dead.

I guess one could argue that that was apropos, since Inferno concerns a movie that actually was killed dead. Back in 1964, Henri-Georges Clouzot, the so-called “French Hitchcock” – his most celebrated films include Diabolique and The Wages of Fear – began shooting an experimental quasi-thriller called L’Enfer (literally The Inferno, colloquially Hell), starring Serge Reggiani and Romy Schneider. The film’s jealous-lover scenario was fairly basic, by all accounts (though Claude Chabrol wound up directing his own version of the script decades later), but Clouzot was apparently less interested in the story than in appropriating for the screen some of the crazy kaleidoscopic imagery that he’d recently seen in various art galleries. Alas, the film was shut down after just three weeks of shooting, never to be completed; until now, the extant footage had been moldering in its original cans, unseen by the world for more than 40 years.

Prior to the Toronto screening, the personable and enthusiastic Bromberg told the audience, in fascinating detail, the story of how he obtained this celluloid mini-Grail, ending the anecdote on a cliffhanger set in an elevator and promising that the movie would provide the climax. Sadly, his introduction was both more entertaining and more informative than the film itself, which not only omits the tale of Bromberg wheedling Clouzot’s widow (the elevator bit is mentioned only in passing), but also never really provides a coherent or compelling account of why the making of L’Enfer was such, well, l’enfer for everybody involved. We learn that Clouzot was an indecisive martinet whose endless delays and abrupt manner prompted Reggiani to walk off the picture, but that’s hardly earth-shattering enough for a five-minute segment on Entertainment Tonight, much less the skeleton of a feature-length documentary.

Thankfully, the long-unseen L’Enfer footage delivers. Shots from the narrative proper, in stark black-and-white, look typically gorgeous—albeit not as gorgeous as the 26-year-old Schneider, a middling actress who was nonetheless a stunning camera study, perhaps nowhere more so than in this unfinished project. But the primary reason to see Inferno (and the only real justification for its existence, frankly) is Clouzot’s amazing experiments with superimposed imagery, which look almost proto-Greenaway in their hallucinatory visual fervor. As Bromberg noted (though again, only in the Q&A, not in the damn film!), these remarkable shots, which go on for up to a minute or even longer, would likely have been edited to a few seconds in the movie itself, and hence come across here as more avant-garde than Clouzot may have intended. But I could happily have spent 90 minutes watching tiny pinpricks of light dancing in carnival-midway circles around Romy Schneider’s irises.

theartsdesk.com [Jasper Rees]

When a film shoot is in trouble, with actors dying on set, the heavens opening and other acts of God putting a spanner in the works, it’s usually a gigantic directorial ego which hauls the troubled production over the line. You think of Michael Cimino’s Heaven’s Gate, of Coppola’s Apocalypse Now and above all Herzog's Fitzcarraldo, all films characterised by epic folie de grandeur and flirtation with insanity. But no film, surely, has ever been quite so divorced from reality, in almost every sense, as L'Enfer. For a start it was never made. You can’t get a lot less real than that. Forty-five years on, Henri-Georges Clouzot's Inferno, part documentary, part reconstruction, attempts to explain why.

Clouzot is not to be confused with the hapless Inspector of almost the same name. Or at least I don’t think he is. In the Forties and Fifties he was one of France’s leading directors. By the time he came to make L’Enfer, he was in a position to extract from Columbia a limitless budget. He chose to make a film about a man who, domiciled in rural France with his delectable young wife, is unable to quell his irrational jealous rages. Eventually he murders her.

It sounds a modest enough idea for a film. It was shot in and around one lakeside location. And the cast was small, led by Romy Schneider, comely young starlet, as the wife, and Serge Reggiani as her slightly ugly older husband. But Clouzot’s ambition was to create a new cinematic language with which to convey the psychosis of his male character. This involved modernist distortions, weird trippy tricks with mirrors and lenses which must have been great fun to play around with in the lab. In the reels of film stock recently unearthed and forming the core of this documentary, they don’t do a whole lot to convince that Clouzot was onto something.

Maybe he knew it himself. He kept three full-time camera crews on standby at all times, but would leave two of them idle for expensive, morale-sapping swathes of time. The actors became increasingly fractious, though as neither of the leads is any longer around to explain what happened (Schneider was to experience a lonely alcohol-related death aged 43 in 1982), it is left to crew members, including Costa-Gavras, to fill in the blanks.

One recalled that, as Clouzot (on set with Schneider, picture right) was an insomniac, he would wake up his colleagues in the small hours to discuss the next day’s shoot. The Nouvelle Vague directors, who espoused the credo that things should happen spontaneously on a film set, may have derided Clouzot as an over-meticulous planner – “I improvise on paper,” he even boasted. But here he didn’t improvise on paper enough. Maybe that’s what hell is in cinema: being stuck on a film which doesn’t know what it’s doing. Scenes were neurotically reshot. Ruggieri was made to spend hours each day running (the husband does a lot of chasing). Eventually he walked. Clouzot carried on regardless until a few days later he had a heart attack when filming a – for 1964 - very daring girl-on-girl kiss between Schneider and a female co-star.

The 15 hours of soundless rushes were found in 2005 by Serge Bromberg, a curator of vintage film. Some of it is indeed intriguing. Schneider is always nice to look at in a bikini or less, even when wearing blue lipstick to counterbalance the effects of the colour inversion in the fantasy sequences. In one bit of reversed footage she appears to swallow smoke (picture left). There is one toweringly strong shot in which a steam train bears down on Schneider lying naked on the track. Of the copious illustration of technical wizardry elsewhere in the rushes, you’d have ditched the lot to have the ingenuity of this one explained. The re-acted scenes starring two contemporary actors are also oddly powerful.

The film makes a half-hearted effort to find some sort of consonance between the obsession of the jealous husband and the delusional director. But frustratingly there is no final diagnosis of Clouzot’s affliction. He knew the lake was due to be drained, thus terminating the shoot, but he ploughed obliviously, slowly on. Why? No one’s exactly sure. The film that never was is, generically speaking, a cul-de-sac off a back alley of the cinematic highway. All Terry Gilliam had to show for his version of Don Quixote was Lost in La Mancha, the fly-on-the-wall documentary about how it never got made. But that reveals rather more about its subject than Henri-Georges Clouzot’s Inferno. In effect these are the DVD extras - the deleted scenes, the interviews, the shots of costume fittings. As for the film that should have gone with it, we’re still in the dark.

BFI | Sight & Sound | Film review: Henri-Georges Clouzot's Inferno ... Catherine Wheatley, November 2009

The Village Voice [J. Hoberman]

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Slant Magazine (Kevin B. Lee) review

Cinema Without Borders (Robin Menken) review

Bomberg, Medea: Henri-Georges Clouzot's Inferno 2009)--NYFF Chris Knipp from Filmleaf

Ferdy on Films [Marilyn Ferdinand]

Eye for Film (Jennie Kermode) review [4.5/5]

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Filmcritic.com Chris Cabin

World Socialist Web Site [Richard Phillips and Ismet Redzovic] July 23, 2010

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Bromell, Henry

PANIC

USA (88 mi) 2000 ‘Scope

Movie Vault [mazzyboi]

“Panic”, a dark comedy from first time director Bromell, almost never got a major theatrical release. After a successful run at Sundance last year, the film was just going to be shown on HBO after a dismal test screening in Los Angeles by a largely teenage crowd. Now another independent studio has acquired the film and I’m glad to see that “Panic” will get the attention it deserves for it is one of the best movies of 2001.

William H. Macy plays Alex, a middle-aged man in the midst of a personal crisis. He is quite unhappy with his marriage to Martha (Tracey Ullman). They have a six-year old son Sammy, who is ever so charming and cute, whom they adore, but nevertheless they cannot ignore the fact that their passion for each other has dissipated. Furthermore, Alex’s more pressing and formidable problem is that he’s having doubts about staying in his dad’s business…the business of killing people for money. Alex is a hit man for his overbearing father (Donald Sutherland), who has taught him ever since he was a little boy the way of the gun. Because of his qualms, Alex decides to see a therapist (John Ritter) to find some guidance, but instead he finds complications when he meets and falls for a foxy young lady (Neve Campbell) in the doctor’s lobby, plus his next assignment is to wipe out his therapist.

“Panic” does not boast of any gimmicky end-plot twists nor fast paced fights or chases, and it doesn’t need to. From start to finish, the film was hypnotic. I couldn’t help but be in a heightened sense of anticipation of where the movie was going, and I was very well intrigued by the story. The Los Angeles setting seemed normal, the dialogue seemed to be from everyday conversation, yet there is this underlying darkness that permeates the screen. The father-son tension is gravely troubling and handled tactfully, as Alex tries to break away from a life of crime (almost abuse really) while shielding his family from harm. There are several flashbacks that refer back to his childhood and other events that shape his place in life, and all of these just give us a better perspective on the situation.

William H. Macy is great as the sad-eyed hit man. He always brings out the best of his character, making him sympathetic and utterly likable as he was in “Fargo” and “Magnolia”. Just look into his eyes, and you can understand what’s going on in Alex’s troubled mind. The rest of the cast was also great (especially Ullman and Sutherland) and makes for a memorable ensemble.

“Panic”, despite almost being shoved straight to television, should not be missed for it is a haunting piece of cinema. This is one of the best films of the year so far.

Panic Gerald Peary

Is that really Three's Company's flip, nimble John Ritter behind dark-rimmed glasses and sunken deep into a shrink's beard? Behaving so seriously, and convincingly, as a therapist in dire trouble? And is that the hilariously protean show-biz phenom Tracey Ullman as a downtrodden middle-aged, middle-class wife angrily grieving over her husband's sudden infidelity? Even William H. Macy, as that transgressing spouse, has surrendered his monkey-mouthed grin from Fargo and State & Main to shiver in melancholia as the sad-eyed, middle-aged protagonist-in-crisis of Panic, an affecting, genuinely unusual neo-noir opening this week.

Macy plays Alex, post-40, a much repressed and now depressed Californian who seeks psychiatric help for the first occasion in his life. Slowly, over several visits, his story comes into shape. A marriage to Martha (Ullman)isn't making him happy any more, even though he adores his six-year-old son, Sammy (David Dorfman). He's developed a wild crush on a brash-talking neurotic young woman, Sarah (Neve Campbell), whom he has met in the shared lobby outside of the therapist office: she's seeing another shrink. Most important, he's become alienated from lifetime employ in the family business, which is run by his dominating, villainous father, Michael (Donald Sutherland, swaggering and imperious) and with the input of his comely bourgeois mother (Barbara Bain).

What do you do? The psychiatrist inquires.

"I kill people," Alex answers.

He's an assassin with a gun and a silencer, who obediently carries out the biddings of his pop. How did such a career begin? In a creepy flashback, we see grammar-school Alex, tiny and squeamish, being taught by dad to use a revolver and shoot a poor little squirrel. In an even creepier flashback, we are given Alex as a short teenage boy lorded over by his large father, who takes him to the beach for his first murder. He shoots a man in a car through a closed window while dad in the background cheers him on, congratulating Alex as if he had just passed his driving test. It's all very Pavlovian, this robotic, brainwashed lad.

Back to the present. Alex is given a new assignment, but he balks, as it's someone he knows. His very psychiatrist! What should he do? Should he kill the shrink or dare say "no" to his still-overpowering father? Should he leave his wife and child for a precarious relationship with Sarah, the bisexual hairdresser?

Panic is made such a classy noir by Jeffrey Jur's superb color cinematography, and by the uniform effectiveness of the acting ensemble. The casting against the grain of Ritter, Ullman, and Macy isn't a parlor trick. They're all up to the challenge of extending their acting range from sweet to dour. And Campbell is a fine surprise also, graduating from a bevy of teen leads into this complex portrait of a 23-year-old swimming in ambivalences and confusions.

Panic's third great asset: first-time filmmaker Henry Bromell's smart, unerring dialogue. The man can really write, and Panic shows off the best indie script in months, since Chuck and Buck and You Can Count on Me. Only at the end does Panic falter a bit, with a too-predictable shooting and an endless coda. Better have finished a bit earlier, with someone leaving the world with a bullet to the belly but also a suddenly cleared conscience, a delicious homage, I suspect to what concludes the best noir of them all, Billy Wilder's Double Indemnity.

Panic is such an interesting, well-made film that it's hard to understand why so many months went by before it located a distributor, San Francisco's enterprising Roxy Pictures. On the other hand, I'm perplexed why Shooting Gallery has bothered to pick up and release such a marginal work as writer-director David Maquiling's Too Much Sleep. It's just so unremarkable, one among hundreds of sincere but artistically limited American indies.

What if I say that my favorite moments watching and listening to Too Much Sleep were appreciating Mitchell Toomey's melodic, minimalist rock tunes over the final credits?

And what happens? Jack Crawford (Marc Palmieri), a slacker security guard, takes a bus to work one day, checks out pretty Kate (Nicol Zanzarella), and gives up his seat to a middle-aged woman. After both have exited the bus, Jack finds that a paper bag holding his gun is missing. One of the women must have stolen it, and Jack goes on the hunt.

For the rest of this shaggy dog saga, Jack searches suburban Jersey for his weapon, from a male stripper joint to (off screen) a gynecology office. Along the way, he meets Characters, too many of them, who talk at him in monologues. Self-conscious laborious ones. For much of the looking, Jack is accompanied by a fiftyish Italian-American guy named Eddie (Pasquale Gaeta) with political connections, and this Eddie is given lots of space for his Joe Pesci-like riffs. This Eddie wears out his welcome in Act One, as nothing he says is really funny or engaging. Still, filmmaker Maquiling acts like he's stumbled onto his Falstaff. Eddie keeps talking away, through Acts Two and Three, as there's only one audience thought: Too Much Sleep, please, please, end.

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

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Nitrate Online (Elias Savada) including an interview with the director

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VideoVista Emily Webb

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digitallyOBSESSED! DVD Reviews Dan Heaton

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BeyondHollywood.com Nix

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Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

New York Times (registration req'd) Elvis Mitchell

Brondolo, Jean-Marc

CAPONE – made for TV B 85

France (100 mi) 2004

Based on the singular strength of the always reliable Serge Riaboukine, who is perfectly type cast as a down and out rough around the edges huckster on the run from people he has scammed, who thinks of nothing but women, good times and money, the film turns into a road movie when he decides to kidnap his racehorse from his underworld partners in Paris and run him at the Midnight Sun harness race in the Lapland region of Finland above the Arctic Circle. Along the way, he convinces a poor sap of a cab driver to drive himself & the horse all the way to the race, traveling through Germany, taking a 21 hour ferry ride to Finland, then driving so far north that the sun never sets. As this is a made for TV movie, where one must suspend all rationale in accepting this premise as being even remotely believable, what starts out predictably enough, with promises that the trip will provide good times and free-spirited women but instead is filled with plenty of time to fill and petty bickering, this slowly turns into an interesting and eccentric look at the gorgeous remoteness of life in the Lapland, complete with a few short pieces of rock music that sound like, but are not, the Leningrad Cowboys, along with repeated encounters with a Gypsy King that takes an interest in the horse, much dour humor and a few hallucination sequences which are magnified by the religious beauty of a Sibelius children’s chorus sung by the Tapiola Singers. Somewhat conventional in its singular need to be continually zany and offbeat, the performance of the two roadies, in particular Riaboukine, and some unusual atmosphere make this a film worth seeing.

Bronstein, Ronald

FROWNLAND B- 81

USA (106 mi) 2007 Official site Trailer

A relentless, unsettling and wretchedly unforgiving film that’s not only in-your-face, but occasionally resorts to a sledgehammer approach. Written, directed and edited by Bronstein, this is as confrontational as filmmaking gets emphasizing an extremely difficult subject matter, the life and tribulations of a man on the edge who’s borderline coherent suffering from a psychotic anxiety syndrome of some kind along with a brain deficiency, nauseatingly annoying to anyone he speaks to as he prolongs the agony of the ordeal by never quite spitting out whatever he has to say, requiring an amazing amount of patience and tolerance just to listen to him but also to pry oneself away, requirements that the human condition simply lacks. In this film, Keith (Dore Mann) resembles the kind of intense, deeply agitated sicko most people avoid like the plague and here he’s in nearly every shot. He has a suicidal girl friend Laura (Mary Wall, the director’s wife) who appears to have a psychotic fear of closeness, spending most of the film in tears while in his company, actually stabbing him with a push pin when he accidentally comes too close. Stuttering for words, apologizing profusely for taking up people’s time, Keith goes door to door selling discount coupons that allegedly raise funds for victims of multiple sclerosis, a profession he’s obviously not cut out for, and while it’s surprising some actually listen patiently at their doors while he tries to spit out the right words, he never makes a single sale and is ridiculed and bullied by his supervisor and fellow co-workers who accompany him to and from his route. It’s a troublesome film filled with nothing but troublesome moments, told in a realistic manner with Ulrich Seidl anti-humanist overtones where an unending tone of abject miserablism reveals what a rotten life he has. Commercial filmmaking this is not, but it’s not exactly riveting either, and at least for the first half, there’s nothing drawing the audience into his world.

That changes when we realize what an erudite and pompous ass his roommate is (Charles, played by Paul Grimstad), a stark contrast that obviously feels contrived, as in the real world, one would have nothing to do with the other. So Charles, to express his annoyance with Keith’s smothering behavior, refuses to pay the electric bill, leaving them both in the dark. This is typical of how people treat Keith, as the general rule is to abuse him as often as one can get away with, as if this somehow makes people feel superior. One pervasive audience reaction expressed in the screening I attended was to continually laugh at the character, as if laughing at a “retard” onscreen has become acceptable social behavior. Bronstein is a first time filmmaker who brings with him an Andrew Bujalski semi-hip audience who may have been swayed by critic Amy Taubin’s belief that Bujalski’s minimalist realism is the voice of the new generation, but films like this suggest Bronstein may speak for a “fucked up” generation that takes great amusement in their own dysfunctional perversities. Keith is by no means stupid, but he has a pathological inability to communicate. Bujalski specializes in films about an educated middle class that can't ever make up their minds about anything, who exist totally in a world of ambivalence spending their time at dead end temp jobs that offer no challenge of any kind, resorting to snarky dialogue of stoned sarcasm that is used like a weapon, where putting others down is a major accomplishment in their day. Somehow the audience in this film has tapped into that theater of being obnoxious where humor comes at someone else’s expense, where the greater Keith’s pathetic humiliation, the more the audience roars with approval. Having no idea if this social phenomena is happening in other theaters, to say I was uncomfortable with it sitting in the audience is an understatement.

Thankfully, real humor arrives in an extended scene without Keith in it, an odd little sequence that features Charles taking a senseless law school LSAT examination that he feels will lead to his employment as a waiter. Another character arrives who is at least as ill-bred as he is, both specializing in the verbal put down, otherwise known as the technique of mind-fucking. The scene develops slowly accentuating the absurdity of the situation, perfectly capturing the nuances of the characters who finally come to mean something, even if it’s only for laughs. This little oasis of hilarity is short lived, however, a sequence where words are lobbed at one another like guided missiles aiming for a direct hit hoping to disintegrate the other, where under the surface aggression is expressed through carefully observed dialogue that accomplishes nothing but futility. From this pathetic intellectual void, Keith re-enters the picture only to sink further into his own psychological descent as his condition is realized through an endless journey into the night told with a Cassavetes-like edge captured by some brilliant 16 mm camerawork blown up to a grainy look from Sean Price Williams who follows him through darkened rooms, dead end corridors, and a maze of ever decreasing options, feeling more and more like a last-man-in-the-universe horror film. The music and sound design are anything but subtle, perhaps too obvious in their attempts to express something close to those 50’s sci-fi films where the score reeks with psychotic brain fragmentation, dissonance, isolation, fear, horror, and dread. Much of the finale is wordless with a dark, nightmarish overtone that is expressed with an assured cinematic flair, yet the overall feel left by this film is like getting pounded over the head by a hammer. Never really compelling due to the unending wretchedness of the subject matter, it’s an unending assault of the senses on a single hapless individual exposing a mercilessly brutal and indifferent humanity that can’t stop itself from feeling superior by taking out their frustrations on weaker individuals, resorting to bullying every chance they get, like a Pavlovian condition.

Frownland Facets Multi Media

A self-described "troll from under the bridge," the painfully awkward Keith Sontag (Dore Mann) spends his days selling coupons door-to-door and his evenings trapped in a squalid apartment situated in some particularly hellish outer ring of New York. With the most basic elements of human communication a struggle, Sontag lurches through an uncaring city, attempting to aid a suicidal friend, evict an unctuous roommate, and simply attain some measure of self-respect. With Frownland, Bronstein has made a bold and bracing film that is both a hilarious black comedy and a ragged love letter to an earlier era of independent film. Both the film and its singular hero are raw, confrontational, and, finally, unforgettable. Bronstein also works as a projectionist for various New York arthouses and financed Frownland with his own savings, taking five years to shoot and complete the film. Directed by Ronald Bronstein, U.S.A., 2007, 35mm, 106 mins.

Chicago Reader   J.R. Jones

Ronald Bronstein, a New York City projectionist by trade, resurrects the grungy, street-level immediacy of indie filmmaking with this 16-millimeter nightmare about a balding, stammering, apoplectic schlub (Dore Mann) who repels everyone around him. The shapeless story and his friends' guarded behavior toward him make this a tough nut to crack, but at some point--probably his jabbering confrontation with his impeccably clear and direct roommate (Paul Grimstad)--you begin to share in the other characters' collective recoil. The movie climaxes in a desperate night on the town that leaves the protagonist abjectly isolated, pitiable but no less obnoxious. We've all known people like this, usually as little as possible, which may explain why the movie has provoked such violent reactions at festival screenings: it brings us face-to-face with the limits of our compassion. 106 min.

New Yorker Richard Brody

This amazingly accomplished first feature by Ronald Bronstein, made with a crew of four for seemingly little more than the cost of film stock, throbs with the energy and vision that independent filmmaking is all about. The story concerns the struggles of a nearly aphasic, socially challenged, yet smart, painfully self-aware, and desperately lonely young man to get through his days and nights. Keith (Dore Mann) is the odd man out in the crew of chirpy losers with whom he works selling coupon books door to door; he has a woman friend, Laura (Mary Wall, Bronstein’s wife), who is even more tormented and self-destructive than he is, and an irresponsible roommate whose own travails end in ruin. Bronstein specializes in moments of embarrassment and minor emotional bruises which blend pain with gentle, witty humor. With a sharp eye for telling details, he avoids satire and bathos and creates characters of a rare complexity, which his incisive yet passionate visual style (with its rare attention to light and its absence) realizes empathetically. If there’s any justice, Mann, whom Bronstein found working in a supermarket, will get an award for his transfixing performance; his clenched jaws, squinting eyes, and stifled speech avoid all stereotypes as he brings the character to life from within.

Slant Magazine [Bill Weber]

The anomic gloom that envelops Frownland, a miserabilist, micro-budgeted 16mm freak show, fatally impedes its seeming aspirations to the mercurial grit of Cassavetes—or even to attaining a grainier, black-comedy kinship to the razor's-edge psychodramas of Lodge Kerrigan. Insecure Keith (Dore Mann), living a slovenly life in a small Brooklyn room where he reclines eating snacks off the open oven door, faces a daily hell with no prospects or motive to change: a door-to-door soliciting job in the suburbs for a (fraudulent?) multiple sclerosis charity, some sort of anxiety disorder that turns his speech to either a stammer or an incomprehensible flood, tantrums and obsessive episodes that threaten to alienate the few acquaintances barely capable of tolerating his aberrations. Writer-director Ronald Bronstein is clearly committed to his irritating vision, but never finds a tone appropriate to either a disquieting case history or a misfit tragicomedy. After following Keith from humiliating front-porch pitchman defeats to distraught late-night wanderings, Bronstein shifts focus briefly to splenetic roommate Charles (Paul Grimstad), an anachronistic new-wave musician on an indiscriminate job search (on his waitstaff questionnaire: "What is espresso?"). But Charles is just as unbearable and less pitiable than Keith, who he lambastes as "a burbling troll" and asks in absurd arguments about their unpaid electric bill, "Why do you insist on permuting the circumstances?" Wallowing in emotional and aesthetic ugliness that feels like sandpaper on the nerve endings by the 20-minute mark, Frownland and its hopeless, ungenerously travestied loser-martyr have won plaudits on the festival circuit: Call it spluttercore? Its world of torment is too circumscribed to invite empathy and too insistently wretched to convince as satire.

Film-Forward.com Yana Litovsky

Everything that Woody Allen did to glamorize neurosis in New York, Frownland obliterates in one fell, tormented swoop. First-time director Ronald Bronstein burrows his darkly curious camera into the life of Keith Sontag (Dore Mann) – a self-proclaimed “troll under the bridge,” whose social awkwardness is all debilitating pathology and no part endearing quirk. A petri dish of personality disorders, Keith quarantines himself in the kitchen-turned-bedroom of a grim outer borough apartment, emerging only to struggle through his job as a door-to-door coupon salesman in the suburbs.

Like pores under a magnifying glass, everything ugly and unsavory is exaggerated through Bronstein’s unflinching lens. He presents New York as a city entirely comprised of losers, loners, and rejects, with hardly one normal, well-adjusted soul in sight. Keith’s only friend, Laura (Mary Wall), is a suicidal outcast, whose silence throughout most of the film suggests the unlikelihood of her emotional salvation. His other “acquaintances,” most of whom desperately try to avoid his company, are best described as the perfect cast for a game of Saturday Night Live’s “Geek, Dweeb, or Spaz?” There’s Keith’s roommate Charles (Paul Grimstad), who plays the electric keyboard and communicates everything with a hyper-intellectual torrent of words; and Sandy (David Sandholm), who dons starched white shirts to watch grainy old movies on his VCR and primps his meticulous little apartment. Unlike Keith, the personality hiccups of his lame entourage aren’t disturbing enough to stifle a hearty laugh from the audience – a respite from the otherwise uncomfortable experience of watching Frownland.

Following the purest traditions of American independent cinema, Bronstein is utterly unapologetic for this discomfort. Perhaps he inflicts it on us so we can repent for identifying with Keith's tormenters. While we’ve learned to love the superficially awkward (that guy who wears big glasses but still gets the girl) and understand the certifiably crazy (exempted from fault by a medical diagnosis), the poor chump whose neuroses simply make him unlikable is allowed no excuses. While watching Keith’s twitchy movements and hearing his servile mumblings (painfully well acted), even an audience so intimately familiar with his illnesses wants him to somehow just snap out of it and be normal. And therein lies the film’s success – it forces us to come to terms with Keith’s pitiful fate as much as with our own impatience.

Filmmaker Magazine Scott Macaulay

I sat on the Narrative Feature jury at SXSW last week. As you know, we gave the Grand Jury Prize to Itty Bitty Titty Committee, Jamie Babbit's riot grrl riff on Lizzie Borden's early '80s feminist indie classic, Born in Flames. In addition to its spirited run through the history of late 20th century feminist political action, from Angela Davis through the Guerilla Girls, the film contains a set of relationships -- the Latina lesbian protagonist, played by Melonie Diaz, and her accepting family; Melanie Mayron's power lesbian and her psychologically enabling lover/rent girl (played by Nicole Vicius) -- that add complexity and casual nuance to the movie's pop storytelling.

But many of the press reports failed to mention the two Special Jury Prizes we gave out, so I want to say a few of words about these films.

We awarded a Special Jury Prize to Ry Russo-Young's Orphans for "its personally crafted visual aesthetic." The film, which placed the story of two sisters attempting to reconcile after the death of their parents amidst a textured collage of pastel backgrounds and flowing party dresses, has its share of Bergman references but it also shares something with the experimental melodramas of Peggy Ahwesh and Ronnie Abate.

We also gave a Special Jury Prize to Ron Bronstein's Frownland (pictured, above) for its "uncompromising singularity of vision." I was particularly happy about this award, because Bronstein's first feature is the kind of outsider cinema that deliberately pushes an audience's patience and thus is easy to dismiss by those unwilling to approach the film on the terms it lays out for itself.

In a festival in which many films dealt, ostensibly, with "problems of communication," Bronstein's film explored this theme to its fullest and most painful degrees. Frownland follows for a few days the psychologically impaired Keith Sontag, a self-described "troll from under the bridge," as he quarrels with the arrogant musician roommate, tries to console a suicidal female friend, and hopelessly attempts to make money by door-to-door coupon selling. Bronstein's camera fixates itself in long takes on Sontag (played by Dore Mann, an ex-Pathmark deli clerk who currently mans the night shift at a suicide hotline) as the character lurches way below the social safety net in particularly hellish ring of outer-borough New York. In long scenes Sontag stammers and grimaces his way through awkwardly circular dialogues that never once achieve any moments of catharis, closure or just basic conversational clarity. There's a stunning sequence at the end in which Sontag stumbles into a deafeningly noisy hipster party, and a bold digression in which we follow roommate for fifteen minutes or so as he bizarrely tries to scam his way through an LSAT test. (It was at this point in the film that I realized I had no idea where it was going and how long it would take to get there.)

Frownland reminded me a bit of Lodge Kerrigan's recent Keane,, but where Kerrigan's handheld camera and jump-cut style (and his protagonist's narratively-attuned psychological issues) created storytelling drive, empathy and audience involvement, Bronstein resets our inner movie clock. Disoriented, we are forced to wonder about his -- and our -- attitude towards his characters. Should we feel sorry for Sontag or, like pulling off a piece of chewing gum stuck to our shoe, try to get him out of our lives as soon as possible?

Bronstein's day (or, often night) job is projecting films at places like MOMA and the American Museum of the Moving Image, and, in person, he evinces the passion of a true cineaste. At the SXSW Closing Night party he enthused to me about screening Jacques Rivette's 12-plus hour Out 1 earlier this month, and in his press notes Bronstein (pictured above right) hails great influences: Mike Leigh's Nuts in May and Bleak Moments along with films by Monte Hellman, Alan Clarke, Cassavetes and Mad Magazine.

Like I said, Frownland's sludgy miserabilism can be a tough watch, but now that the festival is over, it's the film that has resonated with me the most. Some of my affection towards Frownland is no doubt due to the underground tradition it salutes. Bronstein told me at SXSW that he wanted to make a film with "no narrative center" and at the awards ceremony in his brief remarks, he acknowledged the difficulties of his approach, noting that some viewers had told him that they wanted to "mark both a '1' and a '5" on their Audience Award ballot. (At my screening, the first post-screening comment Bronstein got from an audience member was, "Your film reminded me to keep taking my meds."

Ultimately, though, Frownland may be one of the few pieces of anti-commercial cinema that is best described by its creator. Here is Bronstein, excerpted, from his director's statement:

[Frownland is] a jagged little pill of a movie, in turns scary and strayed, honest and threatening, funny, frustrating and frazzled. A crummy window into a world where not just its creators but everyone feels rootless and displaced.

More succinctly, Frownland is my own small contribution to the sinking barge of the 16mm indie model; both an overripe tomato lobbed with spazmo inaccuracy at the spotless surface of the silver screen and a mad valentine to the craggy tradition of unadulterated cheao-o-independent expression. Its inelegance is its spirit. I hope you dig it.

House Next Door (Matt Zoller Seitz)

The Village Voice [Scott Foundas]

New York Sun [Bruce Bennett]

FROWNLAND Steve Erickson from Chronicle of a Passion

Not Coming to a Theater Near You [Rumsey Taylor]

The IFC Blog [Alison Willmore]

The New York Sun [Martin Tsai]

Film Journal International (Eric Monder) review

NewCity Chicago Ray Pride

Time Out New York (Joshua Rothkopf) review [3/6]

St. Louis Post-Dispatch review [C+] Joe Williams

Chicago Tribune Michael Phillips

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [3.5/4]

New York Times (registration req'd) Manohla Dargis

Brook, Peter

All-Movie Guide Hal Erickson and Dave Lewis

Though British director Peter Brook has accumulated an impressive number of film and television credits spanning seven decades, Brook is primarily a director of theatrical productions. Nevertheless, he gained his start with a movie; as an Oxford undergraduate student, Brook directed an amateur adaptation of Laurence Sterne's eighteenth-century novel A Sentimental Journey (1943). Brook did not stage his first theatrical production, Dr. Faustus, until a few months later. Brook established his stage credentials with a legendary 1946 Royal Shakespeare Company production of Love's Labor's Lost, and in 1953 coached the actors for a CBS television production of King Lear starring Orson Welles. Brook's first mainstream film was The Beggar's Opera, a 1953 version of John Gay's satirical Baroque ballad opera starring Laurence Olivier in his singing debut as MacHeath. It would prove Brook's most obviously commercial film production; his next was the Resnais-like 1960 Italian/French co-production Moderato Cantabile, which is like an interior monologue come to life.

Brook's 1963 movie version of Lord of the Flies used William Goldman's allegorical novel as a springboard for a largely improvised and intensely brutal skewering of the British social structure, enacted by a group of non-professional children and filmed with two handheld cameras to create the illusion of spontaneity. It was an international success, and Brook followed this innovative effort with 1967's Marat/Sade, an in-your-face cinematic adaptation of his own Royal Shakespeare Company production of the play by Peter Weiss featuring Glenda Jackson in her film debut. In 1968 Brook also relied on the Royal Shakespeare Company for Tell Me Lies), a scathing condemnation of the Vietnam conflict which nonetheless remains little known, and collected a series of lectures into a book, The Empty Space, which became the unofficial "bible" of post-modern theater directors.

In 1970, Brook founded Paris' International Centre for Theatre Research, which he continues to lead even at this writing (in 2005). In 1971 Brook's film of King Lear, starring his longtime collaborator Paul Scofield appeared, a bold artistic gamble that Brook mostly lost. While it received a New York Critic's Circle Award, King Lear was widely condemned as a pretentious, overlong festival of misery and gore. Devoting most of the 1970s to efforts onstage, Brook turned to his deep interests in Eastern mysticism to fuel his next major filmed projects, a warmly-received film about G.I. Gurdjieff, Meetings with Remarkable Men (1979) and his sprawling adaptation of the eighteen-volumes-long Indian religious epic, The Mahabharata (1989). The original play that served as its basis ran nine hours, for television it was reduced to "mini-series" size at six hours, and in the video version, it runs just over three. The Mahabharata is lengthy, slow and obscure, but stylistically it is masterful and remains one of the most ambitious undertakings of its kind.

In 2002, Brook made something of a comeback with a critically acclaimed, slimmed-down version of The Tragedy of Hamlet made for television, and through an interesting documentary made about him by his son, documentarian Simon Brook, entitled Brook by Brook. Many hold Peter Brook responsible for introducing excess to post-modern theater; outrageous settings, mixed media, the elimination of the "fourth wall," distinguished actors making bizarre entrances in even more bizarre costumes - techniques largely known through their wholesale adoption by far less talented college and regional-theatre directors in America. Peter Brook's domestic reputation as a film director has never truly recovered from the debacle of King Lear. Yet no one can deny the power and intensity of Lord of the Flies, and to a lesser extent Marat/Sade. Peter Brook at least can easily claim the distinction of being among a very few full-time theater directors, such as Bob Fosse, Alan Schneider and Luschino Visconti, to make a lasting and important contribution to the art of film.

TCMDB bio from Turner Classic Movies

Brook, Peter They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

LORD OF THE FLIES

Great Britain (90 mi) 1963

-Peter Brook Criterion essay

Brooks, James L.

TEARMS OF ENDEARMENT

USA (132 mi) 1983

Time Out

Until Debra Winger finds she has The Illness, this ambles along quite amusingly but unremarkably as a sharp-eyed family comedy: Winger leaves her neurotic mother (MacLaine) for an unfaithful husband, while MacLaine consoles herself with astronaut-next-door Nicholson. It is Nicholson who dominates this section, attacking the role and usefully distracting attention from the blatant unreality and sentimentality of the MacLaine character. Then The Illness strikes, and the film changes gear completely, pulling out all the stops and almost incidentally delivering one of the best-acted, most moving death-bed scenes in recent memory. The emotional wipe-out is impressive, confirming Winger as one of the major stars of the '80s. But it also unbalances the film, and makes you wonder if director Brooks is as good at construction as he obviously is at emotion.

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Dale Dobson)

Terms of Endearment made its mark on the American cinema in 1983, garnering five Academy Awards®, including Best Picture. The story concerns Emma (Debra Winger), a young wife and mother of three whose relationship with her own mother, Aurora (Shirley MacLaine), has always been... difficult. Her philandering English professor husband (Jeff Daniels) sends Emma into her own affair with a soft-spoken banker (John Lithgow). Meanwhile, Aurora finds new energy with her next-door neighbor, astronaut Garrett Breedlove (Jack Nicholson). When Emma's doctor finds suspicious lumps under her arm, disruptive and difficult changes affect everyone in her extended family.

Director James L. Brooks strikes and maintains a difficult balance here, finding humor in a story that's not inherently "funny" in the traditional sense. Brooks adapted the screenplay from Larry McMurtry's novel, and his script pulls no emotional punches, acknowledging the darker elements of the book without being overwhelmed by them. The characters seem genuine, and our resistance to their less attractive traits is soon overcome by their recognizable humanity.

The film benefits from strong, intelligent performances all around. Debra Winger's character matures visibly, developing an inner strength not foreshadowed by her girlish goofiness at the film's outset. Jack Nicholson is in fine, sardonic form as a decaying, womanizing astronaut, improvising some of the best lines in the picture. Jeff Daniels is surprisingly sympathetic as a cheating spouse unsure of his family's future, John Lithgow contributes yet another strong character performance, and Danny DeVito is memorable in a small role as one of Aurora's unsuccessful suitors. But the most impressive screen presence is that of Shirley MacLaine's Aurora, an uptight, emotionally tense woman who seems incapable of truly connecting to anyone; it's amazing to watch her blossom after she meets precisely the wrong sort of man. MacLaine's gestures, facial expressions, and line deliveries are so subtle and so perfect that they seem invented on the spot, yet uniformly "right."

Terms of Endearment is as close to perfect as drama gets. Even the illness that drives the third act is credible—its appearance is sudden, but not manipulative; in many ways, Emma's tragedy is what makes the story significant as a whole. Everything that we've learned and come to understand about the characters comes to mean so much more. Sadness and joy combine and commingle, enhancing each other without ever clashing. Terms of Endearment pulls it off, and then some.

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

When families get together to remember their times together, the conversation has a way of moving easily from the tragedies to the funny things. You'll mention someone who has passed away, and there'll be a moment of silence, and then somebody will grin and be reminded of some goofy story. Life always has an unhappy ending, but you can have a lot of fun along the way, and everything doesn't have to be dripping in deep significance.

The most remarkable achievement of "Terms of Endearment," which is filled with great achievements, is its ability to find the balance between the funny and the sad, between moments of deep truth and other moments of high ridiculousness. A lesser movie would have had trouble moving between the extremes that are visited by this film, but because "Terms of Endearment" understands its characters and loves them, we never have a moment's doubt: What happens next is supposed to happen. because life's like that.

"Terms of Endearment" feels as much like life as any movie I can think of. At the same time, it's a triumph of show business, with its high comic style, its flair for bittersweet melodrama and its star turns for the actors. Maybe the best thing about this movie is the way it combines those two different kinds of filmmaking. This is a movie with bold emotional scenes and big laughs, and at the same time it's so firmly in control of its tone that we believe we are seeing real people.

The movie's about two remarkable women and their relationships with each other and with the men in their lives. The mother is played by Shirley MacLaine. She's a widow who lives in Houston and hasn't dated a man since her husband died. Maybe she's redirected her sexual desires into the backyard, where her garden has grown so large and elaborate that she either will have to find a man pretty quickly or move to a house with a bigger yard.

Her daughter, played by Debra Winger, is one of those people who seems to have been blessed with a sense of life and joy. She marries a guy named Flap who teaches English in a series of Midwestern colleges; she rears three kids and puts up with Flap, who has an eye for coeds.

Back in Houston, her mother finally goes out on a date with the swinging bachelor (Jack Nicholson) who has lived next door for years. He's a hard-drinking, girl-chasing former astronaut with a grin that hints of unspeakable lusts. MacLaine, a lady who surrounds herself with frills and flowers, is appalled by this animalistic man and then touched by him.

There are a couple of other bittersweet relationships in the film. Both mother and daughter have timid, mild-mannered male admirers: MacLaine is followed everywhere by Vernon, who asks only to be allowed to gaze upon her, and Winger has a tender, little affair with a banker. The years pass. Children grow up into adolescence, Flap gets a job as head of the department in Nebraska, the astronaut turns out to have genuine human possibilities of becoming quasi-civilized, and mother and daughter grow into a warmer and deeper relationship. All of this is told in a series of perfectly written, acted and directed scenes that flow as effortlessly as a perfect day, and then something happens that is totally unexpected, and changes everything.

I don't want to suggest what happens. It flows so naturally that it should be allowed to take place.

This is a wonderful film. There isn't a thing that I would change, and I was exhilarated by the freedom it gives itself to move from the high comedy of Nicholson's best moments to the acting of Debra Winger in the closing scenes. She outdoes herself. It's a great performance. And yet it's not a "performance." There are scenes that have such a casual piety that acting seems to have nothing to do with it. She doesn't reach for effects, and neither does the film, because it's all right there.

Turner Classic Movies Eleanor Quin

The Greatest Films - comprehensive analysis of classic US film Tim Dirks

Terms Of Endearment Bourgeois Morality Tale, by Douglas Kellner from Jump Cut

DVD Verdict Patrick Naugle

Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick)

Jerry Saravia

About.com Home Video/DVD [Ivana Redwine]

The Flick Filosopher's take MaryAnn Johanson

Apollo Movie Guide [Scott Weinberg]

FilmJudge [David Mercier]

Film Threat, Hollywood's Indie Voice Brad Laideman, made me want to gouge both my eyes out with an icepick

Read the New York Times Review » Janet Maslin

SPANGLISH B 87

USA (128 mi) 2004

The perfect Mother’s Day movie, with a surprisingly strong, pitch perfect performance by Paz Vega (think SEX AND LUCIA), who speaks only Spanish, yet becomes the housekeeper for a liberal-minded white, suburban family from Bel Air that seems to know so little themselves about family, typified by the nearly always emotionally distraught, over-controlling inconsiderate nature of the mother, Tea Leoni, a character surely no one could like or appreciate, and her emotionally absent, alcoholic mother played in stereotype by Cloris Leachman. Adam Sandler is the quiet, more introverted father whose life is a series of grace notes contrasted against the frantically neurotic women. Into this world comes the calm, reassuring presence of someone who cares, who actually thinks before she acts, then acts with her 12-year old daughter’s interests in mind. Even with a sitcom script that never rises to the occasion, and despite the fact this shouldn’t work, as much of it is by the numbers, it somehow does, largely due to the strength of the performances. Paz Vega is startlingly good, in a lead performance that is nearly all unsubtitled, and single-handedly she makes this a compelling film.

Brooks, Louise – Silent actress

the decorative sex Chained and Perfumed

Brooks, Mel

All-Movie Guide Andrea LeVasseur

Farce, satire, and parody come together with Vaudeville roots and manic energy to create the Mel Brooks style of comedy. Born Melvin Kaminsky to a Russian Jewish family in Brooklyn, NY, the writer/producer/director/actor was one of very few people to win an Oscar, Emmy, Grammy, and Tony award. After serving in the U.S. Army during World War II, he worked as a standup comic at resorts in the Catskills and started writing comedy. Along with Woody Allen, Neil Simon, and others, he wrote for Sid Caesar's Your Show of Shows, which later became Caesar's Hour. Teaming up with fellow staff writer Carl Reiner, he developed the award-winning "2000 Year Old Man" comedy skit, which led to several recordings, television appearances, and a 1998 Grammy. He and writer Buck Henry also created the spy-parody TV series Get Smart (1965-1970) starring Don Adams. During this time, he produced theater, married actress Anne Bancroft, and made his first film: an Oscar-winning animated short parody of modern art called The Critic. He then put together a screenplay based upon his experiences working with Broadway executives that led to his feature-length debut The Producers. He cast stage legend Zero Mostel in the lead role and got B-movie producer Joseph Levine to put up the funds, but the movie didn't get distributed until Peter Sellers saw it and encouraged its release. Brooks ended up winning an Oscar for Best Screenplay and, in 2000, adapted the film into a highly successful Broadway musical. By 1970, after the release of his next film The Twelve Chairs, Hollywood thought his work was "too Jewish." In 1974, Brooks made the marketable move toward parodies with the Western spoof Blazing Saddles, winning him a Writer's Guild award and introducing his stock actors Harvey Korman and Madeline Kahn. Finding his niche, he would continue to make parodies throughout his career by spoofing horror (Young Frankenstein), silent movies (Silent Movie), Hitchcock (High Anxiety), historical epics (History of the World — Part I), and science fiction (Spaceballs).

Working simultaneously as writer, director, and lead actor, Brooks started to generate negative press about his excessive style. In 1983, appearing opposite Bancroft, he concentrated on just acting for the remake of the Ernst Lubitch classic To Be or Not to Be. He continued working with his production company Brooksfilms during the '80s as an executive producer on projects as varied as The Fly, The Elephant Man, Solarbabies, and 84 Charing Cross Road (starring Bancroft). His brief stray into non-parody films in 1991 (Life Stinks) was universally dismissed, so he returned to form with Robin Hood: Men in Tights and Dracula: Dead and Loving It. Other than the occasional cameo or random appearance as voice talent, Brooks spent the late '90s winning awards and playing Uncle Phil on the NBC series Mad About You. In 2001, the Broadway musical version of The Producers (starring Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick) led to a successful national tour and broke a new record by winning one Grammy and 12 Tony awards.

Film Reference Stuart M. Kaminsky, updated by Audrey E. Kupferberg

Mel Brooks's central concern (with High Anxiety and To Be or Not to Be as possible exceptions) is the pragmatic, absurd union of two males, starting with the more experienced member trying to take advantage of the other, and ending in a strong friendship and paternal relationship. The dominant member of the duo, confident but illfated, is Zero Mostel in The Producers, Frank Langella in The Twelve Chairs, and Gene Wilder in Blazing Saddles and Young Frankenstein. The second member of the duo, usually physically weak and openly neurotic, represents the victim who wins, who learns from his experience and finds friendship to sustain him. These "Jewish weakling" characters include Wilder in The Producers, Ron Moody, and Cleavon Little. Though this character, as in the case of Little, need not literally be Jewish, he displays the stereotypical characteristics.

Women in Brooks's films are grotesque figures, sex objects ridiculed and rejected. They are either very old or sexually gross and simple. The love of a friend is obviously worth more than such an object. The secondary male characters, befitting the intentional infantilism of the films, are men-babies given to crying easily. They are set up as examples of what the weak protagonist might become without the paternal care of his reluctant friend. In particular, Brooks sees people who hide behind costumes—cowboy suits, Nazi uniforms, clerical garb, homosexual affectations—as silly children to be made fun of.

The plots of Brooks's films deal with the experienced and inexperienced men searching for a way to triumph in society. They seek a generic solution or are pushed into one. Yet there is no escape into generic fantasy in the Brooks films, since the films take place totally within the fantasy. There is no regard, as in Woody Allen's films, for the pathetic nature of the protagonist in reality. In fact, the Brooks films reverse the Allen films' endings as the protagonists move into a comic fantasy of friendship. (A further contrast with Allen is in the nature of the jokes and gags. Allen's humor is basically adult embarrassment; Brooks's is infantile taboo-breaking.)

In The Producers the partners try to manipulate show business and wind up in jail, planning another scheme because they enjoy it. In The Twelve Chairs they try to cheat the government; at the end Langella and Moody continue working together though they no longer have the quest for the chairs in common. In Blazing Saddles Little and Wilder try to take a town; it ends with the actors supposedly playing themselves, getting into a studio car and going off together as pals into the sunset. In these films it is two men alone against a corrupt and childish society. Though their schemes fall apart—or are literally exploded as in The Producers and The Twelve Chairs—they still have each other.

Young Frankenstein departs from the pattern with each of the partners, monster and doctor, sexually committed to women. While the basic pattern of male buddies continued when Brooks began to act in his own films, he also winds up with the woman when he is the hero star (High Anxiety, Silent Movie, The History of the World, To Be or Not to Be). It is interesting that Brooks always tries to distance himself from the homosexual implications of his central theme by including scenes in which overtly homosexual characters are ridiculed. It is particularly striking that these characters are, in The Producers, Blazing Saddles, and The Twelve Chairs, stage or film directors.

Brooks's late-career films have been collectively disappointing. Upon its release, Spaceballs already was embarrassingly dated. It is meant to be a spoof of Star Wars, yet it came to movie screens a decade after the sci-fi epic. Comic timing used to be Brooks's strong point, yet the story has no momentum and the film's funniest line—"May the Schwartz be with you"—is repeated so often that the joke quickly becomes stale.

The bad-taste scenes in Brooks's earlier films, most memorably Blazing Saddles and Young Frankenstein, used to be considered provocative. Now that young filmmakers and television writers have stretched comedy to the extreme limits, Brooks has lost his ability to astound and appall the audience. His most recent feature, Robin Hood: Men in Tights, a parody of Errol Flynn-style swashbuckling adventures, is sorely lacking in laughs. The sole exception: Dom DeLuise's hilarious (but all too brief) Godfather spoof.

Life Stinks! is the most serious of all of Brooks's films. Rather than being a string of quick gags, it offers a slower-paced, more conventional narrative. As with To Be or Not to Be (which is set in Poland at the beginning of World War II), he treats a sobering theme in a comic manner as he comments on the plight of the homeless. But while To Be or Not to Be is as deeply moving as it is funny, Life Stinks! stinks. It is episodic and all too often flat, with its satire much too broad and all too rarely funny.

Mel Brooks Movie Site official website

The Mel Brooks Webring another tribute site

TCMDB profile from Turner Classic Movies

Brooks, Mel They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

Destination Hollywood's Tribute to Mel Brooks

Guardian Interview (2005) 'I do bad taste with intelligence,' by Rachel Cooke from the Observer, December 18, 2005

THE PRODUCERS

USA (88 mi) 1968

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson]

As for Mel Brooks's 1968 air-burst rip The Producers, no bets were hedged and no throats left unthrottled. An inevitable re-release, Brooks's magnum opus is still a ferocious gale of bulldozing Jewish mockery, dominated by Zero Mostel's comb-over juggernaut. However familiar, it delivers like a shorted slot machine; memories of the tame and safely distant stage version will evaporate in the runway turbulence of Mostel's spittle-spray-in-your-eye performance. In fact, the more time passes the more combustible Brooks's burlesque of Nazism and the post-war remnants of old-school Jewish showbiz seems. Accompanying is the 1963 short The Critic—between them, Brooks owned the decade in vicious lampoon.

The Producers Mike D’Angelo from Time Out New York

Steve Martin titled one of his stand-up albums Comedy Is Not Pretty!, and Mel Brooks's first movie, The Producers, could easily serve as Exhibit A. Demonstrating not the slightest comprehension of basic film grammar, this butt-ugly classic puts the lie to Hollywood Ending, in which Woody Allen plays a director whose comeback project is derailed when he develops psychosomatic blindness. Film may be a visual medium (a litany haunting the corridor of every cinema-studies program in the country), but the truth is that if you begin with a brilliant premise—two con men attempt to make a fortune by staging a Broadway musical that's guaranteed to flop—write a terrific script and cast the right actors, it doesn't really matter much where you put the camera, or whether your scenes cut together in a coherent, eye-pleasing manner. (Kevin Smith, for example, has built a healthy career using this principle.)

Of course, Brooks's musical adaptation of the film, still running at the St. James, packs 'em in almost as consistently as Springtime for Hitler. Devoid of any connections and unwilling to pay a scalper's ransom, I missed the original cast; for all the hoopla, though, it's hard to imagine Matthew Broderick matching the manic intensity with which Wilder, in his first leading role, portrays the hyperneurotic accountant Leo Bloom. Darkly muttering one moment, hysterically screeching the next, Wilder divests himself of all vanity, making Woody Allen's anxious dithering look positively suave by comparison; it's a remarkably fearless performance, well matched by Mostel's sweaty braggadocio. And in an era that defines tastelessness solely in terms of bodily functions, it's bracing to see a comedy that's truly politically incorrect, provoking shocked guffaws from the sight of an entire chorus goose-stepping in the shape of a swastika. Preceding the feature is a little-seen 1963 animated short, "The Critic," for which Brooks provides the voice of an elderly Russian flummoxed by an evening of avant-garde cinema—a typical evening at MoMA, in other words.

Turner Classic Movies Sara Heiman

The Producers is considered by many to be one of the top comedies of all time; this 1968 film ranked at number eleven on the American Film Institute's list of the top one hundred comedies. The film, which has grown to cult status, is noteworthy for a number of reasons: first, it marked Mel Brooks' directorial film debut. Brooks had begun his career in stand-up comedy, then moved into writing for the television comedies You Show of Shows and Caesar's Hour. After winning an Oscar in 1963 for his animated short The Critic, Brooks received financial backing from Joseph E. Levine to direct his hilarious original screenplay The Producers.

Brooks cast three-time Tony Award winner Zero Mostel as Max Bialystock, a failing Broadway producer who has been reduced to wearing a cardboard belt and taking money from elderly women in exchange for fulfilling their sexual fantasies. Mostel had taken a break from the silver screen somewhat unwillingly, as a result of being blacklisted during the McCarthy era Communist hunt. He had continued to act on stage, then made his return to movies in 1966 with A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. The Producers cemented Mostel's reputation as a zany comedian, and did much to restore his popularity with film audiences.

Gene Wilder was cast as neurotic accountant Leo Bloom, who gives corrupt Bialystock the idea to produce a huge flop and pocket the investors' money. Wilder had at that point only appeared in one film: a small yet amusing role in Bonnie and Clyde the year before. The Producers turned out to be a star-making performance for Wilder, and he was nominated by the Academy for Best Supporting Actor that year. Wilder would go on to become one of the great comedic actors of our time, and often starred in Brooks's later films.

The Producers also established many of the Mel Brooks trademarks that would be seen in his films to come. A wacky and often twisted sense of humor that was shocking to some at the time was part of Brooks's repertoire. Who else could make a film about two Jewish men putting on a play called "Springtime for Hitler"? Incidentally, that was one of Brooks's favorite running jokes before he made this film. When asked what his next project would be, he would often say that he was going to do a musical called "Springtime for Hitler". Because of the musical scenes, the movie was banned in Germany. It later made its appearance in that country in a film festival featuring the works of Jewish filmmakers. Brooks's sense of humor was recognized at the Academy Awards that year when he received the Oscar® for Best Screenplay, his only Oscar® to date. Brooks would later produce a musical version for the Broadway stage that became a long-running hit starring Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick; they recreated their roles for the 2005 film version directed by Susan Stroman.

DVD Times D.J. Nock

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Reel.com DVD review [Pam Grady]

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BLAZING SADDLES

USA (93 mi) 1974 ‘Scope

Movie Magazine International [Monica Sullivan]

Once upon a time, Mel Brooks movies were so funny that audiences started laughing during the credits. These were during the heady years when Brooks made movies with Gene Wilder ("The Producers", "Young Frankenstein" & this gem) From the moment we hear Frankie Laine sing the evocative, Oscar-nominated "Blazing Saddles Theme" & listen to the cranked-up cracking of a whip, we know that "Blazing Saddles" will be rare & vintage Brooks & Wilder. Cleavon Little (1939-92), an enormously likable actor, is Sheriff Black Bart, Gene Wilder is The Waco Kid, Madeleine Kahn (1942-99) is Lily Von Shtupp & Harvey Korman is Hedley Lamarr. All the roles are stereotypical, with a friendly nod to "Destry Rides Again", but the homages are paid with such deep affection & comedic genius that "Blazing Saddles" succeeds in casting its own unique spell. Mel Brooks plays the dual roles of William J. Petomane & a Sioux Indian chief. Eventually, Brooks would dominate his films on & off camera, claiming that he was cheap & Gene Wilder was expensive, & he wound up throwing everything off-balance. Obsessed with flatulence & other body functions, Brooks' movies evolved into 90-minute bathroom jokes, with occasional plot relief thrown into the mix. 1974, though, was Mel Brooks' best year. Any movie with that great gospel spiritual, "I Get A Kick Out Of You", or the Von Shtupp classic, "I'm Tired", deserves to be on your shelf of worth-their-weight-in-gold videos for those gloomy days when you need them to make life worth living.

CINE-FILE: Cine-List - CINE-FILE Chicago Kyle Cubr

Is there any other director alive who's mastered the spoof film as an art film like Mel Brooks has? A black man named Bart (Cleavon Little) is appointed sheriff of Rock Ridge under the guise that the entire town will be so displeased that they'll all pack up and move away so that the devious Hedley Lamarr (Harvey Korman) can snatch their land to become rich. Brooks' essential western-comedy BLAZING SADDLES is rife with parody in every scene. Whether it's a group of railroad workers tricking their overseers into singing ridiculous renditions of Southern spirituals or the entire production of BLAZING SADDLES itself spilling across the Warner Brothers lot and into a Dom DeLuise-directed musical, the film's comedic style is a blending of satire, misdirection, and the eccentric. Brooks' take on racial tensions is the key theme in the film. Bart is stereotypically cool and suave while the townspeople are moronic and racist. Through Bugs Bunny-esque hijinks, Bart is able to sway the citizens to his side. Humor is Brooks' way of bringing opposing sides together. While 1970s racial biases are present (Brooks' scene dressed as a Native American Chief comes to mind), BLAZING SADDLES is very deliberately self-conscious of its era. A few subtle jabs are taken at Hollywood, and the shot that zooms out to show the studio is pure genius. BLAZING SADDLES' legacy is long lasting and its lesson on how to do parody in film is rarely matched.

Slant Magazine [Eric Henderson]

Pauline Kael once called the gulf between E.T. and Poltergeist a testament to the confounding ability for one man (Spielberg) to produce one enduring masterpiece and one miserable failure in the space of a year (and God forever damn her for not realizing that Poltergeist is, if anything, a more harrowing portrait of the nuclear family on the verge of dissipation, but I digress). Apparently, she hadn't seen Mel Brooks' 1974 one-two punch. For Young Frankenstein is so loving and charmingly goofy in spoofing one of Hollywood's most successful early genres ('30s Universal monster movies) that it winds up as much a tribute as it is a parody. But Blazing Saddles, a burlesque about a western town standing in the way of the railroad expansion and the black sheriff sent to discourage its citizens from deserting, is a limp, shapeless mess of a film trades in a genuine respect for westerns' tropes for purile vulgarity and joy-buzzer showmanship (which wouldn't be so much of a crime, really, if most of the jokes didn't seem downright tame nowadays). Admittedly, the film's primary subject matter, racial discrimination, establishes that Brooks can strike metaphorical, subtextual oil from the hidden legacy of Hollywood prejudice. But Blazing Saddles is strictly for all those too dense to realize that a fantastic and witty (albeit in an entirely different manner) deconstruction of the cinematic western mythos had already been mounted by Robert Altman with McCabe & Mrs. Miller.

As with any Brooks film, success depends almost solely on the strength of his cast, and Blazing Saddles works on a one-off-one-on rate. The two leads, the black sheriff and his washed-up deputy, are dull washouts. Cleavon Little, who with every Wayne Brady grin implicates Warner Brothers' reluctance to cast the fiery Richard Pryor in the role he helped shape, and Gene Wilder, whose lackadaisical wallflowering has led many a review to read him as being possibly gay in an effort to give him something, anything in the way of dimensionality. (Though I think it's fairly obvious when Brooks intends for his characters to be read as gay.) But Madeline Kahn's Marlene Dietrich riff is just bizarre enough, without skirting into mugging of the Harvey Korman variety, that it's easy to see how she netted an Oscar nod for what amounts to a three-scene, one-song part.

Occasionally, Brooks' irreverent take on prejudice and his strategy of loading as many slurs into a single line of dialogue pays off, as when Little tells Slim Pickens to "watch that 'boy' shit, redneck!" And no one breaks the fourth wall with as much corny panache (Little revealing that his Entr'acte overture is actually a 20-piece big band that just happens to be planted in the middle of the desert). But, accepting that part of the film's staleness might be due to its status as the single most influential comedy of the last 30 years (we're still getting our comedy rocks off through historical anachronisms, sexual brazenness, and political incorrectness), Blazing Saddles remains one of Brooks' more puzzlingly overrated efforts, with neither the brilliant theatrical conceits of The Producers, the supreme riot-dud gag ratio of Silent Movie, nor the flawless timing and loving fidelity to the blackout sketch tradition of History of the World, Part I. Blazing Saddles just has Dom DeLuise calling a gaggle of French chorus boys "faggots."

DVD Times Mike Sutton

Turner Classic Movies Emily Soares

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

Blazing Saddles Heading ‘em off at the cliché, by Daniel Golden from Jump Cut

The Greatest Films - comprehensive analysis of classic US film Tim Dirks

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eFilmCritic Py Thomas

The Onion A.V. Club [Nathan Rabin] reviews the Mel Brooks Collection

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

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DVDBeaver Gary W. Tooze

YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN

USA (106 mi) 1974

filmcritic.com (Christopher Null)

Mel Brooks was just about at the top of his game back in 1974, when he directed both Blazing Saddles and Young Frankenstein. Young Frankenstein tells the tale of an heir (Gene Wilder) of the original Frank, who inherits his creepy castle (shot in the original castle from the first Frankenstein movie) and starts work anew on his ancestor's experiments. Of course, this is courtesy of Mel Brooks, and it's perfectly parodied -- probably the best horror spoof ever made and a far cry ahead of Brooks' later Dracula: Dead and Loving It gag. Wilder and Peter Boyle (as the monster) are hysterical, but it's Teri Garr who steals the show as Frankenstein's buxom and considerably vapid assistant. The special edition DVD is especially recommended -- with a handful of outtakes and deleted scenes (though none are nearly as funny as what made the final cut).

Movie Magazine International Monica Sullivan

Undoubtedly the funniest movie ever made. You won't be able to look at O. P. Heggie & Boris Karloff in 1935's "Bride Of Frankenstein" without shrieking from the side-splitting memory of Gene Hackman & Peter Boyle's hilarious satire of the Blind Man & the Monster. Mel Brooks lovingly recreates the look & feel of Universal's "Frankenstein" films of the 1930's, but with the addition of the wickedly funny Oscar-nominated screenplay he dreamed up with Gene Wilder. (It must have been tough for Academy voters to choose between "Young Frankenstein" & "Godfather II" in 1974.) Such is the on-target wit and fame of this film that if you quote half a line from it in public, EVERYONE will get the reference. The much-missed Madeleine Kahn (1942-99) is at her glorious best as the Bride of the Monster, Teri Garr is at her most appealing, the "Putting on the Ritz" routine is better than a number of ENTIRE musicals of the 1930's & Cloris Leachman & Marty Feldman (1933-82) ARE Frau Blucher & Igor. Why couldn't "Dracula-Dead & Loving It" have been this good? No question about it: Brooks & Wilder were at their razor-sharp best TOGETHER.

Nitrate Online (capsule) Eddie Cockrell

Mel Brooks’ beloved spoof of Universal horror films in general and The Bride of Frankenstein in particular gets the long-overdue restoration treatment that restores the wide screen ratio of Gerald Hirschfeld’s gorgeous, velvety black and white cinematography and will only enrich the movie’s justified reputation as among the funniest movies ever made. The DVD extras include seven deleted scenes (none of which play well enough to second-guess their exclusion from the release print), funny and weird interview segments with Marty Feldman, Gene Wilder and Cloris Leachman talking to a Mexican journalist who often forgets to translate his questions into English (they all manage to answer them anyway), a 36 minute making-of documentary called “Making Frankensense of Young Frankenstein” and the usual assortment of trailers and extras. Although he spends a lot of time giving invaluable background information on the character actors in the film (and hinting at an on-set romance between Wilder and Teri Garr), Brooks’ whacked-out commentary track is often downright subdued and thus strange, almost as if he’s reluctant to admit the film’s importance. And important it is, with Wilder (who also wrote the film in collaboration with Brooks) giving a spot-on reading of Frederick Frankenstein (“that’s Frahnkensteen,” he corrects nearly everybody) and that great supporting cast adding surreal touches to the proceedings (Kenneth Mars is great as the local Burgermeister, and of course there’s Gene Hackman as the blind hermit).

Turner Classic Movies Roger Fristoe

As much a Valentine to Universal's 1930s horror movies as a spoof of them, Young Frankenstein (1974) is one of Mel Brooks' funniest films, along with being his most polished and atmospheric. Beautifully filmed in black and white on some of the original Frankenstein sets, using the old 1:85 aspect ratio and a similar film stock, the movie displays a thorough knowledge of and respect for the old films, along with a deliciously heightened sense of their more ridiculous aspects.

Gene Wilder, who came up with the idea for the film and served as Brooks' co-writer, stars as Dr. Frederick Frankenstein, the grandson of the mad scientist who created the original monster. To distance himself from his history, Frederick insists upon pronouncing the family name as "Frahkensteen." But a visit to the family castle and an encounter with the mysterious Frau Blucher (Cloris Leachman) soon has the grandson putting together his own monstrosity in the form of Peter Boyle -- who, as the new monster, sports a zipper around his neck. Adding immeasurably to the good-natured fun are Marty Feldman as Frederick's pop-eyed assistant, Igor; Madeline Kahn as his high-strung fiancee, Elizabeth; Teri Garr as the busty peasant girl, Inga; Gene Hackman as a blind hermit; and Kenneth Mars as a wooden-armed inspector inspired by Lionel Atwill in Son of Frankenstein (1939).

Kahn originally turned down the role of Inga in favor of playing Elizabeth. She later changed her mind, but it was too late because Garr had already been cast as Inga. Brooks, who "appears" in the film in the form of a gargoyle modeled after him, also voiced the off-screen sounds of a howling wolf and a screaming cat that's hit by a dart -- with the latter effect ad libbed by the director on the set. Another on-the-spot ad lib was Gene Hackman's "I was gonna make espresso" as the monster leaves the hermit's house. The name on the third brain when Igor makes his selection is that of the movie's assistant property master, Charles Sertin. A village guesthouse is named Gausthaus Gruskoff in honor of producer Michael Gruskoff.

Brooks reportedly was so reluctant to end the fun-filled 20th Century Fox production that he kept adding scenes so the company could remain together and continue shooting. He lost his temper only once during filming, becoming so upset that he threw a tantrum with Wilder and stormed out of the studio. Before long, however, he was on the telephone with Wilder saying, "Who was that lunatic yelling and screaming on the set today? You should fire that bum!"

The Onion A.V. Club [Nathan Rabin]

The Greatest Films - comprehensive analysis of classic US film Tim Dirks

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Classic Horror Chris Justice

SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

Crazy for Cinema

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Young Frankenstein Some things just aren’t funny, by Judith Hess from Jump Cut

Mel Brooks on His Career and Young Frankenstein on Broadway Nicki Gostin and Cathleen McGuigan from Newsweek magazine

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

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DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

Brooks, Richard

DEADLINE – U.S.A.

USA (87 mi) 1952

Dave Kehr - Chicago Reader

Windy, self-righteous newspaper film (1952), written and directed by Richard Brooks in a fair reflection of the way journalists think about themselves when they've had a few too many. Humphrey Bogart is the valiant crusading editor who braves threats to life and limb to publish the details of a gangster's doings. A free press means a free people, etc, etc. With Ethel Barrymore, Kim Hunter, and Ed Begley. 87 min.

Film News: Third 'Noir City: Chicago' Festival Opens at Music Box ...

Among this year’s most priceless treasures is “Deadline USA,” starring Bogart as a newspaper editor who refuses to stop chasing a vital story despite the impending death of his paper. That film is scheduled to make a superb double feature with “Chicago Deadline,” a long lost mystery-tinged melodrama that was shot on location in the Windy City over sixty years ago.

Humphrey Bogart stars as Ed Hutcheson, veteran editor of the New York Day, which is about to be sold to its main competitor. With only hours left before the presses stop, ‘Hutch’ decides to go out in a blaze of glory, taking down the city’s biggest racketeer. An eerily prescient eulogy for “old school” journalism, it’s one of the greatest of all newspaper movies.

Philadelphia Weekly [Matt Prigge]

“Windy, self-righetous newspaper film,” sez Dave Kehr. Sure…but not till the final reel. Philadelphia native Brooks evolved into a purveyor of middlebrow issue movies like The Blackboard Jungle, Elmer Gantry, In Cold Blood and Looking For Mr. Goodbar. But this early into his career he apparently still knew the value of pure entertainment, or at least was suitably in awe of star Humphrey Bogart, who chews scenery and much else besides as your stereotypical newspaper editor. Upon learning that his New York paper has been sold to someone who wishes to dissolve it, Bogie decides to spend its last gasp trying to nail a local mob boss. The finale is a battering ram of monologues on the importance of journalism, whipping out not just a courtroom soliloquy but also an elderly immigrant who weeps through a spiel about how Bogie’s paper taught her to read, learn about America, yada yada. Happily, goodwill has already been earned and then some. With solid work from Ethel Barrymore, Kim Hunter, Ed Begley and Jim Backus.

Deadline USA Paul E. Schindler Jr. from P.S. A Column on Things

Movie Mirror [Sanderson Beck]

Movie Review - Deadline U S A - ' Deadline ... - The New York Times Bosley Crowther

BLACKBOARD JUNGLE

USA (101 mi) 1955

Blackboard Jungle Review. Movie Reviews - Film - Time Out London

This was the movie which featured 'Rock Around the Clock' over the credits and had Teds ripping up the seats on its first release in Britain. But this notoriety gives a false impression of the film. It's based on Evan Hunter's moralistic bestseller about a young New York teacher at a tough school, and is very worthy in its intentions. Highlights include Vic Morrow as a confused knife-wielding delinquent, but the studied pseudo-documentary atmosphere never quite convinces.

Creative Loafing Charlotte [Matt Brunson]

This explosive picture’s greatest claim to fame, of course, is that it was the first movie to include rock & roll music, thanks to the playing of Bill Haley's "Rock Around the Clock” during the opening and closing credits. Reliable Glenn Ford is cast as the idealistic teacher whose new post at an inner-city school tests both his values and his patience as he's confronted by students more interested in rape and robbery than test scores and perfect attendance. Vic Morrow is suitably surly as the toughest of the kids, although it's Poitier, as a cocky student who matures under Ford's tutelage, who makes the strongest impression.

Slant Magazine [Jeremiah Kipp]

Hey, daddy-o! What was once a hot-topic message movie about the state of juvenile delinquency in inner city schools is now a dinosaur relic of the Eisenhower era. Former navy man turned idealistic teacher Mr. Dadier (Glenn Ford) tries making a difference with schoolyard thugs, whose criminal habits include attempted rape and armed robbery. He finds his hopes confirmed in musical prodigy Gregory Miller (Sidney Poitier), but when he tries helping the kid he inadvertently stirs up some racial tension. Melodrama escalates when the pregnant Mrs. Dadier (Anne Francis) gives birth prematurely as a result of hostile letters sent to her by repugnant gang leader Artie West (Vic Morrow, in a fun but insubstantial star-making performance that's imitation Brando), and fellow teacher Mr. Edwards (Richard Kiley) gets frightened out of town when the gang smashes his beloved record collection. Was this public service announcement edgy in 1955? Apparently so—but nowadays it plays out like a pious lecture delivered by middle-aged squares. The absurdity of Blackboard Jungle was taken to its logical conclusion in the 1980s rip-off Class of 1984, where teacher Roddy McDowell lectured his delinquent pupils about the miracle of science at gunpoint. Ford tries hard, but is easily upstaged by the fiery, scene-stealing Poitier. Pauline Kael's favorite scene was the one in which Poitier baits Ford into calling him a nigger. The scene is sanctimonious liberal bullshit, but Poitier's acting is scalding hot. If The Blackboard Jungle is worth anything, it's for bearing witness to a major star in the making.

DVD Savant Review: Blackboard Jungle Glenn Erickson

dOc DVD Review: Blackboard Jungle (1955) - digitallyOBSESSED! Jon Danziger

Epinions.com [David Macdonald]

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DVD Verdict [Steve Evans]

filmsgraded.com [Brian Koller]

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray] Controversial Classics

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Classic Film Guide

The New York Times Bosley Crowther

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

Blackboard Jungle - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

CAT ON A HOT TIN ROOF A 97

USA (108 mi) 1958

How does one drowning man help another drowning man? —Brick (Paul Newman)

A hugely powerful work, arguably Tennessee Williams’ best play, and his personal favorite, but the playwright disowned the film version, claiming it censored some of the original power by deleting the homosexual references in the lead character. Paul Newman, the star, also noted his disappointment with the screen adaptation, which also revises the final act. However, even with the author’s reservations, this is a stunning film, especially memorable by the iconic performances, where each meticulously created character is forever etched in our memories. Burl Ives as Big Daddy, the wealthy owner of 28,000 acres of the most fertile land in Mississippi, is unforgettable as the gruff speaking, big-bellied patriarch who is led to believe he has a second chance at life, that he has a clean bill of health instead of the terminal cancer he feared. This is spectacular news on his 65^th birthday, where his family has gathered at his huge plantation to celebrate. Judith Anderson is the matriarch Big Momma, continually shamed into second class status by the iron clad rule of her overbearing husband. Elizabeth Taylor has never looked more glamorous than as Maggie the Cat, the beautiful wife of Brick (Paul Newman), the favored son and heir to the throne, a man drowning in his own sorrows, self-pity, and plenty of liquor, disgusted at the turn of his life and disgusted with Maggie, refusing to allow her anywhere near him, despite her attempts to entice him away from the bottle. Equally memorable are the “no-necked monsters,” the endlessly annoying, spoiled, ill-bred children of Jack Carson as Goober, the dutiful and obedient son, and Madeleine Sherwood as his perpetually pregnant wife Mae, otherwise known as sister woman, one of the more contemptible characters to ever hit the screen, whose proficiency at backstabbing is second to none.

Offscreen, Elizabeth Taylor was emotionally distraught and near paralyzed from the death of her husband, Michael Todd, who died in a plane accident shortly after the birth of their child, an event that held up shooting for several weeks. Todd actually negotiated the part for his wife with MGM, where immersing herself in the role of Maggie the Cat is reported to have saved her career, receiving the second of 4 Academy Award nominations for Best Actress in four consecutive years, and if truth be told, it is a career-defining performance worthy of a star, one that defines her as an actress, typified by her sexual allure, smoldering passion, intelligence, combativeness, and simmering restraint. Wearing a white slip or a white cocktail dress, she exudes glamour and elegant sensuality either way, offering an extraordinary sense of urgency and even desperation about life while her husband is steeped in impotency and despair. Newman, who hops around on a single crutch after breaking his ankle, goes through several bottles of whisky in one day, enough to knock most men off their feet, but barely seems phased by it as he’s plenty coherent when he needs to be, but has no interest in sharing in the family party festivities, especially the ridiculously aggravating moments from the trained-like-monkeys children. But that doesn’t stop the party from coming to him, where eventually he and his father confront each other’s personal disgust with all the “lies and mendacity” that consume their lives. Their knock-down, drag-out, man to man talk is one for the ages, and comprises the central themes of the film. It is blisteringly intense and goes through several lengthy phases, exploring the dysfunctional family component each has learned to despise.

Both father and son go through an achingly personal transformation confronting the skeletons in their closet, but Ives’s performance is off the charts, especially after he learns the truth that he’s really dying of cancer. His Lear-like patriarchal prominence dwarfs the rest of the cast, even Elizabeth Taylor and Paul Newman at the peak of their beauty and power, as the death looming over his head is all that matters, everything else is secondary. As Goober and his Iago-like wife fight for their piece of the inheritance, Brick only grows less and less interested, infuriorated as much with himself as anything else, but also overwhelmed by the impending death of his father. In a storm sequence, Big Daddy fades away into the basement where he’s alone with his Xanadu of life’s collectibles, all stockpiled, filling every inch of space, covered in cobwebs. The man may as well be alone with his dreams as he watches them all disappear before his eyes. When Brick joins him, after an initial disagreeable outburst of suppressed anger, the pace of the film slows, becoming quietly reflective, and as they seem to reconcile their differences, Ives reflects on his own life with a newfound clarity. It’s the scene of the film, perhaps unsurpassed in the entire Williams’ repertoire, but ironically also a revision from the original play, yet beautifully written by Richard Brooks and James Poe and perfectly delivered, simply an unforgettable moment, where the background music of a lone harmonium can be heard underscoring the hauntingly dramatic poignancy. Ives won a Best Supporting Actor that same year for his performance in William Wyler’s THE BIG COUNTRY (1958), where he’s the patriarch of another dysfunctional western family, but his spellbinding performance here is nothing short of brilliant, easily the greatest performance in his lifetime. Once more, just like on her last film RAINTREE COUNTY (1957), leave it to Elizabeth Taylor to bring down the curtain in dramatic style.

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof Geoff Andrew from Time Out London

Overheated melodrama, based on Tennessee Williams' play about frustration, greed, lust and impotence wreaking havoc among a wealthy Southern family. Taylor overdoes it as the nagging wife of neurotic Newman, uncertain about his sexuality; Carson connives for the favours of his dying father, hoping to inherit; and Ives is magnificently patriarchal as Big Daddy, ruling the roost with an ego the size of his stomach. As so often with adaptations of Williams, it frequently errs on the side of overstatement and pretension, but still remains immensely enjoyable as a piece of cod-Freudian codswallop.

Buhay/Pelicula [Eboy M. Donato]

To prevent censorship during its time, the blatant homosexuality of Brick in Tennessee William's original play was instead portrayed as immature and had drinking problems. This, however, did not watered down, director Richard Brooks' screen adaptation, in fact its was elevated to wondrous portrayals thanks to its marvel of a cast.

Although top billed by Elizabeth Taylor, this production shines because of Paul Newman. He plays Brick, a washout drunkard whose life flashed before he can even achieve it, with Taylor as his wife Maggie "The Cat", who he thinks has a secret of her own. This drama unfolds as they celebrate the patriarch's 65th birthday, played by the towering Burl Ives. Intense exchange of words, are passed from one another as they reveal hate and disgust. Between Newman and Taylor, there in-laws (Jack Carson and Madeleine Sherwood), and their somewhat submissive mother (Judith Anderson). Due to their father's failing health, Newman's brother scurries about to settle their father's will, without his knowledge. But, all this changes when the truth is finally laid out in the open.

True, that everyone holds a stench of mendacity, as "Big Daddy" Ives tells Newman. His children, his wife, everyone around him, even himself. He breaks down in his penultimate scene as he tells Brick, the love he had towards his father, which he, in return, cannot show to his own kin. His quest for immortality, the accumulation of wealth, and acceptance of others, side sweeps the most important people that will most remember him, his family.

Although, some scenes are over the top, they still electrify and commands attention due to the demanding screens presence of its characters, most notably by Ives and Newman. Williams' known for his searing plays such as A Street Car Named Desire (1951) and The Night of the Iguana (1964), which all had its screen incarnations is a testament of its time, and the drama of American society.

Brilliant Observations on 1173 Films [Clayton Trapp]

Tennesee Williams always tackled amibitous issues, always over-stated his point, and always had to be forgiven because there were always some dazzling runs of dialogue that transceneded the entire thing, even, at his greatest moments, the ambitious issues. Stuff so great that anyone could sound like a genius reading it, but only the truely great can milk every little drop of cosmological endoplasm from the words, and make them mystically rematerizlize in the hearts of the audience. Who, if Tennessee gets his way in this one, will then go home and make passionate love to their partner. The other thing that always happens with Tennessee, in movies, is that they try to paint away his more perverse bits. And, these years later when nothing (much else) is shocking, ain't that what keeps him relevant? In any event the actors deliver the high moments and better than muddle through what the censors and screenplay writers wrought. Burl Ives is the most impressive, the most steady and consistent, as Big Daddy the personification of the dying south with all of its chivalry and machismo and earthiness. Obviously this was not political typecasting, in fact Burl was lucky to have a career afloat in the wake of McCarthyism, but he'd long since perfected the role on the stage. Elizabeth Taylor smolders as Maggie the Cat, she's far too appealing for us to ever believe any of the petty southern socialite colourings, but in the stillness of the moments between....in her white dress...she smolders everything into the part that anyone could have ever dreamed. Few women in the history of mankind could have sustained that hair-do, and been so sensual that no one even notices. Paul Newman gets the best line of them all (when he explains to Burl why he doesn't commit suicide), and they probably didn't do his career any immediate harm by airbrushing out the gayer bits. Unfortunately, for posterity, we'll never know how much Newman could have given if he'd been allowed to manifest his sensitivity in that decidedly unconventional (at least for the time) direction. Richard Brooks knows that he has a royal flush of talent and material that money couldn't begin to imagine how to produce, and he plays it right: he gives the actors the script and theatrical sets, he sits back and he lets 'em go, he allows the camera a reverence at the expense of notoriety, and then he probably went home and pumped his wife, like mostly everybody else.

The History of the Academy Awards: Best Picture - 1958 [Erik Beck]

The Film:  It’s strange to look back now and see how much this film actually had to overcome.  Paul Newman had some success, but had yet to really have a breakout role.  Burl Ives was still considered mainly a singer rather than an actor.  Richard Brooks had yet to have a solid critical and commercial success.  The play they were adapting had to be altered to remove the homosexuality that could be more explicitly mentioned on-stage and Williams’ last several plays on film had been heavily attacked by the Catholic Church.  Even Elizabeth Taylor, a huge star coming off her first Oscar nomination, was in the midst of scandal, as her husband Mike Todd had just died as the film was starting and by the time the film was released she would be running off with Eddie Fisher, married to her friend Debbie Reynolds.

But looking at it in the rear view mirror, none of that seems imaginable now.  Newman would earn his first Oscar nomination and become one of the biggest stars of the next two decades.  Ives would win the Oscar for The Big Country because MGM would list him as a lead, but this is the film he should have won for and this is the film that proved he was an actor.  Brooks would win an Oscar for his script for Elmer Gantry and earn back to back directing nominations in the mid 60′s, eventually earning him a spot on my top 100 Director list.  Williams’ plays would have an easy path to film, with Suddenly Last Summer, Summer and Smoke, The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone and Sweet Bird of Youth all getting filmed in the next five years.  And Elizabeth Taylor, while not winning the Oscar here, when she clearly deserved it, would win two more within a decade.

There is no question that there is some impact from the original play lost because of the cuts demanded by the times.  Brick’s motivations seem a bit strange unless you want to simply read homosexuality into it.  But that doesn’t negate the performances, the star making roles of Newman and Taylor.  It doesn’t negate the fantastic direction by Brooks, or the great way in which he made use of that fantastic mansion.  And the play still has power, the cutting dialogue between Brick and Maggie still something that will last forever.  She might have had one Oscar nomination already, but this is the film that made Taylor an actress.

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof - CRAZY FOR CINEMA Lisa Skrzyniarz

Nobody writes bitter, broken people better than Tennessee Williams. This affair begins with suppressed anger and quickly moves to boiling rage, as the members of an unhappy Southern family attempt to come to terms with the fatal illness of its' patriarch, the seemingly unstoppable force known as Big Daddy (Ives). With everything to live for, but very little time left, Big Daddy is forced to come to terms with himself and the disfunctional family he's created. Despite the cheerful facade, there is no love lost between the siblings, who have nothing but disgust for each other's lifestyles. Maggie (Taylor), Big Daddy's favorite daughter-in-law, is fighting not only for the future of her marriage, but their stake in the family fortune. Brick (Newman) wants no part in the celebration or the money-grubbing, drinking to forget the pain of his best friend's death and to avoid Maggie's various attempts at reconciliation. Even with all the alcohol, I don't see how his character could resist her.

Taylor is at the height of her beauty and power here, giving such a raw and sultry performance that I'm stunned the screen didn't catch on fire. Newman is his super-cool, smoldering self, channeling his anger and pain into those crystal blue eyes and sarcastic grin. The chemistry between them is electric, bringing unbridled emotion to every word. No shrinking violet himself, Ives makes his presence known with unquestionable authority. Whenever he's onscreen he demands your attention, almost making you forget about Taylor and Newman, which is quite an accomplishment.

Though Big Daddy's mostly a blowhard, his performance has tremendous nuance, especially once he learns he's dying sooner rather than later. His struggle with his own mortality is heartbreaking to watch, giving his determination to enjoy what time he has left true pathos. His conversations with Brick are operatic, each desperate to get at the truth the other is hiding, throwing verbal punch after punch to bring down the tough facades that shield their pain and finally make an honest connection. This being Williams, their search for the truth involves a lot of shouting and physical destruction. That Brick is hobbled both emotionally (the booze) and physically (he's forced to move around on a crutch due to a broken foot) is more than a little obvious, but it gives such a dialogue heavy piece movement and a deeper meaning, as various characters try to remove it from him.

That years of silent suffering and blatant lies get tied up in a pretty little bow at the end – Brick reconciles with both Big Daddy and Maggie – is a Hollywood given, but it still manages to be satisfying nonetheless. Though the story is stripped of it's more scandalous nature (Brick is a repressed homosexual in the original play, which gives Maggie's desperation and childlessness a whole new meaning), the screenwriter manages to keep the soul of the piece intact. CAT is a vibrantly filmed, brilliantly acted family drama that incorporates every possible human emotion into a two-hour time span, leaving the viewer slightly overwhelmed and extremely glad you're not part of their clan. It's a film that hasn't gone out of style because it's themes still resonate today. A classic well worth the watching.

At The Cinema [Sarah Ward]

On March 23, 2011, the world took pause as Dame Elizabeth Rosemond Taylor passed away after years of health problems. A former child actor, adolescent star, dual Oscar winner, serial bride, AIDS activist and tabloid favourite, she left this world just 24 days after her 79th birthday, having spent the past months hospitalised for congestive heart failure. Although perhaps better known for her personal relationships (including a highly publicised friendship with Michael Jackson) and private romances (resulting in eight trips down the aisle with seven men), her on-screen legacy speaks volumes. With seventy works to her name – as a film, television and voice actress – Ms Taylor left a distinct imprint upon the entertainment industry, ranging from her first part in There’s One Born Every Minute to her final role in animated TV series God, The Devil And Bob.

Making her big screen debut at age ten, it took Taylor a mere two years to win the hearts of the cinema-going public. After brief appearances in Lassie Come Home, Jane Eyre and The White Cliffs Of Dover (the latter two uncredited), she shot into the spotlight in National Velvet, stealing the show from her Oscar-winning co-star (Anne Revere, recipient of the 1946 award for best actress in a supporting role). Another animal film - Courage Of Lassie - followed, as did youthful efforts Julia Misbehaves, A Date With Judy, Cynthia and Life With Father. The 1949 incarnation of Little Women marked her last adolescent feature (alongside June Allyson, Margaret O’Brien and Janet Leigh as the other three March sisters), with anti-Communist drama Conspirator and comedy The Big Hangover offering a seamless transition into more mature parts.

Taylor’s fame continued to climb in the 1950s, with Father Of The Bride providing her first taste of box office success as an adult. The sequel Father’s Little Dividend followed shortly afterwards, again drawing viewers and showing Taylor’s deft hand with humour. However, it was 1951′s A Place In The Sun that would prove telling in terms of her later work, with the actress adept at flexing her dramatic chops. Demonstrating the talent that resided behind her stunning looks, the role set her on a path that juxtaposed her fiery nature with her undeniable aesthetic appeal, resulting in a string of forgettable features (Love Is Better Than Ever, Ivanhoe, The Girl Who Had Everything, Rhapsody, Elephant Walk, Beau Brummell and The Last Time I Saw Paris), as well as a spate of career defining offerings (Giant, Raintree County, and of course, Cat On A Hot Tin Roof).

Despite the wealth of powerful parts that followed Taylor’s turn in the screen adaptation of Tennessee Williams’ Pulitizer Prize-winning play of the same name, Cat On A Hot Tin Roof still resounds as one of her finest performances in her seven decades in the industry. Garnering the star the second of four successive – and five total – Oscar nominations, her role as Maggie “the Cat” typified her combination of sultry passion and simmering restraint, as exemplified by her cold, hard stare and wily femininity. Whilst awards attention would follow for Suddenly, Last Summer, BUtterfield 8 and Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf (with wins for the latter two parts), Cat On A Hot Tin Roof remains the feature that seared her adult presence into popular consciousness. Neither the lavish histrionics of Cleopatra nor the Shakespearean importance of The Taming Of The Shrew could topple her sizzling portrayal that seethed with intellect and intensity.

Set in a plantation home in the Mississippi Delta amidst a backdrop of a stifling summer, Cat On A Hot Tin Roof delves into the personal relationships of the broader Pollitt clan. With the family gathered on the eve of the 65th birthday of patriarch Big Daddy (Burl Ives, reprising his role from the original Broadway production), tensions are heightened and feuds brought front and centre, with the recent ill health of the wealthy benefactor escalating the situation. Whilst eldest son Gooper (Jack Carson), his meddling spouse Mae (Madeleine Sherwood) and their five-strong brood are intent on securing father’s fortunes, indifferent younger sibling Brick (Paul Newman, in his first Oscar-nominated performance) and his wife Maggie (Taylor) have their own problems to attend to. As an evening storm strikes, the conditions between the property’s inhabitants become just as tempestuous.

With each family member bringing their own issues to the reunion of sorts, their proximity in such close quarters ensures every idiosyncrasy and neurosis raises its head. Big Daddy and Big Mama (Judith Anderson) are oblivious to the former’s wellbeing woes, however their incessantly squabbling children do not go unnoticed. In the centre of proceedings sits childless Brick and Maggie, with the former football star turned sports announcer heavily dependent on the solace found at the bottom of the bottle, and his feisty wife desperate in her affections, distrustful in her actions and dismissive in her opinions. As their marriage teeters on the edge of an oblivion beckoned by a dark secret yet held at bay by social niceties, their rift with their “no neck” child-ridden counterparts heightens, as does the revelatory impact of the inter-family fracas upon Big Daddy’s health and the relationships between everyone present.

Sharing the traits of many of Williams’ works (including the similarly lauded A Streetcar Named Desire, which made the leap from stage to screen in 1951), Cat On A Hot Tin Roof provides an insight into the inner turmoil of personal connections tinged with southern sensibilities. It examines the downward spiral of upwardly mobile individuals that drink, dream, spy and scheme their lives away, as well as the interplay of desire, despondence, mendacity and mortality. With materialism, malice, greed and avarice constant, the film ponders pretense and hypocrisy, and the many futile filters through which reality is often perceived. However, above all the intense and absorbing feature unravels the effect of things left unsaid and unspoken as well as the importance of the truth, with characters wishing to speak it being ignored, and those needing to hear it unable – and unwilling – to listen.

As the ferocious focal point for director Richard Brooks’ interpretation of the melodramatic yet measured theatrics, the poetic pairing of Newman and Taylor is simply electric (especially given that Elvis Presley and Ben Gazzara, and Lana Turner and Grace Kelly were originally mooted for the parts). Personifying the strength and frailty inherent in the explosive situation, the shared dynamic of the duo illustrates the romanticism of a fledgling marriage, as well as the disappointment of failed plans. Accordingly, the feature takes on the characteristics of a coming of age offering, with the wisdom sought and found heralding the maturity of adults in age but not in action. As the now iconic actors and the equally inimitable protagonists traverse the void from hopeful to disheartened and back again, they take the audience on the same journey – one that paints a poignant portrait of relationships in all their guises, as well as one that confirmed the key players involved as consummate performers, complex thespians, and uncharted stars.

The Greatest Films - comprehensive analysis of classic US film Tim Dirks

DVD Savant Review: Cat on a Hot Tin Roof Glenn Erickson, Deluxe Edition

TENNESSEE WILLIAMS FILM COLLECTION - DVD - FILM FREAK CENTRAL Walter Chaw

DVD Times Mike Sutton

DVD Verdict [Brendan Babish]

The City Review [Carter B. Horsley]

Read TCM's article on Cat on a Hot Tin Roof Frank Miller, also seen here: Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

Illumined Illusions--Seeing Cinema in a New Light [Ian C. Bloom]

Read TCM's article on Cat on a Hot Tin Roof Eleonor Quin

Bill's Movie Emporium [Bill Thompson]

Monsters And Critics [Frankie Dees]

Deluxe Edition, DVD Town [John J. Puccio]

George Chabot's Review

Commentary Track [Nir Shalev]

A Film Canon [Billy Stevenson]

Classic Film Guide

Movie Review - Cat on a Hot Tin Roof - The Fur Flies in 'Cat on a ... Bosley Crowther from The New York Times

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

SWEET BIRD OF YOUTH

USA (120 mi) 1962 ‘Scope

Sweet Bird of Youth Review. Movie Reviews - Film - Time Out London Tom Milne

Brooks' second involvement with Tennessee Williams has Newman repeating his Broadway role as the no longer quite pristine gigolo who returns to his home town with fading movie queen (Page) in tow, scheming to establish himself as someone in the eyes of the corrupt political boss (Begley) who once ran him out of town for aspiring to marry his daughter (Knight). Like Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, the play gets the glossy clean-up treatment, so that Newman's comeuppance (what he hadn't realised in leaving town was that he also left Knight pregnant) no longer comes through castration, but simply by having his pretty face messed up a bit. It might still have worked, except that Brooks' direction seems a little too stolid for all the sleazy, flaming passions. These are, however, given full measure by an excellent cast. Geraldine Page, in particular (like Newman, repeating her Broadway role) is stunningly and wittily outsized in her rendition of the ageing movie queen seeking refuge in a haze of drink, drugs and sex.

Sweet Bird of Youth - Turner Classic Movies Jeff Stafford

One of Tennessee Williams' most corrosive and disturbing plays, Sweet Bird of Youth was a smash success under Elia Kazan's direction on the Broadway stage but had a more difficult time making the transition to the silver screen. For one thing, MGM knew it was going to run into problems with the Production Code over the story: Chance Wayne, a gigolo with aspirations of becoming a Hollywood actor, is exploiting his relationship with a once-famous movie actress who has a weakness for alcohol and hashish. When the couple visit Wayne's hometown in Florida, some ugly town secrets involving Chance and the daughter of a corrupt local politician are finally exposed. The horrific ending of the play has Chance being castrated by some local roughnecks. Since the screen version couldn't be as explicit, director/screenwriter Richard Brooks completely re-wrote the ending and came up with a conclusion that is practically upbeat in comparison to the original fadeout.

Luckily, four of the most important cast members from the Broadway play - Paul Newman, Geraldine Page, Rip Torn, and Madeleine Sherwood - agreed to re-create their stage roles for the screen. Newman, cast again as Chance Wayne, was rapidly becoming a major Hollywood star and already had two Best Actor nominations under his belt (one for Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1958), the other for The Hustler, 1961). While his performance in Sweet Bird of Youth is commendable, it is Geraldine Page who steals the film as Alexandra Del Lago, a character who was originally inspired by Tallaluh Bankhead, a close personal friend of Tennessee Williams.

Most critics cite Page's famous telephone conversation scene with Walter Winchell as a dramatic highpoint and an ideal primer for aspiring actresses. "Mr. Brooks took a good deal of time with that scene," recalled Page in A Look at Tennessee Williams by Mike Steen (Hawthorn Books, Inc.). "I remember that I was having such difficulty with it. It wasn't right...and I was sort of lying across the bed with the phone, hanging on to it in a complete state of demoralization. And Brooks came over to me and very quietly said, 'Now, there's no rush. Take it easy. There's plenty of time.' And he started talking away to kind of calm me down so I wouldn't get too discouraged. And as he was talking to me, it was the weirdest thing, I could feel the scene coming on. I could feel it gathering, and he's talking away at me, and I said, "Will you get out of here and let me act?" And he caught what I meant right away and just backed up and said very quietly to the cameraman to roll and that's the time I did it that's used in the film. But ordinarily nobody takes the time to try and capture it when it really takes off, you know, and that was marvelous."

In spite of a great performance, Geraldine Page, who was Oscar nominated for Sweet Bird of Youth, didn't win the Academy Award that year. Instead, the Best Actress Oscar went to Anne Bancroft in The Miracle Worker. Sweet Bird of Youth also received nominations for Best Supporting Actor (Ed Begley in the role of the evil "Boss" Finley), and Best Supporting Actress (Shirley Knight as Chance Wayne's jilted and disgraced girlfriend, Heavenly Finley). Only Begley walked away a winner on Oscar night for a role that was originated on Broadway by Sidney Blackmer.

Monsters and Critics [Frankie Dees]

‘Sweet Bird of Youth’ contains all of the usual Tennesse Williams’ trademarks: the steamy sexuality, the grand, over-the-top characters, the emotional, heightened dialogue - yet this time around, there seems to be something missing from the adaptation…

Like 1958’s Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, the adaptation was handled by Richard Brooks who also wrote the screenplay, and also like Cat on a Hot Tin Roof; the translation from stage to screen was severely whitewashed. To get the approval of the Production Code, Brooks’ had to make changes to the play that dramatically undermines it’s effectiveness – necessary changes? Maybe, but those familiar with the play will walk away displeased and even though a purification was required for most of Williams adaptations, the screenplay and the direction isn’t quite strong enough to make a lasting impression like ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’ which was directed by Elia Kazan and who ironically directed the stage version of ‘Sweet Bird of Youth’. Would Kazan’s adaptation been better? Almost certainly.

Paul Newman plays Chance Wayne, a former lothario in his Gulf Coast hometown, who dreams of making it big in Hollywood. As time and luck fades, he makes the trip back to his hometown in a convertible Cadillac, the owner Alexandra Del Lago (Geraldine Page), an aging, alcoholic actress, passed out in the backseat. Convinced her last film was a flop, she becomes a liquor-addled prowler, looking for the latest young golden-boy to stave off her insecurities. She keeps Chance Wayne, her latest gigolo, by her-side by promising him a contract in Hollywood. He’s naïve enough to buy it.

Arriving in his hometown, Chance wants to see his one-time ex-girlfriend Heavenly Finley (Shirley Knight), a girl he left behind pregnant but under shady circumstances. Heaven Finley doesn’t control herself you see, but is dominated by her overbearing, clamorous politician father “Boss” Finley (Ed Begley in an Oscar-winning role) who despises Wayne for reasons both justified and not. As Wayne tries to position himself back into her life, “Boss” Finley plots an attack with his truckler son, Thomas J. Finley (Rip Torn) to keep Chance out of his daughter’s life and also to keep negative media at bay since an election is coming up and “Boss” will do anything to win.  

Madeleine Sherwood also pops up as “Boss” Finley’s mistress, who he has kept at the hotel for years to service his needs. Tiring of him, she makes the mistake of writing disparaging sexual remarks about him in the bathroom, a decision that results in a tense scene between the two. Mildred Dunnock plays “Boss” Finley’s silently opposing sister.

Strong performances are definitely not the films weak point. Paul Newman, Geraldine Page, Rip Torn and Madeleine Sherwood all reprise their roles from the play with Ed Begley and Shirley Knight replacing Sidney Blackmer and Diana Hyland. Newman is almost always magnetic, even in the weaker films, and this performance is no exception. He is at his strongest playing off of Geraldine Page (who was nominated for best actress for this role and would later win for 1985’s The Trip To Bountiful), in which an instant chemistry and rapport is seen. It is two performances immensely helped by the nuances of repetition and fine-tuning. Geraldine Page’s climatic egomaniacal sequence on the phone with her manager is worth the price of admission alone even if it does recall the great Gloria Swanson in Sunset Blvd.

Ed Begley who won best supporting actor for his role walks the fine line between over-the-top country fried hamminess and focused viciousness. Honestly, the performance for me fell more on the former but it’s not out of place or distracting, I just thought maybe a bit more subtlety would have been more effective. And even though Shirley Knight was nominated for best supporting actress, I found it to be a rather nothing role, almost arbitrary save for the fact of one strong sequence between Knight and Begley ocean-side.

I’m going to be going into spoilers here so skip to the next paragraph if you have not seen the film or don’t want any secrets revealed. The changes made to the play result in a significantly different experience, in the film, Heavenly Finley was left by Wayne pregnant and forced to have an abortion by her father as opposed to the stage version in which Heavenly was left with syphilis and had to have her ovaries taken out. In the climax of the film, Chance Wayne pays for his deeds by having his nose broken, fairly pale punishment compared to the play in which Wayne is castrated. The film has a happy ending, an unrealistic ending for these characters. The stage play ends as life would.

The film is presented in 2.35:1 widescreen and enhanced for widescreen televisions. Making its DVD debut, the film has of course never looked better. Shot in Cinemascope and Metrocolor, the colors are now perfectly balanced. It’s definitely time to retire that old VHS or Laserdisc copy. The sparse special features include a short featurette “Sweet Bird of Youth: Chasing Time” that includes archive interview footage, and narration on the development of ‘Sweet Bird of Youth’ from stage and screen. A “Vintage Geraldine Page and Rip Torn Screen Test” is shown which has Rip Torn playing the Chance Wayne role in which the lines are obviously from the stage-play as references to hysterectomy and castration are picked up on. The film’s theatrical trailer rounds out the special features.

For fans of Tennesse Williams, the cast, and with the inclusion of the film in the Tennesse Williams Film Collection box set, owning Sweet Bird of Youth will pretty much be a no-brainer for most. The film is carried on strong performances, but it doesn’t hit me at a gut level - due to Brooks’ stolid direction and the removal of some of the play’s most primal themes. Certainly better than the ridiculous 1989 TV adaptation (starring Mark Harmon in the Newman role, Rip Torn (moving up the generational ladder) in the Begley role and Elizabeth Taylor in the Geraldine Page role), the film is a slight misfire as Williams adaptations go, but still a must see for fans of the man who put an edge on family tension, sexual neurosis and implacable violence.

Sweet Bird of Youth is now available at Amazon. As of yet, there is not a release date for the UK. Visit the DVD’s database for more information. The DVD is also available as part of the Tennessee Williams Film Collection DVD set which is also available at Amazon.

Epinions [Stephen O. Murray]

DVD Verdict [Rob Lineberger]

filmsgraded.com [Brian Koller]

Classic Film Guide

TV Guide

New York Times [Bosley Crowther]

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

Sweet Bird of Youth - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

THE PROFESSIONALS

USA (117 mi) 1966 ‘Scope

Mild Peril [Mark Entwistle]

Under-rated western from veteran director Richard Brooks. The movie came a couple of years after The Magnificent Seven and a couple of years before The Wild Bunch, and as a result has a strange feel, combining romantic adventure with end-of-an-era cynicism and moral ambiguity. Brooks tries hard to find some sort of middle ground, in terms of both plotting and dialogue, and manages it more or less up to the end.

Brooks also makes nods to Leone,  in particular with the cast introductions.  And it’s a perfect cast: Lee Marvin keeps it serious and he’s just about perfected the role by this time,  Burt Lancaster gets all the witty lines and leaps around like an acrobat, and Claudia Cardinale looks like she’s worth going on a suicide mission to rescue. The movie is beautifully photographed by the great Conrad Hall, although the odd composition involving Cardinale strays into Russ Meyer territory.

The rest of the cast are just as good. Woody Strode says nothing brilliantly,  and the big surprise is Jack Palance,  who as the movie requires it, creates an unexpectedly sympathetic villain.

In the  end it doesn’t quite match up to the other movies mentioned above, and has largely been forgotten, but it still deserves its place in that company.

The Parallax Review [D. B. Bates]

The Professionals has all the elements of a classic western: an all-star cast, excellent production values, interesting characters, sweat-inducing location shooting in Death Valley, and a plot with a few genuine surprises. All these elements, while solid individually, just don’t hang together as well as they should. Don’t get me wrong — it has its moments, but as a whole, it’s unsatisfying.

The plot begins with a simple setup: the new wife of a wealthy man (Ralph Bellamy) has been kidnapped by Mexican revolutionary Jesús Raza (Jack Palance with a tan and an awful Frito Bandito accent), so he offers $100,000 to a team of “professionals” to kidnap her back. These include Rico Fardan (Lee Marvin), a serious-minded weapons expert and general leader of the pack; Bill Dolworth (Burt Lancaster), a skirt-chasing explosives expert whose shady past gives him a personal connection to Raza; Hans Ehrengard (Robert Ryan), a horse wrangler; and Jake Sharp (Woody Strode), a badass with Apache tracking and bow-and-arrow skills.

What follows is basically a mash-up of The Magnificent Seven and Ocean’s Eleven: a Wild West heist to retrieve Mrs. Maria Grant (Claudia Cardinale, not dubbed for once) from her captor. The heist sequence is engaging and incredibly well done. The only problem is, it’s too short, taking up about 10 minutes of the film. The preparation for and execution of the heist goes by quickly enough to be disappointing. Writer/director Richard Brooks spends a slow hour with the professionals moving through Mexico toward their destination. In between lengthy gunfights with Mexican banditos, Brooks takes his time establishing the characters, their contributions to the team, and the minutiae of what they do. The attention to detail would be admirable in a more exciting film, but the characters all seem bored with each other and the work they do. This isn’t necessarily the fault of Brooks or the actors — this is a professional crew of people who know each other, know how to work together, and have pulled similar jobs before. The aloofness toward each other and the complexities of the plot fits the characters, but it doesn’t make them engaging.

Aside from establishing the characters, very little of what occurs in the first hour pays off in the second. The second half is generally more engaging than the first, focusing on the messy aftermath of the heist and throwing in unexpected plot twists to keep things interesting. Still, Raza doesn’t have the screen time or character development to work as an effective villain. Hell, the sultry/trampy Chiquita (Marie Gomez) has more depth than Raza does. Brooks should have done a better job of building him up in the audience’s mind, making us fear him long before he makes an appearance. Early references to his skills as a soldier don’t cast that needed pall over his character, making the climactic shootout feel more like an unneeded distraction than the clashing of titans.

Maybe it’s my fault. I go into every western expecting it to blow my mind the way Once Upon a Time in the West did, but few films (western or otherwise) live up to that towering cinematic achievement. Whatever the reason, The Professionals just didn’t work for me. Fans of Brooks (and Lancaster) would do better to check out Elmer Gantry. It’s not a western, but it’s fantastic.

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The Movie Scene [Andy Webb]

History on Film

Erik Lundegaard

George Chabot's Review

The Professionals (Remastered) Volume 1 | DVD Video Review ... Eamonn McCusker from The Digital Fix

DVD Savant Review: The Professionals (special edition) Glenn Erickson

Nate Meyers - digitallyOBSESSED! Special Edition

DVD Town - Blu-ray [James Plath]

DVD Verdict (Blu-Ray) [Dennis Prince]

High-Def Digest - Blu-ray Review [Joshua Zyber]

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

Daily Film Dose [Alan Bacchus]

Qwipster's Movie Reviews [Vince Leo]

Top 100 Directors: #88 - Richard Brooks (The Professionals review) Erik

Professionals, The Review (1966) - The Spinning Image Graeme Clark

Retro Hound [Robert Lindsey]

Classic Film Guide

The Professionals Review. Movie Reviews - Film - Time Out London

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

DVDBeaver Blu-ray DVD review [Gary Tooze]

IN COLD BLOOD A- 94

USA (134 mi) 1967 ‘Scope

The village of Holcomb stands on the high wheat plains of western Kansas, a lonesome area that other Kansans call “out there.” Some seventy miles east of the Colorado border, the countryside, with its hard blue skies and desert-clear air, has an atmosphere that is rather more Far West than Middle West. The local accent is barbed with a prairie twang, a ranch-hand nasalness, and the men, many of them, wear narrow frontier trousers, Stetsons, and high-heeled boots with pointed toes. The land is flat, and the views are awesomely extensive; horses, herds of cattle, a white cluster of grain elevators rising as gracefully as Greek temples are visible long before a traveler reaches them.

—Truman Capote, first paragraph from the opening chapter, The Last to See Them Alive, from In Cold Blood, 1966

Who so sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed.

—Genesis 9:6 (mis-identified in the film as Genesis 9:12), spoken by the Prosecutor (Will Geer)

It all began with a brief piece in The New York Times, from Holcolmb, Kansas on November 16, 1959: “A wealthy wheat farmer, his wife and their two young children were found shot to death today in their home. They had been killed by shotgun blasts at close range after being bound and gagged… There were no signs of a struggle, and nothing had been stolen. The telephone lines had been cut.” Author Truman Capote happened to take a special interest in the incident, enough for him to travel to Kansas to investigate the case, especially after the killers, Dick Hickock and Perry Smith were arrested six weeks after the murders. Capote eventually compiled 8000 pages of notes and spent six years working on the book through the trial, conviction, and long appeal process, but after they were executed by hanging in April, 1965, the story was initially released 5 months later in a four-part installment in The New Yorker magazine and was an instant success. The true crime or “non-fiction” novel was released in January of the following year, considered a landmark work, one of the first of its kind (following by 9 years the publication of Argentinean journalist Rodolfo Walsh’s 1957 book Operación Masacre, an exposé on the military coup and ousting of Argentine President Juan Perón) and perhaps the most successful ever, where despite its claims of authenticity, being a true account of what happened, Capote admittedly took poetic license by adding scenes that never happened while also recreating dialogue. Capote conducted interviews with both men after they were convicted, developing a particularly close relationship with Perry Smith, where rumors persist they may have developed a sexual bond together, developing a special fascination with the more tender and sensitive side of a brutal killer. Capote reportedly remarked, “It's as if Perry and I grew up in the same house. And one day he stood up and went out the back door, while I went out the front.”

One of the more critical voices *against* the book was from fellow Southern author Tom Wolfe in a 1976 essay called Pornoviolence, calling it sadistic and sensational, where he attributes a growing trend in the media to glorify violence as a way of satiating the audience, citing Tobe Hooper’s film THE TEXAS CHAIN SAW MASSACRE (1974) and Capote’s book In Cold Blood, arguing that in the absence of mystery, since we already know the outcome, Capote provides gruesome and salacious details, reducing the work to little more than lurid sensationalism. Certainly violence in American movies rose to new heights with the release of Arthur Penn’s Bonnie and Clyde (1967), told sympathetically from the point of view of the outlaws, adding folksy humor with bullets and death, where despite the gratuitous violence, their murderous tendencies are secondary to the power of their performances which endear them to the public, becoming part of American folklore, much like the extraordinary performances seen throughout THE GODFATHER (1972). Even James Cagney in White Heat (1949) is as entertaining as they come, and his sheer willpower dominates the picture, which is what endears him to audiences even as they know he’s a loathsome psychotic killer who probably deserves the electric chair. BONNIE AND CLYDE was a sensation, however, where Time magazine called it the “Movie of the Decade,” nominated for 10 Academy Awards. Nonetheless, New York Times film critic Bosley Crowther’s response was to call it “a cheap piece of bald-faced slapstick that treats the depredations of that sleazy pair as though they were full of fun and frolic.” Crowley was asked to retire later that same year, as he was simply out of step with the radically changing expectations of new movie audiences that also adored the minimalist romanticism of THE GRADUATE (1967).

In Cold Blood received more notoriety as a book than as a film, hailed as an acclaimed masterpiece prior to release, where the pre-publication earnings totaled something like 2 million dollars, which would suggest Capote was paid approximately $15 per word. Possessed with a near inhuman power of recall, Capote’s skill always lay in his meticulously thorough detail, put to good use here displaying superb journalistic skills in an exhaustive account of the senseless murder of the entire Clutter family on their farm in Holcomb, Kansas (population 270), where Hickock (Scott Wilson) and Smith (Robert Blake) netted only $40 dollars for their efforts, substantially less than the $10,000 score they were expecting. What captured the nation’s attention was how such a horribly gruesome crime could take place in America’s heartland with no hint of a comprehensible motive. What Capote provided along with the criminal exposé was a piece of Americana, a time capsule landscape portrait of rural America, picking up every detail of life in a small community on what may as well be the far edge of the world. Much like Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita, published in 1955, Capote’s highly subjective writing style unleashes his power of observation using flashbacks, fragmented memories, or psychologically traumatic moments to alter the sense of time, accentuating brief moments, slowing down the pace, drawing sympathy from scenes of a character’s childhood while also revealing the vast expanse of an empty landscape that seems to last forever. At least in part a road movie, as the two men are constantly on the run, there is a neverending stream of motel rooms, endless night highways, wayside drive-ins, and nondescript towns with no names, where perhaps we’ll see a lone railway stop as these aimless drifters pass through without any sense of where they are. Told out of sequence in a near documentary style, one of the most effective scenes comes on the vibrant streets of Kansas City, watching how easily Hickock blends into the locale using small town charm as he operates his check bouncing scheme collecting a quick buck during the height of the Eisenhower 50’s, where he plays upon the perceived security and good natured kindness of the store clerks and uses that against them, in much the same way as they simply walked into the unlocked door of the Clutter farmhouse.

Devastatingly low-key, much of it shot on actual site locations, perhaps the best cinematic technique is how the director brilliantly structures the scenes detailing the crime itself, leading us up to the moment without actually showing the murders, then backtracking into the lives of the murderers, making them the focus of the movie, while the book spends more time developing the individual characters of the Clutter family. Brooks returns later to what the audience doesn’t initially see, where the full graphic effect of the crime is horrifying. Neighborly trust is something to exploit, much like Nabokov’s young siren, which raises a profoundly interesting moral dilemma, as throughout the film Hickock calls Smith honey or baby or sweetie, all with sexual connotations, suggesting from a jail perspective that Smith may exhibit gay or feminine characteristics. While Hickock brags of his sexual exploits, Smith recoils in fear, recalling how his mother was beaten savagely by his father for being caught sleeping with another man, suggesting a possible lack of sexual prowess. It is only when Hickock makes advances on Nancy Clutter (Brenda Currin), a teenage girl, that Smith becomes enraged at his despicable behavior, exerting “I despise people who can't control themselves,” which kick-starts his aggression against the otherwise helpless Clutter family. There’s an interesting use of a police psychologist, Paul Stewart as Lee Jensen, who acts as a writer’s voice of conscience throughout, continually questioning the existence of moral reason and striving for psychological clarity even in seemingly senseless cases, “How can a perfectly sane man create an absolutely crazy act?” By the end, there’s a melancholic cloud of doom that suggests a lack of closure or finality, where despite the riches and prosperity of the nation, all we’re left with is a pervasive sadness and emptiness filled with haunting, lingering thoughts about the senselessness of it all, where there’s no reason to believe capital punishment has any effect whatsoever on the criminal behavior of people hopped up on drugs (linked to 80% of prison inmates, Drugs or Alcohol Linked to 80% of Inmates - New York Times), enraged by jealousy, or driven for whatever motives to carry out completely senseless acts of violence.

In Cold Blood Review. Movie Reviews - Film - Time Out London

A low-key adaptation of Truman Capote's 'novel of fact' about the murder of a whole family by two disturbed petty criminals, In Cold Blood forever shies away from trying to understand the killers (played by Blake and Wilson). Accordingly, in contrast to Capote, whose obsessive documentation of the pair's every act betrays his fear than he (and his readers) could well do something similar, Brooks explains and sympathises away their act as being unique to them.

kamera.co.uk - film review, In Cold Blood Chris Wiegand

A welcome rediscovery at this year's Regus London Film Festival, In Cold Blood is an adaptation of Truman Capote's fact-based novel about two criminals in 1950s America. The film features some stunning black and white cinematography from Conrad Hall (American Beauty) and hypnotic performances from Robert Blake and Scott Wilson in the lead roles.

After a bungled robbery, Perry and Dick (who have resolved to stay friends to the end) leave behind a house full of dead bodies and attempt to escape from the police across a desolate American landscape. As the chase ensues, events from the criminals' past are subtly interwoven into the present, offering possible explanations for their violent crime. The men's complex relationship forms the core of the film, and both the script and the lovers-on-the-lam scenario suggest some homoerotic ambiguities.

Made in 1967, Richard Brooks' film has a haunting, nostalgic tone as it depicts events from the previous decade using many of the real life locations in Kansas. Even though the film is now over thirty years old, the camerawork and narrative structure still feel impressively fresh. Brooks (who also wrote the screenplay) deftly handles the film's pace and maintains a high level of tension throughout, from the original crime to the men's journey to the prison gallows. He uses a series of striking visual rhymes to connect the present with the past and these also help to move the action on swiftly, so that the unflinchingly detailed depiction of the men's execution jars powerfully with the earlier, more fast-paced part of the film. Brooks makes intelligent and often horrifying use of sound and there is a wonderful jazzy score from Quincy Jones. The real star of the piece though is Hall, whose shots of both the landscape and the men themselves are instantly iconic

Kansas in the Movies, In Cold Blood Article essay by Philip Heldrich, Emporia State University, April 16, 1967

Perhaps one of the most difficult types of filmmaking must be the film adaptation based on an already successful and well-known text. Such an adaptation, because of a book’s recognition, opens itself up to countless comparisons and criticisms. However, the art of film adaptation lies less in fidelity to the original text and more in the creation of a unique perspective on that text. In few movies is the success of this particular art more evident than in Richard Brooks’s adaptation of Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood (1965). Although the film captures much of the intention of Capote’s original bestseller, it also takes a number of significant departures that have made Brooks’s In Cold Blood a milestone of popular culture and Kansas history, solidifying Kansas’s place as a significant cinematic symbol and remembered landscape.     

Some thirty-four years since the film’s release in December 1967, In Cold Blood remains fresh, unsettling, and audacious. The terror Brooks captures through both his extended focus on criminal psychology and the murder scene in the actual Clutter home is still amply troubling; few films today can capture the horrendous nature of violence without actually portraying most of it on screen. In Cold Blood remains significant as well because it speaks strongly about living in a chaotic, fractured, postmodern world where we can, like the Clutters, become victims of circumstance and chance at any moment and in any place, even in Kansas. Amore enduring quality of the film, however, is its social criticism with respect to class disparity and racial difference. In the social upheaval of the late sixties, Brooks challenges us, surely more than Arthur Penn’s romanticized Bonnie and Clyde (1967), to think about how real economic and racial inequality can create criminal behavior capable of destroying peaceable, middle-class lives like those of the Clutters.     

Brooks’s insistence on filming in black-and-white, often on location in Kansas, and Quincy Jones’s original music stand out as In Cold Blood’s most striking and enduring aesthetic attributes. The film—which used the Clutter home, the actual courtroom, seven of the twelve original jurors, the same hangman, and Nancy Clutter’s horse—seems infused with a blending of fact and fiction, just as did Capote’s “nonfiction novel.” Jones’s music is likewise powerful, strongly emphasizing the film’s linear fragmentation and its characters’ discordant lives. Jones provides a memorable, menacing jazz with horn shrieks, bass moans, and arrhythmic percussion. Such jazz plays an especially important role in the initial scenes, establishing the criminal, socially marginal personalities of Perry Smith and Dick Hickock. Smith, played exceptionally by Robert Blake, comes across as a detached, unbalanced, homosexual drifter, an unsteady and anxious half-Indian outsider. Hickock, played by Scott Wilson, is a degenerate, sexually charged hipster from a poor Kansas family, not unlike Dorothy’s family in The Wizard of Oz. Jones’s music has such a strong presence throughout the film that silence itself becomes significant, particularly in the Clutter murder scene and in the film’s final moments during Smith’s hanging; respectively, blowing wind and a heartbeat punctuate the solemnity of both moments as violations of human life, even of killers’ lives forged, as the film suggests, in conditions of social and racial inequality.      

The film’s setting, too, is important for creating of Kansas a symbolic landscape relevant to the turmoil of the late sixties. In this stark place, society’s insolvent and colored outsiders clash with the heartland’s upstanding, hard-working citizens: “Welcome back to Kansas, buddy, the heart of America,” Dick tells Perry at the film’s onset, “the land of wheat, corn, Bibles, and [belch] natural gas.” Brooks plays off Kansas history in the popular imagination, the land of John Brown and Carrie Nation, a land of racial conflict and religious fervor. Kansas also is a land of haves and have-nots, as Dick makes clear: “Doctors and lawyers, what do they care? Ever see a millionaire fry in the electric chair? Hell no. There’s two kind of laws, honey, one for the rich and one for the poor.” Even in Kansas, the film suggests, there is social disparity and its accompanying problems. A violation of Kansas becomes akin to a violation of home—Dorothy’s, our nation’s, and, literally, the Clutters’—a theme consistent with Capote’s book. It is also not surprising that the criminals hide out in the wild lands of Mexico and are apprehended in Las Vegas, as such illicit places, conceptually outside the law, contrast heavily with the myth of Kansas as homeland—there’s no place like it—in our cinematic and literary history.     

Another departure the film takes from the text, the addition of the reporter, perhaps sheds the most light on the nature of both Capote’s and Brooks’s works and the lasting significance of each for Kansas and American history. When asked of his interest in the crime, the reporter responds: “A violent, unknown force destroys a decent, ordinary family. No clues. No logic. Makes us all feel frightened, vulnerable.” Brooks’s own words during filming to William Cotter Murray of the New York Times further defines the film as “Greek tragedy, American style . . . . If I thought this movie didn’t have relevance to a general social problem, I wouldn’t be making it.”8 In these murders, as both Brooks and Capote define them, we are all held partly responsible. In choosing not to confront the killers and their crime, we turn our backs on the social problems of racial difference and class disparity that gave rise to Smith and Hickock. For the late 1960s, and perhaps still now, Brooks serves up a biting social critique of postmodern American life. By the end of the film, as with Capote’s bestseller, trouble in Kansas means trouble everywhere. Surely, if the heart ails, there can be no health in our nation’s body.

Centennial Tributes: Richard Brooks Part III - Edward Copeland's ... Edward Copeland’s Tangents

In Cold Blood - The American Society of Cinematographers John Pavlus, December 2003

In Cold Blood - Turner Classic Movies Jeff Stafford

Four Innocent and Two Guilty People Murdered → Joe Valdez from The Distracted Globe

Film Experience [Nick Davis]

DVD Savant Review Glenn Erickson

DVD Times Gary Couzens

DVD Talk [Jason Bailey] also seen here: Fourth Row Center [Jason Bailey]

In Cold Blood - Home Theater Info Doug MacLean

dOc DVD Review: In Cold Blood (1967) - digitallyOBSESSED! Jon Danziger

DVD Verdict Patrick Naugle

About.com Home Video/DVD [Ivana Redwine] In Cold Blood DVD Review Ivana Redwine

DVD Verdict (Blu-Ray) [Clark Douglas]

DVD Talk [Stuart Galbraith IV] - Blu-ray review

Film 365 (Blu-ray)

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

BLACK HOLE REVIEWS: Truman Capote and IN COLD BLOOD ...

Good News Film Reviews

Brian Koller, filmsgraded.com

Classic Film Guide

Los Angeles Times [Kenneth Turan]

Chicago Sun-Times [Roger Ebert] February 6, 1968

Chicago Sun-Times [Roger Ebert] June 9, 2002

Drugs or Alcohol Linked to 80% of Inmates - New York Times Christopher S. Wren, January 9, 1998

DVDBeaver Blu-ray review [Gary Tooze]

DVDBeaver.com - Review [Henrik Sylow]

Truman Capote - About the Author | American Masters | PBS

Truman Capote - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Operación Masacre - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

In Cold Blood (film) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

In Cold Blood - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia (book)

A cold-blooded happening | Books | guardian.co.uk book review by George Steiner

A Teenage Girl, Truman Capote, Two Killers and a Full ... - POLITICS Donna Trussell from Politics Daily, November 15, 2010

Pornoviolence - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Pornoviolence | Trace that pornoviolence back to 'Bonnie and Clyde ... David R. Boldt from The Baltimore Sun, August 4, 1993

Brooks, Sue

JAPANESE STORY B 87

Australia (107 mi) 2003

A film starring Toni Collette, who is in nearly every frame of this film, and a film I really didn’t care for at all for the first hour. Everything seemed so typical; Collette is overbearing, whiny, basically a real pain in the ass, and the story is nothing special. She plays an Australian geologist who is forced to act as a guide into the Australian outback for what seems like the spoiled son of a rich Japanese business entrepreneur who speaks very little English; so a lot of what he says is incomprehensible, and good riddance was my feeling. But then the film takes a complete direction turn and the entire mood and pace of the film miraculously comes to life. The Japanese music mixes perfectly with the mood of the characters as they become engulfed by the gorgeous, panoramic horizons. By the end, the mixing of the cultures is a beautiful thing to see, as it’s done with taste and style and a certain amount of reserve, which is matched by Collette’s potent performance.

Brooks, Sue interview by Gerald Peary

Broomfield, Nick

BIGGIE AND TUPAC

Great Britain (108 mi) 2002

Biggie and Tupac Ryan Gilbey from Sight and Sound

AILEEN: LIFE AND DEATH OF A SERIAL KILLER

Great Britain (89 mi) 2004 co-director: Joan Churchill

Aileen: Life and Death of a Serial Killer Ed Gonzalez from Slant magazine

Conspiracy theorist Nick Broomfield's Aileen Wournos: The Selling of a Serial Killer documented the controversy and media frenzy surrounding Florida state police officers who tried to sell the story of "America's first female serial killer" to the highest bidder. Almost a decade later, Broomfield was subpoenaed to appear in court during one of Wuornos' appeals and extracts from his documentary were used to discredit the woman's ex-hippie lawyer at the time of her 1992 conviction. Aileen: Life and Death of a Serial Killer allows Broomfield to not only look at Aileen's tragic life for a second time but to reassess the very nature of truth and the way it was distorted, contextualized and rationalized by the media, our judicial system and, even, Wournos herself. If Broomfield seems more detached than usual that's because he has been placed in the unusual position of having to confront the legal implications his documentary approach may have on a woman's life. But more compelling than watching Broomfield's theories deflate before his eyes is the picture of Wournos finally succumbing to the cruelty of the judicial system. Just as The Selling of a Serial Killer could have inadvertently gotten her a new trial, Wournos seems to deliberately use Broomfield's new documentary as a means to speed up her execution. Until the end, it's unclear whether Wournos killed in self-defense—she tells Broomfield on-camera that her victims were innocent, but when she doesn't know that she's being taped she tells an entirely different story. A victim of rape, torture and incest (it's alleged that she slept with her brother and that her grandfather may also be her father), a clearly insane Wournos emerges as a woman betrayed by the world. (After seeing the film, the failure of Patty Jenkins' outsider-looking-in peepshow Monster is more obvious, though Charlize Theron's performance has grown considerably more impressive.) Broomfield doesn't use the woman's past to justify her bad behavior—neither does Wournos, through her subconscious primal screams would suggest otherwise. If there's a confused tone to the film, it's more or less appropriate. The only reality here is that truth is slippery, and that's something Broomfield understands more than most documentary filmmakers working today. Where a film like Capturing the Friedmans uses the uncertainty of truth as a kind of entertainment, Aileen Wournos: The Selling of a Serial Killer uses it to suggest the failure of our unsympathetic judicial system.

Brosens, Peter and Jessica Hope Woodworth

KHADAK B 88

Belgium Germany Netherlands (104 mi) 2006

One of the more bizarre film experiences of the year, catching the audience completely odd guard, as the tone of the film shifts so radically from the first half to the second half of the film. Using an extremely slow, near hypnotic pace, opening with near documentary realism, shot on location capturing the great expanse of the endless Mongolian landscape where nomadic herders on horses tend to their sheep in the snow, where the rhythm of life is captured contrasting the openness of the outdoor world with the cramped quarters inside their tent where they live, where they warm to the fire and share food and spirits with one another. Nothing out of the ordinary here until a young man searches for a missing sheep, known for his ability to hear them, where after finding it still alive he turns and sees his tent bursting into flames off into the distance before he falls to the ground writhing in the snow, a victim of an apparent epileptic seizure. Back inside their tent, which was unharmed, a shaman is called to use her traditional healing powers to save him, which is revealed through a dream sequence where the young man is lost in a forest until she calls him out, guiding him with her voice. He has a visionary’s gift, according to the shaman, warning his family that subject to his own peril it should not be ignored.

The young man is Bagi (Khayankhyarvaa Batzul), who greets this news with disinterest, which leads to immediate family misfortune, as government workers arrive in masks to report an unidentified animal plague has hit the vicinity and everyone must evacuate at once, bringing their livestock which will be quarantined, acts reminiscent of CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE THIRD KIND (1977) transporting them to a makeshift urban environment with giant Soviet style tenement living quarters next to a mammoth coal processing plant where everyone works. This inexplicable shift leads to disastrous consequences, as it appears the government has duped the people under false pretenses into working at the coal plant, where their former freedom has been replaced by a strict military security zone. Bagi’s state of mind is set adrift, as he mysteriously senses the presence of another person hidden under a pile of coal on a train flat car, whereupon they are arrested for coal theft and sentenced to forced labor, an ironic twist considering the government stole their land and their livestock, where Bagi has another seizure. Told it could be treated by medicine, but that he needs to ignore the methods of shamanism, the entire rest of the film is a blur of surrealism, where his dreams dominate the landscape, where narrative film is completely replaced by abstract imagery.

It’s impossible to tell whether Bagi is on an internal or external journey, if it takes place in the present or the future, or whether his visions become reality, as it’s all blended together in a seamless look of jaw-dropping imagery, where the coal thief he meets Zolzaya (Tsetsegee Byamba), who sadly counts off numbers (which was the opening segment of the film) with a mysterious meaning attributed to each prisoner, where Bagi is called Sky, and somehow the two of them instigate a resistance movement. Perhaps the strangest sequence is a band of musicians that suddenly break into song, where inmates armed only with fragments of broken mirrors are able to paralyze the military security forces by shining lights on them, which alters the conception of time, as the guards seem to go into a state of perpetual sleep while the inmates run free, releasing all the animals, creating mystifyingly choreographed alignments of people scattering all over the ground, standing on roof tops, where Bagi and Zolzaya attempt to regain the bodies and souls that have been stolen by the government, where ceremonial blue scarves (khadaks) drop from the sky, where several references from Tarkovsky’s THE SACRIFICE are revealed, all under an oblique, free-form, apocalyptic finale that is simply breathtaking, if not completely shrouded in a mysterious cloud of ambiguity. The cinematography by Rimvydas Leipus is stunningly original, the music by Ultan Urag is equally inspiring, under the auspicious direction of a Belgium documentary filmmaker, whose photojournalist eye casts a realist spell through the maze of interchangeable dream states that are literally bursting with inventiveness by the end. For me, it was too muddled to make any sense out of, but displacement is one of the key 21^st century issues, with China leading the way with over a million people displaced for the building of the world’s largest construction project, the Three Gorges Dam. Modernization projects are altering the landscapes, removing people from their comfort zones, their natural environment, and replacing them into gulag-like urban ghettos. This film suggests more than land is stolen, but the very soul of the people, who perhaps must resort to outlawed measures of resistance to regain their freedom. The only other film that comes to mind with this kind of mind-altering ending is Lyndsay Anderson’s IF….(1968).

eye WEEKLY

Wildly energetic, this Mongolian-made effort by a Belgian-based documentary team combines traditional storytelling, vanguard stage techniques and much stunning cinematography to create an avant-garde eco-fable. Brosens and Woodworth establish an ethnographic mode early on in this story about a young man in rural Mongolia who’s reluctant to accept his shamanic powers. With the story’s shift to more urban and industrial locales comes far more daring stylistic tactics that are bound to alienate some viewers but the filmmakers’ disregard for cinema’s conventional limitations is ballsy in the extreme.

NEWCITYCHICAGO.COM: Street Smart Chicago Ray Pride

In both fiction and documentary, many filmmakers fall prey to pictorial exoticism in faraway lands, so it`s gratifying when filmmakers find a way into a strange time or place and also discover their own eccentric vocabulary. The magical realist "Khadak," set in Mongolia, and made by the Belgian-based documentary team of Peter Brosens and Jessica Woodworth, is about a young man`s resistance to assuming his destiny as a shaman: with beautiful cinematography and a gorgeous score reminiscent of Michael Nyman`s work, Brosens and Woodworth allow the story to shift from country to city with increasingly peculiar but engaging results. I`d love to describe the movie at length, but its riches are there to be discovered, admired and often loved. The opening medium close-up, of a young Mongolian woman against a colorful backdrop, cheeks streaked with black dust, counting numbers into the camera as she slowly begins to tear up, is a mere augury of terrific filmmaking to follow.

Facets Multi Media - FILM PROGRAM ARCHIVE -> October 2007 -> Khadak

A truly extraordinary and original piece of filmmaking, Khadak is a magical and otherworldly journey set against the frozen and barren steppes of Mongolia. The story centers on Bagi, a young nomad whose regular epileptic seizures convince the local shamaness of his powerful inner eye. Bagi resists her calling, but when his family is unceremoniously uprooted by the military (the authorities disingenuously claim that a plague is running through the countryside), he is forced to confront his shamanic destiny. His world suddenly becomes an eerie dreamscape, vividly rendered through abandoned Soviet-era barracks, massive industrial mining operations and his visits to a sacred tree. In a scene indicative of many others, his inner voice calls him to board a coal train and rescue a beautiful young woman buried in the bitumen. She turns out to be a coal thief, and he joins her to become an enemy of the oppressive state bent on destroying their nomadic way of life. Anchored in this sublime landscape, the viewer is able to follow Bagi's spiritual journey, and when he assumes his shamanic leadership, there is an incredible sense of wonder in a beautiful but desolate landscape that are often reminiscent of the films of Tarkovsky. (Philadelphia Film Festival) Directed by Peter Brosens and Jessica Hope Woodworth, 2006, Belgium/Germany, 35mm, 104 mins. In Mongolian with English subtitles.

New York Times (registration req'd) Matt Zoller Seitz

Eerie, muddled and gorgeous, “Khadak” tells the story of an epileptic Mongolian sheepherder named Bagi (Batzul Khayankhyarvaa) who embraces his destiny as a shaman when his village is threatened. Shot on arid steppes, in rural villages and amid the remains of monolithic Soviet-era buildings, it has ecological and religious dimensions and a hero who undergoes several transformations.

Bagi’s village suffers from a livestock plague that’s treated as a pretext for troops to evict everyone in the name of public safety. After that “Khadak” becomes an account of Mongolia’s shift from a rural to an industrial economy; a rebellion narrative in which Bagi joins vagabond musicians opposing their oppressive government; and a metaphysical adventure in which the hero is projected into a bleak future.

Directed and written by Peter Brosens, an anthropologist and documentarian, and Jessica Woodworth, a former journalist, “Khadak” is a trippy spectacle. It boldly tries to find visuals to describe complex metaphysical and political concepts. But the results often suggest aestheticized eye candy, along the lines of Ken Russell’s “Altered States” or Godfrey Reggio’s “Koyaanisqatsi” and its sequels.

The influence of Mr. Reggio’s film is acknowledged in the cinematographer Rimvydas Leipus’s strikingly composed landscapes and in a pulsing score that conjures a feeling of existential dread that has long been Philip Glass’s stock in trade.

Film Journal International (Maria Garcia)

A “khadak” is a ceremonial scarf, and in Khadak, a magic-realist film set in Mongolia, scarves appear at moments of completion or renewal. They’re wrapped around animals and trees, and they fall from the heavens when Bagi, the movie’s protagonist, finally understands the message of his dreams. The khadaks, the color of a cerulean sky, suggest the numinous forces at work in Bagi’s life, and in the lives of all who feel the tug of destiny.

Bagi and his family live a traditional lifestyle, so when the young man has a vision and then an epileptic fit, the local shaman is called in to heal him. She tells Bagi’s grandfather that the boy has received a calling, but Bagi rejects this fate for the uncomplicated pleasures of shepherding his family’s livestock. One day, soldiers arrive to drive the small settlement of nomads from the steppes. The masked men claim that a plague is spreading across the land, and that it will kill the families and their animals. Everyone is relocated to a housing complex, and some, like Bagi’s mother, are given jobs at a mining company. For others, including Bagi’s grandfather, dislocation leads to despair. Bagi is compelled to act, and with the help of the female shaman, harnesses all his powers to restore things to their natural order.

At first, Khadak is reminiscent of the films of Byambasuren Davaa (The Story of the Weeping Camel, Cave of the Yellow Dog) and those of Zacharias Kunuk and Norman Cohn (Atanarjuat, The Journals of Knud Rasmussen): It is inspired by the spiritual beliefs of indigenous people who live in harmony with their surroundings. Co-directors Peter Brosens and Jessica Woodworth, both Westerners, take great care in accurately representing Bagi’s shamanistic journey, and in making it accessible. Audiences will recognize Khadak as an archetypal story about the claiming of one’s true identity, despite the distraction of a stagnant subplot and the filmmakers’ references to contemporary political issues. At times, the shamanistic journey is unnecessarily oblique, and feels like the work of wide-eyed outsiders to the culture. In the end, Khadak lacks the graceful simplicity of Cave of the Yellow Dog, for instance, but it is nevertheless a highly imaginative film, beautifully scored and well-acted.

Khadak - Synopsis from the film website

indieWIRE: indieWIRE INTERVIEW | "Khadak" Co-Director Jessica ...

Slant Magazine Ed Gonzalez

Salon.com [Andrew O'Hehir]

Spirituality & Health (Frederic and Mary Ann Brussat)

The Village Voice [Nick Pinkerton]

New York Post (V.A. Musetto)

Khadak Andrea Gronvall from the Reader

Reel Film Reviews (David Nusair)

Time Out New York (Joshua Land)

Chicago Tribune (Sid Smith)

Variety Leslie Felperin

ALTIPLANO

Belgium Germany Netherlands (109 mi) 2009

Altiplano Allan Hunter at Cannes from Screendaily

Largely set amongst the majestic beauty of the high Andes in Peru, Altiplano is an ambitious, visually striking second feature from the filmmaking duo of Peter Brosens and Jessica Woodworth following their award-winning fiction debut Khadak (2006).

It is also extremely slow moving and demanding in a way that invites comparisons with Carlos Reygadas’s Japon (2002) or the testing religious fables of more recent Ermmano Olmi works like Centochiodi (One Hundred Nails) (2007), but enterprising arthouse distributors may be able to nurture it towards a very select small audience.

Altiplano works on the basis that all actions have consequences.

In Iraq, war photographer Grace (Jasmin Tabatabai) is forced at gunpoint to capture an image of her guide’s execution. Her Belgian husband Max (Olivier Gourmet) is a cataract surgeon working at an eye clinic in the high Andes. They communicate with each other through video diaries.

The story of how Grace struggles to cope with loss and further tragedy is contrasted with the life of Saturnina (Magaly Solier), a young woman in the village of Turbamba. Spillages of mercury from a local mining project have caused baffling illness and death among the native population and Saturnina is to suffer the unbearable burden of her own loss.

Altiplano bears all the signs of Brosens and Woodworth’s background in documentaries. The mercury spill in the Peruvian village of Choropampa in 2000 provides the guiding inspiration for some of the events depicted in their film. Brosens studied the impact of protest suicides whilst living in Peru and Ecuador. The photograph that Grace takes is strongly reminiscent of Eddie Adams’ defining shot of the Vietnam conflict capturing a Saigon police chief shooting a Vietcong guerrilla at point blank range. Altiplano is a production with an impeccable sense of documentary reality allied to a more meditative style of filmmaking.

Cinematographer Francisco Gozon captures breathtaking images of piercing blue waters, snow-covered mountains and some of the religious rituals that are part of daily life in an area where spiritual values and community have a stronger grasp than the material urges of western cultures. The film does not lack narrative but Brosens and Woodworth seem more drawn towards contemplation than explanation.

Ultimately Altiplano is thought-provoking but has the air of part of a larger, multi-media project and might just find its biggest audience in exhibition, gallery or museum spaces where it can breath alongside still images, debates and wider appreciation of the film and the issues it raises.

Brown, Clarence

The Films of Clarence Brown - by Michael E. Grost Michael Grost from Classic Film and Television

Starmaker Gwenda Young from Sight and Sound, April 2003

FLESH AND THE DEVIL

USA (113 mi) 1926

Time Out review Geoff Andrew

Renowned for its electric love scenes between Garbo and Gilbert (though these days they don't seem that torrid), this is an elegant bit of melodramatic fluff, with Garbo in swooning form as the adulterous Countess coming between her soldier lover (Gilbert) and his best buddy (Hanson), who marries her after the count (MacDermott) is killed in a duel. Much ado about nothing, really, but Garbo is as luminous as ever, thanks to William Daniels' camerawork.

Chicago Reader (Dave Kehr) capsule review

A melodrama of frustrated desire played out in an endless succession of sumptuously curtained boudoirs, this 1926 film established Greta Garbo as the silent era's most alluring enigma. The tragedy of Garbo's career is that she lent her presence to so many mediocre films, and this Clarence Brown effort (his first of many with Garbo) is no exception. Turgid and stiff, it finds the magic only occasionally. With John Gilbert and Lars Hanson. 112 min.

Turner Classic Movies review Bret Wood

Greta Garbo was merely an immigrant actress of considerable promise when she began Flesh and the Devil (1926) at MGM, but when the film was finished, she emerged as the divine Garbo, one of the most mysterious, glamorous stars of the American screen, a distinction she maintained well into the 1930s.

The catalyst in Garbo's transformation was John Gilbert, the actor who, after the death of Valentino, reigned supreme on Hollywood's roster of dashing leading men. Legend has it that when the two first met on the MGM backlot, Gilbert called, "Hello, Greta," to which she coolly responded, "It is Miss Garbo." Immediately smitten by this indifferent Swedish beauty, Gilbert engaged Garbo in a whirlwind romance, much to the delight of the moviegoing public and the studio brass.

Director Clarence Brown, who observed the on and off screen romantic chemistry between his two stars, was inspired to wax poetic: "They are in that blissful state of love so like a rosy cloud that they imagine themselves hidden behind it, as well as lost in it." Gilbert (twice married by this time, at age 29) publically declared his love and hinted that wedding bells would soon ring, but Garbo maintained her silence and intimated to friends that her relationship with the actor was never very serious.

Besides, there was more to their relationship than sexual magnetism. Gilbert sympathized with Garbo's predicament as a studio contract player, enduring the daily grind of one film after another, with virtually no control over her career. Having gained considerable clout in the film industry after his performance in the phenomenally successful The Big Parade (1925), Gilbert quickly learned how to manage his own career and had become one of the highest paid actors in Hollywood. He gladly introduced her to his business manager, Harry Edington, who thereafter became her salary negotiator.

Once Flesh and the Devil was released, the film was so popular that Garbo could almost dictate the terms of her renewed MGM contract. With Edington's help, her salary shot from $600 per week to $2,000 per week, a figure that was contractually bound to triple in three years. Perhaps more significantly, she also gained control over the types of roles she would play in the future. This crucial development enabled her to play something besides man-eating vamps, to cultivate the Garbo mystique, a combination of sultry passion, tender innocence and cool insouciance that has made her a cinematic icon.

In Flesh and the Devil, Gilbert stars as Leo von Harden, a military cadet who returns home to Austria and falls in love with the sultry Felicitas von Eltz (Garbo). During their first night together, the lovers are interrupted by the woman's husband, Count von Rhaden (Marc MacDermott). The count challenges Leo to a duel and is killed. To avoid further scandal, the young man is sent away to military service in North Africa. He entrusts the widow's care to his closest friend Ulrich (Lars Hanson), who is led to believe the duel was fought over a card game insult. When Leo returns, he is dismayed to find that Ulrich has married Felicitas. He avoids the married couple but cannot resist the seductive charm of the merry widow. When Ulrich catches the two in a moment of heated passion, Leo must fight a second duel, this one on the "Isle of Friendship," where the boyhood friends once swore eternal loyalty.

Ironically, just as Garbo's star was ascending, Gilbert's was on the descent. His career tapered out at the dawn of the sound era, due either to a change in the public's tastes (favoring a more down-to-earth leading man like Clark Gable), a voice unsuitable to the talkies or, as some have suggested, the result of professional sabotage by studio heads resentful of his rebellious attitude and inflated salary.

Much of Garbo's success in Flesh and the Devil is also due to director Brown (The Yearling, 1946) and cinematographer William Daniels. In the best silent screen tradition, much of the film's character and plot development are conveyed through inventive camerawork and clever innuendo. When Leo is obliged to duel with the count, the scene is played in silhouette against a vast white sky. The duellists march away from one another until they are offscreen, and one sees nothing more than the puffs of smoke as their pistols are fired from each side of the frame.

Felicitas's true character is indicated in a brilliant little scene, following the death of her husband, in which she vainly admires herself in a mirror as she tries on a variety of black mourning veils. In another sequence that conveys the woman's devious passion, Felicitas takes communion alongside Leo and, when the chalice is passed to her, she guides it so her lips will touch the same part of the cup as her lover's.

Daniels, who had worked with Erich von Stroheim earlier in the decade, essentially sculpted light to showcase the actress's alluring beauty. Garbo's visage is warmed by flickering flames in one love scene before a fireplace, while in another scene the light through a rain-soaked window bathes her face with the gentle shadow of raindrops. In the film's most famous lighting effect, Gilbert lights her cigarette in a shadowy garden and the two lovers huddle together in the warm glow of the flaming match (actually a pair of small carbon lamps concealed in the actor's palm).

"The saddest thing in my career is that I was never able to photograph her in color," Daniels later recalled. "I begged the studio. I felt I had to get those incredible blue eyes in color, but they said no. The process at the time was cumbersome and expensive, and the pictures were already making money. I still feel sad about it."

mardecortesbaja.com :: FLESH AND THE DEVIL

DVD Talk (Svet Atanasov) dvd review [5/5]

DVD Times Kevin Gilvear, The Garbo Silents Collection

Movie-Vault.com (John Reents) review

Self-Styled Siren

DVD Verdict [Jim Stewart]

The Spinning Image (Graeme Clark) review

Classic Film Guide recommendation

Variety.com [Variety Staff]

The New York Times (Mordaunt Hall) review

DVDBeaver dvd review Gary W. Tooze

POSSESSED

USA (76 mi) 1931

Chris Dashiell at CineScene

The Joan Crawford - Clark Gable matchup was bread and butter for Metro in the 30s. This one is about a small-town girl who goes to the city and has an affair with an up-and-coming politician. The first half is quite good. The script (Lenore Coffee, based on an Edgar Selwyn play) has some crackling Depression-era repartee about what it takes to be a success in the big world. There's a beautiful sequence near the beginning where Crawford is looking into the windows of a slowly moving train, the people inside representing everything exciting that she wishes for in her own life. As was common for those days, however, the plot descends to a laughably melodramatic level, with the heroine having to sacrifice herself for the good of her man, and suffer torment for it. Gable's charm is undeniable - at this time his name was still under the title while his co-star got the big letters above it, but this would soon change. I wouldn't call what Crawford does acting exactly - rather, she poses beautifully in her glamorous outfits. She succeeds at what she does best - radiating star charisma. As a whole, not too shabby, if you can ignore the silliness of the film's second half and just enjoy it as a good example of early 30s MGM formula.

Turner Classic Movies Jeff Stafford

It was just the sort of rags-to-riches tale audiences craved during the Depression era. A working class woman with a shady past finds romance with a high society lawyer running for political office. There's one major obstacle to their happiness though - he's married. But Possessed (1931) is less about the road to a bright future for these star-crossed lovers than the on-screen sexual chemistry between the two stars - Joan Crawford and Clark Gable. It was their third film together but it was the first time the duo truly clicked with audiences as a screen couple.

They clicked off-screen as well, beginning a torrid love affair that became common knowledge on the MGM lot, despite the disapproval of studio mogul Louis B. Mayer. In a way, Clarence Brown, the director of Possessed was partly to blame, according to Joan Crawford (in the biography, Clark Gable by Warren G. Harris): "He sensed the volcanic attraction between his stars and used that for all it was worth...In the picture Clark and I were supposed to be madly in love. When the scenes ended, the emotion didn't."

At the time Crawford and Gable were trapped in unhappy marriages. Joan and her husband Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. were constantly being depicted by the press as "Hollywood's most idyllic couple." In reality their relationship was tense and competitive due to career jealousies and Joan's feelings of not being worthy whenever she was in the presence of her in-laws, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, Sr. Gable, on the other hand, was married to Ria Langham, a wealthy Texas socialite who was 17 years his senior with little in common with him. Though Crawford and Gable were more perfectly matched, sharing similar backgrounds where poverty and unstable home lives were a constant for most of their adolescence, they both knew they were too much alike to seriously consider marriage.

During the filming of Possessed, Crawford recalled (in Long Live the King: A Biography of Clark Gable by Lyn Tornabene): "Occasionally we'd break away early, go for a quiet ride along the sea. And all day long we'd seek each other's eyes. It was glorious and hopeless. There seemed nothing we would do about it. There was no chance for us..We talked of marriage, of course. But I dared not ruin the dream. I'd rather live with them unfulfilled than have them broken."

Mayer wanted to make certain that the Gable-Crawford affair didn't become public knowledge and called Clark into his office, demanding that he end the affair. The actor complied, not wanting to incur Mayer's wrath. Despite this, Crawford still requested Gable as her leading man in her next film, Letty Lynton (1932), but was told "absolutely not" by Mayer himself. Eventually, the affair ran its course but Gable and Crawford went on to become one of MGM's most popular screen pairings, appearing in such hits as Dancing Lady (1933), Forsaking All Others (1934), Chained (1934), and Love on the Run (1936).

. But their magnetic appeal as a screen couple first became apparent in Possessed with its potent blend of politics and sex. Not that the film was perfect - an unrealistic happy ending and Crawford's rendition of "How Long Can It Last" delivered in three languages were low points - but Possessed also "proved to be an important film in the progress of Joan's professional life. It ended forever her period in movies as an empty-headed hedonist with a passion for dance. Now she moved to portrayals of girls on the rise from the lower classes, an apt metaphor with Americans submerged in the Depression." (from the biography Joan Crawford by Bob Thomas).

The Films of Joan Crawford

The Films of Clarence Brown - by Michael E. Grost

TV Guide review

The New York Times (Mordaunt Hall)

CHAINED

USA (76 mi) 1934

Turner Classic Movies Margarita Landazuri

After a couple of stumbles, Joan Crawford's career was back on track in 1934, thanks to the personal attention of MGM studio head Louis B. Mayer. Dancing Lady (1934) and Sadie McKee (1934) had been hits, and Mayer personally chose her next vehicle, Chained (1934). The story offers Joan's customary onscreen dilemma of having to choose between two men. She's involved with her married boss, shipping tycoon Otto Kruger, whose wife won't give him a divorce. To escape the situation, Crawford takes a cruise to South America, and on the ship she meets rancher Clark Gable. They fall in love, but when she returns to New York, Kruger greets her with the news that his wife has relented and agreed to a divorce. Though she pines for Gable, she feels obligated to marry Kruger. Then Gable shows up...

As usual, Crawford suffers sumptuously, in fabulous Adrian gowns and Cedric Gibbons deco sets, which the critics duly noted. Some also noted a lack of substance in Chained, and a similarity to other Crawford-Gable vehicles, but didn't think that was necessarily a bad thing. Richard Watts, Jr. observed in the New York Herald Tribune, "the two stars, who certainly know their business, wisely decide to pass their time tossing charm and personality all over the place, which is obviously what the film requires for audience appeal." Fans obviously agreed - Chained was a hit.

A few years later, novelist F. Scott Fitzgerald, assigned to write a film for Crawford, studied Chained, and scribbled some notes to himself. While some of her mannerisms annoyed him ("don't like her smiling to herself - or such hammy gestures....cynical accepting smile has gotten a little tired..."), he also made some astute observations: "So much better when she is serious. Must have direct, consuming purpose in mind at all points of the story...Must be driven."

Chained was the first of eight films Crawford would make with cinematographer George Folsey. Quite by accident, Folsey discovered a lighting scheme which dramatically emphasized her best features. As the crew prepared for a shipboard-in-the-moonlight scene, a single small spotlight shone down on Crawford from high above the stage. Folsey noticed how the soft light highlighted her eyes and cheekbones, and designed her key lighting around that. Crawford was thrilled with how she looked, and demanded the same kind of lighting for the rest of her career.

Look for a young Mickey Rooney in a bit part as a boy in the ship's swimming pool. Another young actor made a film debut of sorts in Chained. In the opening scene, Crawford is piloting a speedboat in the New York harbor. They needed someone who could drive a boat to be Crawford's double, and the 18-year old son of comic Ed Wynn got the job. Although you can't recognize him, piloting the boat in the long shots is Keenan Wynn. He would not make his actual acting debut until For Me and My Gal (1942).

While she was making Chained, Crawford went through a personal drama in her private life. Her father, Thomas LeSeur, had abandoned his family before Joan was born, and she had never met him. After she became famous, he began writing to her, and they corresponded for several years. Finally, he came to Hollywood and they met on the set of Chained. The meeting was strained, and they never saw each other again.

The Films of Joan Crawford

Edwin Jahiel

TV Guide review

The New York Times (Mordaunt Hall)

THE HUMAN COMEDY

USA (118 mi) 1943

Chicago Reader (Don Druker)

Not the best example of director Clarence Brown's work, this 1943 film is nevertheless faithful to William Saroyan's achingly sentimental novel about a boy's awakening maturity in the midst of war. If you can stand a teenage Mickey Rooney for nearly two hours, you'll find it a solid piece of Americana. With Frank Morgan, Marsha Hunt, Fay Bainter, Ray Collins, Darryl Hickman, Donna Reed, and Van Johnson.

Goatdog's Movies [Michael W. Phillips Jr.]

I am torn about this movie. On the one hand, I disliked its preachiness, its moral certitude, its life lessons disguised as drama, and its creepy ending. On the other hand, it was certainly affecting; there were several scenes that were very moving, Mickey Rooney gives a remarkably effortless performance, and I admired its attempt to be inclusive. Its shameless sentimentalism presents a picture of and America that I don't think really existed anywhere, and its wide-eyed patriotism seems a little shrill more than 50 years later. However, it shows considerable talent in direction and acting, and if viewers are able to put their cynicism behind them, it is an enjoyable film that shows, if not how things used to be, at least how people thought things were.

The film centers on the Macauley family in small-town California. The father (Ray Collins) is dead, and he narrates the film from beyond the grave, talking to the characters in the film in much the same way as authors used to address "dear reader." The eldest son Marcus (Van Johnson) is away in Europe fighting World War II; he believes that it is his duty to defend his country and fight fascism, but he's not so keen on dying, and he's remarkably philosophical about life and death. Since he's away at war, the man of the house is his younger brother Homer (Mickey Rooney), the focus of the film. Homer is a responsible and thoughtful young man who has taken a job as a messenger for the local telegraph office; he unselfishly gives his wages to his mother (Fay Bainter). He also looks after the youngest in the family, Ulysses (Jackie Jenkins). The family is rounded out by Bess (yes, that's Donna Reed, so you know this film is overly sentimental).

Homer's job gives him his first taste of the "real world." His boss is Tom Spanger (James Craig), a straight-talking and likeable guy who believes in hard work but is humane enough to help out a penniless man. The other staff member, Willie Grogan (Frank Morgan, the wizard from The Wizard of Oz), is one of those loveable drunks you see in movies of the 1930s and 1940s; he instructs Homer on how to care for him if he should pass out (cold water and hot coffee), and he regales the young man with stories of the old days, but he's also interested in what Homer thinks about life. The film is very patriotic—much screen time is devoted to discussions of the duty of Americans to give up things, including their sons, for the cause—but it does not shrink from the horrors of war. One of Homer's first assignments is a heartbreaking scene in which he has to deliver a telegram to a Mexican woman telling her that her son is dead.

The film is presented in little vignettes, most of which teach some kind of lesson. One that is particularly funny occurs when Homer and another boy are held after class for fighting. A lesson is taught about respect for elders and fellow classmates, another is taught about how hard work is better than privilege, and the scene actually ends with Homer exclaiming that he hadn't known that teachers were human beings like everyone else. It characterizes the movie pretty well: it is shamelessly sentimental, but I still enjoyed it.

I had the most problems with the subplot involving Marcus, the older brother, and his friend Tobey (John Craven). Tobey is an orphan, and as Marcus regales him with stories about the simple life back home, Tobey begins to insert himself into the stories. He even believes, without ever having met her, that he will come back to Ithaca and marry Bess—to which Marcus replies in the affirmative. There's a weird undercurrent in the film about women's roles in wartime: the film believes that Tobey's wish will come true, and it never stops to consider what Bess would want. The unspoken message delivered in the final scenes is that it is her duty to take in this stranger as her husband, and she will do it without complaint. It doesn't help matters that John Craven seems stoned most of the time, with a funny little smile on his face, the "reassuring" smile that you usually see on madmen in the movies.

The film is best when it concentrates on Mickey Rooney, who gives a pitch-perfect performance. He has an almost preternatural self-assurance that must have come from doing more than five films a year since 1932. The pint-sized actor (who was 23 and playing a 15 year old, which would become a trend that he had difficulty escaping) deservedly received his second Oscar nomination.

Turner Classic Movies Frank Miller

MGM studio chief Louis B. Mayer turned himself over to populist writer William Saroyan - at least for a while - for what turned out to be the movie mogul's favorite film ever. And even though more sophisticated critics carped that the tale of small-town family life during World War II was "sugary" and "over-sentimental," The Human Comedy (1943) turned a big profit and brought Saroyan an Oscar for his only film assignment.

Mayer wasn't alone in his admiration of the author. Saroyan's Pulitzer Prize-winning play The Time of Your Life and memoirs of his Armenian family's adjustment to life in America had won him a horde of devoted fans, including MGM producer Arthur Freed. Freed brought Mayer and Saroyan together, leading to Mayer's suggestion that the writer create a film for the studio. But though he was under contract for $300 a week, Saroyan never showed up at the studio, not even to pick up his pay. Freed tracked him down to his hometown of Fresno, California, where he convinced Saroyan to write a story based on his memories of growing up there. Saroyan holed up in a San Francisco hotel room, emerging with the finished story three weeks later.

But Saroyan didn't just want to write the film, he wanted to direct it and produce it as well. Mayer humored him until the script was finished, even allowing him to write and direct a short film called The Good Job. But the short was considered un-releasable, and Saroyan's episodic screenplay for The Human Comedy would have produced a four-and-a-half hour movie, so Mayer paid him for his writing, then assigned the re-write to studio scripter Howard Estabrook. Saroyan tried to buy the script back, then consoled himself by turning it into a novel. It came out the week The Human Comedy opened and became a major best seller, driving ticket sales for the film as well.

Saroyan had written the role of Homer Macauley with Mickey Rooney in mind. Working with director Clarence Brown, who had led him through Ah, Wilderness (1935) years earlier and would later direct one of his biggest hits, National Velvet (1944), Rooney turned in one of his most sensitive performances, winning an Oscar nomination for Best Supporting Actor. The film's small-town charm was in distinct contrast to Rooney's life at the time. He was in the middle of a painful divorce from his first wife, Ava Gardner, while the studio was fighting to keep him out of the draft (he would eventually enter the service in 1944).

More in keeping with The Human Comedy's small-town values was the career of Jackie "Butch" Jenkins, who almost stole the film as Rooney's younger brother. The spirited six-year-old was spotted clowning around on Santa Monica Beach by a Metro talent scout and tested for The Human Comedy, which led to a contract with MGM. Jenkins scored a big hit in the film and followed it with similar roles in Our Vines Have Tender Grapes (1945), with Margaret O'Brien, and the imaginatively titled My Brother Talks to Horses (1946), with Peter Lawford. But he didn't take well to the strain of filmmaking. When he developed a stutter, his mother pulled him out of the movies and moved him to Dallas. Ironically, his final release was 1948's Summer Holiday, in which he ended his career as he had begun it, playing Mickey Rooney's kid brother. Jenkins never returned to the films, settling down on a farm near Dallas, where he runs a string of car washes. When asked if he ever regretted leaving the movies, his answer would have been perfectly in character for The Human Comedy: "There may be a better way to live than on a lake with a couple of cows, a wife, and children but being a movie star is not one."

Three Movie Buffs (Patrick Nash)

Classic Film Guide

Brilliant Observations on 1173 Films [Clayton Trapp]

The New York Times (Bosley Crowther)

NATIONAL VELVET

USA (123 mi) 1944

Time Out

Two children train a sorrel gelding, won in a village raffle, to win the Grand National. This is a charmer for boys and girls of all ages, with a captivating performance from the young Liz Taylor as Velvet, the butcher's daughter, and graceful, fluent direction by Clarence Brown. The National was actually filmed on a Pasadena golf course. (From the novel by Enid Bagnol.)

BBCi - Films David Wood from BBC Films

After winning Pirate, a sorrel gelding horse in the village lottery, Velvet Brown (Taylor) and Mike Taylor (Rooney), her initially cynical friend, decide to train their prize - quickly named 'Pi' - to compete in the famed Grand National Steeplechase. With Taylor as the increasingly wily trainer and Velvet as the makeshift jockey, Pi's chances of pulling off a momentous victory slowly increase.

MGM's lavish adaptation of Enid Bangold's evergreen novel is an at times winsome but nonetheless enjoyable yarn that remains a popular favourite among adults and children alike, dealing as it does with the notion of endeavour and the conviction of pursuing one's dreams. Director Clarence Brown certainly knows how to push all the right buttons, crafting a film that is knowingly manipulative and sentimental but none the worse for it and it would be churlish not to be both moved and excited by the film's gripping finale.

Both Taylor and Rooney give without doubt the best performances of their pre-adult years but there's also much pleasure to be had from a stellar supporting cast including Angela Lansbury as Velvet's older sister. A TV spin-off series followed in 1960 which had little of the film's charm, similar to a belated but starry 1978 sequel, "International Velvet". Of its kind, "National Velvet" is thoroughbred fare.

Turner Classic Movies Roger Fristoe

"There's something behind her eyes that you can't quite fathom -- something Greta Garbo had," director Clarence Brown said of Elizabeth Taylor, the 12-year-old star of his family classic National Velvet (1944). "I really hate to call her an actress. She's much too natural for that."

Despite Brown's eventual enthusiasm for his budding star, he had agreed with the early assessment of producer Pandro S. Berman and studio head Louis B. Mayer when National Velvet was being cast in late autumn of 1943 that Elizabeth was then too small, too short and too immature for the role of Velvet Brown. The heroine of the much-loved Enid Bagnold novel, who adores an unruly stallion and rides him to victory in England's Grand National, had to be tall and robust enough to pose as a male jockey, yet sufficiently developed to suggest that she is on the cusp of womanhood. As Lucille Ryman Carroll, then head of MGM's talent department, reportedly told then-11-year-old Elizabeth, "The part calls for a girl who is just beginning to blossom and she needs little bosoms, and you are -- well, like a little boy."

But no one at the studio realized the depth of the Taylor determination. Little Elizabeth, whose appearances in MGM films had been limited to bits in Lassie Come Home (1943) and The White Cliffs of Dover (1944), had fallen in love with the character of Velvet and embarked on a program to "grow into the role." Legend has it that between October and December of 1943 she added three inches to her height through a diet high in protein and carbohydrates and an exercise regimen that included swimming, horseback riding and hanging from a bar to stretch her spine. Also, as Elizabeth proudly announced to Carroll upon her return to the studio around Christmastime, "I now have boobs!"

Born in England, Taylor had the right accent, and certainly the fervor, to play Velvet convincingly. Under Brown's patient guidance, she gave a performance of great spirit and charm that set her on the path to international superstardom. National Velvet won a total of five Academy Award nominations, including one for Brown as Best Director; and two Oscars -- for Anne Revere as Best Supporting Actress as Velvet's understanding mother and Robert Kern for Film Editing. (Kern's work in the climactic race is still considered a classic of editing.) After the winners had been announced, an Academy spokesman said that Taylor had narrowly missed winning a special Oscar for best juvenile performance -- an award that went instead to Peggy Ann Garner for A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (1944).

bint magazine [Lebby Eyres]

Three Movie Buffs (Patrick Nash)

Classic Film Guide (capsule)

Brilliant Observations on 1173 Films [Clayton Trapp]

Channel 4 Film

The New York Times (Bosley Crowther)

INTRUDER IN THE DUST

USA (87 mi) 1949

Time Out Tom Milne

By far the best of the race prejudice cycle of the '40s, a subtle adaptation (by Ben Maddow) of William Faulkner's novel which goes out of its way to avoid the usual special pleading in dealing with Lucas Beauchamp (Hernandez), the elderly black facing a lynch mob when accused of shooting a white man in the back. Lucas is clearly innocent but also 'stubborn and insufferable', so scornful of whitey and his patronage that he refuses to stoop to defending himself; an arrogant sonofabitch so hard to like that when two lone citizens come forward in his defence (an old woman and a young boy), they do so against their wills, purely so that they can go on sleeping easy. An amazingly laid back conception for the period, echoed by Brown's calmly dispassionate direction and by the unobtrusively persuasive ambience (most of the film was shot in Faulkner's home town of Oxford, Mississippi).

Chicago Reader (Jonathan Rosenbaum)

It's a critical commonplace that the only good film of William Faulkner's work is The Tarnished Angels, though some critics give an additional nod to Tomorrow for Robert Duvall's performance. I would add this 1949 adaptation of Faulkner's early response to southern racism, improbably made at MGM, though shot mainly on location in Faulkner's hometown of Oxford, Mississippi. Perhaps because he was a southerner himself, Clarence Brown, best known as Greta Garbo's favorite director, brought an unusual amount of feeling and taste to the material. An "uppity" black man (Juano Hernandez) is accused of murder, a potential lynch mob forms as he refuses to defend himself, and a white boy he's befriended tries to get to the bottom of what actually happened. The story is treated with an unsensationalized clarity that seems unusually sophisticated for the period, and the other cast members--David Brian, Claude Jarman Jr., Porter Hall, and Elizabeth Patterson--are almost as good as Hernandez. 87 min.

The Films of Clarence Brown - by Michael E. Grost

Intruder in the Dust (1949) is based on William Faulkner's 1948 pro-Civil Rights, anti-lynching novel. It is completely shot on location in Faulkner's home town of Oxford, Mississippi. The film constitutes a ferocious attack on the racism of its era.

When I first saw Intruder in the Dust in 1971, its world seemed a familiar one to me. The racist Old South it depicted had been shown on network television news virtually every night during the 1960's, as part of the news' coverage of the Civil Rights movement. And I had encountered plenty of bigots in my native Michigan who shared the world view of most of the whites in this film. As a strongly pro-Civil Rights person, both then and now, the world shown in the film seemed deplorable, but not surprising. Seen today, however, Intruder in the Dust seems like a shocking time capsule of another time and place. The attitudes shown in the film look like part of a world of nightmarish horror. This world has now mercifully disintegrated, but its harmful after effects still remain.

Intruder in the Dust is a detective story. Its location filming is part of the semi-documentary tradition of the era, to shoot crime films on authentic, real world locations. Like other semi-docs, this goes into apparently authentic jails and police stations to tell its story. Ballistic evidence plays a major role in the crime plot; such scientific evidence is part of the semi-doc tradition. The film also has some complex flashbacks; these too were favored by the film noir of the era. Unlike other semi-docs, there is no large scale police organization in the film; the police are not the central characters; and the finale does not take place in an industrial area.

Intruder in the Dust was made the same year as another semi-doc, Anthony Mann's Border Incident (1949). Both films share a fierce look at the injustices done a minority group: Mann's film deals with criminals who exploit Mexican immigrant laborers. Both films are shot on location in authentic rural and small town areas, in contrast to the urban sites of most semi-docs, and film noir as a whole. Both films seem deeply tragic, and explore major issues affecting American society.

Turner Classic Movies Donald Bogle

Often considered the best of the Problem Pictures of 1949.

Based on William Faulkner's novel and actually filmed in Oxford, Mississippi (using residents of the town in crowd scenes and in some minor roles), this movie has a non-studio, realistic look and tone (similiar to and no doubt influenced by the Italian neo-realists of this post-War period). And the acting is without gloss or glamor; it's a direct and immediate, rather naturalistic (although with the right dramatic flourishes) style new to American studio films.

But the story itself is what still engrosses and affects viewers. A black man, Lucas Beauchamp (Juano Hernandez), having been accused of killing a white southern neighbor, is imprisoned. The whites of the town are soon ready to lynch him, not so much, we soon learn, because they believe he's committed the crime but because he is a black man who has refused to play the part of the town nigger. Lucas knows who he is, has faith and confidence in his own worth, bows to no man, and carries himself with the greatest of dignity, so much so that he is indeed superior. In fact, he is so strong that he doesn't believe he has to prove anything to anybody, not even his innocence. He turns, however, to a young white boy, Chick. Sometime earlier Lucas had rescued Chick from drowning. Afterwards he had taken the child home with him so that the boy's clothes might dry. When Chick had then offered the black man money, Lucas had promptly rejected it. His had been an act of hospitality - and fundamental humanity - which cannot be paid for. But because of the South's rigid racial/social codes, Chick doesn't want to "owe" a black man for anything, and his later ambivalence - his hostility and his fascination with Lucas - is the same of that of many of the white townspeople, who feel, "We got to make him a nigger first. He's got to admit he's a nigger. Then maybe we will accept him as he seems to intend to be accepted." Thus begrudingly feeling he still must somehow repay the nigger for the debt, Chick sets out to find the real murderer.

Intruder in the Dust is a complex film, presented often as a murder mystery. And it succeeds on many levels,as a piece of entertainment and as an artistic statement. "If this movie had been produced in Europe," Pauline Kael wrote, "it would probably be widely acclaimed among American students of the film as a subtle, sensitive, neo-realist work."

Writing of the problem pictures in his essay "The Shadow and the Act," Ralph Ellison said that "the temptation toward self-congratulation which comes from seeing these films and sharing in their emotional release is apt to blind us to the true nature of what is unfolding - or failing to unfold - before our eyes. As an antidote to the sentimentality of these films, I suggest that they be seen in predominantly Negro audiences. For here, when the action goes phony, one will hear derisive laughter, not sobs...Intruder in the Dust is the only film that could be shown in Harlem without arousing unintended laughter. For it is the only one of the four [major black films released in 1949] in which Negroes can make complete identification with their screen image. Interestingly, the factors that make this identification possible lie in its depiction not of racial but of human quality."

Intruder in the Dust is not without flaws. The self-congratulatory tone Ellison speaks of its most apparent (as is the one "false note" of the film Pauline Kael has spoken of) at the conclusion when Chick's uncle, a white lawyer, tells the boy, "It will be all right as long as some of us are willing to fight - even one of us," adding, "Lucas wasn't in trouble - we were." That lame line's a bit hard to take.

Finally, though, one leaves Intruder in the Dust having seen something else quite startling, and new to American movies: it presents us with Hollywood's first black separatist movie hero. As Juano Hernandez plays Lucas, he is a truly towering figure: independent, proud, testy, outspoken, resilient, often impossible, even downright insufferable. It is an impressive performance, one of the strongest in the history of blacks in American films. Hernandez won two European awards for his work. But in the United States, his performance, while appreciated by many critics, generally went unnoticed and was forgotten soon afterward. The same was true of this vastly underrated film.

CineScene.com (Chris Dashiell)

Classic Film Guide (capsule)

Channel 4 Film

The New York Times (Bosley Crowther)

WHEN IN ROME

USA (78 mi) 1952

User comments from imdb Author: moonchildiva from Motown

What a sweet film! I had never seen it before yesterday on TCM, May 10 2006. I am a fan of both actors and actually it was interesting to see them in such roles - Douglas as an "evil" person and Johnson as a priest! The whole story had the Clarence Brown quality that movie fans have come to love so much. I felt like some of the locations were the same ones used in Godfather III. The black and white is very rich, it is a pleasure to watch. The real shots of the Vatican celebrations are breathtaking. The comic relief of the detective is charming. I must admit I got choked up twice. I was brought up Catholic and though I do not practice etc. I still at least have nostalgic feelings for films such as When in Rome. I recommend!

The Films of Clarence Brown - by Michael E. Grost

When in Rome (1952) has an oddly similar structure to Brown's Chained (1934). They were set up as journeys by two characters. Visually detailed travelogues appeared in the background, while the characters got to know each other and interacted in the foreground. Chained is a romantic melodrama, while When in Rome is a comedy about two men. Still, their formal similarity was striking.

When in Rome has a delightful sequence, in which the con man suddenly has a mental vision of the monastery as having a different kind of architecture. Hitchcock employed a similar mental vision at the end of Young and Innocent, when the killer has a vision of a witness in different clothes. This sort of mental imagery perhaps goes back to Murnau. Both directors show reality being transformed.

The New York Times A.W.

Browning, Todd

All-Movie Guide

Browning joined a traveling circus while still a teenager, performing as a clown and contortionist. In 1915 he began acting at the Biograph studio and appeared in the modern sequence of D.W. Griffith's classic Intolerance; he also served as one of Griffith's assistants on that monumental project. Browning began directing in 1917, frequently co-writing his films. His first film with actor Lon Chaney, The Unholy Three, was a hit and led to several memorable silent melodramas with the great character actor, including The Unknown, London After Midnight (which Browning remade in 1935 as Mark Of The Vampire), and West Of Zanzibar. By the 1930s Browning was specializing in horror, and directed two classics of the era: Dracula with Bela Lugosi, and the astounding Freaks. The latter, a shocker set among the freaks of a traveling sideshow, was far too disturbing for its time and was quickly yanked from theaters; only in the 1960s did the film come to be hailed as a masterpiece.

Film Reference Anthony Slide

Although his namesake was the poet Robert Browning, Tod Browning became recognized as a major Hollywood cult director whose work bore some resemblance to the sensibilities of a much different writer: Edgar Allen Poe. However, unlike Poe, Tod Browning was, by all accounts, a quiet and gentle man who could nonetheless rise to sarcasm and sardonic remarks when necessary to bring out the best from his players or to ward off interference from the front office.

Browning came to Hollywood as an actor after working circus and vaudeville circuits. Browning tapped into this background in supplying elements of many of his films, notably The Unholy Three, The Show, and Freaks. He worked in the film industry as an actor until D.W. Griffith (for whom Browning had worked on Intolerance as both a performer and assistant director) gave him the chance to direct at the Fine Arts Company. Browning directed a few films for Metro, but came to fame at Universal with a series of features starring Priscilla Dean. Although The Virgin of Stamboul was admired by critics, it was his next film, Outside the Law, which has more historical significance, marking the first time that Browning directed Lon Chaney. (Browning remade the feature as a talkie.)

These Universal productions were little more than pretentious romantic melodramas, but they paved the way for a series of classic MGM horror films starring Lon Chaney, from The Unholy Three in 1925 through Where East Is East in 1929. These films were notable for the range of Chaney's performances—a little old lady, a cripple, an armless circus performer, a gangster, and so on—and for displaying Browning's penchant for the macabre. All were stylish productions, well directed, but all left the viewer with a sense of disappointment, of unfulfilled climaxes. Aside from directing, Tod Browning also wrote most of his films. He once explained that the plots of these works were secondary to the characterizations, a viewpoint that perhaps explains the dismal, unexciting endings to many of his features.

Tod Browning made an easy transition to sound films, although surprisingly he did not direct the 1930 remake of The Unholy Three. Instead, he directed the atmospheric Dracula, a skillful blend of comedy and horror that made a legend of the actor Bela Lugosi. A year later, Browning directed another classic horror talkie, Freaks, a realistic and at times offensive melodrama about the physically deformed members of a circus troupe. The film includes the marriage of midget Harry Earles to a trapeze artiste (Olga Baclanova).

Browning ended his career with The Mark of the Vampire, a remake of the Chaney feature London after Midnight; The Devil Doll, in which Lionel Barrymore appears as an old lady, a similar disguise to that adopted by Chaney in The Unholy Three; and Miracles for Sale, a mystery drama involving professional magicians. Tod Browning will, of course, be best remembered for his horror films, but it should also be recalled that during the first half of his directorial career he stuck almost exclusively to romantic melodramas.

TCMDB bio from Turner Classic Movies

Silent Movies Profile another bio

Tod Browning Michael Grost from Classic Film and Television

Browning, Tod They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

The Ringmaster

short article I wrote about the effects of censorship on the film "Devil Doll." Peter Reiher

THE UNKNOWN

USA (63 mi) 1927

Time Out

As with Browning's Freaks, one wonders how MGM ever got conned into making this resplendent study in morbid psychology. As much a casebook as a horror movie, it tells the truly marvellous tale of Alonzo the Armless Wonder (Chaney, of course), who uses his feet to perform a circus knife-throwing act. Only masquerading as armless (wanted by the police for a strangling, he's concealing the telltale evidence of a hand with two thumbs), he falls for pretty Estrellita (Crawford), the bareback rider. But she has a trauma about being touched by men, so he besottenly decides to have his arms amputated, only to find a handsome strong man emerging as a successful rival for her heart, cue for a fiendishly vengeful Grand Guignol finale staged during the strong man's act. One of the great silent movies, astonishing in its intensity, this is by far the best of the remarkable series of Browning/ Chaney collaborations.

Classic Film Guide (capsule)

A Tod Browning directed Lon Chaney silent classic! In this horror drama, Chaney plays a criminal who hides his identity by wrapping up his arms such that he appears as an armless man attraction in a traveling circus. He has a helper (John George), the only other one who knows the truth, that helps him wrap and unwrap his arms. But, he can feed himself and throw knives, his act, with his feet! He falls in love with his assistant (Joan Crawford!), as he exploits her irrational (pseudo-sexual) fear of men with arms. He ends up killing her father (Nick De Ruiz) in a dispute; Crawford witnessed the strangulation, though she only saw the perpetrator in the shadows. To cast off suspicion, Chaney goes away to have his arms surgically removed; he plans to return to Crawford and pursue a more open relationship. However, while he's away, the strongman (Norman Kerry) helps Crawford to overcome her fear, and the two fall in love. When Chaney returns truly armless, he is furious, and enacts a vicious revenge against the strongman. Waldemar Young contributed the scenario to Browning's story; Joseph Farnham did the titles.

Raging Bull [Mike Lorefice]

One of Tod Browning's greatest twisted tales of the macabre has Lon Chaney is on the lamb in the circus, pretending to be an armless man. He loves (or rather is obsessed with) Joan Crawford, his assistant in his knife throwing act (he uses his feet), but a Chaney character can never tell a woman he loves her. His method of showing his love always traps him in perpetual friendship; he becomes a safe father figure type. Chaney is determined to win Crawford at any and all costs, but he cannot get anywhere with her in his current state where a mere hug could reveal him. Crawford is also somewhat mentally unstable, petrified of men because they've pawed her all her life, and in a fit of hysteria she screamed she wished they were all armless. Chaney faces a great quagmire in that he's been deceiving her like everyone but his friend Cojo. He can take the chance and trust her or he can "solve his problems" and make "an improvement" by permanently mutilating himself. Chaney has to do something quickly because he's facing competition from the circus' muscle narcissist Malabar. This is Chaney's greatest performance because the character is diverse and complex, allowing Chaney to come at him from many perspectives. The basic love story is similar to many Chaplin films, but with Browning and Chaney it's not all sentiment and pathos, there's deep and intense psychological study and a willingness to take things all the way. Chaney portrays a character you understand, and yes you do feel sorry for him but with Chaney that's largely duo to his impeccable expressions rather than simple manipulation. He's ultimately far more human because he also has (very) bad points that are allowed to come across as weaknesses and we are able to understand why the younger girl wouldn't choose him (even if we don't always agree or would choose none of them). Chaney's supposed to be friends with Crawford and Malabar (he saved him from a beating), so he must hide his own selfish motives (at least until he's willing to act on them). He's certainly put to the test when he thinks Crawford means she's ready to marry him, but it turns out to be Malabar. In this excruciating scene Chaney, caught between the truth and his front, attempts to laugh and laugh until the shock, disappointment, and anger wear off. Chaney's facial acting in this scene is just amazing, the best ever according to Burt Lancaster.

Senses of Cinema (Michael Koller)

Electric Sheep Magazine Virginie Sélavy

Turner Classic Movies Jeff Stafford

Jigsaw Lounge (Neil Young)

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

Goatdog's Movies [Michael W. Phillips Jr.]

Epinions [Stephen O. Murray]

Unknown, The (1927) from the Joan Crawford Films site

Nitrate Online (Capsule) Carrie Gorringe

DVD Verdict Bill Gibron reviews the Lon Chaney Collection

Turner Classic Movies reviews the Lon Chaney Collection

DVD Talk (Matt Langdon) reviews the Lon Chaney Collection

Fangoria Tom Weaver reviews the Lon Chaney Collection

The New York Times (Mordaunt Hall)

DRACULA

USA (75 mi) 1931

Scifilm Review Bill “Classic” Camp

This film has become the staple for all Dracula films that have come after, and was the groundbreaking film for Universal's horror film series throughout the 1930s and 1940s. That being said, it also came at a time when the studio was in financial trouble, and was not yet the giant of Hollywood Universal is today (certainly they were a long way from owning numerous theme parks). Dracula came during the middle of the Great Depression, when most U.S. companies were in financial turmoil, and Universal was no exception. Just five years after this movie's production, Carl Laemmle, Jr. would be forced to give up his ownership of the studio in favor of "The New Universal." What this means is production values for Dracula and other Universal films of the era were low, but on the other hand, it was Dracula and its counterparts that helped the studio get out of some financial trouble.

The story actually comes from a play originally by Hamilton Deane, which was based on the Bram Stoker novel. John L. Balderston made revisions to the play for U.S. stages, before much of it appeared in this film (particularly the movie's second half). Finally, Garrett Fort wrote the additional scenes that appear on the screen.

To play the title role, the studio touted longtime scareman Lon Chaney, Sr. Unfortunately, Chaney faced an untimely death before production could start, so the studio turned to Hungary-born actor Bela Lugosi (born in Lugos, now an area of Romania), who had played the count on many U.S. stages already. Despite many subsequent films choosing British-born actors to play the count, this is the only film that is ethnically correct. Edward van Sloan was chosen to play the good Doctor Abraham Van Helsing and does an excellent job, defining that character for future generations as well. Helen Chandler should also be mentioned for her outstanding portrayal of Mina Seward. She's sweet and lovable one minute, and ready to take a bite out of her boyfriend's neck the next. Finally, there's Dwight Frey who plays about the best Renfield I've ever seen. His sinister laugh and classic "rats" speech have become trademarks of the film that have shown up as references many times over.

Director Tod Browning should also be mentioned for his outstanding direction. He was already a master of atmosphere after working on THE UNHOLY THREE and LONDON AFTER MIDNIGHT, but we really wouldn't see how demented he could be until his work on FREAKS a year after this film.

Plot

The unsuspecting Mr. Renfield takes a trip to Castle Dracula to sell him a place in London. Dracula turns out (of course) to be a vampire, bites Renfield, and turns him into his sidekick. Once in England, Dracula sets his sites on two young girls, Mina and Lucy Weston (Frances Dade). When Lucy contracts a strange blood disease, Dr. Van Helsing is called in and soon discovers the problem to be a vampire. It's too late to help Lucy, but Van Helsing engages in a battle of wits with Dracula that will lead to one of the men's demise.

What Works

The opening scenes of Renfield in Castle Dracula are priceless and created the Universal look and style that would become the rest of the series' trademark. The dark, gloomy sets with steam covered ground became a Universal staple in horror films. The lighting and shadows from beginning to the point where Renfield is laughing crazily in the hull of the ship is flawless, and cinematographer Karl Freund deserves a lot of credit.

Also the scenes where Dracula and Van Helsing match witty banter are well written and executed to perfection by both actors.

What Doesn't Work

Basically after the opening scenes, everything else, except the scenes with Van Halsing and Dracula together. The movie is still moody, but becomes slow and plodding. All the action takes place off-screen, possibly for budgetary reasons. Climactic scenes, like the vampire opening a vein in his arm and forcing Mina to drink it, are simply talked about instead of shown. The scene with the boat in the storm where the crew disappears would have been outstanding for its mood and ambiance if done a few years later, but here it appears only in a newspaper article, and the above mentioned all too brief scene of Renfield laughing in the hull. Also many scenes are obviously shot on small sets, with a stationary camera, which sometimes takes away from the picture. In short, many of the later scenes look like a play that was filmed. Also, without giving up the ending, I do want to mention that it is very anti-climactic.

The Final Word

Although NOSFERATU was the first film version of Stoker's novel, this film has become the story's staple. Although it is flawed, anyone interested in the origins of the entire horror genre, and even those interested in classic films in general, should see this film. The opening scenes are as good as just about anything else anywhere, and you can also see Universal toying with their later staple look here. Unfortunately, that look didn't get perfected until later that year, with James Whale's FRANKENSTEIN.

See also Dave Sindelar's article on DRACULA (1931).

The Greatest Films - comprehensive analysis of classic US film Tim Dirks

THE MUMMY Ernest Larsen from Jump Cut, July 2000

About.com Home - DVD Review [Ivana Redwine]

CultureDose.net [Jeremiah Kipp]

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

DVD Verdict Sean McGinnis

Epinions [flash-hammer]

Oggs' Movie Thoughts

James Berardinelli's ReelViews

City Pages, Minneapolis/St. Paul Eric Lorberer

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Mordaunt Hall)

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

FREAKS

USA (62 mi) 1932

Freaks Ed Gonzalez from Slant magazine

The opening disclaimer of director Tod Browning's Freaks begins: "In ancient times, anything that deviated from the normal was considered an omen of ill luck or representative of evil." The film concerns the sad love affair between the midget Hans (Harry Earles) and the beautiful "peacock of the air" Cleopatra (Olga Baclanova) and what happens to the woman when she betrays the all-for-one group order of a circus troupe's freaks. After the success of 1930's Dracula, Browning was commissioned by MGM to produce "something even more horrible." Shot in little over a month on the sets from Robert Z. Leonard's Susan Lenox: Her Fall and Rise, Freaks so disgusted audiences and critics at the time of its release that it quickly vanished from active circulation. Considering the biting nature of the film, its damnation was that much more ironic.

Today, hardcore fans have a way of trivializing the film's moral significance, some calling it a mere "masterpiece of shock cinema." This is to seriously underplay the film's blistering humanity and the audacious aesthetic and philosophical lengths to which Browning goes to challenge the way we define beauty and abnormality. Perhaps because Browning was so friendly with these people, he never exoticizes or exploits their appearances. Instead, he casually observes their all-too-human need to love, play and protect their own. Browning frequently lingers on the way the film's "misshapen misfits" work around their deformities (the armless Frances holds a goblet with one of her feet and the limbless Prince Randian lights a cigarette using only his mouth), recognizing the ordinariness of their actions and their capacity for sexual pleasure.

Browning sees absolutely no difference between, say, the romantic irritations Leila Hyams' Venus and Wallace Ford's Phroso encounter and the epic tragedy that separates Hans from his equally pint-sized fiancée Frieda (Daisy Earles). "Yeah, you dames are all alike," Phroso says at one point. Indeed they are. Frieda shares her troubles with Venus while hanging her laundry on a small tree. It's impossible to ignore her small stature, but her emotional frustration is every bit as volatile as the bigger woman's. Freaks' misfits insist on being on equal footing with everyone else, a struggle for "sameness" that's startlingly evoked by the film's final scenes when Browning situates them on the same level playing field (here, the muddy terrain below the carnival cars) with Cleopatra's equally venomous cohort, Hercules (Henry Victor).

The film's disfigured children dance around in a circle in a pasture but are displaced by a shocked gentleman who insists, "They're not children, they're monsters." But who is the real monster here? Make no mistake: far more shocking than the physical malformations of the film's characters are their moral disfigurements. If audiences at the time of the film's release where freaked out when Siamese twin Violet vicariously feels the kiss a man plants on her sister Daisy's lips, then surely they must have been just as equally troubled by Phroso making innocent small talk with one of the film's three pinheads. Phroso is in many ways Browning's doppelganger. Just as Cleopatra and Hercules scorn the freaks, Phroso goes out of his way to ignore their disabilities.

When Cleopatra marries Hans for his fortune, Browning uses the film's famous "Wedding Feast" sequence and its rhythmic use of montage to fantastically blur the lines between the normal and the abnormal. Simple human emotions take on ghoulish overtones and Cleopatra's maniacal, triumphant cackle becomes impossible to distinguish from the rapturous, seemingly naïve laughter of the film's misshaped protagonists. The tables fascinatingly turn and Cleopatra's wedding feast becomes a different sort of initiation ritual. (Michael Tolkin cleverly engaged this famous "one of us" sequence in his screenplay for Robert Altman's brilliant The Player, during a scene similarly concerned with group order and acts of deception.)

Browning is a fascinating visualist and he prefigures the woman's final disfigurement in Phroso's abstract poses and costume changes. While wearing an oversized clown costume, he asks Venus to hit him on the head with a toy hammer. When she does, his costume jerks upward and gives the illusion that he's been disfigured. Later, he refuses to go on a date with Venus because he's too busy building a sideshow attraction using a bathtub and wheels. Sitting inside the tub, the man (apparently a hardcore completist) comes to resemble Johnny "The Boy Wonder" Eck, the freak with no lower body with whom he frequently shares the frame. More so than his willingness to coddle the film's freaks, Phroso is truly ennobled by his need to remind them that he is every bit the breathing, feeling human being they are.

Gary Morris of Bright Lights Film Journal fascinatingly sees the film's circus life as a "distorted symbol of the Hollywood studio" system of the era. Though Freaks doesn't actively attack Louis B. Mayer (it wasn't until after its disastrous release that the studio honcho removed his famous logo from the film), it's very much conscious of the way an insular society (whether it's the film's traveling circus or the Hollywood studio system) exploits populist notions of beauty for commercial gain. Who are the "freaks" of the film's title then? Why, it's anyone who fails to recognize the humanity of the film's deformed lot. With good reason, film theorist Andrew Sarris called the film "one of the most compassionate films ever made."

Bright Lights Film Journal Article: Freaks Mark A. Vieilla and Gary Morris

Freaks Show Thierry Kuntzel from Rouge

Tod Browning: Freaks Derek Malcolm from the Guardian

Raging Bull [Mike Lorefice]

Film as Art Danél Griffin

not coming to a theater near you [Rumsey Taylor]

Oggs' Movie Thoughts

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

The Onion A.V. Club [Keith Phipps]

Flipside Movie Emporium Jeremiah Kipp

DVD Verdict: Freaks Patrick Naugle

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

Brüggemann, Dietrich

STATIONS OF THE CROSS (Kreuzweg) D 59

Germany (107 mi) 2014

I do adore the sadomodernist masters such as von Trier and Haneke.

—Dietrich Brüggemann interview, Dietrich Brüggemann on “Stations of the Cross”, by Matt Fagerholm from Indie Outlook, October 20, 2014

This highly acclaimed film, co-written by the director and his sister Anna, winner of a Silver Bear for Best Script as well as the Ecumenical Jury Prize at Berlin, has produced the most negative reaction of the year, right alongside Lars von Trier’s Nymphomaniac: Volume 1 (2014), which was so incredibly dull and painstakingly pretentious that there was simply no desire to ever see Pt. 2. The common theme in both is the sheer manipulation factor, where the film’s fixated obsessions are revealed through such a narrow prism that both directors literally force you to accept the movie on their terms, which for some creates an instinctive rebellion against what’s being forced down your throat. In this case, the film is wrapped under the cloak of religion, following the drama surrounding 14-year old Maria (Lea van Acken) on the eve of her confirmation, where the strict interpretation of her fundamentalist teachings are taken literally, where there is no room for any other point of view, becoming an expression of fanaticism and intolerance, and ultimately death, yet doing so in the name of the Lord, even going so far, as the title suggests, of paralleling the film’s fictional narrative with the final 14 stages (Traditional form) of Christ leading up to the crucifixion, using a Biblical structure in similar fashion with Kieslowski’s modern parable on the Ten Commandments in The Decalogue (Dekalog) (1988-89). While Kieslowski’s film transcends form, Brüggemann is slavishly ruled by it, creating a brutally suffocating work that is mired in its own wretched miserablism. Simply put, this is a movie about horrible people, where Maria’s mother (Franziska Weisz) is one of the more vile creatures ever depicted, spewing her venom as God’s will, sewing the seeds of her own daughter’s destruction (while her husband slinks in cowardly silence), and then praising God after she’s dead, one of the most horrific acts of child abuse ever depicted onscreen. What’s missing in Brüggemann’s film is that extreme forms of intolerant behavior come from all walks of life both inside and outside the church, from the well educated as well as the uneducated, where extremism, not just religious extremism, is a societal epidemic. How else to explain the rise of school shootings, urban neighborhood crossfire incidents, sexual abductions, or various hate crimes, where victims are targeted for a variety of reasons, none of which make rational sense, so confining this film to such meticulous order and precision is woefully misguided, as it insists upon imposing a straitjacket of logical rationale to irrational acts.

By confining the focus of the film to a small religious sect based upon the Society of St. Pius X (where the director was confirmed and served as an altar boy ), an anti-Semitic, ultra conservative offshoot of Catholicism that adheres to its own strict rules, much like the Amish and German Mennonite communities in America that continue to abide by antiquated, old-world beliefs, Brüggemann, like Mel Gibson before him in his THE PASSION OF THE CHRIST (2004), which this film so zealously resembles, wear their mile-wide sadomasochistic streaks into the heart of the crucifixion story, playing firmly into the expectations of the ardent believers who will praise the strict formal rigidity while ignoring the obvious, where the repetitious, one-note obsessions heard throughout become another form of sanctimonious preaching. Anyone who is raised by an unwavering doctrine of fear and absolutism, dominated by a tyrannical mother and an equally unequivocal young priest, at the expense of all other widening views, and then cast into the plague that is public school is likely to find that others will find their views preposterous and at odds with the concept of higher learning, where they will soon find themselves the subject of taunting and ridicule. But it’s the somber, overly serious tone overriding every section of the film that borders on the ridiculous, becoming tiresome after awhile as the viewer is assaulted by ordinary meanness from the mother accompanied by fixated ideas of extremism. While there are more tolerant views expressed in the film, such as the well-meaning gym teacher (Birge Schade) who attempts to accommodate Maria’s views that rock, gospel, and soul music are satanical expressions of the devil’s work, or a young boy she meets in a library named Christian (Moritz Knapp) who appeals to Maria to come sing in his non-satanic church choir, they are quickly overridden by the dictatorial views of her mother, who is simply a monster whose bullying overbearing voice of unreason and intolerance is the continuous thread that dominates the film. Maria obsessively adheres to these teachings, depriving herself of all earthly pleasures with the understanding that this is how one expresses obedience to the Lord.

While the film is a portrait of a tormented family layered in religiosity, this obfuscates the film’s prime intention of being a modern era horror film, where clearly the year’s most wicked creature is at the center, further accentuated by the strict rigidity of style, where the 14 stations are expressed in 14 shots, some lasting as long as ten minutes, most from a fixed position where the camera never moves. While some will marvel at the technical precision of the film, reminiscent of the praise received for magnificent technical achievement in Sokurov’s RUSSIAN ARK (2002), which was a 99-minute single shot film that roamed through the Russian Hermitage Museum, but the constant chatter the viewer was forced to endure throughout from the long-winded narrator was often overlooked in all the acclaim for making a technically innovative film. Here, while tragedy abounds, the deck is also stacked, where the contrived and pretentious nature of this film is a bit too absurd to believe, as there is an odd shift that takes place in the middle of the film where Maria changes from being a confused but serious-minded teenager to suddenly finding her ultimate purpose in life, a radical shift that seems all too convenient for the storyline that requires her to be the Christ-like figure whose modern era presence would similarly be pious but completely misunderstood in contemporary society. With a seemingly inescapable fate, despite the interventions of social workers, police, priests, doctors, family and friends, much like THE EXORCIST (1973), the inevitable progression moves forward as Maria literally deprives herself of food, willing herself to die, believing her death will bring about the miracle needed to save her youngest brother Johannes who still hasn’t spoken his first words at the age of four. While there are any number of solutions to this problem where society would intervene, doing nothing while allowing a mother to manipulate and browbeat her own daughter into killing herself is not one of them, making this truly one of the ugliest and most manipulative films seen this year, a psychological version of torture porn, and the most hateful film seen since Tarantino’s Django Unchained (2012), where the only thing missing would be a selfie moment taken by the mother at the hour of her daughter’s death, seen beaming with delight, as she couldn’t be more proud. What rot.

Which movies to see—and which to skip—at the 50th Chicago International Film Festival JR Jones from The Reader

Stations of the Cross A prize winner for best screenplay at the Berlin film festival, this religion-bashing drama tells the story of a 14-year-old girl, enrolled in a traditionalist Catholic study class, who resolves to sacrifice her life to God so that he might grant the power of speech to her possibly autistic infant brother. The priest teaching the class sets her on an ascetic path that gradually leads to anorexia, though the real force behind the girl's quest is her harsh, unforgiving mother, whose furious moralistic judgments could strip the paint off a battleship. Screenwriters Anna and Dietrich Brüggeman divide their story into 14 uninterrupted takes, each named for a station of the cross, and if you can overlook the hilarity of such rigid formalism serving to indict Christian dogma, their scheme is highly effective. Dietrich directed. In German with subtitles.

EyeForFilm.co.uk [Andrew Robertson]

14 stations, 14 sections, 14 single takes, cut from a black title card to a black title card, one step after another.

14 year old Maria, due for confirmation, member of a sect called The Society of Saint Paul, a Catholicism that no longer recognises Rome as the Church since The Second Vatican Council, where the host is never handled, where music too frequently contains the Devil's rhythms, where confirmation is the passage to adulthood and conscription into the army of soldiers for God.

Beautifully constructed, staged, acted, Kreuzweg is described by the Edinburgh International Film Festival's brochure as "a formal triumph"; this is an incredible exercise in constraint and restraint.

The camera moves in only three scenes, once on a technicality; the fourth station, "Jesus Meets His Mother", takes place within a car, the camera fixed such that driver and passenger are framed on the journey home from school. Each scene from first, Jesus Is Condemned To Death, to last, Jesus Is Laid In The Tomb, is framed and explained by its corresponding station.

This is a strict sect, Maria's mother is an observant member, and in dedication and devotion are sown the seeds of Maria's destruction. It is a seemingly inescapable fate, despite the interventions of church and state, of family and friends, a passage of fixed and measured pace but an inevitable progression. The staging is frequently clever, approaches to, from, and around the camera, neat blocking in a consultation with a doctor, the inclusion of clocks in frame on two occasions, consistent and seemingly genuine passage in the car journey. Dietrich and Anna Bruggeman's film is almost perfectly constructed, its criticisms and observations all neatly dovetailed.

As Maria, Lea van Acken is revelatory, possessed of a countenance at once despairing and angelic, heart-rending and alien. As her mother, Franziska Weisz manages to observe and not to see, to convey a righteous certainty which is all the more powerful when it collapses. Lucie Aron is the family's au pair Bernadette, Veronica among the stations, a voice that is contrast in a field of muted colours, emotions. Subtleties abound. To call it allegorical is almost to miss the extent to which it is grounded in observable fact and credibility, but to focus on the clarity of its depiction of the mundane is to miss the magic of faith.

Warned as they were by the progression through the first 11 stations, the title card for the twelfth, Jesus dies on the cross, brought a palpable hush to an already quietened audience. The camera seldom moves, but it carries watchers on a journey both temporal and spiritual, a stunning piece of filmmaking.

Stations of the Cross (Kreuzweg [2014]) - Kamera.co.uk Nathanael Smith

Matt Zoller Seitz recently argued that film critics should spend more time talking about a film's form – that is, 'the compositions, the cutting, the music, the décor, the lighting, the overall rhythm and mood of the piece.' Seitz contends that 'refuse to write about form and you might refuse to engage with the heart of the work.' With Stations of the Cross, and the critical response that this astonishing film demands, Seitz may find the engagement with cinematic form that he pleaded for; it is a film that it is impossible to discuss without mentioning how the film is made, so powerful is the use of cinematic technique and so inextricably and harmoniously linked are the themes with its form.

Stations of the Cross is a story told using only fourteen long shots, that is, one shot per section of the titular imagery. Maria is approaching confirmation in her heavily dogmatic and legalistic Catholic church, and in the week leading up to it she develops anxieties and dangerous ideas because of the teaching she consumes so eagerly. She faces persecution from her schoolmates, pressure from her mother and guilt from talking to a boy who goes to a modern church – one that endorses a more lax approach to morality. The situations that Maria finds herself in escalate with each 'station' she faces, and as each scene is introduced, the simple titles announcing the imminent 'crucifixion' build a sense of foreboding about what the future has in store for the fragile, confused teenager.

The decision to make the film using only fourteen long takes is not a gimmick, rather it is essential to the power of the story being told. For twelve of the scenes, the camera is entirely static, making the composition of each frame the primary conveyor of meaning. Sometimes, the shot is framed like a piece of religious art, the opening scene particularly reminiscent of Da Vinci's The Last Supper. Without constant edits, the audience is given time to take in everything within the shot: the sparseness of the room immediately indicating the austerity of the church's theology; the position of Maria to the right of the Priest, indicating her role here as John (the disciple Jesus was perhaps closest to); the small size of the group that suggests something less complete than Christ's group of twelve disciples. Each subsequent shot frames the action differently and allows Maria to move around within the frame, an often powerful indicator of her control over the situation. On the two occasions when the camera does move, it's almost alarming, and marks two key shifts in Maria's world. It is a meticulous, artistic film that demands the audience's engagement but rewards them richly for it.

The stillness and length of the shots also makes the film entirely uncompromising for the actors. There is no non-diegetic music to distract the viewer, and the lack of cuts means means that dialogue learning and delivery have to be perfect over a much longer time period. It's a challenge for an actor, but far more so for children. Thankfully, Lea Van Acker is a revelation as Maria; she is on screen in almost every minute of the film and holds it all together without once floundering. She is a compelling, powerful actress who carries the film from the very start, even when she is not the focus; every grimace, smile and sideways look tells a story. Surrounding her are a group of talented actors who similarly make the difficulty of the long takes a virtue, bringing depth and authenticity to even the smallest roles. A glance from the back of the screen, blurred by the soft focus, can speak volumes under the camera's watchful eye. These would be impressive performances in any circumstance, but in the context of these long takes they become truly formidable.

Dietrich Brüggemann's film is not, however, a mere technical exercise. This is very precise film-making, which the director handles deftly, and serves the powerful emotional and intellectual impact of the story. Maria is preached a false gospel by a church who revel in legalism, and preach unattainable piety in place of the acceptance and forgiveness that Jesus lived and died for. Maria knows nothing of grace, only guilt, and the effect this has on her is heartbreaking and angering. This is no polemic, however, and even characters who have the most negative effect on Maria's life are given redemptive scenes of compassionate sympathy. It's undoubtedly a bleak film, and the title reflects something of the journey that Maria goes through in the film, but this ends up being a parable about the destructive powers of religion without love. Even at its saddest, however, The Stations of the Cross maintains a nuance and a quiet kind of optimism that makes it resonate powerfully. The film ends looking at a grey sky, perhaps a pathetic fallacy or, more hopefully, a reminder that Jesus' story did not end with his death.

Stations of the Cross won the The Student Critics Jury Award at the Edinburgh Film Festival

SBS Movies [Shane Danielsen]

Sound On Sight (Rob Dickie)

User Reviews from Imdb Author: JvH48 from Amersfoort, The Netherlands

CineVue [Daniel Green]

Popcorn Junkie [Cameron Williams]

CIFF 2014: Six Films You Should See Matt Fagerholm from Indie Outlook

Dietrich Brüggemann on “Stations of the Cross” Matt Fagerholm interview from Indie Outlook, October 20, 2014

Film Review: 'Stations of the Cross' - Variety Jay Weissberg

Stations of the Cross Leading at the 2014 Berlin Film Festival Stephanie Zacharek from City Pages

Brunel, Adrian

THE CONSTANT NYMPH

Great Britain (110 mi) 1928

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young] British Silent Film Festival, Nottingham

STORY : Mildly melodramatic tale of gifted composer Lewis Dodd (Ivor Novello), who has learned his craft from forbidding, vaguely Wagnerish genius Sanger (Georg Heinrich). Sanger's spirited daughter Tessa (Mabel Poulton), who was Lewis's "playmate" in their youth, realises she has fallen in love with him when he pays an extended visit to the family's elaborate, secluded residence in the Tyrol (during which Sanger unexpectedly expires.) Lewis, however, is too caught up in his own creative processes to recognise Tessa's passion. Indeed, he even goes so far as to marry another woman: Florence (Frances Doble), a bourgeois Londoner who, we're told resides in a 'tasteful' Chiswick abode, and is determined to make Lewis a star. Lewis duly achieves success - but realises, perhaps too late, that he can find true happiness only with Tessa..

PLUSSES : Poulton is simply terrific - expressive, sympathetic, glowing with joie de vivre. Very easy to see why she was considered one of the two biggest female draws in 1920s UK cinema (vied with Betty Balfour for the title of 'Britain's Mary Pickford'). While outshone by his co-star, Novello shows why he was such a major matinee idol: persona here is quite close to the Jeremy Northam portrayal in Gosford Park, especially a scene in which he escapes a stuffy soiree (whose guests include a vivacious Elsa Lanchester, her red-haired effervescence evident even in silent monochrome) to hang out with and entertain the servants below stairs. Broad but enjoyable turn from Mary Clare as Sanger's blowsy, trampy gold-digger of a wife, who wastes no time making a new start (with a new man) after her husband's untimely demise.

Director Brunel skilfully negotiates the niftily-structured screenplay's shifts between comedy, drama  and final-reel tragedy - the latter perhaps predictable, but still quite stunningly moving (especially after the light-heartedness of so much of what's gone before). Brunel contributes some nice artistic flourishes - dollied camerawork, an imaginative use of intertitles (some of which 'fade' onto the image). Script (see below) is packed with amusing and intelligent dialogue, draws convincing portrait of artistic/bohemian milieux - and how the correct environment is crucial for the development of the human spirit (we begin in the wide-open expanses of the mountainous Tyrol; conclude in a claustrophobically Stygian Low-Countries hotel).     Picture is very strong on how true artists must reject the trappings of comfort (the "silver sty" as Lewis puts it) in order to be true to themselves and their creative vision. Respectability is presented as the foe of genuine Art - which is much more likely to thrive among irreverence, humour and a general puncturing of pretentiousness. Daringly, film also indicates that artists aren't necessarily nice people, their callousness in human relations exacting a huge price from their those who (foolishy?) love them.

MINUSES : Minor quibbles. Although the focus of the picture, short-sighted Lewis comes across as a bit of a clod - perhaps even a cad - undeserving of the affections of his 'constant nymph' Tessa. Or should that be 'nymphet'? 21st century audiences may look askance at the age-gap between Lewis (clearly an adult) and Tessa, who in the second half of the picture is shown attending school - but her precise age is kept (deliberately) vague, sufficiently so to dilute any hint of 'impropriety.'

NOTES : Sanger's Tyrolean residence looks - appropriately enough - rather like artist Balthus's 'Grand Chalet'. Novello resembles Gabriel Byrne from certain angles; more like Harold Lloyd when he puts his glasses on. Material started off as a novel by Margaret Kennedy, who then collaborated with Basil Dean on the very successful play adaptation - in turn adapted for the screen by director Brunel, along with Kennedy and Alma Reville (later famed for her collaborations with Alfred Hitchcock). Some sources list Dean as co-director.

Bruni-Tedeschi, Valeria

IT’S EASIER FOR A CAMEL (Il est plus facile pour un chameau...) B- 81

France (116 mi) 2003

French-Italian actress Tedeschi films herself in her first attempt at filmmaking as a woman who constantly has to fight against the guilt she feels for being filthy rich. The film moves back and forth through time, interweaving various glimpses of her life with her family, her boy friend, and her childhood, which features the most memorable scene in the film. As the child of a rich industrialist living in Italy, she was easy prey for kidnappers. Interestingly, she struck a bond with her kidnappers, claiming she was herself a communist, inviting her family to join them for dinner one night which led to a enthusiastic, drunken rendering of the communist anthem, the Internationale. Tedeschi, herself, was always interesting, but her bourgeois family was fairly loathsome. While much of the film has imaginative moments, there were a few empty spots where it can’t decide if it’s being humorous or serious. It gets caught in between and just doesn’t have a firm grasp of “how” to tell this story. The interweaving narratives worked most of the time, though the repetitive return to some of the same sequences grew tiresome. The title line comes from her priest during a confession, when he tells her: “It’s easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven.”

Bruno, Ellen

THREE FILMS BY ELLEN BRUNO B- 80

USA (85 mi) 1998 – 2005

Three films written, directed, photographed and edited by Ellen Bruno, two short 2005 films, SKY BURIAL (in Tibetan), LEPER (in Nepali), and SACRIFICE (1999, 50 mi – in English, Burmese and Thai). Of these, the first was the most profoundly effecting, as it deals with the Buddhist acceptance of death, how they dispose of their dead, which is a gruesome ritual that is not for the squeamish, offering the soul prayerful transcendence while the body is redistributed back to nature, where a flock of the largest and best fed vultures on the planet await their offering. The style for each segment is the same, beginning with inner-titles which reveal the heart of the matter, death rituals in Tibet, shunned leprosy colonies in Nepal, and an unending generational ring of child slaves sold into prostitution from Burma to Thailand, then allowing the camera close proximity to the people of the region who endure these conditions, allowing them to speak directly to the camera in their own words, becoming intimate enough with the filmmaker to feel comfortable while describing the conditions of their lives that are beyond heart-wrenching and deplorable. While the filmmaker’s written narrative, spoken like a poetic diary entry, contrasts with the actual blunt trauma being described, in some cases by illiterate young women, one is left feeling emotionally devastated, as the filmmaker chooses to depict her subjects in a particularly victimized manner, leaving the viewer to believe that the men responsible must be the most wretched creatures on the planet, worse even than those prized vultures in waiting, who the film suggests are only doing what comes naturally, while the unbearable atrocities committed by man, perhaps reflective of the lingering long term aftereffects of a war culture, remain unforgettably vivid.

The images and subject matter remain front and center, but the method of delivering the information was problematic, consistently running into editing difficulties, much of it feeling raw and amateurish with huge sound editing problems, where the sound of the voice speaking was not always in harmony with the outside natural sounds. In the opening segment, as the bodies began to pile up in front of a group of chanting monks, the violent barks of dogs offscreen was impossible not to notice, a stunning contrast to the tranquility of the occasion, adding a degree of dissonance that registers only in our own imaginations, which actually works quite well, but as the next two segments rely more on real life interviews, the quick cuts of the on and off sound edits became more noticeable, as the voice loops were obviously interspersed with natural sound, creating an aggravating artificialized on and off effect that feels anything but natural in a medium that demands authenticity. The devastation of these stories are real, the director’s intentions valid, but the clumsy way of getting the story told onscreen, despite some searing personal testimony, undercuts the overall impact of the film.

Time Out review of SACRIFICE

An unusual and impressive documentary on the plight of young girls from the Burmese hill tribes, seduced away from their villages in alarming numbers to the fleshpots of Thailand. Most have no conception of what awaits them. Bruno gets remarkably frank, moving interviews from the girls, and frames the film as a poetic, impressionistic essay - video images seldom look this evocative.

The New York Sun [Nicolas Rapold]

A grim slate of documentaries opens today at Film Forum, bearing respectful witness to three extremes of human experience: child prostitution in Thailand, a Nepalese leper community, and the grisly burial rituals of a Tibetan monastery. Grouped together, these sensitive works by the filmmaker Ellen Bruno are a triptych about body and spirit, provoking a welter of emotions through their wrenching subject matter.

The shortest of the three films, "Sky Burial," is also the strongest as a piece of cinema (and with "Leper" the most recent, both released in 2005). With a calm, unflinching eye, Ms. Bruno chronicles the "jhator" funeral ritual performed at the Drigung Monastery. Not unlike the Zoroastrians, who believe the human soul vacates the body's shell after death, these Tibetans leave the bodies of their loved ones exposed, to be consumed by vultures. The act both connotes generosity toward another living being ("jhator" means "almsgiving to the birds") and unites the individual with the great beyond.

Ms. Bruno's discreet long shots bring death much closer than in the Western tradition of preparations behind closed doors. Even the beginning of the rites introduces a palpably different relationship with the dead: Each desiccated body is toted like a backpack to an open terrace where chanting monks await. The bodies are then stripped of flesh and the bones crushed and mixed with barley grain.

Ms. Bruno's film is devoid of sensationalism or any attempt to adorn or explicate the spirituality of these acts besides some opening lines of text. Even as throngs of toddler-size vultures press forth in anticipation of the bodies, Ms. Bruno's shots are so carefully composed, timed, and edited that they make possible an empathetic, unintrusive encounter, unavoidably awed but not voyeuristic.

Her craft demonstrates that the sacred in the cinema won't always involve shafts of light. Ms. Bruno's urge to document clearly but compassionately is attributable to extensive experience as a relief worker in Southeast Asia for such organizations as the International Rescue Committee. (Her very first film, "Samsara," completed in 1990 for a master's degree at Stanford in documentary, chronicled life in Cambodia after Pol Pot.)

Her access to the sky burial ritual also testifies to great trust — a huge factor in "Sacrifice." This earlier work, shown at Sundance and on PBS in 1998, consists of interviews with underage Burmese prostitutes. The villagers, displaced by the government and lured into sex slavery in Thailand, tell stories that plumb awful depths of despair. It's impossible to turn away as one woman recounts wanting an abortion out of fear that her unborn daughter would suffer the same fate. (Her master, with unspeakable offhand cruelty, promised as much.)

The prostitutes' interminable circle of forced debt and degradation forms a grotesque inverse to the liberating cycle of the sky burial. Instead of merging with the infinite, these teenagers live a hell on earth; one illiterate girl asks the interviewer to do the math behind her enslavement, arriving at a tally of thousands of men.

The girls' trapped existence puts a line of introductory text from "Sky Burial" expressing Tibetan perspective in a terrible new light: "Everyone before you has died." Where there the sentiment comforted by emphasizing the community of the dead rather than the solitude of dying, it echoes here as a hopeless matter of fact concerning their prospects.

Perhaps because of the unrelenting litany of grief, Ms. Bruno intersperses the interviews with brief lyrical passages. These impressionistic glimpses of village life — a twirling doll-like dancer, swaying bamboo — limn the tales of horror with memories of beauty and the sanctuary of home. A concertedly flat voice-over accompanies them, as if to present a generic voice or simply to represent those absent, but that effect is uneven and distracting. The girls, at varying stages on the way to becoming shells of themselves, are enough.

"Sacrifice" almost bows under the weight of its suffering, and only in a program like this would a film called "Leper" offer some solace. A looser affair, it features interviews with lepers who avoid ostracism elsewhere by living together. Despite their disease (which one man describes as feeling "like insects inside me"), the afflicted have clearly attained some equanimity through community and newfound autonomy.

It's a testament to Ms. Bruno's grace, if that's the word, that she can present the often wrenching material in these three documentaries with integrity. Her filmmaking in "Sky Burial" shows an elegance and lucidity that one hopes will continue to evolve. It would help give approachable form to the raw tragedy of works like "Sacrifice," which bring focus to distant troubles.

film > 3 films by Ellen Bruno: East Asia, Exposed ... Jim Ridley from the Village Voice

"Why are you filming so much of me?" a woman in a Nepalese leper colony asks of documentarian Ellen Bruno. That question, and all the ethical implications it carries, should be posed to anyone who trains a camera on himself or anyone else in the guise of seeking truth. On that score, Bruno's conscience ought to be clean—cleaner than most, anyway. A humanitarian relief worker for more than 25 years, the San Francisco filmmaker has spent much of the past two decades exploring and documenting social and political conditions in East Asia, often at great personal risk.

Yet it's the depth of Bruno's commitment—not to abstract principles of liberal idealism, but to flesh-and-blood people—that creates tension within her films. By nature, a documentarian's job is to not look away. Yet there's something fundamentally intrusive about making art of people's lives—starting with the decisions of what to include or omit, whether to shape a narrative or satisfy an agenda. In three short films playing at Film Forum through January 9, Bruno wrestles with contradictory impulses: to expose or to protect, to report or to shelter.

These aims are most strikingly at odds in Bruno's 1998 film Sacrifice, which seeks to shed light on the ugliness of Bangkok's seamy sex- trafficking industry without adding to it. The structure alternates talking-head testimony from underage Burmese sex workers with impressionistic visuals accompanied by a girl's dispassionate, poetic first-person narration of slavery. The effect is not unlike a Terrence Malick Real Sex episode—only Bruno thwarts any viewer who craves titillation in a plain brown wrapper of moral outrage.

Bruno shields the subjects of Leper (2005) in plain sight, introducing them matter-of-factly as workers in a Nepalese colony before the title can summon its centuries of fear and repulsion. Finding a range of attitudes from acceptance to anger, Bruno lets the villagers clear the air about their misunderstood condition with often shocking candor. At the same time, she understands that she's a vessel for the viewer's timid curiosity. In one brief but telling shot, the camera catches a woman rubbing her deformed hand. The filmmaker watches so intently that the suddenly self-conscious woman tucks it away.

Bruno's films can seem tedious without the narrative beats that propel most docs in commercial release these days. They raise more questions than the filmmaker intends to answer, either about their methods—was the narration of Sacrifice scripted? Were the artier shots staged?—or factual matters as simple as the subjects' names. But they're not intended as cinematic encyclopedia entries. They're windows that open outward, not cases slamming shut.

The same holds true for the third film, Sky Burial (2005), which records a Tibetan ritual in which monks flay the flesh from dead bodies and offer it to flocks of collie-sized vultures, which carry the carrion into the heavens. Bruno doesn't allow Western sentimentality or squeamishness to intrude; she doesn't even show the lift-off of the giant birds to signify transcendence. Instead, she ends with the scavengers in a ravenous pack, moving in for the feast. They're still on earth—and in the films of Ellen Bruno, heaven can wait, indefinitely.

New York Times (registration req'd) Matt Zoller Seitz

Film Forum’s omnibus of work by the writer-director-cinematographer-editor Ellen Bruno covers a spectrum of Asian subjects. The 50-minute featurette “Sacrifice” depicts young Burmese girls conscripted into prostitution in Thailand; the bill also includes shorts about a village of Nepalese lepers and a Tibetan monastery where “body breakers” feed the stripped flesh and ground bones of the dead to giant vultures.

But nonfiction doesn’t quite describe what Ms. Bruno does. Her work takes risks with form to imply that individual suffering and transcendence are but particles in a river of spiritual energy that dwarfs geography and time.

Ms. Bruno’s attempts to realize this vision don’t always come off. “Sacrifice” pushes too hard, employing impressionistic slow motion and a free-floating monologue that occasionally suggests “Born Into Brothels” by way of “Hiroshima Mon Amour.” The movie is more compelling when it’s listening to lifelong sex workers describe the friendships and rituals that make life bearable.

But the two shorts achieve Ms. Bruno’s aim, deploying surprisingly timed cuts and continuous sound elements (chants, barking dogs, desolate wind) to mimic a trancelike state. The straightforward interviews in “Leper” are enclosed by wordless, plainly beautiful images of life in a marginalized village.

In “Sky Burial,” Ms. Bruno’s camera lingers on backpacks containing corpses lugged up into the mountains; it’s as if those packs contain not dead flesh, but living spirits.

Buba, Tony

VOICES FROM A STEELTOWN

USA (29 mi) 1983

Voices from a Steeltown Fighting for Community, by John Hess from Jump Cut

Budreau, Robert

BORN TO BE BLUE B- 80

USA Great Britain Canada (97 mi) 2015

So please forgive this helpless haze I’m in

There is a dearth of good films about legendary jazz musicians, where only Bertrand Tavernier’s ROUND MIDNIGHT (1986) and Clint Eastwood’s BIRD (1988) come to mind, as they all seem to get lost in overreaching melodramatic stories that overlook the obvious impact of race and drugs while refraining from telling the stories with any degree of authenticity or social realism. This film is no different, unfortunately, as it never really places the life of jazz trumpeter Chet Baker in its appropriate setting, shying away from the origins of the West Coast jazz scene in the late 40’s and 50’s, featuring the likes of white musicians Stan Getz, Jerry Mulligan, Chet Baker, Paul Desmond, Dave Brubeck, and Art Pepper, which still remains a separate entity from the mecca that is New York, the home of more prominently known black musicians Duke Ellington, Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Thelonious Monk, and Miles Davis. This film doesn’t really get into that, though it’s at the heart of the untold story. Instead, written and directed by Budreau, it reimagines Baker’s troubled life using a less interesting, more conventional romantic narrative surrounding the complexities of the man with a horn’s love interest, combining at least three wives and several girlfriends into a single character, turning this into a relatively safe interracial love story that surprisingly never even explores the racial aspects. While confining the story to just a few years from the mid 60’s when Chet Baker disappeared from the music scene, it traces the origins to a lengthy incarceration in Italy for drug offenses that led to a severe beating over a drug debt that left his front teeth broken, requiring reconstructive surgery and dentures, where the time off was needed to relearn how to play with dentures. During this down time, the film consolidates his life through frequent flashback sequences either in tinted, washed-out color or black and white imagery. In the process the film fictionalizes his life, always a worrisome technique, as it willingly adheres to the Hollywood mold.

What’s completely missing is the early 50’s success, where Baker’s good looks made him the “James Dean” of jazz, developing screaming female groupies while earning such adulation that he was voted the #1 jazz trumpeter by readers over the more widely acclaimed Miles Davis in consecutive polls by Downbeat magazine in 1953 and 1954, DownBeat Readers Poll Archive. Instead, the film picks up in the middle of his career where he’s already famous, as he’s pulled out of an Italian prison to include him in a movie, a film within a film where art imitates life, as it’s on the set in a movie about his life (that was eventually abandoned by Dino de Laurentiis) that Chet Baker (Ethan Hawke) meets the actress playing his wife Jane Azuka, Carmen Ejogo, who played Coretta Scott King in Selma (2014). After displaying initial resistance, they go on a bowling date where she finally succumbs to his charms, as she literally melts in his arms when he sings her “I’ve Never Been in Love Before” Chet Baker - I've Never Been In Love Before - YouTube (4:28), which bookends their relationship and may as well be their theme song, as the utter sincerity of their commitment remains intricately connected to the song. While she’s very much her own person, well-educated, a trained jazz pianist and vocalist to go along with her method acting skills, both have highly individualistic bohemian tendencies leftover from the Beat Generation movement of the 50’s, where their whirlwind interracial romance in many respects parallels the Jack Kerouac novel The Subterraneans, published immediately after On the Road in 1958. Considering her intelligence, what’s missing is any commitment to social activism, as there is no reference whatsoever to the social unrest caused by the civil rights, feminist, and anti-war movements that dominated the news during that era. Instead there are flashback sequences to Baker playing at Birdland in New York, meeting a scowling young Miles Davis (Kedar Brown) who condescendedly dismisses his playing as “sweet, like candy,” asking Jane if this is her “Great White Hope,” before telling him to come back in a few years after he’s “lived a little,” words that he takes to heart, as he’s seen immediately afterwards mainlining heroin with a local girl who supposedly turns him on for the first time. Ironically, it was Baker’s quick ascension in jazz circles, using techniques obviously inspired by Miles himself, that so angered Davis he was finally motivated to quit his heroin dependency.

With an injured jazz player on the mend unable to play, the two play house for a good deal of the film, much of it spent in an isolated trailer situated on an idyllic cliff overlooking the ocean, like homesteaders in love, offering a romanticized and dreamlike quality to the film, where he could practice to the rhythms of the waves while attempting to regain some semblance of sanity and sobriety with the constant encouragement of Jane, who happens to believe that the feelings people have when they’re in love should be their natural state of being. This elevated state of existence works in a vacuum, lovers in a secret hideaway far from the maddening world, where there’s a curious dichotomy taking place, as the lure of the bright lights are everpresent, even from a distance, as Baker thinks of nothing but making a comeback. While the film is largely seen through her eyes, viewing Baker in all his glory, warts and all, where his single-minded obsession is returning to a life in music, it also doesn’t sugar coat his addictive habits, where he has to remain straight as a condition of his parole. There’s an interesting side trip to his parent’s farm in Yale, Oklahoma where they spend some down time, reviving decades old personal feuds with his straight-laced father (Stephen McHattie), still bitter about how his drug arrests have dragged the family name through the mud. With an ocean of personal dissent between them, the visit is quickly aborted, returning to their home on the beach where Baker starts performing in tiny venues, like a local pizza establishment, starting out a nobody, but quickly building up a following. There are, of course, obstacles in his path, where his pesky parole officer (Tony Napo) hounds him to find a regular job, constantly threatening to send him back to prison, where in a melodramatic swoon, Baker actually suggests this kind of harassment is what led to the death of Billie Holiday. Even if true, this is amateurishly handled and feels more like name dropping, diminishing the seriousness of the accusation to a near laughable moment. Driven to get back into the recording business, he gets an opportunity to perform for a room full of influential producers, playing the intimately personal Chet Baker - My Funny Valentine YouTube (2:19), sung directly to Jane in one of the more poignant scenes of the film. This sets the stage for a new chapter, giving him the opportunity to return to Birdland, where the world seemingly awaits. While the film is a well-acted, impressionistic attempt to explore the intimate side of a jazz legend, evoked through a diverse series of scenes at beaches, in café’s, apartments, recording studios, and even film sets, it typically uses the standard comeback story methodology, which feels diluted, where unfortunately there isn’t a single note heard by the original artist, instead his solos are replayed note for note in a similar style, which feels like an essential missing component. Hawke does a credible job singing in the manner of Baker, but the film shortchanges the audience by leaving out any traces of the real thing.

Born to Be Blue - The New Yorker Richard Brody

This bio-pic about the jazz trumpeter and singer Chet Baker (Ethan Hawke) focusses on two pivotal episodes in the musician’s career, both from the mid-sixties. One, Baker’s performance as himself in a dramatic movie about his own life, is fictional; the other, a brutal beating that cost Baker his front teeth and forced him to rebuild his technique from scratch, actually happened. As told by the writer and director Robert Budreau, Baker and his co-star on the film shoot, an actress named Jane (Carmen Ejogo), begin a relationship that helps Baker kick his longtime heroin habit. Meanwhile, Baker is haunted by a 1954 performance at a New York club where his ego was deflated by a lacerating word from Miles Davis (Kedar Brown); after recovering from the grave injury to his mouth, he attempts his comeback at the same venue. Despite Hawke’s intensely committed performance, Budreau gets more from the story’s sidemen, such as a record producer (Callum Keith Rennie), a probation officer (Tony Nappo), and Baker’s father (Stephen McHattie). The movie offers a more insightful view of the music business than of Baker’s art.

Born to Be Blue :: Movies :: Reviews :: Paste - Paste Magazine Kenji Fujishima

Not too long after Chet Baker’s death in 1988, filmmaker/photographer Bruce Weber released Let’s Get Lost, his documentary portrait of the jazz trumpeter/singer. Though Weber gets into biographical details—Baker’s early promise in the 1950s as a kind of James Dean of jazz; his womanizing ways; his life-long struggles with drug addiction even in his twilight years—the film is as much about the director’s own infatuation with the image of Chet Baker (his matinee-idol looks, his soulful trumpeting, his coolly dispassionate singing) as it was about the artist himself. As harrowing and tragic and as beautiful as it is—with Jeff Preiss’s 16mm black-and-white cinematography vividly evoking a sense of glamorous ruin—Let’s Get Lost is, to some degree, limited by Weber’s obsession with its subject as an emblem rather than as a human being.

So, in cinema at least, there’s still room to fill in the gaps Weber’s film leaves. That’s where writer/director Robert Budreau’s new biopic Born to Be Blue comes in. More than just a showcase for Ethan Hawke’s interpretation of Baker, Budreau’s film strips away the idol-worship of Weber’s documentary and attempts to get at the self-destructive personality underneath.

Perhaps the wisest move Budreau makes in that regard is to forgo the epic breadth of other music biopics and focus on a particular period in Baker’s life: the few months after a brutal beating left his lips and teeth damaged enough that there was a strong possibility he’d never be able to perform again. Though, to address some backstory, Budreau has come up with a fairly imaginative framing device: an apocryphal, aborted attempt at a Baker-starring biopic about his own life, the black-and-white remnants of which make up the film’s “flashbacks.” Budreau isn’t so interested in depicting the facts of Baker’s life as he is in capturing an impression of it.

The framing device also introduces aspiring actress Jane (Carmen Ejogo), Baker’s love interest in Born to Be Blue and a composite of all of his girlfriends and wives over the years (Jane plays a previous girlfriend in the biopic-within-a-biopic). She is also, to some degree, our audience surrogate. Through her perspective we see Baker in all his glories and faults, in his romanticism, his insecurities, his single-minded desire to devote his life only to music—and most of all, his struggle to stay away from heroin while trying to restart his career.

It’s a tribute to Budreau’s dramatic resourcefulness that, within the temporal and character-based boundaries he’s dictated, he’s often able to suggest Baker’s complex inner life with the barest of means. He presents us only a couple scenes between Baker and his father (Stephen McHattie) back in his Yale, Oklahoma, hometown, but those are enough to hint at a whole ocean of disappointment and confusion between the two. Upon his son presenting a signed copy of one of his albums as a gift, his father asks Chet, “Why did you have to sing [“My Funny Valentine”] like a girl?”—a line of dialogue that sharply implies a fundamental gulf artistically and personally. Baker’s clingy side is economically represented by his anguished reaction upon hearing that Jane won’t accompany him to New York for his comeback gig at Birdland. Most heartbreakingly of all, though, is Budreau’s devastatingly simple way of depicting Baker’s relapse into drug addiction: A mere face-stroking gesture on Baker’s part scans as an unmistakable junkie habit.

For all of Budreau’s writing/directing skill, however, Born to Be Blue all comes down to Ethan Hawke’s take on Baker. Early on in the film, Jane observes a key contradiction to the man, wondering aloud how someone as crude as he was in his personal life could make such romantic music. The answer can be heard in the voice Hawke adopts for his performance: a breathy high-pitched drawl that exudes a child-like innocence and passion which gives credence to the James Dean comparisons many made for him early in his career. It’s a remarkably sensitive performance—but perhaps that shouldn’t be a surprise coming from Hawke, a performer often known for his ability to mingle masculinity with vulnerability, whether as Jesse in the Before? series, as Hamlet in Michael Almereyda’s 2000 modernization of Shakespeare’s play or even as Denzel Washington’s more innocent counterpart in Training Day.

Comparisons to the real Chet Baker are ultimately irrelevant. Just as Budreau is more interested in an impression of Baker rather than absolute fidelity to the facts of his life, Hawke captures the artist’s alternately wonderful and tragic essence. In this way he brings heft to perhaps the film’s most sobering insight: As much as it ultimately destroyed him, Baker maybe needed his drug habit to be the renowned performer every single portrayal of him insists he was.

Deep Focus: Born to Be Blue - Film Comment Michael Sragow, March 24, 2016

With his chiseled, matinee-idol looks, his improvisatory lifestyle, and the provocative boyishness of his personal appeal, West Coast jazz trumpeter Chet Baker (1929-1988), in his Eisenhower-era heyday, was as potent a symbol of 1950s rebellion as James Dean. But ’50s rebels were a peculiar breed—nonconformity could be an awfully ambiguous program. Baker, a natural, idiosyncratic musician, couldn’t help going his own way musically, despite changing musical styles, and he couldn’t kick his addiction to heroin. Stoked by drugs, this star-turned-cult-figure scraped with the law here and in Europe, where he won fame and notoriety as a handsome yet sordid American. He married three times and had multitudinous affairs; he also fathered four children.

Bruce Weber’s beautifully evocative 1989 documentary, Let’s Get Lost, portrayed Baker as an alternately hopeful and hopeless romantic, despite his rampant promiscuity and terminal carelessness. (Baker fell out of an Amsterdam hotel window and died on Friday the 13th, in May, 1988.) “Musicians like Chet Baker and Art Pepper,” bassist Hersh Hamel told Weber, “were really products of their environment—the sun, the warmth, ah, the romanticism.” In a sense, Let’s Get Lost is about the rambling confusions of a rebel without a cause when his time and place no longer define who he is.

Robert Budreau’s semi-factual, semi-fictional Born To Be Blue, stars Ethan Hawke at his empathic and imaginative best as Baker. The movie attempts to go beyond the trumpeter’s mystique and explore the aesthetic, emotional, and pharmaceutical connections that made him an artist to the end. Budreau’s film occasionally comments on the Zeitgeist but mostly tightens the focus on Baker’s relationship to his horn, heroin, and women. Budreau’s dialogue and scenes aren’t always fresh or inventive, and at times his yarn-spinning approach can register as a cop-out. It’s easier to accept Baker as someone who hurts only himself when the four children he ignored, the women he psychologically and/or physically abused, and the addict friends who died aren’t part of the picture. But the movie has its own narrative integrity and tragicomic sense of truth. Here Baker really is a lost boy of jazz seeking his Neverland. It’s startlingly real—and shockingly funny—to see him lying on the floor, seemingly dead, with a needle in his arm, only to ask the lover who rouses him why she woke him up.

This extended riff on the mystery of a self-made jazz man’s creativity pivots on three events: Baker’s debut at Birdland in New York, at a time when Down Beat’s reader poll ranked him the best trumpeter in the nation, angering fans of Miles Davis and Dizzy Gillespie (including Davis himself); a movie producer pulling Baker out of a Lucca, Italy jail, where he’s been incarcerated on drug charges, to star in a movie based on his life; and the drug-related street beating that wrecked his teeth, forcing him to re-learn his trumpet with dentures and test his mettle with a grueling artistic comeback. (The real-life mogul, Dino De Laurentiis, lost interest in the project, but here, the film moves into production.)

Baker’s Birdland opening and the other flashes to the antihero’s youthful prime belong to the biographical film-within-the-film, with Baker (that is, Hawke’s Baker) indeed playing himself and Carmen Ejogo (best known for portraying Coretta Scott King twice, in Boycott and Selma) embodying a composite of his wives. Ejogo also plays, in the present-day action, aspiring actor Jane Azuka, a smart, idealized blend of every woman who loved Baker or was good to him. Perhaps it’s too neat that “Azuka” means “past glory.”

Budreau playfully frog-hops through the chronology, leaping from dramatic black-and-white for the film-within-the-film, and for flashbacks that might not even be in that film, to an atmospheric color for the present-tense action that evokes (to quote the L.A. poet laureate of screenwriters, Robert Towne) “pastel sensations for pastel sensibilities.” The contrast keeps the movie light and lively and enables Budreau to toy with clashing interpretations of Baker’s life and career. Born in Oklahoma and raised there and in Southern California, Baker made his name in Los Angeles when sax legend Charlie “Bird” Parker hired him for a gig. Bird spread the world back East that this young white boy was a natural who would give Gillespie and Davis a run for their money. In one of the best moments in Born To Be Blue, Jane remarks that Bird was already an obese, aging junkie when Baker knew him, but he refuses to let her insult his hero—he says, “it was an honor to score for him.”

Baker goes to Birdland (named, of course, for Parker) as the number-one trumpeter in the nation. Davis (Kedar Brown) doesn’t like it one bit—he sees the Caucasian jazz audience propping up a “Great White Hope.” And he damns Baker’s set with faint praise, calling it “sweet, like candy” and advising him to come back to Birdland only after he has “lived a little.” Baker takes the jabs to heart, but they’re woefully unfair. The son of a failed musician father who couldn’t hold down a job as a parts inspector at Lockheed and a mother who supported the family by working at a W.T. Grant five-and-dime store, Baker never led a soft or conventional life. He even lost his left front tooth when he was 12, a setback for any horn player.

What galls Davis is that Baker has mastered his distinctive, popular style of bebop—tender, sportive, limpid, and lyrical—without any apparent effort. In this film, Baker’s own manager/producer, Dick Bock (Callum Keith Rennie), feels that his art simply dropped into his lap. In this vision of Baker, he’s like a working-class version of Robert Redford’s super-WASP in The Way We Were: “In a way, he was like the country he lived in—everything came too easily to him, but at least he knew it.” Except Baker doesn’t know it, until he must teach himself to reshape his trumpeter’s embouchure around his dentures.

The film-within-the-film treats Birdland as the beginning of Baker’s downward spiral, and even depicts a groupie there turning him on to smack. (The real Baker tried it years earlier.) Though Hawke’s Baker says that this movie gets everything wrong, Born To Be Blue supports that contention about Birdland. Baker is a musical autodidact who can’t own his success. He longs to be in the brotherhood of top-flight jazz men who are more technically sophisticated and versatile than he is, but he gets caught in the rifts between America’s East and West and blacks and whites.

The sad irony is that Baker is an artist from his slicked-back hair to his soles. His vibrato-free trumpet possesses a seductive, pellucid tone that never falters as he states a melody, then improvises on either side of it with a conversational intimacy. His oft-imitated, much-maligned singing has a mysterious, reedy, childish freshness that establishes instant rapport with his listeners, then draws them deep into the lyrics.

Part of Baker’s fascination is the split between his often delicate and soulful creativity and his inarticulate speech and awkward deportment. The magic of Hawke’s performance is that, without whitewashing Baker, he never stops locating the innocence within his crude behavior. His simplicity and honesty are disarming, especially as Jane batters him with questions. Why did he become an addict? He loves getting high—it makes him happy. What was the connection between him and his wife? They were great in bed.

For their first date, Baker takes her bowling, and there’s an ineffable, casual sexiness to seeing this trumpeter in nondescript clothing compete against Ejogo’s individualistic charmer in suspenders and Capri pants. He starts crooning one of Baker’s romantic hits, “I’ve Never Been in Love Before” (from Frank Loesser’s Guys and Dolls), and asks her whether she wants to come back to his place, “so we can sing.” Something opens up for Jane. She says she believes, with Chekhov, that the feelings people have when they’re in love should be their natural state of being.

The heart of the film is Baker rebuilding himself with Jane’s encouragement. Of course, every musical instrument requires hands-on training, but Baker is unable to learn or re-learn anything without fingering the valves or pressing the mouthpiece to his mouth, even though it’s bleeding. When he returns to his parents’ farm outside Yale, Oklahoma, neither Jane nor the horn leave his side except when he’s manning the gas pump at a service station down the road. Baker’s trumpet becomes a physical and visceral anchor. In the real Baker’s comeback mode he recorded a song and an album called “You Can’t Go Home Again.” This episode proves that thought. Baker’s father (Stephen McHattie, in a brilliant, lacerating cameo) asks him why he chose to sing “Born To Be Blue,” a favorite song, “like a girl.” When Chet, in retaliation, brings up the old man’s aborted musical career, his dad says that at least he didn’t “shame his family” and “drag the Baker name through the mud.” You can see the petty sadism in the macho patriarch’s eyes.

Back in California, Hawke and Ejogo’s gravitational pull power Baker’s long road back to competency. He gives Jane pep talks about the acting trade. She pushes him into performing at a pizza joint, then persuades his former manager/producer Bock to give him grunt work as well as studio time to satisfy parole requirements. Ejogo’s warmth and humor mesh with Hawke’s poignant uncertainties and intensity. The movie’s twin peaks are shared triumphs. When Baker performs “My Funny Valentine” for a select group of big shots at the studio, Jane knows he’s singing it to her, especially when he croons, “You make me smile with my heart.” When Baker performs “I’ve Never Been in Love Before” at Birdland, Jane knows that he’s high especially when he sings, “So please forgive this helpless haze I’m in.”

In Hawke’s first-rate documentary, Seymour: An Introduction (14), one of the finest movies about teaching ever made, the actor-director celebrates a pianist, Seymour Bernstein, who trains students to address their craft with emotion, competence, and specificity. Bernstein’s aesthetic is pure. He wants musicians to focus their energy, technique, and instinct on expressing the spirit of the composer as revealed in the notes of the score.

Making that movie must have clarified Hawke’s thinking about the elusive character of Chet Baker, who is the temperamental opposite of Bernstein yet arrives at the same purity. This singer-trumpeter is entirely intuitive, and after years of addiction, he can’t think of performing without drugs. He thinks heroin is what makes him feel he can walk through the spaces inside and between notes. He sacrifices relationships, stability, and even his long-term health for his musicianship. His art doesn’t sustain him—it consumes him. Yet for his listeners of every era, his work is ever young.

Don Cheadle's Miles Ahead and Ethan Hawke's Born to Be Blue ... Sketches of Pain, Fred Kaplan from Slate, March 31, 2016

'Born To Be Blue' Props Up the Cult of the Intuitive Genius | PopMatters Maysa Hattab

Seongyong's Private Place [Seongyong Cho]

World Socialist Web Site [John Andrews]

The Society For Film [Fernando Gros]

Ethan Hawke Embodies a Trumpeter at the Crossroads, but ... Serena Donadoni from The Village Voice

TIFF Review: Ethan Hawke Stars In Robert Budreau's Chet ... Sam Fragoso from The Playlist

Cinema Sentries [Kristen Lopez]

Writing: Movies [Chris Knipp]

Spectrum Culture [Seth Katz]

Ethan Hawke as Chet Baker in 'Born to Be Blue' Misses the Beat ... Rex Reed from The New York Observer

Slant Magazine [Chuck Bowen]

Screen Daily [Fionnuala Halligan]

Digital Journal [Sarah Gopaul]

Wylie Writes [Shannon Page]

Born To Be Blue · Film Review Ethan Hawke sustains the Chet Baker ... Ignatiy Vishnevetsky from The Onion A.V. Club

Film Corner, The [Greg Klymkiw]

Film Review: Born to Be Blue | Film Journal International Daniel Eagan

[Review] Born to Be Blue - The Film Stage Jacob Oller

Borrowing Tape [Carmen Wong]

Georgia Straight [Ken Eisner]

Born to Be Blue | White City Cinema Michael Glover Smith

Born to Be Blue | Chicago Reader Adam Morgan

5 Questions for Born to Be Blue Writer/Director Robert ... Scott Macaulay interview from Filmmaker magazine, September 14, 2015

'Born To Be Blue': TIFF Review - Hollywood Reporter Stephen Dalton

Hollywood Reporter [Scott Feinberg]

Variety [Andrew Barker] also seen here: Toronto Film Scene [Andrew Parker]

Born to be Blue review – Ethan Hawke jazzes up unconventional Chet ... Benjamin Lee from The Guardian, also seen here: The Guardian [Benjamin Lee]

The Telegraph [Robbie Collin]

Examiner.com [Travis Hopson] also seen here: Punch Drunk Critics [Travis Hopson]

In 'Born to Be Blue,' Chet Baker gets lost — and found - The Boston ... Peter Keough from The Boston Globe

'Born to Be Blue' tells of the rise and fall of jazz trumpeter Chet Baker ... Pat Padua from The Washingon Post

Born to Be Blue - Los Angeles Times Noel Murray, also seen here: Review: 'Born to Be Blue' strikes right tone in telling a basic yet ...

L.A. Biz [Annlee Ellingson]

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Review: 'Born to Be Blue,' Portrait of a Trumpeter as a Heroin Addict ... Stephen Holden from The New York Times, also seen here: Review: 'Born to Be Blue,' - The New York Times

Born to Be Blue (film) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Bui, Tony

THREE SEASONS B+ 92

Vietnam USA (113 mi) 1999

BFI | Sight & Sound | Three Seasons (1998) Geoffrey Macnab, February 2000

Vietnam, the present day. Kien An starts a new job picking white lotuses for Teacher Dao, a reclusive master. While at work, she sings an old song her mother taught her many years ago. After hearing her, Dao invites her to his inner sanctum and asks her to write down his dictated poems since he has lost his fingers through leprosy. Meanwhile, impoverished kid Woody wanders the streets of Ho Chi Minh City in the rain with a suitcase full of cigarettes and lighters to sell to tourists. He comes across ex-GI James Hager, who is searching for the daughter he left behind after the US-Vietnam war. Woody loses his suitcase and mistakenly thinks Hager stole it. His master won't allow him home until he retrieves it.

Hai, a cyclo driver, becomes obsessed with Lan, a young prostitute. He begins to wait for her every night outside the hotels where she services western clients. He earns a big cash prize for winning a cyclo race and with the winnings pays for a night with Lan in a hotel room. To her surprise, he only wants to watch her sleep. Woody finds his suitcase. Kien An's master dies. Hager is reunited with his daughter. Hai tracks Lan down to her grubby apartment. Ashamed of her profession, she tries to make him leave, but is eventually won over by his protestations of love.

Review

Three Seasons portrays Vietnam as a country of glaring contrasts: beautiful lotus-strewn rivers and ancient temples on the one hand; the squalor of Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon) on the other. Writer-director Tony Bui (now 26) may have grown up in Northern California, but his sympathies here are with the Vietnamese, not the rich westerners visiting the country. Bui repeatedly contrasts the struggles of the locals with the pampered luxury the tourists enjoy. Early on, we see two tourists sitting in the back of a cyclo, sightseeing, blithely unaware of their driver's agony as he pedals uphill.

Rather than analyse the social conditions in Vietnam, Bui (who left the country as a young child) uses them as the backcloth for a very sentimental folk tale. His characters could have stumbled from the pages of Dickens: there's Woody the waif who roams the streets selling cigarettes, Lan the beautiful but unhappy prostitute, Hai the big-hearted cyclo driver and Kien An the demure lotus picker. There's even a gnarled ex-GI (Harvey Keitel at his most lugubrious, also the film's executive producer) who haunts the city in search of the daughter he left behind in the war. ("I just know it's time to find her... to make some sort of peace with this place," he mumbles.)

Bui made Three Seasons in reaction to US war movies in which the Vietnamese are depicted "as faceless people running through the jungle with guns," but he risks replacing one set of stereotypes with another. Outside Woody's Fagin-like boss, there is hardly an unsympathetic Vietnamese character in the film. Outside Keitel's kind-hearted GI, westerners (and western influence) are invariably seen as a force for the bad.

It is intriguing to compare Bui's vision of contemporary Vietnam with that offered by Tran Anh Hung in Cyclo. Like Bui, Hung was born in Vietnam but educated abroad (in his case, in France). Cyclo is also set in Ho Chi Minh City and features rickshaw drivers, vagabonds and prostitutes. Instead of picture-postcard imagery, its city is one where corruption is always festering close to the surface, with vicious turf wars going on between pedicab drivers, gangland killings, and drug abuse. Cyclo has a delirious, expressionistic quality to its film-making which Bui doesn't come close to matching. Where Cyclo is dark and ironic, Three Seasons is optimistic and benevolent in tone. But there's a thin line between optimism and mawkishness. Whereas the street kid in Walter Salles' Central Station was tough and resilient, Woody is a doe-eyed little boy lost. The story of the prostitute and the driver obsessed with her is uncomfortably close to Mona Lisa. As Bui flits between the four main characters, there are lapses in continuity editing. (Whenever Woody is on screen, it is pouring with rain, but as soon as Hai appears, the weather miraculously clears up.)

Three Seasons is exquisitely shot and in its own naive, lyrical way, is also often moving. Bui is an accomplished (if very manipulative) storyteller. Whether through the poetry the leprosy-ravaged master dictates to Kien An as he prepares to die, the imagery of Woody asleep beside the little girl in the rain, or the big emotional set-pieces (for instance, the ex-GI finally meeting his daughter), the young writer-director knows how to crank up the pathos and makes the one big action sequence - the cyclos hurtling through the city - almost as dynamic as the chariot race in Ben Hur. The portrayal of modern-day Vietnam may sometimes seem as ersatz as the fake lotuses sold on the street corners, but taken as simple melodrama, Three Seasons just about stays afloat.

Bujalski, Andrew

Filmmaker Magazine | Summer 2003: 25 NEW FACES OF INDIE FILM 2003 by Peter Bowen

The (Mumbled) . . . Halting . . . Voice — of a Generation - New ... Dennis Lim from The New York Times, January 8, 2006

filmjourney.org : BAFICI, Day 7 Robert Koehler’s blog touches on Bujalski, April 9, 2007

What's (Not) Happening! - Esquire Chuck Klosterman from Esquire magazine, May 11, 2007

CinemaSpeak.Com - IT'S PERSONAL: An interview with Funny Ha Ha ... Bujalski interview by Warren Curry, December 2, 2003

Interview with Filmmaker Andrew Bujalski about his film "Mutual ... by Ann Jackman from New England Film, June 2005

GreenCine Daily: Matt Dentler and Andrew Bujalski. interview by Dentler for GreenCine, August 16, 2007

Interrogating the (Hyper) Real: A Short Conversation with Andrew Bujalski by Zachary Wigon from the Tisch Film Review, December 9, 2007

The cinema of recontextualized relationships: Colin Marshall talks ... Colin Marshall interview from 3 Quarks Daily, May 31, 2010

Andrew Bujalski - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

FUNNY HA HA D 56

USA (90 mi) 2003

Bujalski worked with Richard Linklater in WAKING LIFE, but rather than immersing the audience in a super-complicated Linklater ethereal world, Bujalski has instead created an entire film about people who can't ever make up their minds, who exist totally in a world of ambivalence. Poorly lit and barely audible throughout, shot on shoddy video with a screen look that amateurishly resembles home movies, or at best, RETURN OF THE SECAUCUS 7, but without any of the intelligence, insight, or humor of those genres. Instead, we follow truly uninteresting people having uninteresting, but extremely self-centered monologues with one another. I suppose on drugs, or some other variation of being stoned, this may reflect an accurate state of mind and some may find this amusing, but despite its attempts at minimalist realism and the likeable presence of Kate Dollenmayer, I found this humorless and pretty close to worthless. Even with all the critical fanfare as the so-called redefining voice of a new generation, this would make my list of ten worst films of the year, if I had one. Dead on arrival.

Seattle Post-Intelligencer [Sean Axmaker]

There's a reason that so many films are more focused on plots than characters. It's easier to convince audiences that something is happening when they can see it in action. Andrew Bujalski's refreshingly modest look at life in the directionless netherworld between college and career is the rare film that finds its story in the minor contradictions and simple conflicts of ordinary people doing, well, not exactly nothing, but nothing important. The easygoing and amiable Kate Dollenmayer is the college grad who drifts from job to job the same way she drifts from party to party, as if killing time until something interesting comes along. Bujalski is an acute observer of human behavior and social dynamics and he deftly and affectionately captures the awkwardness of friends when romantic feelings (usually one way) complicate the chemistry. His easy naturalism creates an unexpected comic lightness for something so laced with ambiguity.

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Communication, or the complete failure thereof, cripples the postcollegiates in Andrew Bujalski's cringeworthy Funny Ha Ha (Wellspring), only they don't have the excuse of national upheaval. Marnie (Waking Life animator Kate Dollenmayer, making her acting debut) is a temping postgrad whose unrequited crush on her friend Alex (Christian Rudder) flares when he splits from his long-term girlfriend. But he quashes the subject before it comes up, and Marnie is left fending off advances from Bujalski's awkward office temp, who's so unable to express himself that he idly tosses a full bottle of beer off Marnie's second-floor porch when their first date goes badly. While its slackers-in-love milieu and artless 16mm bespeak a certain lack of ambition, Bujalski's film draws a bead on the cruelty of the weak-willed; one character after another uses incoherence as a way of pretending they haven't said whatever mean-spirited thing they've just half-said.

Funny Ha Ha Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

This is a pretty good film, staking out a refreshingly different path from the standard-issue twentysomething gabfests that have clogged the Sundance screening schedule since the indie "revolution" of the early 90s. But I found myself resisting it just as often as it coaxed me to let down my guard. I can't help feeling that it's being overpraised just a bit by some critics because, instead of swaggering along like a sub-Syd Field treatise by a slick, dudish film student, hat to the back and Pulp Fiction Special Edition DVD tucked under his arm, Funny Ha Ha plays by the unwritten rules of highbrow cinephilia. Bujalski eschews cheapy-slick production values by choosing 16mm over DV. It's clear that he has edited on film instead of using Avid or Final Cut Pro. He underlights, giving FHH both a grainy, black-stuccoed texture and an offhanded visual ambiguity that doesn't gladhand to a hypothetically witless viewer. Most telling of all, the surest sign that Bujalski has done his homework, is that the opening title just pops up and then we're off; the final credits roll in silence. That's right -- no well-selected indie rock hit, no ironic use of ABBA. Just silence. Like Michael Haneke and the Dardenne brothers do it! While I realize I'm casting all this in a rather cynical light, I don't mean to imply that it doesn't work. In fact, I kept nodding to myself while watching FHH thinking, "if I ever made a film, I'd do that too." What gives me pause about the film is that, like its subjects, its form entails a kind of faux-passivity, a willingness to jury-rig various humiliating situations in order to induce the requisite wincing, but does so within a clearly artificial "observational" / "improv" mode that shuffles its feet imploring, "believe in me!" Mostly FHH compels belief, and it's certainly at its strongest when depicting the bobbing-driftwood, la-di-da longing of Marnie (Kate Dollenmayer, preternaturally assured in exhibiting the wounded-puppy sexiness the role demands). Other moments, however "real" they may seem, ask for a level of identification with hipster posturing. The discomfort in doing so is too easily paralleled with its equally unappealing opposite, rooting for needy Mitchell (played by Bujalski). Funny Ha Ha does a terrific job of setting up what feels like a too-neat conundrum for both Marnie and the viewer -- guilelessness or snotty disaffection? -- but covers its tracks with a surface naturalism that tends to obviate any real frankness about its aims. The final shot suspends the question nicely, but I look forward to seeing Bujalski's latest, Mutual Appreciation, to see whether pitch-perfect passive-aggression can give way to a positive assertion, be it a bold leap forward or just a gawky, unpremeditated lunge.

Film Comment Amy Taubin

I caught up with Andrew Bujalski's Funny Ha Ha last July when it screened for two nights at New York's Pioneer Theater. Completed in 2002, the film had no distributor (it still doesn't) but was slowly building a dedicated following through festival and college film circuit screenings. Down from Boston, Bujalski and his producer Ethan Vogt hung out in the lobby, talking with audience members, many of them back for a second viewing. "I've never seen a movie before that was exactly like my life," said one Lower East Side repeat viewer.

Indeed, not since Richard Linklater's Slacker has a film captured the experience of post-higher-education limbo, when, excepting a few driven careerists or dedicated artist types, everyone is terrified of making commitments to a job or a mate. As Austin, Texas is to Linklater, so Boston, Massachusetts is to Bujalski - a home base vividly transposed to the screen, filled with the rituals of daily life and with real people and real places: cramped apartments, Spartan start-up offices, a cavernous Chinese restaurant, and a neighborhood diner. Oh, and that never-to-be-forgotten supermarket, where Marnie, our heroine, desperately tries to keep her cool while suffering a humiliation so agonizing that I could feel my own face turning red as I watched.

If Slacker was a tapestry, Funny Ha Ha is a portrait of one young woman, traveling from one boring temp job to another to pay the rent, in love with a guy who likes her too much to feel romantic about her. Played by the appealing, slightly eccentric Kate Dollenmayer, who, from certain angles, looks like a human version of Scarlett Johansson, Marnie is impulsive, ambivalent, bright, and vulnerable. She drinks to overcome her shyness and winds up flinging herself at people who are bound to reject her. If she weren't such an American girl, she'd be a Rohmer heroine. Bujalski's affection for Marnie and the actress who plays her is happily contagious. He shapes his narrative around character rather than plot and builds the film as a series of extended, pretty much real-time scenes, where crossed purposes are the rule, but everyone survives the excruciating positions in which they put themselves so that they can screw up, but perhaps not as badly, the next time around.

Funny Ha Ha is so low-key in its narrative and filmic elements that I didn't realize how elegantly it's constructed until I saw it a second time. To describe the camera style as fly-on-the-wall suggests something colder and more clinical than what Bujalski and his cinematographer, Matthias Grunsky, are up to. It's more like a big-old-family-dog non-judgmental, occasionally excited point of view. You find yourself completely absorbed by the way, moment to moment, the characters avoid saying or acting on what they really want until they're in such a state of inner turmoil that they blurt it out or make a pass just when their object of desire is least receptive. At first, the film focuses on Marnie's pursuit of the evasive Alex; later she finds herself in Alex's position when Mitchell, a fellow temp worker (played by Bujalski himself, sporting thick glasses, a terrible haircut, and burdened by a profound adenoidal problem) pursues her. If Mitchell meets rejection with more anger and less grace than Marnie, it may be because he lacks the community of friends that she relies on for comfort and emotional support.

While Bujalski is fascinated by the shifts of power within relationships, he never tries to impress or overwhelm the audience with his own power as a filmmaker. Rather, his DIY aesthetic and celebration of community allows the audience to feel a part of the process and the world of the film. In the two years of its "non-release," Funny Ha Ha has accumulated a dedicated fan base and a set of reviews (from critics of all ages) that most first-time filmmakers would die for. It was named one of the best undistributed films of 2003 by Film Comment, indieWIRE and The Village Voice; Bujalski was the winner of the IFP's 2004 "Someone to Watch" Spirit Award and Filmmaker magazine selected him as one of the "New Faces of Indie Film."

Film Comment Amy Taubin article continues interviewing Bujalski by phone in June 2004

Mumblecore: All Talk? - Film Comment Amy Taubin, November/December 2007

Filmjourney Doug Cummings

d+kaz . intelligent movie reviews [Daniel Kasman]

DVD Times Noel Magahey

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

The Village Voice [Dennis Lim]

indieWIRE [Michael Koresky] with responses from Nick Pinkerton and Jeff Reichert from Reverse Shot

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

Lessons of Darkness [Nick Schager]

House of Wax would be grotesque even without Paris Hilton, plus ... David Edelstein from Slate

filmcritic.com (Chris Cabin)

DVD Talk [Phil Bacharach]

DVD Verdict [Jesse Ataide]

Film Intuition Jen Johans

hybridmagazine.com Vadim Rizov, including a Bujalski interview

Cinematic Reflections (Derek Smith)

Jay's Movie Blog

Bina007 Movie Reviews

Bright Lights Film Journal Leslie Chow, also reviewing MUTUAL APPRECIATION

Last Night With Riviera [Matt Riviera] also reviewing MUTUAL APPRECIATION

Interview: Andrew Bujalski Reflects on the 10th Anniversary of "Funny Ha Ha" Stephen Saito from The Moveable Fest, June 4, 2012

Guardian/Observer

Boston Phoenix [Peter Keough]

Austin Chronicle [Marrit Ingman]

Washington Post (Ann Hornaday)

Los Angeles Times [Carina Chocano]

The New York Times (A.O. Scott)

MUTUAL APPRECIATION B- 81

USA (110 mi) 2005

From a director who worked with Richard Linklater in WAKING LIFE, a film that rambles on and on about a super-complicated ethereal world, as if all conversations are above the clouds. Bujalski’s first film, FUNNY HA HA, was just the opposite, an entire film about people who couldn't ever make up their minds about anything, who existed totally in a world of ambivalence. While the Fall issue of Cinema Scope hails Bujalski “for the ebbs and flows of real conversation...the defining movies about a generation... marked by its very lack of definition,” I really couldn’t stand his first film, filled with people languishing in their own ineptitude and disinterest, having uninteresting self-centered monologues with one another, none of whom would I be interested in spending any time with. Someone who liked it asked me if perhaps it wasn’t generational? A good film, in my view, is timeless and crosses generational lines. But as others gave it such high acclaim, I was willing to give the director another look and he was present for this screening. I very much admired his comment that these film festivals actually get him out of the house. Apparently, his films are for those who spend a lot of time indoors.

Shot in Black and White on 16 mm blown up to 35 mm, almost completely interior shots, again, Bujalski has staked out his claim for cinema of the awkward moments, as the entire film is a series of one awkward moment after the next, even including the director himself as one of the characters. It’s actually a buddy movie, with Bujalski and Justin Rice as best friends, who go way back, having an unusual familiarity with one another, where the script throughout the film is centered around them. Add to this mix Rachel Clift, Bujalski’s onscreen girl friend, who has to try to find her way into a script that apparently didn’t include her. Rice has a musical background and plays a singer/guitarist in the film, who has written a few songs, but his band the Bumblebees just broke up and he’s looking to see if a drummer might join him onstage. There’s a terrific scene live at a club where he sings one song, which is beautifully captured with an emotional charge, as there’s actually something happening for a change. I was thinking perhaps this might be Bujalski’s ONE SONG, with uninspired, unending conversation before and after this one song, sort of a substitute for the unending sex in NINE SONGS. After the performance, Rice finds himself pretty much lost at two separate parties, one in the modern home of a New York hipster, where he proceeds to get plastered, and later in the early hours of the morning he attends an all-girl wig party, where he’s beyond plastered. The unending conversation was not uninspiring, but it never rose to a level where it actually mattered either.

The comparison to Cassavetes is often made, wrongly in my view, as the operative word with Cassavetes is interest, while with Bujalski it’s disinterest, but both were working outside an established system. FACES was shot nearly entirely indoors in Black and White on 16 mm blown up to 35 mm, but what people had to say and what they did mattered in that film, performances were ferocious, characters were left emotionally devastated. Bujalski gives his actors plenty of space, but what can you say when your favorite line in the film is a mispronunciation, where Bujalski himself tells his girl friend that a wedding party is supposed to have zid-ecko music, which she quickly corrects to zydeco music. After this film, I spoke to a few admirers, who felt the drinking scenes perfectly captured how friends of theirs talk while drunk. I mentioned my theory of awkward moments, supposing that most of us don’t lead lives of nothing-but awkward moments, and someone mentioned that when caught in such a moment, it pretty much felt like this film. I guess this style of film will matter to some more than others.

Seattle Post-Intelligencer [Sean Axmaker]

Andrew Bujalski may be the last of the old-fashioned indie directors. Shooting in black-and-white 16mm film on zero budgets and authentically, expressively mundane locations with refreshingly unknown casts, he sneaks his stories through the offbeat humor and meandering script. We're well into the third act before the tensions that poke through the perfectly senseless banter finally coalesce into sexual tensions between an unemployed musician (Justin Rice) and his best friend's girl (Rachel Clift). They may seem to spend the rest of the film in self-indulgent conversations and half-hearted flirtations, but Bujalski's gift for capturing the awkwardness of social relationships and the messy, unkempt details of everyday life is revealing. The shaggy honesty is bracing and the modest stories of young adults too tentative and nervous to do more than talk around an issue have a perceptive authenticity that doesn't shake off easily.

Cinepinion [Henry Stewart]

If I saw Justin Rice, the star of Mutual Appreciation, at a party I would hide behind someone tall—so why would I want to see a movie about him?  After leaving the theater in a bitter daze, my date dutifully reported that an elderly fellow spectator had quipped in the ladies' room, "I just can't watch young people for two hours."  Me neither, lady.

In my personal life as a Brooklynite, I avoid Williamsburg hipsters like Long Island, and Mutual Appreciation is chockablock with nothing but.  It deserves its critical accolades only to the extent that it is laudably naturalistic, both visually and in its acting styles.  My virulent visceral reaction to the film's characters is a direct result of its overall believability.

As a critic, it wouldn't be fair to disparage a film because its characters remind me of real-life people I dislike, but that's not my essential grievance--Mutual Appreciation's bigger problem is that its superficially charming characters are not only unbearably solipsistic but that the tone of the film is maddeningly uncritical.  Like the similarly flawed Garden State, which was visually impressive but made by Zach Braff for Pete's sake, it lacks a much needed adult perspective.  It's one thing for the characters to be nettlesome navel-gazers, and quite another for the director to be one, too.  (He also co-stars, go figure.)

I'd put the picture in the National Registry as a valuable record of the abject Williamsburg scene of the early twenty-first century, but I wouldn't ask you to watch it lest you were writing a book about cinematic realism or the decline of Western civilization.  In that rare case, by all means.

Distributor Wanted: Mutual Appreciation - Film Comment Amy Taubin from Film Comment

I bet Andrew Bujalski is sick of reading that he’s the voice of his generation, when most of that neo-slacker demographic has never had the opportunity to see his films. Bujalski’s debut feature, Funny Ha Ha, had a three-year festival wind-up to a privately financed 35mm theatrical release this past spring. It’s now available on a Wellspring DVD with a hilarious commentary track by Bujalski that makes it a must-purchase, even for those who’ve seen the film multiple times. (Bujalski’s fans, this critic included, are nothing if not ardent.) Now it seems that the 26-year-old filmmaker may have no choice but to reprise Funny Ha Ha’s slow route to a theater not necessarily near you with his similarly seductive second feature, Mutual Appreciation. But if I were a member of that nearly extinct species known as “indie distributor,” I’d note the facts that Funny Ha Ha’s frugal release did indeed turn a profit and that the critical attention Bujalski garnered, including an IFP Spirit Award, is bankable.

Like Funny Ha Ha, Mutual Appreciation is hardly your standard Amerindie (most of which, by the way, are box-office losers). For one thing, it’s shot on 16mm black-and-white, thus confirming Bujalski’s allegiance to a strain of maverick films—Shadows, Stranger than Paradise, Clerks—that bring poignantly accurate renditions of subcultures of which their directors have intimate knowledge to otherwise homogenized screens. While Cassavetes is the most obvious influence, one might also regard Funny Ha Ha and Mutual Appreciation as Rohmer without subtitles. Both films are “moral tales” whose characters leap to language as offense and defense. In Mutual Appreciation, Alan, an aspiring alt-rocker, arrives in Williamsburg with nothing more than the promise of a gig at Northsix. Exchanging the enchanting Marnie of Funny Ha Ha for the scruffy, less formed Alan allows Bujalski to darken these further adventures in the liminal zone between college and adulthood with a subterranean castration anxiety. Alan ventures down a couple of weird New York rabbit holes in addition to disrupting the relationship between his old college pal and the pal’s girlfriend. The unvarnished actors, including Bujalski as the pal who’s unsure of whether he ís being betrayed or not, could not be better.

Mutual Appreciation Society: The World of Andrew Bujalski. By ... Scott Foundas interviews Bujalski from Cinema Scope, September 6, 2006, also seen here: Mutual Appreciation Society | L.A. Weekly

The Village Voice [J. Hoberman]

Mutual Appreciation Michael Sicinski from the Academic Hack

Camera Eye Evan Pulgino

Mutual Appreciation. - By Nathan Lee - Slate Magazine

Nathan Gelgud, New York Film Review

New York Magazine (David Edelstein)

indieWire [Jeff Reichert] with responses from Nick Pinkerton and Michael Koresky from Reverse Shot

Slant Magazine [Nick Schager]

PopMatters (Jake Meaney)

The Lumière Reader Tim Wong

d+kaz [Daniel Kasman]

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

filmcritic.com Chris Cabin

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams] including a Bujalski interview

Siffblog Review [Kathy Fennessy]

eFilmCritic.com (Jay Seaver)

stylusmagazine.com (Sky Hirschkron)

Film Freak Central Walter Chaw

Film Intuition Jens Johan

EyeForFilm.co.uk Severine

CineScene.com (Chris Dashiell)

DVD Talk [Phil Bacharach]

DVD Verdict [James A. Stewart]

Nerve.com [Bilge Ebiri]

Bina007 Movie Reviews

Bright Lights Film Journal Leslie Chow, also reviewing FUNNY HA HA

Last Night With Riviera [Matt Riviera] also reviewing FUNNY HA HA

Guardian/Observer

Austin Chronicle [Marrit Ingman]

Mutual Appreciation Chris Fujiwara from the Boston Phoenix, September 15, 2006

Los Angeles Times [Carina Chocano]

New York Times (registration req'd) Manohla Dargis

Bullman, Joseph

THE MAN WHO BOUGHT MUSTIQUE C 73

Great Britain USA (78 mi) 2000

The Man Who Bought Mustique Gerald Peary

No man is an island; a few men get to own one, such as the once-filthy wealthy Lord Colin Tennant of Glenconner. As the movie title says, this titled, and entitled, Scotsman was The Man Who Bought Mustique, a mordantly uproarious feature documentary playing one week, July 20-26, at the Coolidge Corner.

For this clever Channel Four (Britain) film, we get the rise and rather deserved fall and comeuppance of this kooky, hot-tempered, abrasive, occasionally charming old gent who, in his better endowed times, the 1950s, purchased the petite Carribean island of Mustique, three miles long, one mile wide, over his wife's protestations. "You are quite mad," Lady Anne remembered saying to him. "Why would you buy this ghastly island? Who would want to come here?"

Who indeed! Tennant got Mustique on the jet-set map as a '60s and '70s Warholian getaway for the supersmooth, super-ritzy: David Bowie, Mick and Bianca, Mick and Gerri, Gerri and Brian Ferry, Robert Mapplethorpe and whomever. The key to guaranteeing its success was Tennant's calculated sucking up to the close pal of Lady Anne: Princess Margaret herself. Tennant, in a crafty feudal gesture, gifted her with a five-acre peninsula of prime ocean property for a wedding present, and Margaret actually came around, becoming, unoffically, Mustique's royalty-in-residence. In the decades since, whenever Margaret pops up on Mustique, it's Tennant who anxiously fusses after her schedule, choreographing her lunch and dinner reservations with Polonius-like scraping and fawning.

Today, he'll still fly a plane over to Mustique to be at Maggie's command though he's long ago lost his island and most of his fortune, and has slipped to a bourgeois life as owner of a kitschy, tourist-driven restaurant on nearby St.Lucia. "The jet set has flown away... or crashed," Tennant says of the change of fortune that forced him, bitterly, to give up his holdings to the Mustique Corporation, faceless, gutless businessmen, who administer the island without his pizzazz.

Should we feel sorry for Tennant on the way down? He's a bit stooped these days in his seventies, hobbling about in a white cotton sari and straw hat. His spouse, Anne, a witty, good sport who is surely his better half, lives apart from him, and two of his sons are dead, at least one from AIDs (details are vague); and a third adult son, Christopher, wanders in the background, crippled and his conversation stunted from an auto accident.

Yet this dear Lord, though an arresting on-screen character, is such a colonialist prick! As his wife observes, "He spoils things for himself. Shouting, hitting people with his white stick."

The Brit filmmakers, Joseph Bullman and Vikram Jayanti, clearly no Tories, leave in the film the telling moments when Tennant's courtly demeanor disappears, when he shrieks at them and makes imperious demands, when he bullies his underlings, when he complains of his island workers (an amiable, stoical lot, in the employee of this crazy person) that "They are all so frightfully slow and stupid. It's so pathetic not to be able to think at all."

Occasionally, Tennant's bilious temperament is put to hilarious use. A smug, vacuous, moneybags couple are interviewed on their vacation porch about Tennant, and they take turns with glowing platitudes. The next scene we see them gaily approaching him, and Tennant, in a sudden foul, insane mood, chases them away as if they were servants. "They're frightfully behaved snobs," he says. "They'll probably never talk to me again. I don't care."

But, boy, does he care about Margaret, who, he notes, is "an example to everyone about how to be well brought up." The truly grand finale of The Man Who Bought Mustique is a much-planned lunch under a tent for the Princess, for which Tennant wants the cameras far away because (he actually says this!), "Sometimes food gets stuck in her mouth, you've got to be careful." The filmmakers, of course, slyly zoom in on the action. A dotty old woman emerges from a truck and - this is strange! - grabs hold of one of the tent poles and, with sudden zest, seems to masturbate it. It's Princess Margaret, who appears to be in a London fog.

Even weirder: for the benefit of Margaret, the tent suddenly has walls, and on those walls - whose brilliant idea? - are giant Kama Sutra paintings of Indian couples doing it, of erections and penetrations. Margaret peers at one of them, with little understanding, so Tennant explains it to her: "I think the lady will be impregnated."

A horrified Margaret is quickly back in the truck, maybe off for the Mustique airport, and then Buckingham Palace. Tennant's botching of things has reached the highest circles. Wait until she tells her sister!

The Village Voice [Dennis Lim]

The Onion A.V. Club [Tasha Robinson]

filmcritic.com sells Mustique Larry Getlen

Film Journal International (Ed Kelleher)

New York Magazine Peter Rainer

Reel Movie Critic (Shelley Cameron)

New York Times (registration req'd) Stephen Holden

Buñuel, Luis

Buñuel went to Jesuit school in his native Spain, but came of age in Paris during the 20’s, commenting that “a religious education and surrealism have marked me for life.” His early films, UN CHIEN ANDALOU in 1928 and L’AGE D’OR in 1930 were considered shock treatments, a synthesis of Marx and Freud, anarchists of the spirit and liberators of the psyche. The Surrealists abandoned a straight narrative as a form of repression, preferring to allow the unconscious to speak through images, dreams, and fantasies, insering them into otherwise realistic stories. Perhaps only Jean Genet surpassed Buñuel in exploring his character’s fantasies. Freud was reportedly fascinated by Buñuel’s early work, but the Depression and the demand for escapist entertainment left no one to bankroll Surrealism. Buñuel was all but absent from directing films in the 30’s and 40’s, but worked dubbing, producing, and working in the film department at the Museum of Modern Art.

LOS OLVIDADES in 1950 was a brutal portrait of slum kids in Mexico City, exploring their world of savage cruelty, where his meanest character in the film is a blind beggar. In the tradition of Freud and the Surrealists, Buñuel saw his people less as victims of their environment than as pawns in their own murderous and sado-masochistic fantasy lives. His fascination with ugliness and violence was almost stereotypical Spanish.

from DVDBeaver’s Director’s Chair: http://www.dvdbeaver.com/film/reviews.htm

The father of filmic Surrealism and one of the most original directors in the history of cinema, Luis Buñuel was noted for his biting attacks on all social conventions from religion to sex to undisciplined wealth. His distinctive style and taste allowed his films to become some of the most memorable and enduring for viewers. With a Buñuel film you never knew the direction but could be sure of anarchic precision with sardonic and hilarious comedic subtleties. He wrote a distinct and memorable autobiography (published posthumously entitled My Last Sigh), in which he informed the readers that he would burn every print of all the films he made... without regret. This gesture typifies his persona - withdrawing from any hint of conventional hypocrisy or romanticism in one single embittered stab - a loyal surrealist to the very end.

The Surreal Feel: Luis Bunuel A Melbourne International Film Festival mini-retrospective of films by Luis Buñuel from Senses of Cinema

L'Age d'Or (1930)
Viridiana (1961)
The Exterminating Angel (1962)
Simon of the Desert (1965)
The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie (1972)

As a Surrealist, Buñuel's desire was for revolution brought on by scandal. This meant levelling constant hostility towards the tyranny, hypocrisy, exploitation and injustice practiced by the institutions of organised society. "The real purpose of Surrealism", as he said, was "to explode the social order, to transform life itself." Despite the 'public call to assassination' of his films and the Surrealist movement, Buñuel remained convinced of Surrealist claims to morality. This was a morality, however, which bore little resemblance to traditional bourgeois, Christian values. As such, the expression of this revolutionary morality in Buñuel's films remains still rich and still vital. —Mark Nicholls, reprinted from the MIFF catalogue.

Buñuel, Luis Art and Culture

A razor blade slicing across a woman’s eye -- this spine-chilling image is indelibly burned into the brain of anyone who has ever seen "Un Chien Andalou" (1929) by Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dali. This short film -- which also features a man poking at a severed hand and ants emerging from a hole in a man’s palm -- presents 17 minutes packed with absurdist humor, surreal discontinuity of time and space, dream imagery, and Freudian symbolism.

Buñuel worked to jolt viewers out of the passive torpor that he felt movies induced: "Sitting comfortably in a dark room, dazzled by the light and the movement which exert a quasi-hypnotic power... [a] cultivated individual placidly accepts the most appalling themes."

Although Buñuel's career spanned five decades, five countries, and varying styles and subject matters, certain fundamental aspects of his unique vision remained constant. He was always preoccupied with eroticism and death. His imagery is often blasphemous -- a reflection of his Catholic education and his subsequent rejection of it. Once, when asked to produce a commercial for a beverage company, Buñuel suggested a scene in which a Roman soldier offers a bottle of the advertised mineral water to a thirsty Christ hanging on the cross. Subtlety was obviously not Buñuel’s game.

Perhaps the most unchanging characteristic of Buñuel’s work is its unmistakable use of the camera. Whether the effect is satirical or mysterious, humorous or tragic, poetic or hallucinatory, it is achieved by the same means: the clear, unblinking regard of the lens. His work is defined by this paradox: the camera, an objective recorder of reality, is used to register the basic surreal nature of humanity as constructed by the director.

Buñuel, Luis from World Cinema

Spanish director of international standing who worked in Spain, France and Mexico. Buñuel's first films, Un chien andalou (1929) and L'Âge d'or (1930), were made in Paris with Salvador Dali (though the latter's input on L'Âge d'or was minimal). Both masterpieces of Surrealist cinema, they established Buñuel as a key figure of the European avant-garde. They revealed his taste for shocking images (such as an eye being slit by a razor blade), as well as anti-clerical and anti-bourgeois provocations which would reverberate throughout his entire oeuvre. His first Spanish film, Las Hurdes / Land Without Bread (1932), however, was a grim documentary on poverty in rural Extremadura. In the last years of the Republic, Buñuel produced and partially directed a handful of films for one of Spain's more liberal production companies, Filmófono.

Following the Nationalists' victory in the Civil War (1939), Buñuel left for America but moved to Mexico in 1947 after failing to make headway in Hollywood. His Mexican films included popular melodramas such as Susana (1950) and El bruto / The Brute (1952) and more personal works like Los Olvidados / The Dispossessed / The Young and the Damned (1950), El / This Strange Passion (1952) and Nazarín (1958), which re-established his international reputation. Buñuel went back to Spain for Viridiana (1961, Palme d'or at Cannes), but the film was banned there as blasphemous. Though he would later return to Spain to film Tristana (1970) and parts of Cet obscur object du désir / That Obscure Object of Desire (1977), Buñuel spent the postwar years in Mexico and France where, in the 1960s and 1970s, he made a series of caustic, witty and elegant films in collaboration with scriptwriter Jean-Claude Carrière and producer Serge Silberman. Le Journal d'une femme de chambre / Diary of a Chambermaid (1963), Belle de jour (1966) and Le Charme discrèt de la bourgeoisie / The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie (1972), starring the likes of Jeanne Moreau, Catherine Deneuve, Stéphane Audran and Fernando Rey, represent both the best of Buñuel's second French career and an important strand of the European art cinema of the time.

Despite Buñuel's geographically split career, strong continuities appear: all his films are marked by a fascination with Surrealism, especially in its exploration of the poetry of dreams, desire and amour fou, and imbued with a desire for release from childhood repression. The Surrealists, the Marquis de Sade—his "master"—along with major figures from Spanish culture (above all, the picaresque writers, Goya, Galdós and Valle-Inclán) were his key inspirations. At the same time, an early interest in Marxism prompted his repeated exposures of social injustice. Although in a sense sui generis, Buñuel's films are indebted to German Expressionism and Italian neo-realism as well as to popular Mexican and Spanish melodrama. His obsessions (religion, the bourgeoisie, marginalized individuals, sexual desire) are expressed in ways that explore the limits of experience without sacrificing tolerant understanding of human folly, though they are not always free from misogyny. Buñuel films, however, are graced with a distinctive brand of corrosive wit and sardonic humour.

—Peter W. Evans / Ginette Vincendeau, Encylopedia of European Cinema

Introduction (link lost) Mark Polizzotti from Sight and Sound

The least auteur-ish of the great cinematic auteurs, Luis Buñuel was born with the century in the Aragon region of Spain. As with most artists, we can track important elements in his films back to his boyhood surroundings and preoccupations: the splendour of his family home (reflected in the stately interiors of El, Viridiana and others), his Jesuit education (translated by the recurrent, mostly 'blasphemous' use of religious iconography), the hidden marvels of everyday life (sometimes channeled through the Surrealism that helped shape his aesthetic). We can also recognise in his works the chulería (insolent pranks) that he practised as a student - notably with his friends Federico García Lorca and Salvador Dalí - as well as traces of the Spanish picaresque tradition, and of the Marquis de Sade's admired writings. For Buñuel's films are often infused with an aggressive, sometimes violent humour that borders on cruelty, even as they abound in moments of deep compassion and humanity. "Buñuel is a moralist," wrote the critic Raymond Durgnat, "but [he] also protests against the rationalist, as well as puritan, attempt to apply moral standards to every impulse and feeling of man." Otherwise put, he is brutally frank.

Having established an early reputation with his Surrealist classics Un Chien andalou and L'Age d'or, Buñuel entered a period of relative obscurity for nearly 20 years. He produced several commercial films for the Spanish company Filmófono (uncredited by choice), and when the war came took refuge with his family in the United States, where he edited documentaries for the Museum of Modern Art and did voice-overs for US Army training films. In 1946, the chance to adapt a play by García Lorca took him to Mexico; the project fell through, but it landed Buñuel in the country that, by his own admission, taught him his craft, and where more than half his films were made.

Buñuel's first two Mexican outings were modest churros for the domestic market. It wasn't until Los Olvidados (1950) that he emerged as a director of note, both at home and, after a major award at Cannes, abroad. The film's blend of fantasy and harsh realism set a tone that would characterise much of his later work. Buñuel did not immediately enjoy professional independence, however, and many of the films from his Mexican period (roughly 1946-65) stay within tried-and-true box-office conventions. Still, some of these-notably El, Archibaldo de la Cruz, and Nazarin - are major achievements, and even his bread-and-butter works display many of the touches that define his peculiar genius. Durgnat has noted that Buñuel's style is 'self-effacing', marked by 'functional' camerawork and 'matter-of-fact' lighting. But underlying this self-effacement is an insistent quality that remains uniquely his own. One film-maker summarised this aspect of his work with artful simplicity: "Mexican films were all the same, like potato chips. Buñuel's Mexican films are not all the same."

During his first 15 years in Mexico, Buñuel worked within the prolific national cinema industry, turning out nearly two dozen films on shoestring budgets - many of them unapologetic crowd-pleasers, made to draw in audiences and earn the director his pay cheque. By the early 60s, however, with the release of Nazarin, The Exterminating Angel, and especially the Spanish co-produced Viridiana, Buñuel had established an unassailable reputation, affording him more artistic freedom and liberating him from the rigid conventions and financial constraints of the Mexican studios. Although he would maintain a home in Mexico City until his death in 1983, he began looking increasingly to Europe for his productions, and after Simon of the Desert (1965) he stopped shooting in Mexico altogether.

Instead, Buñuel moved his operations to France, thus returning to the country and language in which he’d made his first films some 35 years before. The change in setting brought a new collaborator as well. Buñuel had always partnered with talented writers to help develop his screenplays: Dalí in the early Surrealist years, the actor and film-maker Luis Alcoriza for much of his Mexican career. In his final period he worked almost exclusively with Jean-Claude Carrière, who co-authored Buñuel's autobiography, My Last Breath, and helped create some of the director’s landmark works, including Diary of a Chambermaid, Belle de Jour, The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie and That Obscure Object of Desire.

At the same time, and regardless of writing partner, what gives unity and coherence to this seemingly disparate body of 32 films is a viewpoint, an atmosphere - call it a personality - that comes directly from Buñuel himself: his attitudes, experiences and particular sense of humour. The critic Freddy Buache has said that Buñuel's "aim is always the same: to destroy our mental sclerosis through anxiety, surprise or humour, and to rejuvenate our way of seeing and thinking in much the same way as Marcel Duchamp did when he raised a bottle-rack to the status of a work of art." By training our eye to peer through his viewfinder, Buñuel has laid before us a world that, while not very comforting to look at, is eminently recognisable, utterly inimitable, and, in its compassionate but unsentimental portrait of human folly and degradation, ultimately redemptive.

Film Reference profile by E. Rubinstein

Luis Bunuel Biography (1900-1983) from Film Reference

Luis Bunuel bio info

LUIS BUÑUEL BIOGRAPHY at Film Forum in New York City another biography

Cosmic Baseball Association - Luis Buñuel yet another bio

All-Movie Guide bio from Hal Erickson

TCMDB extensive bio from Turner Classic Movies

Luis Buñuel | Senses of Cinema Dominique Russell, April 2005

Slant Magazine - The Savage Poetry of Luis Bunuel Ed Gonzalez and his superlative reviews of Buñuel’s films in Slant magazine

Luis Bunuel / films / director / realisateur / filmography James Travers Buñuel bio and film reviews from FilmsdeFrance

Luis Bunuel --[ EDITING ROOM ] SCENE 360 short bio and comments on several films by Harold Martinez

Luis Buñuel Luis Buñuel Remembered by Jean-Claude Carrière from Flickhead

The Surreal Feel: Luis Buñuel | Senses of Cinema Bill Mousoulis, July 2000

Luis Buñuel Surreal thing Luis Buñuel turns 100, by Chris Fujiwara from the Boston Phoenix, December 14 – 21, 2000

Luis Bunuel - Un Cinéaste de Notre Temps 1964 - Robert Valey ... 37 minute video documentary profile on Buñuel from BrightCove

kamera Feature Bunuel, by Edward Lamberti, Antonio Pasolini and Ian Haydn-Smith

"Thank God I'm an athiest:" The surrealistic cinema of Luis Bunuel essay by Bryan M. Papciak from Sync Volume 1

Two Radical Filmmakers: Luis Bunuel and Dziga Vertov by Joe Castleman

Luis Bunuel Un Chien Andalou and The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, a brief essay from Scribd

BUNUEL, Luis [01] [02] [03] 3 Buñuel-related essays from EuroScreewriters

Parallax View [Peter Hogue] originally published in Movietone News 51, August 1976

University of California Berkeley - Luis Bunuel: Love, Lava and Lavatories Franci Arzt from UC Berkeley – Film 151, Spring 1998, from the Media Resources Center

Famous drinkers | Food monthly | The Observer Chloe Diski on Buñuel’s daily drinking regimen, October 12, 2003

Buñuel Bows Out Paul Hammond from Rouge, 2004

Telegraph Article (2006) Surrealist master whose films captured the comedy of the irrational, by GMT December 30, 2006

Guardian Unlimited: Arts blog - film: The debt we owe to Buñuel Peter Bradshaw, January 19, 2007

Australian Article by Adrian Martin (2007) Obscure Director of Desire, by Adrian Martin from the Australian, July 25, 2007

Asia Times Online :: Asian News, Business and Economy - The ... The biblical world of Luis Bunuel, by Spengler from Asia Times Online, August 28, 2007

F L I C K H E A D — Selected Short Subjects: Buñuel-a-Thon: The ...

Luis Buñuel The Majestic Surreal Cinema of Luis Buñuel, including brief bio and film reviews, also Salvador Dali’s Portrait of Luis Buñuel, a 1924 painting

Salvador Dalí. Portrait of Luis Buñuel.- Olga's Gallery more on the painting and the times

The Indiscreet Charms of Luis Buñuel (Luis Bunuel) from Rovin’ and Ravin’ with Mike

Luis Buñuel's Cinema of Entrapment by Gregory and Maria Pearse, or here: Luis Buñuel

Luis Buñuel Salvador Dali «Un Chien Andalou (An Andalusian Dog ... images and comments

Buñuel, Luis  They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

Luis Bunuel Acquarello from Strictly Film School

Luis Bunuel FILMS on NYFAVIDEO.com. Caution; Surrealist at work. brief reviews of various films

LUIS BUNUEL The Short Film Collection, and a few features as well, including short reviews

Luis Bunuel 15 Footnotes Upon the Moustache of Bunuel, a short story by Don Harrison

kamera.co.uk - book review - Luis Buñuel - The Complete Films ... Bill Krohn's Luis Buñuel: The Complete Films, reviewed by Ian Haydn-Smith

The 24th Most Influential Director of All Time (2002 MovieMaker Poll)

Survey of Filmmakers: Top 25 Directors (2005 poll by The Film Journal)

Gilles Jacob's 5 Best Directors

Derek Malcolm's 5 Best Directors

David Robinson's 5 Best Directors

Angel Fernández Santos' 5 Best Directors

The religion of director Luis Bunuel The religious affiliation of Luis Buñuel

Spanish Buñuel Site Beautiful Mutants (in Spanish)

Luis Buñuel - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

UN CHIEN ANDALOU

aka: An Andalusian Dog

France (16 mi) 1929

Un Chien Andalou Peter Bradshaw from the Guardian

Sensual, shocking and deeply subversive, Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dali's surreal short from 1928, Un Chien Andalou, is a masterpiece of provocation: one of the few films - arguably the only film - really to use the medium's potential for pure anarchy.

In Un Chien Andalou, the cinema becomes an anti-rational arena for that which is elsewhere unthinkable and inadmissible. A cloud drifts across a floating moon; a razor slices a woman's eyeball; grand pianos with dead cattle are dragged across a bourgeois sitting room; ants scurry in and out of a hole in a man's hand; his mouth is transformed into armpit hair - one of the most disquieting, hilarious images ever committed to celluloid. When Foucault wrote about Borges's mythical Chinese encyclopaedia with its bizarre classifications, he says he laughed out loud at "the stark impossibility of thinking that". The images in Un Chien Andalou make you laugh the same way.

Edinburgh U Film Society [Steph Wright]

The result of an amalgamation of the dreams of a madman (Dali) and a genius (Buñuel), Un Chien Andalou shocked the world three quarters of a decade ago and continues to do so today. A must see for any film studies student and anyone interested in film history, Luis Buñuel’s first film is second to none as a visual feast or perhaps more appropriately, a visual assault. It was also one of the two films (the other being Buñuel’s second film L’Age D’Or) ever to be given the official Surrealist stamp by the movement’s leader, André Breton. Its lack of temporal and narrative coherence is an effort to convey the world of dreams, where logic and linearity do not necessarily prevail. It revealed to the world Buñuel’s favourite themes (many of which shared by the Surrealists) and obsessions that will be consistent in the 34 feature films that followed in an illustrious film career that spanned six decades; anti-bourgeoisie, anti-authority, anti-tradition, and anti-Church. Sheer magnificence.

All Movie Guide [Jonathan Crow]

Un chien andalou is a landmark of early avant-garde cinema. Impatient with the polite cinematic surrealism of artists like Man Ray, Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dali wanted to stir things up and create "a despairing, passionate call to murder." Indeed, the images in Chien horrify even today, most notably the notorious eye-slashing scene near the beginning of the film. Many of the images seem to spring directly from Sigmund Freud's writings on sexual anxiety, such as breasts that mysteriously turn into a buttocks or a disembodied limb discovered by an androgyne, while others remain willfully obscure. Though the plot as such ostensibly concerns two quarrelling lovers, Buñuel and Dali gleefully destroyed all temporal and spatial continuity and systematically dismembered all forms of linear narrative and thought. Instead, meaning is created through visual associations, giving the film a thoroughly nightmarish quality. Chien went on to influence generations of filmmakers, from Maya Deren's masterpiece Meshes of the Afternoon (1943) to David Lynch's dark classic Eraserhead (1977), and it established the career of Buñuel, one of cinema's maverick filmmakers.

filmcritic.com Jake Euker

It was released in 1929, but it still has the power to make audiences cringe today and it may remain the most notorious 16 minutes of film ever made. Called by director Luis Buñuel a "call to murder," and born of the Surrealist movement in art, Un Chien Andalou is one of the chief cultural artifacts from a time when film aspired to something larger than mere storytelling.

There is no plot, per se, but rather an amalgamation of images centering on a romance seemingly being conducted between the film's leads. Although Buñuel subverts every expectation that a viewer might bring to the film (time moves arbitrarily forward and backward, characters vanish and reappear, and the action remains stubbornly illegible), the images he uses to convey his deeper meanings remain passionate, resonant, and alarmingly, weirdly sexual to this day. These deeper meanings have to do with the innate drives sublimated to society, and in Un Chien Andalou they pop out everywhere with horrifying insistence: ants crawl from a hole in a human hand, pubic hair grows on faces, and, in the film's most infamous passage, an eyeball is slit with a razor just as a cloud cuts across the face of the moon. It's unsettling at least, but it also genuinely hypnotizes.

The best testimony I can offer on behalf of Un Chien Andalou is a personal one. I first saw this film when I was fifteen; roughly half way through I made the realization that it didn't make sense on purpose and my life, without exaggeration, was thus changed. Un Chien andalou was my introduction to the power of the irrational and to the concept that art could exist for its own sake. Twenty-five years after my own initiation – and 75 years after the film's release – it's my fervent hope that, in the company of Un Chien Andalou, more young recruits are being born.

Un Chien Andalou, like Buñuel's glorious 1930 feature L'Âge d'or, has been made available on DVD at long last with extras including a scholarly commentary track and a pair of interviews with Buñuel and his followers.

Slant Magazine Superb Buñuel reviews from Ed Gonzalez

Senses of Cinema [Michael Koller]

Raging Bull [Mike Lorefice]

Un chien andalou (1929) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

ToxicUniverse.com (John Nesbit)

PopMatters (Cynthia Fuchs)

Ted Prigge

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

Movie Reviews UK Damian Cannon

Reviews for both UN CHIEN ANDALOU and L’ÂGE D’OR:

The Village Voice [J. Hoberman]

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray]

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

Film Monthly (Jerome de Groot)

Movie Gazette (Anton Bitel)

Turner Classic Movies

Guardian/Observer

Time Out

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

Read the New York Times Review » Caryn James

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

U B U W E B - Film & Video: Luis Buñuel the entire film may be viewed here

Luis Buñuel and Dalí 1929 « what about the 10 years or here

L’ÂGE D’OR

aka: Age of Gold

France (60 mi) 1930

L'Age d'Or to The Landlord Pauline Kael

The most anti-religious, most anti-bourgeois of all Luis Buñuel's films and, naturally, the most scandalous. This episodic 60-minute film-surreal, dreamlike, and deliberately, pornographically blasphemous-was written by both Buñuel and Salvador Dali, who had collaborated two years before on UN CHIEN ANDALOU (1928). With Gaston Modot, Lya Lys, Max Ernst, Pierre Prévert, and Jacques Brunius. In French.

Time Out

'Our sexual desire has to be seen as the product of centuries of repressive and emasculating Catholicism... it is always coloured by the sweet secret sense of sin,' mused Buñuel in his autobiography My Last Breath. One might describe L'Age d'Or as 63 minutes of coitus interruptus, a scabrous essay on Eros and civilisation, wherein a couple is constantly prised apart from furious love-making by the police, high society and, above all, the Church. Financed by the Vicomte de Noailles, a dream patron who loyally pronounced the film exquisite and delicious, even as right-wing extremists were pelting it with ink and stink bombs, this is a jagged memento of that Golden Age before directors forgot the art of filming erotica (the celebrated toe-sucking is sexier by far than almost anything since), the revolutionary avant-garde lost its sense of humour, and surrealism itself fell prey to advertising-agency chic.

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

After the success of Un Chien Andalou with accolades from the ruling Parisian surrealists, Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí were commissioned by Marie-Laurie and Charles de Noailles to make another experimental short film. It was expected that it would be extensively using classical music and obtuse imagery. What resulted was an alarming mediation on how to disrupt the public majority. Everyone seemed insulted... and they protested. It seems almost impossible that this film could have been made so long ago. Buñuel and Dali are thumbing their respective noses at every conceivable social moray and value. I wish I could think of someone to compare this to in modern day... but no one would be worthy.

Buñuel penned that L'Age d'Or was about "the impossible force that thrusts two people together [and] the impossibility of their ever becoming one." Amusingly enough the couple referred to were both sex-maniacs who reveled by lusting after everything including each other and inanimate objects. Eventually this breaks down as something beyond a film - something that cannot be scrutinized in a short paragraph or two. My advice is only to watch it... and enjoy.

Un Chien Andalou Peter Bradshaw from the Guardian

Sensual, shocking and deeply subversive, Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dali's surreal short from 1928, Un Chien Andalou, is a masterpiece of provocation: one of the few films - arguably the only film - really to use the medium's potential for pure anarchy.

In Un Chien Andalou, the cinema becomes an anti-rational arena for that which is elsewhere unthinkable and inadmissible. A cloud drifts across a floating moon; a razor slices a woman's eyeball; grand pianos with dead cattle are dragged across a bourgeois sitting room; ants scurry in and out of a hole in a man's hand; his mouth is transformed into armpit hair - one of the most disquieting, hilarious images ever committed to celluloid. When Foucault wrote about Borges's mythical Chinese encyclopaedia with its bizarre classifications, he says he laughed out loud at "the stark impossibility of thinking that". The images in Un Chien Andalou make you laugh the same way.

It is presented in a double-bill with Buñuel and Dali's later collaboration, L'Age d'Or from 1930, which, perhaps suffers a little in comparison with the poetic compression of the first masterpiece. There are hilarious moments in this bizarre, dreamlike revelation of a man and a woman and their opposition to the powers of church and state: it is wild, chaotic and the great ancestor of all underground movies since.

Mike D’Angelo from Time Out New York (link lost):

Beginning as a sober, pointed documentary about scorpions, the second collaboration between Buñuel and Salvador Dalí (who cowrote the screenplay) still has a surprising amount of venom in its tail more than seven decades after it scandalized polite French society. Surrealist to its core, the film eschews such bourgeois conventions as plot and character, relying instead upon ribald gags, startling visual juxtapositions and outright weirdness to convey an overweening contempt for the forces of propriety, which conspire to ruin the happiness of a pair of horny young lovers (Modot and Lys). Not that beauty and innocence get off the hook either—Modot's character, recently appointed to the Ministry of Good Works, causes the deaths of millions through simple neglect, while his paramour proves so indiscriminately libidinous that she's prepared to suck the toes of a statue or make out with her own father if no more suitable partner is available.

As is customary, L'Age d'Or is paired here with Buñuel and Dalí's previous effort, "Un chien andalou," immortalized by the Pixies in "Debaser." ("Got me a movie / I want you to know / Slicin' up eyeballs / I want you to know.") Actually, "Debaser" would make a fine title for either one of these cinematic pipe bombs, which view complacency as part of the axis of evil and are prepared to use any means necessary to rouse—and arouse—the audience. The title of the feature translates as "the age of gold"; it's an era we still inhabit.

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

Bunuel reportedly intended his mid-length follow-up to Un Chien Andalou to be "a militant film aimed at raping clear consciences." The exact meaning of that phrase - like the 'exact meaning' of L'Age d'Or itself - is a matter of debate. But it seems safe to say that, whatever Bunuel's intentions were, he pulled them all off in style. More than seven decades after its scandalous Paris premiere - it was banned in many countries and barely shown anywhere until 1980 - the film retains its power to perplex, shock, intrigue and, most of all, amuse. Don't be fooled by its "classic" reputation: L'Age d'Or may be studded with deliberately tedious passages, but it's also one of the most hilarious of movies - prefiguring a strain of surreal/anarchic humour that stretches from the Marx Brothers and The League of Gentlemen, taking in The Goons, Spike Milligan, Monty Python and The Young Ones.

For this kind of unclassifiable work, synopsis is a dangerous and perhaps pointless exercise. The film begins, brilliantly, with a disarmingly lengthy David Attenborough-style study of scorpions. These 'arachnoids' live in a rocky environment near a coastline. As do a group of torpid shepherds, who are roused to "action" by the arrival of "the Majorcans" - a huge crowd of folk (including several dressed-up dignitaries), we see arriving by boat to lay the foundation stone for what is to become the city of Rome. This ceremony is interrupted by the discovery of a couple noisily enjoying an amorous clinch, writhing fully clothed on a mud-bank. The man (Gaston Modot) - an arrogant, misanthropic, anti-social sort - is hauled off by the police. The woman (Lya Lys) returns home to her aristocratic parents. Complications ensue.

L'Age d'Or is a freewheeling, anything-goes grab-bag - deliberately, deliriously irrational, all the way to its ostentatiously non-sequitur "climax" (in which a quartet of Sadean debauchees emerge from their mountaintop 'castle', led by a figure who looks suspiciously like none other than Jesus H Christ himself.) Despite this, there is the framework of a 'plot' here - though it often spirals off into crazy tangents, L'Age d'Or essentially relates the spectacularly sociopathic escapades of the nameless character played (brilliantly) by Modot.

He delights in going out of his way to attack a beetle (crushed underfoot), a small dog (hoofed into the air), a blind man (felled with a Cantona-style kick to the chest) and even his lover's elderly mama (punched in the face after she accidentally spills some drink onto his hand). His antics are all the more amusing when we discover that he's been selected by the government as a "goodwill ambassador" - we see the catastrophic wider consequences of this ill-advised appointment via stock footage featuring apocalyptic disasters which engulf the hapless populace.

Of course, worrying about the 'story' is to miss the point of L'Age d'Or. Bunuel attacks his usual targets - the church, the government, the church, pretentious artists, the church, aristocratic snobs, and the church - with his usual hardcore flair, an intoxicating and inspirational gusto that, it now seems safe to predict, will never lose any of its surrealist swagger.

Slant Magazine Superb Buñuel reviews from Ed Gonzalez

Senses of Cinema (Sophy Williams)

Raging Bull [Mike Lorefice]

Luis Bunuel’s “The Golden Age”/”L’Age d’Or” (1930) – Absurdist Cinematic Sketch on Immorality and Stupidity of So Called Civilized Life Acting Out Politics

All Movie Guide [David Lewis]

Reel.com DVD review [Pam Grady]

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson]

FilmFanatic.org [Sylvia Stralberg Bagley]

Epinions [metalluk]

ToxicUniverse.com (John Nesbit)

DVD Savant [Glenn Erickson]

digitallyOBSESSED.com [Jon Danziger]

L’Âge d'or (1930) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

filmcritic.com Jake Euker

Ferdy on Films [Marilyn Ferdinand]

Edinburgh U Film Society [Spiros Gangas]

Reviews for both UN CHIEN ANDALOU and L’ÂGE D’OR:

The Village Voice [J. Hoberman]

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray]

Film Monthly (Jerome de Groot)

Movie Gazette (Anton Bitel)

Turner Classic Movies

DVDBeaver.com [Pat Pilon]

YouTube - L'AGE D'OR 1930 the entire 60 mi film is available for viewing at YouTube

LAS HURDES

aka: Land Without Bread

Spain (30 mi) 1933

Chicago Reader [Don Druker] (capsule review)

A powerful and important 1932 documentary by Luis Buñuel on the monstrous conditions of life in the very poorest section of western Spain, Las Hurdes, not far from the Portuguese border. The film is doubly horrifying because of the matter-of-fact commentary written by poet Pierre Unik and spoken on the sound track as if the scenes of misery and degradation were parts of an ordinary travelogue.

Channel 4 Film [capsule review]

Buñuel forces us to confront our perception of the 'documentary' with what purports to be a straight travelogue, describing the hardships of an impoverished Spanish region. But look closer. Footage of a goat falling off a cliff face is used to symbolize the peasants' struggle to survive the region's unforgiving geography. But a puff of smoke seen just before the animal plummets suggests that its fall was no accident. Nowadays we know all about the power of cinema and TV to manipulate through the illusion of truth. So watch this as a comedy. It's sick, absurd and hilariously discomfiting.

Slant Magazine Superb Buñuel reviews from Ed Gonzalez

“Those graceless mountains fascinated me, as did the poverty and the intelligence of their inhabitants. I was amazed at their fierce attachment to this sterile country, this 'breadless' earth. In fact, fresh bread was just about unheard of, except when someone brought back a dried loaf from Andalusia," says Luis Buñuel in The Last Sigh. The budget for his first and only documentary, Las Hurdes (Land Without Bread), ran out on the last day of the shoot. Marañon, a scholar and president of the governing council of Las Hurdes, did not grant the necessary authorization for distributing the film. "Why do you want to show everyone all those ugly things? It's not that bad, you know. I've seen carts filled with wheat in Las Hurdes. Why don't you show something nice, like folk dances," said Marañon. Buñuel, of course, was less concerned with such "trite expressions of misplaced nationalism" than he was with exposing the squalor of a people ignored by a careless pre-Franco regime. Similarities to Alain Resnais' Nuit et Brouillard (Night and Fog) are unavoidable: the sublime imagery, the methodical camera crawls and, most notably, its sardonic voiceover. With Las Hurdes, Buñuel was once more threatened by the Falange, an extreme nationalist political group founded by J. Primo de Rivera in 1933 and abolished in 1975 after Franco's death. Today, Las Hurdes is remembered less for its politicized images than it is for Buñuel parodic manipulation of documentary style.

Buñuel's ravenous study of human geography suggests that a land without bread is a land without God. If bread, like manna, is the food of the Lord, it is impossible to break bread in Las Hurdes. A prime source of nourishment for any race of people, bread is scarce in Las Hurdes because of the topography of the land. As the film's opening title card suggests, "the Hurdanos were unknown, even in Spain, until a road was built for the first time in 1922. Nowhere does man need to wage a more desperate fight against the hostile forces of nature." Las Hurdes is a difficult work because, as Pauline Kael said in her collection of film criticism Going Steady, "Buñuel is an outraged lover of man, a disenchanted idealist; he makes comedy of his own disgust." What with the skulls that preside over town entranceways, the gaudy trinkets worn by children and the town's savage wedding ceremonies, it's no wonder Buñuel sees the Hurdanos as a medieval people. The director, though, is not disgusted by the Hurdanos as much as he is outraged by the irrational nature of their plight. Abel Jacquin's sublime narration questions the need for geometry in the classroom (let alone a hanging portrait of a gaudy fairy-tale princess) when the town's "barefooted urchins" are in such dire need of food.

If the codes of documentary filmmaking deploy factual evidence to indicate the authentic, Buñuel's political statement is rendered via his vilification of this objective approach. "Goat meat is eaten only when this happens," says Jacquin as a mountain goat falls to its death from a mountaintop. (Judging from the multiple angles Buñuel employs, it's assumed that his crew purposefully slaughtered several goats for the sequence.) The spectator is forced to reject the dominant ethos and question not only the responsibility of the documentary filmmaker but the ironic rhetoric and validity of the documentary image. For the sake of his political commentary, Buñuel has rendered a bitter reality via a false representation of that very reality. A girl lies by the side of the road, sick and uncared for. One of Buñuel's crewmembers examines the girl's diseased throat before Jacquin declares that she would die two days later. A mule is eaten alive by a swarm of bees and a baby girl is carried across a river (the image eerily reminiscent of Biblical representations of a baby Moses making his way down the Nile River) to her final resting place. Death breaks the monotony of Hurdano life and by juxtaposing images of this brutal existence with Jacquin's almost disinterested commentary, Las Hurdes becomes a frightening call to arms, a fabulous open text that resists simple readings and questions humanity's notion of progress.

An Ethnographic Surrealist Film essay by Jeffrey Ruoff, Visual Anthropology Review 14, no. 1 (Spring/Summer 1998), 45-57

Raging Bull [Mike Lorefice]

DVDBeaver.com - Graphic Review [Gary W. Tooze]

GRAN CASINO (Gran Casino Tampico)

Mexico (92 mi) 1947

Turner Classic Movies Glenn Erickson, also here: DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson)

Filmmaker Luis Buñuel had a shaky start in filmmaking. After his first three 'scandalous' surrealist films in France and Spain he spent over a decade in exile from the Franco regime. He seemed to be settled as a film expert in residence in New York, until his old 'friend' Salvador Dalí denounced him as a Communist. Buñuel eventually wound up in Mexico, there to restart his filmmaking career in Mexico's thriving, if conservative, film industry.

Lionsgate and Studio Canal package two of Luis Buñuel's more peripheral productions in its Luis Buñuel Boxset. Gran Casino, the director's first Mexican production, is rarely discussed. The Young One marks Buñuel transition back to Europe again. It's his second and last movie filmed in English.

Gran Casino (1947) is a musical vehicle for the popular singing stars Jorge Negrete and Libertad Lamarque. The suave Gerardo Ramírez (Negrete) breaks jail in the lawless Tampico district, and with his best buddy Demetrio (Julio Villarreal) comes to the aid of Jos&eacut;e (Francisco Jambrina), an Argentinian who can't work his Nacional oil wells due to strong-arm tactics of the local casino owner, Fabio (José Baviera). José disappears just before his sister Mercedes (Libertad Lamarque) arrives. She suspects Gerardo, and takes a job singing in Fabio's club to find out if her brother was murdered.

On the surface Gran Casino seems entirely innocuous, a tepid murder mystery framing three performances each from Negrete and Lamarque. Negrete sings one song in jail, another to remind his boss of the Pampas back in Argentina, and a third (La Norteña) to show that he's a man of the people. Larmarque sings tango ballads, including El Choclo, which has some fancy fast lyrics. The story is predictable stuff, with lovable sidekick characters and a general air of unconcern as crooked gangsters kill good oilmen left and right.

Reviewers usually notice only one Buñuel moment: when Gerardo kills a bad guy behind a curtain by smashing his head, we see a subliminal glimpse of shattering glass. Although most of his touches are uncharacteristically subtle, one can find plenty of Buñuel in Gran Casino. The major industry in Tampico is owned and manipulated by a capitalist criminal, in this case a European named Van Eckerman. The police never appear, while Tampico is controlled by private goons in the employ of the nefarious Fabio. Buñuel chooses the earthy comedian Alfonso Bedoya (The Treasure of the Sierra Madre) to play Rayado, the murderous leader of these thugs. The disposal of assassinated business competitors is such a routine that Fabio keeps a pair of workmen on call to dispose of the bodies!

Buñuel makes fun of the musical format by having Gerardo's three mustachioed backup singers appear from nowhere (even in jail) whenever he needs a harmonious accompaniment. Buñuel undercuts the notion of popular taste by having the casino patrons drive both an opera singer and some Scottish bagpipe dancers (???) from the stage with derisive hoots. He also sabotages Mercedes's big stage number by having the singer and her chorus line hold silly flashlights, just because there's a reference to 'the light of love' in the song. These touches are undoubtedly Buñuel's doing, as is the comic character Nanette (Fernanda Albany), an elderly casino patron pictured as an unrepentant kleptomaniac with a 'psychological' excuse.

The film will appeal most to fans of Latin American musicals and the legendary Libertad Lamarque, then 39. The story requires her to be cross most of the time, robbing her of her beautiful smile. Jorge Negrete struts like a peacock and puts his tunes across, but he's a terrible actor. Buñuel mocks the romance subplot by having Gerardo and Mercedes' big love scene take place next to a noxious oil well -- "Do I smell kerosene?" she asks. While thinking romantic thoughts, Gerardo plays with a stick, pulling a vile-looking rag from a puddle of Tampico crude.

DVDBeaver [Gary Tooze]

THE GREAT MADCAP (El Gran Calavera)

Mexico (92 mi) 1949

Slant Magazine Superb Buñuel reviews from Ed Gonzalez

The mounting extremism of right-wing politics in Europe and the beginning of the Spanish Civil War of 1936 forced Luis Buñuel into artistic exile. Working for Paramount's foreign branch in Paris and Warner Bros. in Spain, a disenchanted Buñuel would eventually land a minor stint as a documentary director for New York City's Museum of Modern Art. After Land Without Bread, the director would not make another film until 1947's Gran Casino (adapted from Michael Weber's novel El Rugido del Paraíso), his first of nine collaborations with producer Oscar Dancigers. Sympathetic to Buñuel's political difficulties, Dancigers invited the director to come work with him in Mexico. Gran Casino was a song n' dance gangster flick ripe with the kind of B-movie sensibility then popular in Mexican cinema. Though deemed a financial disappointment, Gran Casino is a fitting introduction to Buñuel's more cynical Mexican films. Indeed, it's telling that the film takes place in Tampico before the nationalization of the town's oil industry: the film's alternate Mexican title En el Viejo Tampico (In the Old Tampico) evokes the glory of a fairy-tale kingdom just as The Great Madcap (El Gran Calvavera) heralds Buñuel's role as Mexico's big bad wolf (the anti-Cantinflas).

Ever the foot fetishist, Buñuel opens The Great Madcap with a fragmented shot of intertwined legs and feet. Huddled in the corner of a jail cell with a group of fellow prisoners, Ramiro (Fernando Soler) claims that he was trying to scratch an itch when he mistakenly reached for another man's leg. Having taken to the bottle after his wife's death, the once sensible Ramiro is now headed for ruination: his servants and employees are lazy and his family constantly pesters him for money. More or less oblivious to this parasitic behavior, Ramiro is led to believe that he's lost all his money when he awakens somewhere in the slums of Mexico City. His brother Gregorio aims to teach Ramiro a lesson though The Great Madcap becomes less a reaction to emotional naiveté than it is an affront to economic complacency. The family willingly infiltrates peasant culture fearing that Ramiro will no longer be able to cater to their luxuriant needs. Soon after Ramiro awakens in his new home (Buñuel, again, stays on Soler's feet, perhaps because it is the "lowest" point on the human body), his hypochondriac sister-in-law bemoans her inability to buy a pair of stockings. She'd rather die than live what she explicitly calls a "terrible reality." Though it's arguably Buñuel's most accessible film, The Great Madcap confronts a moral dilemma ever-present in Buñuel's work: that money paves the road for callousness and misguided complacency.

Ramiro is Buñuel's most sympathetic rich man in that he's humble despite the size of his wallet. His initial reaction to his faux impoverishment ("How silly, I thought I had awakened.") is less an indication of his smugness than a straightforward response to a seemingly illogical rhetorical shift. Shamed by the poverty he believes his drunkard ways have brought to his family, Ramiro attempts to throw himself from his apartment's rooftop only to be saved by his neighbor Pablo (Ruebén Rojo). "No, you'll only break your legs," says the young stocking salesman, successfully convincing Ramiro that the only thing worse than death is seeing a man in a wheelchair. Ramiro soon learns of his brother Gregorio's plan and decides to teach his family a lesson by convincing them that he has indeed lost his fortune. Ramiro's brother Ladislao sees only dust and shadow ("Pulvis et umbra sumas") though it's not long before the whole family must choke on humility. Ramiro's daughter Virginia is loved by ex-beau Alfredo because of her father's money but is hated by Pablo because of it. It's a deceptively simple story built on multiple layers of deceit. Ever the humanist, Buñuel complicates matters when Pablo sees insult in rich men using his impoverishment as a moral litmus test. In the end, though, he too must swallow his humility and an unusually optimistic Buñuel suggests that love conquers all.

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

Edwin Jahiel

The New York Times (Janet Maslin)

LOS OLVIDADOS (THE FORGOTTEN ONES) A 100

aka: The Young and the Damned

Mexico (85 mi) 1950

Time Out Film Guide 2011 - Page 778 - Google Books Result Geoff Andrew

Buñuel's return to the public eye after nearly 20 years in the critical wilderness came with this superbly caustic account of poverty, delinquency and crime in the slums of Mexico City. Basically he took a then popular genre, a major force in both Hollywood and Italian neo-realism - the liberal social conscience picture - and transformed it into a brilliantly acidic vision of human desires, fears and foibles. The story concerns the tragedies that befall a couple of members of a violent gang of kids who go round mugging, robbing and generally inflicting cruelty on everyone around them. But Buñuel, unlike his peers, is not content to lay all the blame for their acts and predicament on an abstract society: individuals also have inner motivations. Thus there is a poetic and precise emphasis on dreams and sexuality, and characters are far from being stereotypes: a blind man, frequently tormented by the kids, can hardly arouse our pity when Buñuel also shows him to be a hypocrite and a paedophile. A wonderfully lucid film that refuses to allow us to indulge in blinkered sentimentality or narrow ideology.

CINE-FILE: Cine-List - CINE-FILE Chicago Rob Christopher

It is said that after Vittorio De Sica saw LOS OLVIDADOS for the first time he asked Buñuel, “Has society done something to you? Has it mistreated you? Have you suffered a lot?” De Sica, perhaps, could not see beyond the dirt-poor misery of the street kids in the film, so vividly rendered by Buñuel. He might have even foolishly taken the opening title card at face value: "This film is based on true facts. No character is fictional." But in a 1953 essay Buñuel wrote, "Neorealist reality is incomplete, conventional, and above all rational. The poetry, the mystery, all that completes and enlarges tangible reality is utterly lacking.” In other words, realism is not sufficient to capture reality. That's why, just as in his earlier "documentary" masterpiece LAS HURDES, he has no qualms about reshuffling real events and even inserting flashes of surreal fantasy to heighten the truth of the moment. And yet the film is the antithesis of the SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE approach, because his portrait of "the forgotten ones" fuses reality and mystery, but fastidiously avoids sentimentality. It's one reason why, even 65 years later, his depiction of how poverty dehumanizes the poor is still so unnerving (and underseen).

All Movie Guide [Mark Deming]

Luis Buñuel was little more than a footnote in motion picture history for his two early surrealist films with Salvador Dali, Un Chien Andalou and l'Age d'or, when Los Olvidados boldly affirmed his status as a major international director. A brutal and unflinching look at the ugly circumstances of life for juvenile delinquents and runaways in Mexico City, Los Olvidados seems like the model for many "socially responsible" films about financially and spiritually underprivileged youth that appeared in the 1950s and 1960s, as it also looks back toward the Italian neo-Realism that had begun in the second half of the 1940s. But this is unmistakably the work of Buñuel, the arch cynic and surrealist, and if he casts a relatively kind eye on several of his young protagonists -- most notably the tragic Pedro (Alfonso Mejia), cast off from his family with nowhere to turn -- his view of the adult world is jaundiced beyond redemption (significantly, the most sinister and least sympathetic of the film's delinquents, Jaibo (Roberto Cobo), is also the oldest). In Buñuel's universe, mothers turn their backs on their sons and sleep with their friends, blind beggars play sexual games with young girls, wealthy men proposition young boys, and cripples are so venomous that one feels little or no sympathy for them when they're attacked. The film's sole compassionate adult, the warden of a juvenile home, is decent and caring but ineffectual, an easily surmounted obstacle to the corruption of the outside world. Punctuated by beautifully troubling dream sequences, Los Olvidados was first released in the United States as The Young and The Damned, and the title was apt, though Buñuel makes abundantly clear that if these young men have been condemned to hell, it is one that the adult world (and, implicitly, ourselves) have helped to build and maintain.

Introduction Sight and Sound

Shot in 21 days on a shoestring budget, Los Olvidados remains one of the most powerful films ever made, with an undiminished power to shock. Its influence can still be felt in films as contemporary as Alejandro González Iñárritu's Amores Perros and Fernando Meirelles's City of God.

Mark Polizzotti, author of the recently published BFI Film Classic Los Olvidados (2006) writes:

"From its riveting Oedipal nightmare – 'perhaps the greatest of all movie dream sequences,' said Pauline Kael - to its wrenching final scenes, Los Olvidados draws the viewer into a reality of its own and never lets go. Set in the slums of Mexico City, the film details several days in the life of Pedro, a young boy of the streets, and his relations with his fellow gang members, his loveless mother, and especially with the charismatic, self-serving gang leader Jaibo. When Jaibo makes Pedro an unwitting accomplice to murder, the two boys' fates become intertwined, as Jaibo becomes Pedro's surrogate father, his rival, and his inescapable tormentor.

Los Olvidados was Buñuel's first major Mexican film and his first notable work since Land without Bread 20 years earlier. It established him as a world class director and helped revolutionise Mexican filmmaking. Though much decried on its release, it won Best Director at Cannes the following year, and in 2003 was inducted into the UNESCO Memory of the World programme. Often described as a melodrama about urban poverty, Los Olvidados is in fact a much more ambiguous statement about yearning, loss, and the human hunger for love and redemption. Buñuel termed it 'realistic, but with a subtle current of fierce and sometimes erotic poetry.'"

Slant Magazine Superb Buñuel reviews from Ed Gonzalez

After completing Gran Casino, Luis Buñuel began work on a screenplay with the Spanish poet Juan Larrea called Ilegible Hijo de Fluta (The Illegible Son of the Flute). When Óscar Dancigers couldn't find financing for the project, Buñuel agreed to direct The Great Madcap as a favor to his Gran Casino producer. The director found the finished product "impossibly banal," though the film's box office success all but guaranteed that Buñuel could now make whatever he wanted. "Oscar was ready for a 'real' film, and proposed that we make one about the slum children, abandoned and living from hand to mouth in Mexico," says Buñuel in The Last Sigh.

Los Olvidados (The Young and the Damned), an "attack on the sadness that ruins children before they have a chance," was penned by Buñuel, Madcap writer Luis Alcoriza, and an uncredited Larrea. Inspired in part (at least in spirit) by Vittorio de Sica's similarly themed Shoeshine (a film Buñuel greatly admired), Los Olvidados was vilified by the country's xenophobic press and labor unions who claimed the film dishonored "their" Mexico. By calling attention to the misery of Mexico City's young street urchins, Buñuel exposed an "evil" hiding behind the imposing structures of every big modern city. Los Olvidados would go on to win Buñuel the Best Director prize at the Cannes Film Festival and restore his notoriety as one of cinema's most respected provocateurs.

If the innocent Pedro (Alfonso Mejía) is the film's Jack Dawkins, El Jaibo (Roberto Cobo, star of Arturo Ripstein's excellent The Place Without Limits) is the incorrigible Artful Dodger. Less controversial for the brutality of its images than for the objectivity of Buñuel's point-of-view, Los Olvidados purposefully lacks optimism; indeed, the director saw danger in giving solutions to problems best left to "the hands of the progressive forces of our times." This objectivity is all over the film, and nowhere is this more memorable than in the way Buñuel powerfully introduces the titular forgotten ones via a mock game of bullfight, with the camera taking the point of view of a red cape as a group of boys with grotesque faces charge toward it as if purposefully antagonizing the spectator. This is the intensity of Buñuel's gaze.

El Jaibo calls a young boy a "pansy" for not smoking and orchestrates a robbery against the blind Don Carmelo (Miguel Inclán), the film's unlikely voice of reason. "Is there no mercy for a poor blind man?" says a manipulative Carmelo, looking for a guide to lead him across a busy street. Carmelo posits a moral hierarchy to suffering when he befriends a young boy, Big Eyes, whose father has abandoned him in the town center. Carmelo scoffs at the boy's pain: "He's not coming back. These things happen every day." At the very least, the boy has his vision. Yet with the pervasive ugliness and desperation that permeates Los Olvidados, Buñuel may as well be contemplating blindness as a luxury: Perhaps it is better not to see what these children are going through. Indeed, the film's obsession with sightlessness is very much Buñuel's way of gauging the political climate of his time: Throughout the film, he shows us how society is responsible for creating its lost ones and how it subsequently refuses to "see" them.

Los Olvidados is a film obsessed with the terror of being left alone in the world and Buñuel evokes this desperation via references to the nourishment of mother's milk: Carmelo drinks goat milk because it cleanses the body; Meche, a local girl, washes her legs with milk because it will preserve their beauty; and Big Eyes throws himself to the grown in a fit of hunger, sucking milk from the teat of a cow. Pedro must tragically plead for the love of his mother, a hard-working woman who punishes her eldest son (she denies him love, refuses him his dinner) because of his supposedly poor behavior. "Why should I love you?" she asks, oblivious that her son is conflicted because he can't provide for his family. Buñuel powerfully stacks one sign on top of another, and the emotional force of the pile-up only intensifies the sadness and desperation of his characters.

Jaibo accuses an older boy, Julien (Javier Amézuca), of sending him to jail and kills him during a fit of rage; Pedro watches in terror, forced to remain silent for fear that he too will be murdered. Jaibo, the film's leg fetishist, grabs Meche's leg when his hand reaches out from inside a pile of hay and later seduces Pedro's mother by staring at her legs and manipulatively engaging the memory of his dead mother ("she looked like a real virgin"). Seduced by Jaibo offscreen, Pedro's mother seems to also take her sexual indiscretions out on her son. The film's oppressive themes all come together in the film's legendary and disturbing dream sequence. Pedro's spirit rises from his body and is tortured by the ghost of the dead Julien and his scantily clad mother—all the while, an inexplicable wind claws at her lily-white nightgown. She floats around the room, smothering her son with love and a raw piece of meat that dangles from her hands. There's no escape from the brutality of their world—not even in dreams.

Carmelo's little wagon bears a sign that reads "me mirabas" (rough translation: "You looked at me"). Perhaps the sign represents the pervasive gaze of the film's youth. When Jaibo is denied a cigarette by a legless man who moves around on a dolly, Jaibo and his posse tear at the helpless man's clothes, throwing him onto the sidewalk and thrusting his dolly down a hill. Though Carmelo defends hungry parents who abandon their even hungrier children ("Extra mouths hinder!"), he is still seemingly aware that he must constantly "look" beneath his blindness at children who turn to evil when forgotten by their parents. Somewhere in the big city, a man approaches Pedro, propositioning him for sex before an approaching police officer interrupts their negotiation. All the while, Buñuel's camera bears silent witness from inside a store's display window, whose expensive trinkets are suggestive of Pedro's nothingness.

Wisked to juvenile court by his uncaring mother, Pedro loses all passion for life: he kills a chicken during a schoolyard fight (a passionate lover of animals, he earlier protected a hen from his angry mother); the 20 pesos given to him as a test by the court's thoughtful supervisor are stolen from him by Jaibo; and he all but guarantees his death when he violates the code of the streets and shouts before a group of children and adults that Jaibo was responsible for Julien's death. Though his viciousness is unflinching, Jaibo remains sympathetic if only because Pedro's loss of passion must be indicative of Jaibo's own journey to nothingness. Jaibo kills Pedro and just as his mother finds love for her angelic child, Carmelo and Mecha throw his corpse into a rocky ravine. "No, no...I'm falling into the black hole. I'm alone...alone...as always...my child...as always...go to sleep and stop thinking...my child...sleep," says Jaibo when he meets his own demise, echoing the universal plight of the film's forgotten ones.

Senses of Cinema [Saul Austerlitz]

The Village Voice [J. Hoberman]

Electric Sheep Magazine Paul Huckerby

Epinions [metalluk]

Lessons of Darkness [Nick Schager]

City Pages, Minneapolis/St. Paul Rob Nelson

Ruthless Reviews ("potentially offensive") Matt Cale

ToxicUniverse.com [John Nesbit]

Close-Up Film [Paul Murphy]

Film-Forward.com Roxana M. Ramirez

Los Olvidados (1950) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson)

Bina007 Movie Reviews

Guardian/Observer

Time Out

The New York Times (Bosley Crowther)

DVDBeaver.com - Full Graphic Review [Gary W. Tooze]

SUSANA A- 93

aka: The Devil and the Flesh

Mexico (86 mi) 1951

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

God works in mysterious ways in Luis Buñuel's rousing hacienda operetta -- the eponymous hellion (Rosita Quintana) is tossed kicking and screaming into a reformatory cell full of rats and bats, spots the director's Dreyer spoof in a cross-shaped shadow reflected on the floor, cries for compassion ("You made me the way I am") and is thus granted a miracle as the window bars come loose in her hands. The downpour outside is scarcely purifying, for she's next seen, in a shot repeated from Los Olvidados, soaked by the window of the nearby ranch; virtuous Doña Matilde Palou brings her inside, but a slow pan over the unconscious fugitive's mud-caked legs, illustrating the interested gaze of both rich owner Fernando Soler and bookish son Luis López Somoza, marks it as a very bad idea. Susana is a name for chaste beauty, according to studious Somoza, though to María Gentil Arcos, the house-running Bible-thumper, she's closer to Satan, or, in her provocatively bare-shouldered slinking as the new servant, at least to the Darnell-Grahame Hollywood Magdalene mode. The full-throttle mélo of the opening is hard to top, but Buñuel keeps the heated tempo steadily rising with shot after subversive shot -- a well houses a secret rendezvous, the patriarch inhales the woman's scent, smuggled with him in handkerchiefs, and Quintana's thighs are smeared with runny yolk after ranch hand randy Víctor Manuel Mendoza presses her (and her basket of eggs) against his bosom. Censors didn't get the onanistic joke whipped around the polishing of glass panes and shotguns, but the story (supposedly a goof on the lurid 1929 potboiler The Squall, with dashes of Freud) didn't really need them to neuter its own inquiries into the instability of family order: cracks into the structure are opened by the heroine's passion only to be papered back up for the closing credits by "the pure truth of God." Morning brings a reactionarily dawning sun, yet not before Buñuel's sneaky, inside-job handling has colored restored-bourgeois platitudes ludicrous with imploding irony. With Rafael Icardo. In black and white.

Slant Magazine Superb Buñuel reviews from Ed Gonzalez

Mexican ambassadors and nationalists called Los Olvidados a crime against the state and while Luis Buñuel's friend Georges Sadoul found the director's depiction of police and state officials "too bourgeois," surrealists and intellectuals alike had nothing but praise for the film. Buñuel loathed the film's ridiculous French subtitle Pitié pour eux (Pity on Them) yet the film's international success meant that Mexico would soon come around. That same year, Buñuel would direct Susana (The Devil and the Flesh), possibly the most unspectacular film of his career. Buñuel's perfectly routine melodrama (a remake of Alexander Korda's 1929 The Squall) begins evocatively enough inside the Reformatorio del Estado with the titular heroine (Rosita Quintana) staring at the silhouette of a cross reflected on the floor from a nearby windowsill. She prays to God for forgiveness ("Dear God! You made me the way I am!"), begs for a miracle, and receives it in the form of Herculean strength (or possibly blind luck) when the bars of her cell's windowsill miraculously come loose.

Sneaking into the rainy night, Susana finds asylum inside a horse ranch owned by Don Guadalupe (Fernando Soler) and his proper wife Doña Carmen (Matilde Palou), operated by the chauvinistic Jesus and kept clean by the ultra-religious Felisa (María Gentil Arcos). "It seems as if there is a demon loose out here," says Felisa soon after Don Guadalupe's favorite mare gives birth to a stillborn colt. A flustered Susana shows up at their front door, bemoans her foster father's sexual indiscretions and is soon taken in by Doña Carmen as her surrogate daughter. Buñuel implies that an untamed Susana was imprisoned because of her sexual voraciousness and while the film can be read as an assault on puritanical thought, Buñuel noticeably plays it safe. The film's sympathetic opening scene suggests that Susana has been imprisoned against her own will and, while she may pray to God out of convenience, she is too erratically salacious to deserve much sympathy and never quite naughty enough to leave much of an impression.

When the ranch's foreman learns of her escape from the asylum, Susana welcomes his sexual advances in return for his silence. Soon she falls for both Guadalupe and his bookish son Alberto (Luis López Somoza) yet things don't get interesting until Doña Carmen deliriously whips Susana for poisoning her family. Felisia's overzealous Catholicism is as overwrought as the comparisons between Susana (read: unbridled female sexuality) and Lozana, Guadalupe's prized filly. "We all feel more comfortable when we live in our rightful place," says Doña Carmen when she learns of Susana's devilish nature. The family's sense of decency is threatened but the young girl is quickly caught in the act. A curiously passive Buñuel has this "bitch of bad breeding" wisked off with not so much as an exorcism and it's not long before Lozana regains her strength and the family returns to normalcy. While the melodrama is certainly potent, Susana lacks considerable bite. "I feel I didn't emphasize the irony enough," Buñuel later admitted.

DAUGHTER OF DECEIT (La Hija del Engaño)

Mexico (77 mi) 1951

User Reviews from imdb Author: NIKOS SONIC (1966nm) from MEXICO

Not of the kind of films that made Buñuel famous worldwide, this is one of the good old movies that you have the chance to see in the Mexican TV 3-4 times per year. This ever popular film is really a comedy with some dramatic brushwork here and there and the kind of extreme human characters that you expect from the director to work with.

Fernando Soler is simply excellent as always and Fernando Soto has some great comic moments. Lily Aclemar is my favorite among the women (with a nice musical number as well), as for the rest of the cast, I think they really won their pay check.

A very presentable work from the golden period of the Mexican cinema, maybe typical of it's time, but nothing more than that really.

MEXICAN BUS RIDE (Subida al Cielo)

Mexico (74 mi) 1952

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

Luis Buñuel's Mexican films of the '50s are pockmarked with barely repressed furies, yet this engagingly messy crowdpleaser, made in the jaunty-populist vein of El Gran Calavera and Illusion Travels by Streetcar, is arguably the closest he came to creating a vision of communal utopia. The setting is a tiny Mexican pueblo, where freshly wed Esteban Márquez is shanghaied mid-honeymoon by his brothers to see their dying mother (Paz Villegas). Knowing that her greedy brood is just waiting for her to croak to divvy up her loot, the old woman asks Márquez, her sole virtuous son, to find a lawyer to legitimize her will, which means steering the dilapidated town bus (manned by jolly sentimentalist Luis Aceves Castañeda) across mountains, rivers and woods. Getting there, as they say, is half the fun -- basing his screenplay on a flurry of real-life events, poet Manuel Altolaguirre crams the bus with raucous peasants, pompous businessmen, shifty politicians and, most notably, town vamp Lilia Prado, hell bent on straying Márquez from the good path. For all the scurrying about over stolen inheritances, Buñuel's world here is a remarkably, circularly harmonious one -- the hero's ailing mother is rhymed with the driver's vigorous one, just as the birth of a child is answered later by the death of another, both accepted unblinkingly as vital parts of the life cycle. Despite the churchless village's cheerfully pagan existence, however, the heavenly ascension of the picture's original title is continually present in the characters' awareness of enlightenment inherent in sex, partying, singing and a vintage Buñuel dream sequence of wilderness invading buses and fruit peels spiraling into umbilical cords. For the director, the link between the corporeal and the spiritual frees the body and, thus, the soul. With Víctor Pérez, Carmelita González, Roberto Cobo, Roberto Meyer, and Beatriz Ramos. In black and white.

Slant Magazine Superb Buñuel reviews from Ed Gonzalez

Unlike A Woman Without Love, Luis Buñuel was actually very fond of Subida al cielo (Mexican Bus Ride), a film based on a series of colorful, real life incidents witnessed by the film's writer and producer, poet Manuel Altolaguirre, and his Cuban wife Maria Luisa. (Buñuel and Altolaguirre met at the Residencia de Estudiantes in Madrid and would work together for the first and last time on Mexican Bus Bride during their mutual exile in Mexico.) It is a beautiful, spiritual film, albeit messy. In the church-less town of Costeño, ancient rituals are used to marry young couples. Oliverio (Esteban Márquez) and his bride sail to a nearby island for their honeymoon ("The island will be Paradise with you," he says when she speaks of a preferred, more traditional excursion to Mexico City) before his brother Felipe (Víctor Pérez) informs them of their mother's impending death. Doña Ester (Paz Villegas) asks that Oliverio ride to Petalán and look for Figueroa the lawyer so he can write up her last will and testament. Aboard a dilapidated bus operated by the noble Silvestre (Luis Aceves Castañeda), Oliverio must negotiate Mother Nature's unpredictable whims, the law of the land and the advances of the coquettish Raquel (Lilia Prado). The series of events that befall Oliverio during this brutal bus ride come to represent the struggle of the film's Mexican collective. The film's literal English translation, Ascent to Heaven, is more representative of the film's ethereal, spiritually melancholic tone. Even if the film's comedic undertones prove distracting, there's no denying the potency of its small miracles. Oliverio's experiences evocatively rewrite themselves in dreams—he makes love to Raquel inside a fern-filled bus, his body connected to that of his mother's via an umbilical cord made out of a potato's peeled skin. Quite simply, Mexican Bus Ride is about the natural order of things. Soon after a child is born aboard the bus, Buñuel parades the coffin of a young girl before the film's travelling Mexicans. "Yesterday a child was born here. Today, another goes to heaven," says one of the film's passengers. Mexican Bus Ride's political subplot is superfluous but the film, like John Sayles's similarly-themed Hombres Armados (Men With Guns), acknowledges and celebrates those miraculous moments (pit stops, if you will) one must face on one's ascent to enlightenment or, in this case, heaven's gate. Mexican Bus Ride won a special jury prize at the 1952 Cannes Film Festival.

A WOMAN WITHOUT LOVE (Una Mujer sin Amor)

Mexico (85 mi) 1952

Chicago Reader (Dave Kehr)

Another relatively unseen film from Luis Buñuel's Mexican period, this one a melodrama about a young married woman whose affair with a wealthy man produces a son; years later her marriage is rocked when her ex-lover leaves a fortune to the boy in his will. With Rosario Granados, Julio Villareal, and Tito Junco (1951, 85 min.).

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

Luis Buñuel's self-described "worst movie" is not so much bad as just routine, not enough melo to spike the drama -- almost like a '30s MGM soaper, though one rushed to cram the pauperly budgets and one-month schedules of his shoestring Mexican period. Based on Guy de Maupassant's Pierre et Jean (or, more precisely, on André Cayatte's 1943 film version), the plot is set mostly in decorated interiors, all the better to (over)stress the purity of Nature in Tito Junco's romantic engineer, who offers sad-eyed society wife Rosario Granados a brief refuge from her loveless marriage to an older art dealer (Julio Villarreal). Their affair aborted by the husband's illness, she has to settle for a quiet life with her two sons, the youngest one the hidden fruit of their passion; dissolve to several years later, the antique shop has turned clinic for the grown boys, now doctors, and the arrival of Junco's inheritance triggers a haze of brutal paranoia in son Joaquín Cordero. Whispers of infidelity, consuming contempt, and much hand-wringing follow. Poisoning male suspicion also figures prominently in Buñuel's even more obscure La Hija del Engaño, made the previous year from Carlos Arniche's play Don Quintín el Armargao, and, while just as weighted down by studio conditions, possibly the most Ulmer-like of the director's works, with sets casually expressionist in their poverty. The two are fascinating yet unsatisfying samples of Buñuel's view of the submerged streak of cruelty and violence formed in the male mind when confronted with desire. (Both emanate a whiff of unacknowledged incest.) There's a logical progression from one to the other (the father in the former becomes, so to speak, the son in the latter), yet the characters' hovering furies -- their sense of patriarchal entitlement -- are soothed by the conventions of the plot when they should be made to boil over, a notion to be realized, magnificently, that same year in Él. With Cordero Loya, Elda Peralta, and Jaime Calpe. In black and white.

Slant Magazine More superb Buñuel reviews from Ed Gonzalez

After Susana, Luis Buñuel would direct the little-seen La Hija del Engaño (Daughter of Deceit), a loose remake of Carlos Arniche's play Don Quintín el Amargao (Don Quintin the Bitter), which Buñuel had helped to adapt for the screen back in 1935 for Spanish director Luis Marquina. "Then came A Woman Without Love, which is quite simply the worst movie I ever made," says Buñuel in his autobiography. The film was supposed to be a remake of André Cayatte's 1943 film version of Guy de Maupassant's Pierre et Jean. "I'd been told to set up a screen on the set and just copy Cayatte's movie scene by scene. Not surprisingly, I made it my own way, but it was still a disaster," wrote Buñuel. Though arguably his worst film, A Woman Without Love is nothing more than a perfectly routine melodrama that most directors would be happy to call their best. Rosario (Rosario Granados) lives in swank quarters with her older husband Don Carlos Montero (Julio Villarreal) and their young son Carlitos, who runs away from home after being accused of petty theft. Carlitos is found and returned to his family by engineer and diehard romantic Julio Mistral (Tito Junco), who woes an unhappy Rosario when the family comes to visit him in the woods. Bound by loyalty to her family, Rosario rejects Julio's love and grows old next to her ailing husband.

Years later, an older Carlitos (Jaime Calpe) and his younger brother Miguel (Cordero Loya) prepare to purchase a clinic for their medical endeavors when the family is notified of Mistral's death. Though Miguel never met Mistral, he curiously inherits the man's entire fortune. When a nurse's advances are rejected by the debonair Carlitos, the woman's gossipy slurs maliciously point at the sordid family secret that links Miguel to the deceased Mistral. Carlitos discovers that Miguel is Mistral's bastard child and A Woman Without Love comes alive via a claustrophobic Shakespearean gravitas that pours out from every crevice of the film's surface. Carlitos is hopelessly in love with a female doctor, Luisa (Elda Peralta), who doesn't return his affections. Luisa marries Miguel not long after he inherits his fortune, making it entirely too easy for Carlitos to question her motivations. Carlitos refuses money from Miguel and tragically denies Rosario his love. This man consumed by jealously and deceit inadvertently brought Rosario and Mistral together when he was only a child. Now he emotionally cripples his mother and loses faith in all women as a result. It's not long before Rosario defends her honor and fidelity ("Mine was not a shameful affair, only an impossible union") and, in turn, easily shatters Carlito's sexist ideals. Buñuel jabs at society's oppression of women are limp and the finale is entirely too facile for a film that deserved (and was suspiciously geared for) a more Hitchcockian wind-down.

EL BRUTO

aka: The Brute

Mexico (81 mi) 1953

Chicago Reader

Pedro, an enthusiastic young butcher nicknamed "the Brute," leaves the slaughterhouse to work as a rent collector for a Mexico City slumlord. But the slumlord's wife is so impressed by his physical prowess (he kills a delinquent tenant with one blow) that she takes him on as her lover. Katy Jurado and Pedro Armendariz star in this 1952 production from Luis Buñuel's Mexican period.

Channel 4 Film

Not one of Buñuel's better-known efforts, this melodrama still has moments of interest, largely for fans of the director. The Brute of the title is a slaughterhouse worker who relies on brawn rather than brains, and it's this that comes in handy when a landlord hires him to frighten away unwanted tenants. Problems arise, however, when he embarks on an affair with both the boss's wife and the daughter of one of the errant tenants, whose death he has accidentally caused. Unlike Buñuel's subtler, more surreal work this is relatively straightforward although it lacks much of his style as a result.

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

The political and the bestial brought together by Luis Buñuel in a burlesque of Victorian melodrama, very radicalized, very funny -- "La ley es la ley," the rich oppressor (Andrés Soler) tells the tenants about to be tossed out of their homes, a pan from an ornate Virgin Mary shrine to the slaughterhouse below finds the titular troglodyte (Pedro Armendáriz) dragging a carcass across the floor. The plot opens on a note of communal insurrection: the tenants refuse to leave their building, Soler consults his wife (Katy Jurado) about ways to quell their revolt, she responds by scissoring off the heads of her flowers. Armendáriz is the boss's Caliban, shanghaied from his leeching family to do Soler's bidding, a bovine hothead who cracks walnuts with the flex of his biceps and grins like a kid at the sight of Jurado sprawled provocatively in his bed; the animal thickness is used as a tool by the bourgeoisie to betray his own struggling class, and Roberto Meyer, the most vocal of slum troublemakers, is accidentally killed with a single punch. Armendáriz and Jurado entertain Soler's father (Paco Martínez), who is pacified by licking tequila off his daughter-in-law's finger and snacking on caramels, and, when the master is away, the couple engages in illicit off-screen torridness -- the dolly toward a plate of burned meat is a joke on censorship, later modulated by dissolving from the brute falling in love with Meyer's virginal daughter (Rosa Arenas) to a gutting candle. Arenas hides him from a vengeful mob, Armendáriz brings her a chicken to replace the one he strangled; the film traces his awakening to the less basic, more insidious economics around him, the man who "opens his eyes, little by little." The violence within Armendáriz is no match for Jurado's own passion, however; climactic revelations make the revolution an Oedipal matter, the hysteria escalates subversively until it boils over, leaving exposed nerves and Buñuel's superb final jest, human melodrama reflected in the accusatory eye of the rooster perched on a staircase. With Beatriz Ramos, and Gloria Mestre. In black and white.

Slant Magazine Superb Buñuel reviews from Ed Gonzalez

“It is what it is. I don't know if I did or did not want to make a melodrama," said Luis Buñuel of El Bruto (The Brute). If the similarities between Fassbinder's Martha and Buñuel's El are unavoidable, there are also striking similarities between El Bruto and Fassbinder's The Stationmaster's Wife: butcher shops, misogynistic men, domineering women and their hen-pecked husbands. Bruto (Pedro Armendariz) represents brute force as a weapon of oppression. When a group of tenants refuse to be evicted from their homes, slumlord Don Andres (Andrés Soler) hires slaughterhouse worker Bruto to "rough up" Don Carmelo Gonzalez (Roberto Meyer), the slum's most vocal troublemaker. An already sick Carmelo dies from wounds sustained by Bruto's powerful hand and it's not long before the men in town are out for blood. Don Andres' much younger wife, Paloma (Katy Jurado), falls hard for Bruto as he contemplates the power of his punch by knocking around pieces of meat hanging inside the old man's butcher shop. If Buñuel was uncertain as to whether he was consciously making melodrama, his two leads knew exactly what they were doing. Buñuel may have been correct in cautioning against reading El Bruto as a film specifically about social problems if only because the film reads entirely better as a Frankenstein allegory.

"I wish I had the power to exterminate that bunch of revolutionaries," says Don Andres of his problem tenants. Just as Buñuel seems to map out a socio-political problem in the film's Mexican ghetto, Paloma declares, "Don't exaggerate." Sure, El Bruto is relatively apolitical but that's because Buñuel is drunk on animal magnetism. Both Armendariz and Jurado would go on to have very long Hollywood careers, but Paloma still remains one of the actress's most infamous strong women. She tears Bruto's shirt off and begins to kiss his predictably hairy chest. And just as he forcibly reaches in for a kiss, she all but screams rape. "Get your dirty hands off of me," she says. She defends her willingness to control their sex and, for a moment, Buñuel seems to ask, "Who really is the brute here?" Bruto falls for Meche, Carmelo's daughter, and soon begins to sympathize with the plight of the film's impoverished tenants. He kills Andres in a fit of rage but not before a very jealous Paloma attacks Meche for stealing her man. Clothes torn and face bloodied, Paloma begs to be hit some more by an enraged Bruto before she sends the police after him, not for killing her husband but for spurning her animal affections. Bruto frees the slaves, dies for Paloma's sins and, in the end, no one could care less. A satisfied Paloma walks away a winner, leaving Bruto's body behind only to stop and stare challengingly at the face of a cock no doubt ready to blurt out his morning song.

Las Increibles Aventuras del Señor Tijeras (Spanish)

Ozus' World Movie Reviews (Dennis Schwartz)

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

ÉL A- 93

aka: This Strange Passion

Mexico (100 mi) 1953

Buñuel went to Jesuit school in his native Spain, but came of age in Paris during the 20’s, commenting that “a religious education and surrealism have marked me for life.” His early surrealist films UN CHIEN ANDALOU (1928) and L’AGE D’OR (1930) were considered shock treatments, a synthesis of Marx and Freud, anarchists of the spirit and liberators of the psyche. The Surrealists abandoned a straight narrative as a form of repression, preferring to allow the unconscious to speak through images, dreams, and fantasies, seamlessly inserting them into otherwise realistic stories. Perhaps only Jean Genet surpassed Buñuel in exploring his character’s fantasies. Freud was reportedly fascinated by Buñuel’s early work, but the Depression and the demand for escapist entertainment left no one to bankroll Surrealism. Buñuel was all but absent from directing films in the 30’s and 40’s, but worked dubbing, producing, and working in the film department at the Museum of Modern Art. LOS OLVIDADES (1950) returned Buñuel to an international stage, winning the Best Director prize at Cannes in 1951, offering a brutal portrait of slum kids in Mexico City, exploring their world of savage cruelty, where his meanest character in the film is a blind beggar. In the tradition of Freud and the Surrealists, Buñuel saw his characters less as victims of their environment than as pawns in their own murderous and sado-masochistic fantasy lives. His fascination with ugliness and violence (like the Spanish Inquisition) is almost stereotypically Spanish. A surrealist-tinged melodrama, “El” is the masculine, definitive article in Spanish, where Buñuel and co-writer Luis Alcoriza have devised a deviously clever adaptation of the Mercedes Pinto novel, a near Hitchcockian tale about jealousy, paranoia, and female subjugation, suggesting that in the extreme the person ultimately subjugated is the male himself, locking himself into a narrow, self-imposed prison of his own making, ironically a view shared very much by the existentialists, such as Sartre’s No Exit. Reportedly French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan's favorite film, literally overflowing with Freudian imagery, he was known to show the film to his students as an example of paranoia.

Buñuel understood obsession like no other, turning it into black comedy, perfectly integrating delusions and fantasies into everyday ordinary existence, where a middle-aged, devoutly religious aristocrat, Francisco (Arturo de Córdova), a man who has abstained from sex his entire life, is assisting the local priest wash and kiss the feet of young male altar boys when he’s literally stunned to discover the attractive feet of one particularly beautiful woman, Gloria (Delia Garcés). Wasting no time, he immediately steals the heart of this woman out from under her architect fiancé Raul (Luis Beristáin), where swayed by his wealth they are quickly married. What happens afterwards is told in a flashback to Raul in a state of near panic, as she finds it hard to believe herself. On the night of her honeymoon, when her new husband approaches her in bed, perhaps to avoid the inevitable that he has been resisting his entire life, he accuses her of thinking of Raul before falling into an endless stream of jealous rage, castigating her for having previous lovers, blaming them for this incessant hostility, where Gloria is in shock at his behavior, but he later apologizes profusely. Francisco refuses to allow her to have friends or even see her own mother for fear they will turn her against him, believing he must possess her all to himself, basically locking her up in a cloistered life where he continues to suspect she is being followed by former lovers. What is initially startling is taken to even greater extremes, becoming inherently ridiculous, but given a Kafkaesque spin when no one believes her and she sees no way out, not even her mother or the local priest, as Francisco portrays himself as such a decent man in the community. Even Gloria was fooled at first by his elegant and gracious manner, but it’s as if he has a personality disorder, continually turning into his Mr. Hyde persona, actually threatening her life. In one of the most extraordinary sequences, a likely influence on Hitchcock’s Vertigo (1958) five years later, the two climb up to the top of a Spanish mission’s bell tower, a supposed favorite place of reflection and meditation for Francisco, offering magnificent views of the city, where he grabs her by the throat and threatens to throw her over the railing. Both EL and Vertigo deal with male hysteria, control and possession of women, leading to an illusory sense of male identity, where both are about the inability of a male protagonist to control a female object of desire, exposing underlying delusions and outright psychoses that have likely been there all along.

It’s important to remember that in the eyes of the church there’s no such thing as divorce, that marriage is a lifelong commitment, an unbreakable oath that is taken before God. As grotesque a turn as can be imagined, where does that leave Gloria? While the first part of the film is told from Francisco’s perspective, the second half shifts to Gloria’s vantage point. In her small religious community, divorce is scandalous, requiring evidence she doesn’t have, much like the scene of a crime, as the family’s honor and reputation would be disgraced and ruined if she abandons her husband, so Francisco continually pleads forgiveness at the feet of Gloria. To the outside world, their lives seem normal, but to the unstable mind of Francisco, it’s all about domination and submission, and the long term effects of sexual repression, especially well into adulthood. We get a dizzying account of Francisco’s personal struggle within himself to maintain an equilibrium, where he demands complete obedience from his wife, but even when she dutifully obeys completely, he continues to rage against the world, developing a personal contempt for all humans, as in the end you only end up being disappointed. His souring view of a rancid world fits into his delusions that everyone is conspiring against him, where people are laughing behind his back, accentuated by the swirling Bernard Hermann-style hysteria from musical composer Luis Hernández Bretón and the sumptuous black and white imagery (especially the sweeping panoramas of the town of Guanajuato, reminiscent of Hitchcock’s voyeuristic gaze of San Francisco) from legendary Mexican cinematographer Gabriel Figueroa. When Gloria finally has the courage to leave him (after several near death experiences), he goes after her with a gun, like a man possessed, his face sweaty and his hair continually falling out of place, where he has the look of madness in his eyes. When he sees her with Raul, he follows them into a church service, but when he approaches them, his sanity escapes him. Buñuel cleverly blends a reality of church serene serenity with a quickly unraveling, out of control, fictitious surreal world, much like Bergman’s HOUR OF THE WOLF (1968), where the parishioners, altar boys, and even the priest start laughing uncontrollably at him, happening all in his head, as if shamed because they can somehow see what a disgrace he has become, where his surging torment within himself only feeds a hallucinated world of visionary horrors. Buñuel has the last laugh, however, as in the final shot it is the director himself (appearing in his own film like Hitchcock) and not Arturo de Córdova who is under the monk’s robes. The audience can amusingly decide for themselves whether they think a solitary life in religious penitence has “cured” Francisco of his personal obsessions.

El Review. Movie Reviews - Film - Time Out London Tony Rayns

Why would a fanatically jealous husband creep up on his sleeping wife clutching a bottle of anaesthetic and a needle and thread? In the gospel according to Buñuel, it's because he's a typical bourgeois male, terrified of female sexuality, projecting his own heavily repressed lusts on to every other male in sight. Buñuel examines him dispassionately, as a victim of himself and of the society that formed him; his story is neither a tragedy nor a comedy, but a necessary working out of certain moral and psychological tensions that are intrinsic in his class. The tone couldn't be further from the self-congratulation of an exercise like The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie.

El | Chicago Reader Jonathan Rosenbaum from the Reader, also seen here: Full Review

One of Luis Bunuel's more perverse low-budget Mexican features (1952), also known in this country as This Strange Passion. Arturo de Cordova plays a wealthy Catholic whose insane jealousy toward his wife (Delia Garces) first becomes apparent on their honeymoon. In some ways it's a parody of machismo, full of anticlerical thrusts, but like many other Bunuel features of this period, the irreverence--consisting in part of such ghoulish, Sade-inspired notions as the hero wanting to sew up his wife's vagina--tends to be almost parenthetical rather than the main focus. Bunuel remained true to his surrealist origins throughout his Mexican period, but the full command of his earliest and latest films, as well as such intermediate masterpieces as Los olvidados and The Exterminating Angel, resulted in stronger fare than this. Still, the hero's wonderful crooked walk in the final shot seems the perfect emblem of Bunuel's own sly subversion in adverse circumstances.

User reviews from imdb (Page 2) Author: Martin Teller from Portland OR

One of Bunuel's best films, and certainly the finest of his lesser-known work. An intense, gripping study of a man who goes from merely asshole to outright insane, perhaps driven just a bit by his fondness for feet (the film's alternate title is "This Strange Passion"). In a powerhouse performance by Arturo de Cordova, Francisco is jealous, irrational, impulsive, self-centered, paranoid, delusional, megalomaniacal, misanthropic and sadistic. Bunuel leaves it up to the viewer to imagine what he's doing to Julia as we hear her tormented screams echo through the mansion... or what he has in mind when he sneaks into her room with a rope, a razor blade and a pair of scissors. Bunuel isn't known for flashy cinematography, but he always knows exactly where to place the camera, and the film's visual style gets more and more noir-ish as Francisco descends deeper into his obsessive madness. There's a subversive quality and almost a black comedy to it, like a Wyler melodrama with a perverted twist. The film begins and ends in a church, a symbol of sexual repression and false ideals, and the brilliant final shot suggests how much it feeds into Francisco's psychosis.

Edinburgh U Film Society [Spiros Gangas]

One of the early Buñuelian excursions to the themes which have subsequently taken over his whole career, El provides a weird but fascinating mediation on the thread which binds religion, the bourgeoisie and sexuality together. It oscillates between comedy and tragedy, remaining thus faithful to the true style of Buñuel, and presents again an exceptional mixture of psychological and sociological insights.

The story tells of Francisco (Arturo de Cordova), an exemplary type of the bourgeois culture: handsome, wealthy, devout and a believer in romantic love. Despite these virtues, he is unmarried and still a virgin. Once while in church he finds himself attracted to Gloria (Delia Garcés), a beautiful young woman and manages to win her from her lover. Francisco, being a genuine product of his society - sexually and socially repressed - attempts one night to murder her, unsuccessfully though since he manages to escape. The way out for Francisco is that of austerity and solitude, found in monastic life.

Francisco's misogynist views, his spurious spirituality (the scene where he meets Gloria in the church) and puritanism as to material property and ethical integrity make him a victim of his own upbringing. El is a film which proceeds in a consistent and effective way to blur distinctions between truth/lie or logic/insanity; it might not be a masterpiece, but it prepares all the aspects which Buñuel attempted to resolve in Nazarin or in The Discreet Charm..., and it provides ample pleasures with its astute humour and criticism.

Slant Magazine Superb Buñuel reviews from Ed Gonzalez

Released at the pinnacle of his prolific Mexican period, Él (This Strange Passion) remains one of Luis Buñuel's crowning achievements. "Ironically, there's absolutely nothing Mexican about Él; it's simply the portrait of a paranoiac, who, like a poet, is born, not made," says the director in his autobiography. Though set in Mexico and ripe with authentic details from daily life, Él is less a portrait of machismo gone awry than it is a brutal and absurd glimpse at one man's runaway paranoia. Not surprisingly, the film begins on a rather fetishistic high-note. Father Velasco (Carlos Martínez Baena) carefully washes and kisses the feet of the church's altar boys. His friend Don Francisco (Arturo de Córdova) follows a trail of feet with his eyes, focusing finally on those of the beautiful Gloria (Delia Garcés). Buñuel likens the moment to a falcon spying a dove from above and, while the relationship between Francisco and Gloria is certainly not unlike one between a hunter and its prey, the moment comes to reaffirm the potency of Francisco's passion and his conviction in the belief that there is such a thing as love at first sight.

There's really nothing to the film's first half, which is told from Francisco's tranquil point-of-view. Though the entrepreneur has recently lost an expensive plot of land, he remains relatively levelheaded. He returns to the church where he first spotted Gloria and though he fails to seduce her (let alone get her first name), he follows her around town and soon discovers that she is engaged to Raul (Luis Beristáin), an associate in the construction business. Francisco invites Raul to dinner at his home—it's his way of getting Gloria into close quarters and forcing her to acknowledge their mutual animal attraction. "I have a highly singular view of love," says Francisco, scoffing "prepared love" while dinner guests warn of the danger inherent in this "poisoned arrow" love. Father Velasco, also in attendance, is more concerned with the food on his plate to offer any real opinion on the subject. "My thoughts on love are sober," says the priest. For Buñuel, the priest is the last person who should be interjecting though it's not long before the director begins to take jabs at Velasco's misguided, highly toxic notion of honor and justice.

After the film's dinner party sequence, Buñuel cuts to a shot of an explosion at a construction site and then to a disorientated Gloria walking through the streets of Mexico City. The film soon takes on her point-of-view when she begins to tell Raul how Francisco turned into a jealous maniac after they married. The trouble began on their honeymoon, aboard a train to Francisco's childhood town of Guanajuato. Gloria closes her eyes and prepares to receive Francisco's kiss when her husband inexplicably accuses her of thinking of Raul. On a trip up a mountainside resort, he accuses a man of spying on Gloria (going so far as to thrust a sewing needle through a keyhole, believing the man to be spying from the other side of their hotel room). Everyone from the hotel's manager to Gloria's own mother is so convinced of Francisco's levelheadedness that they inadvertently perpetuate his paranoia. Gloria is ludicrously blamed for drawing the attention of these perceived paramours to herself and, even though she's been encouraged to make friendly with Francisco's new lawyer during a dinner party, she is nonetheless accused of being a tramp for dancing too intimately with the young man.

Gloria remains the picture-perfect example of a dutiful wife, standing by Francisco even after he tries to shoot her. Raul echoes the spectator's thoughts when he wonders how she could have survived the gunshot. Though she fell to the floor after the gunshot, she tells a stunned Raul that Francisco had only shot her with a gun full of blanks. Francisco goes as far as to try and sew Gloria's vagina, denying her contact with the outside world, not unlike the ghoulish husband that sequesters his wife in Fassbinder's similarly themed Martha. He mocks her desire to be around people. A delusional Francisco takes Gloria to the belfry of a bell tower, compares the people on the street to worms before contemplating how easy it would be to strangle her and throw her off the tower. (Alfred Hitchcock would go on to recreate this sequence in Vertigo, his classic tale of obsessive love.) And still Gloria chooses to stay with him, because she comes to believe that her husband is suffering more than she is. Buñuel's semi-comical attention to the material means that Francisco is never completely odious nor can Él be read as a straightforward account of domestic abuse.

If paranoiacs, like poets, are indeed born and not made, Buñuel foreshadows Francisco's insanity via one character's reference to the gaudy architecture of the man's home. A guest at one of Francisco's dinner parties remarks that the host's home seems to have been designed by a man guided by "sentiment, emotion and instinct, rather than reason." Francisco is anything but reasonable but less important than the masochistic bloodline between father and son is Buñuel's fascinating support for the film's anti-hero. Father Velasco would later dismiss Gloria's pleas for help as "truth colored by youthful imagination," another indication that Buñuel is very much concerned with calling attention to the poisonous wisdom of supposedly celibate clerics advising man to suppress human desire. The effect is so overwhelming that men like Francisco begin to resemble irrational versions of their previous selves. Certainly Buñuel understands and sympathizes with Francisco's strange passions yet the only person to blame here is a church that has made him into a pervert. Is Francisco really so wrong when he says that the self is the essence of the soul?

Offscreen.com :: The Idea and the World As It Is: Catholicism and ... The Idea and the World As It Is: Catholicism and Insanity in El and Nazarin, by David Hanley from Offscreen, February 28, 2011

Male hysteria in the bell tower: Buñuel's El as the primary source for Hitchcock's Vertigo Hussein Ibish from Ibishblog, July 20, 2011

Epinions [metalluk]

Oggs' Movie Thoughts

Strictly Film School Acquarello

Buñuel in Mexico - Harvard Film Archive

User reviews from imdb (Page 2) Author: dbdumonteil

User reviews from imdb Author: rudronriver from Spain

User reviews from imdb Author: jotix100 from New York

User reviews from imdb Author: MARIO GAUCI (marrod@melita.com) from Naxxar, Malta

Film Epidemic: El (Bunuel, 1953) Joel

Notes of a Film Fanatic [Mat Viola]

El glob de Manuel [Manuel Márquez] (spanish)

El Trailer, Reviews and Schedule for El ... - Movie News - TV Guide TV Guide

DVDBeaver.com - Graphic Review [Gary W. Tooze]

Él (film) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

ILLUSION TRAVELS BY STREETCAR (La Ilusión Viaja en Tranvía) B+ 91

Mexico (82 mi) 1954

Here in Mexico, I have become a professional in the film world. Until I came here I made a film the way a writer makes a book, and on my friends’ money at that. I am very grateful and happy to have lived in Mexico, and I have been able to make my films here in a way I could not have in any other country in the world. It is quite true that in the beginning, caught up by necessity, I was forced to make cheap films. But I never made a film which went against my conscience or my convictions. I have never made a superficial, uninteresting film.

—Luis Buñuel in an interview with Wilfried Berghahn from Filmkritik, 1963

One of the more accessible and charmingly entertaining films by Buñuel, an actual screwball comedy filled with an intriguing cross-section of humanity, often at odds with one another where the haves and have-nots mingle with class-conscious humor onboard a streetcar, which becomes a moving set where trams connected to power lines are constantly seen cris-crossing throughout the film like some crazy homage to Ozu. Set between his early surrealist phase (1929—32) and his later European phase of movies (1966—77), Luis Buñuel produced the largest body of his work, twenty of his thirty-two films in Mexico (1946—1964), coinciding with what was heralded as the Golden Age of Mexican cinema, an era when Mexican cinema dominated the Latin American scene. Exiled from Spain when the Spanish Civil War led to the fascist rule of Franco, Buñuel was considered a surrealist slumming in the Mexican-melodrama market, making low-budget studio films while earning a reputation for being extremely calm, prepared and efficient during shooting, but it was with his Mexican films that Buñuel began to fully develop his unique mix of surrealist humor and social melancholy, combining a documentary sense with surrealist qualities into a loose, discontinuous form of narrative, paying especially close attention to the details of average Mexican life. Made just after Él (1953), set in various neighborhoods of Mexico City, the film is considered among his most “Mexican” movies, though Buñuel’s personality, wit, and subversive themes are on full display. Reflecting life during the administration of Mexican President Miguel Alemán Valdés (1946—1952), more systematic governmental attention was paid to industrialization, national infrastructure, and economic development than previous administrations, but it also represented a period in which the gap between the wealthy and the poor became much more evident. One of his many quick and inexpensive studio films of the 50’s, this is a comedy about two mechanics who are devastated a streetcar they have steadfastly worked to repair is suddenly scheduled for demolition, deciding to get drunk and borrow it for one last midnight ride, only to encounter plenty of difficulty trying to return it.

The story concerns Curly and Tarranjas (Carlos Navarro and Fernando Soto), two friends who lovingly restore broken down streetcars back to working order, taking a certain amount of pride in their work, so they are offended when the company decides to scrap a perfectly operational vehicle, where their pleas to save it fall on deaf ears. Having spent nearly half their lives with “Streetcar 133,” they’re not inclined to let it go so easily, deciding to christen it with a last voyage, showing a more playful side of Buñuel, demonstrating a great capacity for irony, opening with a church nativity scene, or Pastorelas, which becomes Buñuel’s interpretation of Milton’s Paradise Lost depicting the fall of man, humorously performed by the local dramatic society with the lead characters playing significant roles. Buñuel’s actual comment on religion was “Thank god I’m an atheist.” As quoted from Orson Welles, “Buñuel is a deeply Christian man, and he hates God as only a Christian can.” In what appears to be a celebration of the workers in an alcohol-fueled performance, it becomes an absurdly told passion play where Curly plays a heavily bearded God in a white robe as the creator of the garden of Eden, while Lilia Prado as Lupita, the sister of Tarranjas, plays the most sensuous rendition of Eve on planet earth, actually seducing Adam, who in real life is none other than her brother, both cast out of paradise. In Buñuel’s twisted universe, this incestuous relationship forms the basis of the origins of man. Prado is a revelation in the film, the epitome of a voluptuous women, a former beauty contest winner and dancer, she and Sivia Pinal were the only Mexican actresses who worked with Buñuel in three films. Curly appears to have a thing for her throughout, where there is a back story that remains untold, as instead the bacchanal revelry continues on the streetcar, taking it around the city on a drunken spree for one wild last run, picking up an eclectic group of characters along the way, where out of some moral obligation they refuse to charge a fare.

There have been stories of runaway trains, like RUNAWAY TRAIN (1985) or UNSTOPPABLE (2010), also dream sequences where trains play a vital role, like SPIRITED AWAY (2001) or INCEPTION (2010), but Buñuel is among the best at blurring the lines between fantasy and reality, all told in a Mexican context, where on public vehicles you were just as likely to encounter people carrying crates of fruit or live turkeys, or as shown here, a surreal dreamlike sequence where they make a stop at a slaughterhouse, with butchers climbing onboard carrying slabs of meat, hanging giant chunks of raw meat throughout the streetcar, leaving little room left for the human occupants. Because of their drunken state, it’s not clear whether this is what they really see or a bizarre hallucination. At one point, someone dumps brains into Lupita’s lap as a gift for the free fares, where the improbable becomes commonplace in a Buñuel film, like pious old ladies carrying the image of a saint, collecting donations wherever they go, cynically using religion to shake down passengers, all shown with a comic relish. When a snooty bourgeois American woman climbs onboard, she grows indignant at the thought of a free fare, claiming it “smells like Communism.” In MEXICAN BUS RIDE (1952) and again here, Buñuel has a blast intentionally showing Lilia Prado’s legs when she climbs aboard the streetcar, where it is a male rite of passage to stare and watch her skirt fall open, unveiling part of her thigh as she raises one leg. This sexual allure becomes part of the passive voyeuristic obsession that comes with riding public transportation. Unable to sneak the tram back the next morning, they have various odd and ironic adventures all over Mexico City, continually avoiding their superiors while trying to sneak the streetcar back into its depot. They are nearly undone by an aging transit system retiree, Papá Pinillos (Agustín Isunza), who feels it’s his duty to report the stolen streetcar to the company he’s worked for his entire life, but the company refuses to believe him, feeling it’s impossible they could make such a mistake, and instead berates him for continually butting into the company’s business long after he retired. It’s a fascinating worldview, an exaggerated satire of bourgeois values, taking aim at church and state, becoming a Kafkaesque comedy where absurdity and chance occurrences coexist in an everyday normality, all told through the (supposed) raving delusions of an aging pensioner trying to expose what amounts to a ghost train let loose through the center of town, where he’s the only person in the entire city who can see it, apparently, as according to the certainty of his bosses, the streetcar never left the depot.

Illusion Travels by Streetcar | Chicago Reader Dave Kehr

A surprisingly gentle folk comedy directed Luis Buñuel during his "commercial" Mexican period. Two streetcar conductors find that their car is going to be retired and take it out for a last run through the streets of Mexico City. The undoubted highlight is Buñuel's interpretation of Paradise Lost, performed by the local dramatic society. Not a great Buñuel, but it has a certain warmth that his other films often lack—to say the least. In Spanish with subtitles.

CINE-FILE: Cine-List - CINE-FILE Chicago Rob Christopher

In his autobiography, Buñuel mentions this film only in passing; elsewhere he told critics Jose de la Colina and Tomas Perez Turrent, "I don't like the title and didn't choose it." But even if the filmmaker himself didn't seem to have much fondness for it, even minor Buñuel is worth seeing. The plotline, about two inebriated transit workers who commandeer the title conveyance for a late-night joyride, sounds almost like a Preston Sturges movie. And it certainly is one of the great surrealist's most carefree works. Like many of Buñuel's Mexican films, it was shot quickly and cheaply. Yet several critics have praised its mise-en-scene, particularly the way the characters interact within the crowded frame, which serves as proof of the director's instinctual economy. When you're working fast, every shot counts.

Snag a Ride to Luis Buñuel’s Surrealist Ode to Mass Transit: Illusion Travels By Streetcar in 35mm! Julian Antos from Chicago Northwest Film Society

On the night before it’s set to be sent to the scrapyard, a conductor (Carlos Navarro) and fare collector (Fernando Soto) take streetcar number 133 on one last joyride through Mexico City, giving free rides to anyone who will take them. (At one point, 133 is filled with butchers – and their enormous slabs of meat – who just finished working the late shift). Our two heroes wake up in the back of the car hungover, and race to return it before their supervisor notices. Shot quickly on location in three weeks, Illusion Travels by Streetcar has the creaky energy and humor of an early talkie. A plea against the reckless and incompetent destruction of things which are perfectly useful by bean counters who are perfectly useless, Illusion Travels by Streetcar is also an unsentimental, humanist ode to machines and the “little” people who care for them, hence an NWCFS natural.

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

To Lang in Human Desire, the train remains as locked to its rails as people remain to the pitiless determinism of fate; that same year, Luis Buñuel had his own vehicle jump schedule and venture into the night. Indeed, human desire is what moves the two main blokes, transit workers Carlos Navarro and Fernando Soto, whose faithful pal, a beat-up streetcar, is scheduled for dismantling the following day. "Bueno... Y Qué?" asks a billboard, so Navarro and Soto, fueled by frustration and beer, kidnap it and take it out for one last spin through the streets of Mexico City. Like the title vehicle in Mexican Bus Ride, Buñuel's crowd-pleasing companion piece, the car briskly turns community-on-wheels, crammed with human bustle -- suspicious nuns, gossipy matrons, and slaughterhouse workers, carcasses swinging from the hand-bars above a top-hatted tipsy bourgeois. Morning comes, then freedom dissipates: economic realities prevail as the guys scramble to ride back to the depot before the farewell joyride costs them their jobs. Airily shot in various mock-neorealist locales, the movie is more than passingly politicized in its wistful populism: the exploitation of the masses is explicitly evoked, maize gets smuggled in fertilizer sacks, and, most daringly, passengers prove too programmed to follow society's rules to consider breaking them. ("Smells like communism," snaps a gringa when told the tickets are free.) Buñuel traffics in two-sided myopia by depicting both the system that refuses to question the fallibility of its mechanisms (just as a family is to refuse to see the missing daughter right beneath their noses in Phantom of the Liberty) and the individual (Agustín Isunza) who insists on serving it long after it has discarded him. Elsewhere, Adam and Eve are played in swimsuits at a pantomimed Nativity pageant while romance flowers aboard the stalled car, Navarro adjusting Lilia Prado's skirt so her stockings won't show -- one of the city's many stories, according to the narrator, yet Buñuel asks, as did Renoir: Are these people going too far, or not nearly far enough? With Miguel Manzano, and Guillermo Bravo Sosa. In black and white.

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez] More superb Buñuel reviews from Ed Gonzalez

A municipal transit company decides to retire one of its streetcars, but after a night of drinking, two of the company's workers, Juan (Carlos Navarro) and Tarrajas (Fernando Soto), decide to take the streetcar out for one last trip, subsequently perpetuating a series of cosmic encounters around Mexico City. Incredibly photographed by Raúl Martínez Solares, Illusion Travels by Streetcar is in many ways Luis Buñuel's most visually intoxicating creation. Juan and Tarrajas's decision to borrow the dilapidated but perfectly serviceable streetcar is an unconsciously political move on their part, evoked not only by the countless tableauxs the director mounts inside the car but in the black-and-white compositions that seemingly pit characters against shadowy, angular streets that are alternately, almost confrontationally empty and alive with people. Juan and Tarrajas's trip through Mexico City represents a resistance movement—a struggle against modernity that summons the will of the city's people, whose perseverance keeps the duo's journey alive. Hoping to return the train to its station, the men's nostalgic trip is repeatedly interrupted by people hoping to hitch a ride from one location to another. Their insistence on submitting to everyone's whims indicates their unfaltering kindness in much the same way that the company's refusal to believe that train number 133 was stolen points to a modern society's delusions of impenetrability. Buñuel uses the train to bring different cross-sections of Mexican society together, repeatedly pitting thematic rivals against each other: past and present, young and old, rich and poor, religion and politics. In the film's most incredible sequence, the lower-class workers from a slaughterhouse and a drunken political figure collide, their mostly silent battle of wills supervised by a statue of Christ and the pig heads that hang from the bus's hand-bars. (The confrontation of religious and political symbols seemingly anticipates much of Alejandro Jodorowsky's The Holy Mountain.) Buñuel was never much of a sentimentalist, and unfortunately the film doesn't quite transcend its theoretical import, not so much because the anecdotes are forcibly metaphorical but because the human dramas that play out inside the bus scarcely register, and as such Illusion Travels by Streetcar is the more aesthetically and politically astringent but less heartfelt cousin to the director's Mexican Bus Ride.

Parallax View [Peter Hogue] originally published in Movietone News 51, August 1976 (excerpt)

One tends to think of Luis Buñuel’s “early” career in terms of long desert spaces between highly personal landmarks: almost two decades of relative anonymity between the collaboration with Dalí—Un Chien andalou (1929) and L’Age d’ôr (1930)—and the explosive resurfacing occasioned by Los olvidados (1950), and then a decade of ostensibly “commercial” filmmaking between Los olvidados and Viridiana (1961), which in turn initiated a period of big and small masterpieces extending to the present. As a new biography by Francisco Aranda makes evident, Buñuel was much more involved in film in the Thirties and Forties than has generally been recognized; and, as retrospective tributes and newly available 16mm prints show, Buñuel’s “commercial” work is much more interesting than disparaging remarks about the director’s “Mexican period” would lead us to believe. One might go even further: some of Buñuel’s lesser-known Fifties films are so good that they may alter our sense not only of Buñuel but of film in the Fifties as well.

Of the movies the director made between Los olvidados and Viridiana, perhaps only Nazarín (1958) has any great currency. But at least half a dozen titles from the period, many of them out of circulation until recently, are of special importance. Subida al cielo (1951) and Él (1953), two films which have been generally available, rank as small masterpieces—the one a devastatingly surreal B picture*, the other a superbly succinct psychological study which has something of the seductiveness and sting of Belle de Jour (1967). Susana (1951), Abismos de pasión (1954), and Robinson Crusoe (1953) are literary adaptations of considerable interest. A number of “commercial” films from just before and after Los olvidados—Gran Casino (1947), El gran calavera (1949), La hija del engaño (1950), Ilusion viaia en tranvia (1953), and El rio y la Muerte (1954) rate as appealing minor works. But three others—Ensayo de un crimen (1955), La Mort en ce jardin (1956), and The Young One (1960)—deserve to be known by more than Buñuel aficionados alone. All three reflect a radical filmmaker’s approach to a conservative, conformist age, and all three are among Buñuel’s wisest and most engaging films.

Illusion Travels by Streetcar (1953) and The River and Death (1954) have both been billed, along with Mexican Bus Ride (Subida al cielo), as films about “Mexican folklore.” All three deal with the “common man” and with Mexican popular culture, though neither of the former two matches the “secret” richness of the latter. Illusion is perhaps the most puzzling of Buñuels Mexican projects: in synopsis it sounds like a potential masterpiece, but on film it is an enjoyable film comedy in which the director’s best opportunities for personal expression go strangely neglected. The story involves two mechanics who roam the city in a commandeered streetcar which has been tabbed for the junkpile. The extended (more than 24 hours), unauthorized journey is a gesture of affection for something on which they have worked hard and well; a gesture of protest against a bureaucracy which “retires” the car just as it is restored to usefulness; and a gesture of easygoing solidarity with the various cityfolk to whom these men give rides. Digressions involving a neighborhood festival, a Buick-driving suitor, an incident over black-market corn, and the misadventures of a retired conductor add to the possibilities for urban picaresque.

Buñuel seems content to let these materials merely go their entertaining way. The film is full of a gentle sort of Marxist class-consciousness, and part of its humor has to do with the failure of the ruling classes to comprehend this peculiar (and seemingly unthinkable) breach of the system’s routine. And Illusion has its special moments of poetry bordering on the surreal: an exquisitely crude folk play about Adam and Eve; a remarkable night journey with fresh meat hanging in the trolley, two con-women fussing over their plaster saint, and Lilia Prado holding two hearts and some brains wrapped in newspaper. Like Los olvidados, Illusion disguises itself as a neorealist film, but its bursts of surreal imagery take it beyond verisimilitude and social-consciousness to a darker, less codifiable poetry. But whereas some of the entertainments of Buñuel’s Mexican period seem to gain by his presence, this one—paradoxically—suffers from his absence.

ILLUSION TRAVELS BY STREETCAR (Luis Buñuel, 1953 ... Denis Grunes

Movies [Tom von Logue Newth]

Happyotter Dymon Enlow

Themes of Subversion in Luis Buñuel's Los Olvidados and Subida al Cielo Radu A. Davidescu, also seen here: Collected Essays: June 2009

Movie Review - Illusion Travels By Streetcar - Film: Bunuel's ... Janet Maslin from The New York Times, also seen here: The New York Times (Janet Maslin)

Luis Buñuel - G.E. Nordell

Las Pastorelas A Centuries Old Christmas Tradition | Inside ... Inside Mexico

ABISMOS DE PASIÓN

aka: Wuthering Heights

Mexico (90 mi) 1954

Chicago Reader (Jonathan Rosenbaum)

Like William Wyler's 1939 adaptation of the Emily Bronte novel, as well as Jacques Rivette's Hurlevant, Luis Buñuel's 1954 Mexican version discards the original framing strategy of telling the story from the viewpoint of two outsiders--a regrettable elision in all three cases, because much of the novel's power and meaning stem from this crucial distancing strategy. Yet Buñuel's low-budget melodrama has a certain gothic ferocity that's missing in the other versions; the results are mixed, but seldom unworthy of the master. With Iraseme Dilian, Jorge Mistral, and Lilia Prado.

Time Out

While it's certainly true that Emily Bronte's classic novel appealed strongly to the Surrealists, with the love between Heathcliff and Cathy an almost textbook case of l'amour fou, it must be said that much of Buñuel's adaptation is surprisingly lifeless, a fact perhaps attributable largely to the severe shortcomings of his lead actors. Despite impressive use of arid locations and numerous Buñuelian 'touches' depicting man's capacity for cruelty and violence it's only in the final moments, when Alejandro/Heathcliff, consumed with passion, breaks into Catarina's funeral vault for one more kiss, that the director appears fully engaged with his material.

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

Sex and death have shared the same bed in Luis Buñuel's work ever since a cut braided male hands feeling up a woman's tits to the groper's decaying mask of death in Un Chien Andalou. The surrealists rediscovered the fevered passion of Heathcliff and Cathy as the locus classicus of l'amour fou around that time, though the director couldn't adapt Emily Brontë's great gothic novel to the screen until decades later. Arguably the most prestigious source material Buñuel ever worked from, the story gets tricked out to fit his richly subversive shoestring sojourn in Mexico -- thunderclaps act as exclamation points while curtains throb in the wind, and bourgeois lunk Eduardo (Ernesto Alonso) is introduced, naturally, pinning the latest additions into his butterfly collection. Alejandro (Jorge Minstral) returns to the ranch that took him in as a child only to find Catalina (Irasema Dilián), his adopted sister and one true love, married off to Eduardo. When not taking revenge on Catalina's brother Ricardo (Luis Aceves Castañeda), now a ruined, drunken gambler, Alejandro nurses his undying passion for his beloved, further fanning the flames by marrying Isabel (Lilia Prado), Eduardo's young sister. While Brontë's grid of anguished ardor got neutered by pusillanimous class in William Wyler's Hollywood version, Buñuel goes straight for the jugular and locates tremulous Latin melodrama amid desiccated trees and arid mountaintops -- the characters' fervid emotionalism serves as both a response against death and an equally intense stimulus towards it. It's no coincidence, then, that Buñuel brings back the Liebestod strains from L'Age d'Or for the stunning finale, which mates the two impulses -- the bereft Alejandro violates Catalina's tomb and "sees" her ghostly image, white-draped and arms ardently outstretched, morph into Ricardo's shotgun blast to the face. A sublime culmination, and a reminder of just how close Eros bleeds to Thanatos in Buñuel's abyss of passion. In black and white.

Slant Magazine Superb Buñuel reviews Ed Gonzalez

Unlike William Wyler's inferior 1939 film adaptation, Luis Buñuel's Abismos de Pasión is more than a literate extrapolation of Emily Bronte's gothic masterpiece Wuthering Heights, which certainly must count as one of the five greatest novels of the English language. Though not overtly surreal, Buñuel's minor classic is fraught with the kind of feverish contradictions typically heir to his cinematic dogma. Critic Manny Farber observed in his eulogy for Val Newton (published in The Nation back in April of 1951) how Jacques Tourneur's The Leopard Man gives "the creepy impression that human begins and 'things' are interchangeable and almost synonymous and that both are pawns of a bizarre and terrible destiny." Farber felt the Surrealists had never been able to transform the psychological effects of their dramas into a realm of the non-human but, four years later, Buñuel would accomplish something similar with his very Latin rendition of Bronte's classic. The film's dreary exteriors (the trees without leaves, the buzzards on constant alert) evoke a landscape of spiritual unrest, a breezy gateway between the living and the dead. While the film arouses the dreaminess of the original text, death signifies more than the lead couple's transcendence of the flesh—it's also a fascinating wish fulfillment.

Alejandro (Jorge Mistral) returns to the home of his bastard youth, only to butt heads with butterfly-killer Eduardo (Ernesto Alonso), the man who married his adopted sister Catalina (Irasema Dilián). Bronte's daring use of first person and flashback storytelling makes Wuthering Heights a precursor of sorts to Faulkner's Absalom, Absalom, a quintessentially American saga that speaks similarly of the horrors of one family's demise and the spiteful legacy it leaves behind. Those unfamiliar with Bronte's text should be forewarned: Buñuel begins somewhere in the middle, and as such the backstory is liable to confuse. Perhaps, then, the film's tragic flaw is that there's no real sense of past or, at least, distance from that past. In turn, Alejandro's thirst for revenge feels aimless though the film's Latin flavor has a way of explaining (if not wholly excusing) the heated pitch of the characters' emotions. Buñuel subtly pits the proletariat Alejandro against the bourgeois Eduardo, whose animal-loving sister, Isabel (Lilia Prado), looks to tame Alejandro. That the characters spend so much time walking up and down hills and stairs calls attention to the film's dreary setting as a limbo between heaven and hell. When Catalina's brother Ricardo (Luis Aceves Castañeda) shoots and kills Alejandro as he descends toward Catalina's corpse, Buñuel both ushers the lovers into a romantic afterlife and fabulously ponders both Ricardo and Eduardo's inability to distinguish between human beings and "things."

Channel 4 Film

Pedro Sena

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

THE ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE

Mexico (90 mi) 1954

Channel 4 Film

A film in which an actor is alone on screen for 60 of the 90 minutes' running time would seem a foolhardy venture, but Buñel overcomes most of the difficulties in this adaptation of Daniel Defoe's classic. Irish actor O'Herlihy's well-shaded Oscar-nominated performance never allows the first hour to pall - only with the entrance of Friday is it less absorbing.

Shot in Mexico during the director's long self-imposed exile there, The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe contains quite a few Buñel touches. Most of all, it subverts Defoe's Christian message by showing Crusoe wavering in his faith in religion, Western civilization and colonialism.

Robinson Crusoe from Time Out London

A deceptively simple adaptation of Defoe's classic desert island novel. Few strikingly surrealist flourishes here: brief dreams of guilt, sexual frustration, and cruel power. Rather, Defoe's caustic analysis of mankind's foibles is translated into a moving account of one man's moral rebirth. The isolation and hardships that befall the bourgeois Crusoe, previously so dependent on servants for survival, leave him faithless, fearful for his sanity, and forced to become his own God, feeding insects and despairing of salvation. But with Friday's arrival, his ideas of religion and civilisation's hierarchy are really put to the test: trust, equality, and mercy replace the master-servant relationship as the necessary conditions of companionship and contentment. As in his other films, irony and a refusal to indulge in sentimentality are the hallmarks of Buñuel's vision; but the overwhelming impression here is one of surprising warmth, proof that, whatever humanity's faults, he remained forever interested in his own species and ultimately sympathetic to them.

Slant Magazine Superb Buñuel reviews from Ed Gonzalez

The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe was both Luis Buñuel's first color film and his only film written entirely in English. Fulfilling his father's prophecy of disaster, Robinson Crusoe (Dan O'Herlihy, in an Oscar-nominated performance) is stranded on a deserted island along with his cat Sam and his dog Felix while on a trip to purchase African slaves. His curiosity is unending and his recycling of the land's resources highly economical (he protects himself from wild beasts and savages using the pilfered remains of his now-sunken ship). More so than any other dramatization of Daniel Dafoe's classic novel, Buñuel's Robinson Crusoe is both morally ambitious and spiritually daring. Crusoe's surreal encounter with his father's spirit reveals the castaway's complex view of religion, forgiveness and guilt. He turns to a copy of the Holy Bible not long after Sam gives birth to a litter of kittens (Buñuel, though, is careful not to call too much attention to the feline's immaculate conception). It's easy to see the wheat grain Crusoe discovers outside his makeshift shelter as a gift from God (indeed, the scruffy O'Herlihy stands atop the island's highest mountain like Moses waiting for his people's manna) yet Buñuel never suggests that Crusoe is in conflict with a Christian deity. Instead, the director posits a more existential relationship between Crusoe and nature. O'Herlihy's narration is redundant ("I learned to master everything but myself") and preachy yet there's no denying the complexity of the film's moral ambiguity. Friday (Jaime Fernández) is both Crusoe's friend and slave. Though startled by the native man's cross-dressing and insatiable need for human flesh, Crusoe nonetheless respects the purity of Friday's untainted morality. Through Friday, Crusoe comes to understand that Good cannot exist without Evil and, most importantly, Buñuel dares his audience to question everything they've come to know about morality, savagery and everything in-between.

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

The material is Dafoe's classic, of course, the book bound in luxurious leather for the opening credits, yet Luis Buñuel, even more than in his Wuthering Heights adaptation later, approaches it firstly as a vessel for private lessons in being, Nature, and the world around (and within) mankind. A brisk shadow-montage sketches in the shipwreck that strands the young aristocrat (Dan O'Herlihy) in his verdant cage, the island deserted but for the animals, over which he is to play God. The years give him a beard as lush as Heston's Moses, though the Bible's meaning ("cure for the soul") has waned long before: hungry for another voice, he cries out "The Lord is my Shepherd" into the valley of echoes, only for the words to bounce back weakened, mocking. A hallucination serves as internal cleansing, with the feverish Crusoe's father materializing in the cave, doing his I-told-you-so routine to the agonizingly dry-mouthed son while washing a pig. A torch is thrown in the ocean, although the hero's survival skills become sharpened by the sheer vastness of his open-air prison -- after all, Crusoe to Buñuel remains a bourgeois forced to pick up a shovel, and the island, despite the unreality of the Pathécolor tones, is a workshop of practicality, its wheat grain as palpable as its mysteries (a kitten's immaculate litter). Still, basic needs turn aching -- a forlorn dolly-out from a jovial singalong sums up loneliness, while he becomes aroused, then frustrated, by the sudden female form from women's garments hung on the rickety scarecrow cross. Crusoe comes upon a footprint on the beach, and reaches for his rifle; paranoia has never left him, and, judging from the initial treatment of cannibal-companion Friday (Jaime Fernández), neither have his colonialist impulses. Yet this is Buñuel's submerged optimism, life's dichotomies (civilized/savage, white/dark, master/servant) reconciled in bracing acceptance of in-betweens, though not before a theological chat where a de Sade line befuddles the hero. Buñuel and Hugo Butler wrote the adaptation.

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

One of the eight or ten greatest film directors of all time, Spanish-born Luis Buñuel began his career like gangbusters in his late 20s with the shocking, stunning, surrealist short Un Chien Andalou (1928).

It was not until he reached his 60s that he captured the world's attention once more with a series of Mexican and French-financed masterworks that included Viridiana, The Exterminating Angel, Belle de Jour and the Oscar-winning The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie.

So what happened to Buñuel in the intervening years? He moved around a lot, making poorly financed or poorly-distributed films, many of which are AWOL today (with the exception of his 1950 film Los Olvidados). He even attempted a couple of English-language films, as if he were sticking a toe in the waters of Hollywood. Fortunately for all of us, he quickly pulled it back out again.

The second English-language film was The Young One (1960), which I haven't seen. The first, Robinson Crusoe (sometimes listed as The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe) was made in 1952 and released in the United States in 1954, hence VCI can correctly call their new DVD a "50th anniversary" release. At the time it was high enough on the radar to earn an Oscar nomination for its lead actor, Dan O'Herlihy, but it has rarely been seen since.

The 90-minute, full-color feature mostly plays as a straightforward adaptation of Daniel Defoe's novel, with Crusoe landing on his island and overcoming various obstacles for some 34 years. O'Herlihy is onscreen alone for roughly half the film, then plays the other half opposite his recovering cannibal friend Friday (Jaime Fernandez).

At second glance, the film is full of Buñuelian touches. Early on, we get a fever-induced dream sequence in which Crusoe's father visits him and taunts him with fresh water. In another, he uses a woman's dress as a scarecrow to protect his new crop of wheat; he walks away, then doubles back and fondles the hem of the garment.

Most of all, though, the film flirts seriously with atheism, which Buñuel practiced in real life. Crusoe salvages a copy of the Bible and reads from it regularly, taking faith that God will protect him. Some time after Friday arrives, the two of them have a discussion about God and the Devil and temptation; Friday asks some basic questions that poke holes in Crusoe's faith. He paces for a moment, pondering, then finally bursts out laughing.

O'Herlihy competed against Marlon Brando (On the Waterfront) for the Oscar that year, and it was an equal contest. O'Herlihy puts himself through all kinds of physical and mental anguish in the process of playing Crusoe; he artfully captures the feel of years passing and growing more and more comfortable with his surroundings, but also less and less at home in his own mind. You can feel the gnawing loneliness in his eyes.

Robinson Crusoe doesn't reveal much of the sly old fox who directed That Obscure Object of Desire, in which every frame is permeated with his edgy sense of humor, while cheerfully poking holes in all the institutions he so despised. With Crusoe, you feel him wrestling with already established material, alternately winning and losing. But just because his personality isn't in every frame doesn't mean he made a bad film. In fact, this is the best Crusoe I've ever seen. Now that it's on DVD, it has a chance to endure long into the new century.

Turner Classic Movies Nathaniel Thompson

FilmFanatic.org (Sylvia Stralberg)

DVD Verdict - 50th Anniversary Edition Bill Treadway

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

Robinson Crusoe (1953) Bosley Crowther from the New York Times

DVDBeaver.com [Donald Brown]

THE CRIMINAL LIFE OF ARCHIBALDO DE LA CRUZ (Ensayo de un Crimen)

aka: Rehearsal for a Crime

Mexico (89 mi) 1955

Chicago Reader [Dave Kehr] (capsule review)

The last film of Luis Buñuel's "commercial" Mexican period (1955, 89 min.), Archibaldo shows the master working without the complete freedom he was granted later on. But Buñuel is still able to put some bizarre--and very funny--personal touches on this story of a man obsessed with the idea that the music box he owned as a child has the power to kill.

Time Out

Buñuel marshals all of his characteristic amoral wit in this tale of a would-be murderer frustrated at every turn in his efforts to get his kicks from a successful sex killing. As usual, the master eschews the visual fussiness of 'style', opting for the straightforward camera set-up at all times. The use of props like the toy music box from his childhood which triggers off Archibaldo's lust, and the wax dummy burned after one of his attempts is thwarted, is all the more stunning (and hilarious) as a result.

Channel 4 Film

A scabrous black comedy that is as funny about the serious business of murder as it is about the frailties of the Latin male.

Archibaldo's pubescence has been disturbed by the death of a housemaid in erotic circumstances. Now adult, he is destined to murder women, but his incompetence (nuns he has earmarked fall down a lift shaft, depriving him of fulfilment if not desire) is ludicrous.

Where we squirmed in agony at Peter Lorre's orgasm after his failure with the small girl in M, here we giggle at Archibaldo's predicament in Bunuel's elegantly mordant film.

Strictly Film School Acquarello

A seemingly rational, well mannered artist named Archibaldo de la Cruz (Ernesto Alonso) recounts the moment of revelation of his fated destiny as he methodically turns the pages of a photography book of war casualties. On an ominous evening during an unnamed civil insurrection, a spoiled young Archibaldo is entrusted to the care of a stern and attractive governess (Leonor Llausás) while his wealthy, neglectful parents attend a social event. In order to pacify the temperamental boy, his doting mother allows him to play with a cherished music box that, she explains, possesses magical powers and must be handled carefully. The governess tacitly accommodates his mother's prevarication by concocting a story about a king who used the music box to rid himself of his enemies. In a bizarre coincidence, Archie winds the music box... and a stray bullet shatters through the window and kills the governess. Alone with the body of the dead governess, the young and impressionable Archibaldo is aroused by the graceful and sensual form of her body, and becomes convinced of his omnipotence over the destinies of women. He readily confesses that it is this pursuit to recreate and attain this ideal image that has led him on his murderous obsession. The polite and attentive sister of mercy, Sister Trinidad (Chabela Durán), recoils from Archibaldo's unrepentant admission, only to find that he has already selected his latest victim.

Luis Buñuel creates a macabre and insightful comedy on obsession, machismo, and bourgeois hypocrisy in The Criminal Life of Archibaldo de la Cruz. Using the repeated imagery of mirrors and reflections, Buñuel provides a figurative window into his own sardonic humor and personal idiosyncrasies: a foot fetish suggested through the death of the governess (that is subsequently manifested in Diary of a Chambermaid and Tristana); a sense of voyeurism that arises from vigilant observation, revealed through Archibaldo's discovery of a lovers' quarrel (shown through an angled mirror) and Carlota's (Ariadna Welter) rendezvous with her lover; an obsession to capture the essence of the perfect woman through Lavinia (Miroslava Stern) and her mannequin likeness (the doppelganger imagery is also examined in his final film, That Obscure Object of Desire). In a playful homage to the master of suspense, Alfred Hitchcock, Buñuel further illustrates his droll and incisive wit by creating a surreal twist to pivotal Hitchcockian images involving a glass of milk (Notorious) and a straight razor (Spellbound). Through Archibaldo's bizarre and unorthodox dual life as a serial killer, Buñuel subverts the conventional devices of a suspense film and creates an irreverent and audacious personal statement on the conundrum of sexual politics.

Slant Magazine More superb Buñuel reviews from Ed Gonzalez

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

DVDBeaver [Gary W. Tooze]

THE RIVER AND DEATH (El Río y la Muerte)

Mexico (91 mi) 1955

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez] More superb Buñuel reviews from Ed Gonzalez

Made shortly after Illusion Travels by Streetcar, the complicit The River and Death may be the closest thing to a contract job in Luis Buñuel's entire canon. Miguel Álvarez Acosta, the author of the novel from which it was adapted, insisted that Buñuel respect the film's condescending thesis conflating education and crime. As one man puts it to another man late in the film: "If all men went to university we would have less crime." Buñuel, who would later call Acosta's argument absurd in his autobiography (certainly the director was never one to wear his themes on his sleeve), allowed himself to be strong-armed by his producer, and it shows. The River and Death is about the sensation of Latin American violence, pieced together from a number of vendettas that plague a coastal town. Buñuel's best films often implicate nature and social institutions in the degradation of human life, but River and Death is scattershot—the director's pot-shots at religion and government are both scarce and toothless, and there's little complicity evoked between the town's river and the local bureaucracy. Over and over again, men are killed for the smallest mistakes and infractions. It's an absurdity that certainly intrigues Buñuel, but it's not one that the film intelligently plumbs. Every vengeful scenario is only vaguely different from the next, and as such the film wears on the nerves. Book-ending the endless string of murders and dramatic funerals is a confrontation between a low-life and an educated man, linked to each other by their fathers' deaths. The cultivated man condescends to the uneducated man's barbarian thirst for blood, mocking his honor and machismo before daring him to shoot him in the back. For a director who made a career of putting bourgeois ghouls in their place, it's a pity the lower-classman doesn't pull the trigger.

THAT IS THE DAWN (Cela s'appelle l'aurore)

Italy France (102 mi) 1956

Time Out

Highly rated by the director himself, but poorly received and subsequently rarely shown, this is actually a beautifully made parable about commitment, and curiously one of Buñuel's most moving films. The setting is Corsica, where a sympathetic company doctor (Marchal) hides a sacked worker (Esposito) who has murdered their boss in revenge for the death of his sick wife. Typically for Buñuel, he offers no traditional moral structure, but a wealth of complex characters, including a police chief (Bertheau) who dislikes torture, decorates his office with Dali's 'Crucifixion', and reads Claudel.

User Reviews from imdb Author: dbdumonteil

This must be one of Bunuel's most accessible works. It's often hard to find the master's touch but, although it sometimes recalls Italian neorealism (all that concerns Sandro's family), the picture of the Christ -the only element of surrealism in the whole work- signals Bunuel's inimitable talent.

Georges Marchal, who was good friend with the director, portrays a charitable doctor, almost what we could call a secular saint. He's got a practical mind and he does what Nazarin and Viridiana will try to do in the name of God. He is l'Honnête Homme, in the Bunuelesque sense of the term. Religion is not part of his life and however, he is always around when it comes to lending a hand to his fellow men.

The man of God, the priest is also here, but he's in the boss's bourgeois house: when the distraught Sandro (Gianni Esposito) comes to him, he tells him "go back home, my son," when the poor man has got no more house and wife.

The movie tells the story of a man leaving slowly but inexorably the discreet charm of the bourgeoisie. First step is falling for a woman who is not part of his milieu (Lucia Bosé). Second step is breaking up with his wife (and his father-in-law). Third and final step is refusing to become an informer and finally joining his friends, all working class men.

Georges Marchal gives an effective warm performance. His character is very close to the one he will play in Bunuel's French follow up "La Mort en Ce Jardin". That raider might possibly be the doctor estranged from his country, milieu and family. Both have got a practical mind: in "La Mort En ce Jardin", Marchal lights a fire with the pages of the Bible.

Bunuel's obsessions are still here: the mistreated donkey, the girl raped by her grandfather, the boys playing at soldiers and blindfolding one of them before shooting him. But they do not seem to matter much next to the hero's line of thought: this could be called the dawn of his life.

DEATH IN THE GARDEN (La Mort en ce Jardin)

France Mexico (104 mi) 1956

Chicago Reader (Dave Kehr)

The garden of the title is a terrifying South American jungle, through which an international cast of refugees flees after a surprise banana-republic revolution. This 1956 French-Mexican production was obviously designed as escapist entertainment, but in the hands of director Luis Bunuel it becomes a little more than that. As things get curiouser and curiouser, it's interesting to see how close Bunuel's surrealist vision is to the expected extravagancies of genre filmmaking. No masterpiece, but a prime example of subversive cinema. With Simone Signoret and Michel Piccoli.

Time Out

Buñuel uses an interesting genre: The Wages of Fear inspired left wing French film-makers to join Mexican producers and make very violent melodramas with Third Worldish themes. Here, in a Bolivia-type state, clashes between troops and striking miners force a jungle trek on an ill-starred gang: a prostitute (Signoret), a priest (Piccoli), a trader (Vanel), an adventurer (Marchal), a deaf-mute beauty (Girardon). Jungle hazards include snakes, thirst, toilet-paper problems, and the bourgeois joys of looting a wrecked plane. Its garish, vicious action beats Sam Fuller at his own game, and adds philosophical suspense, as jungle paranoia makes Marxist fraternity look as delirious as a Surrealist dream. Co-writer is Raymond Queneau, the Picasso of avant-garde writing.

Slant Magazine More superb Buñuel reviews from Ed Gonzalez

Luis Buñuel followed 1955's little-known Cela s'appelle l'aurore (That is the Dawn) with the Mexican-French co-production La Morte en ce jardin (The Death in the Garden, also known as Gina), a precursor of sorts to his equally minor Fever Mounts in El Pao. In a nameless Latin American country, a foreigner named Shark (Georges Marchal) is caught in the middle a political uprising between a group of oppressed diamond miners and the malicious Captain Ferrero (Jorge Martínez de Hoyos). Amidst the turmoil of the banana republic revolution, Shark joins an all-star group of political refugees on a boat ride to an elusive Brazil. Though the film's first half is noticeably burdened by plot, things take a turn for the surreal when the refugees escape into the jungle (the titular "garden"). After going around in circles for days, Shark discovers a downed plane full of food and luxury items. Father Lizardi (a then unknown Michel Piccoli) thanks God for this miracle yet Shark is quick to point out that some 50 people had to die for that miracle. The prostitute Djin (Simon Signoret) is equally humbled by hunger though it's not long before she and Lizardi are shot dead by one of their own. This tale of heated passions and broken dreams was noticeably compromised by an insufferable shooting schedule. Buñuel had little financing for the project and was burdened by the constant changes being made to the script. More troublesome, though, was Signoret. According to Buñuel, the unruly actress missed her husband Yves Montand so much that "on her way to join us in Mexico, she slipped some Communist documents into her passport, hoping to be turned away by American Immigration."

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

The first half of this usually neglected Luis Buñuel work is a plot-heavy potboiler delineating the values cherished by the characters; the second half, splendidly scored to a cacophony of animal growls and cries, is an implacable stripping of the same values. In an unnamed South American republic, the paths of a disparate group of people -- loutish adventurer Georges Marchal, hooker Simone Signoret, missionary Michel Piccoli, diamond miner Charles Vanel and his deaf and mute daughter Michèle Girardon -- converge with the outbreak of a revolution against the fascist state. Crammed inside a trader's barge, they elude the authorities until they have to slice through the thick, rainy Amazon jungle in search of the elusive border into Brazil. Starrier and with a fatter budget than most of the director's productions, the film is often chalked off as an impersonal detour into commercial filmmaking. What kind of "impersonal" filmmaking can accommodate a skinned snake devoured by red ants? Piccoli's delirious monologue about soft-boiled eggs? The sudden shot of bustling nocturnal Paris freeze-framing into Vanel's snapshot before being tossed into the fire? Of course, Buñuel's vision goes beyond facile "touches." Forming with Robinson Crusoe and The Exterminating Angel a casual "stranded" trilogy, the film is less about eroding beliefs than acknowledging the fragility of their certainty -- the miracle that saves the characters' lives (a plane crash) costs fifty others. Though Marchal's sullen survivor anchors Buñuel's concept of the brutal practicality of life, it is Piccoli's padre who obviously fascinates him the most. Piously advocating political submission in civilization, the rigidity of his dogma threatens to give way to corporeal needs in the wilderness, where the pages of a Bible are of more use as bonfire fuel. (The director's following film, Nazarin, is a masterful expansion of this sketch.) With Tito Junco, Raúl Ramírez, and Jorge Martínez de Hoyos.

Channel 4 Film

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

NAZARÍN A 97

Mexico (94 mi) 1959

"If other people's idea of happiness consists of dreams of wealth, for me happiness is to dream of poverty, to delight in the very thought of it and, when things go wrong, to imagine something worse." —Father Nazario

Channel 4 Film [capsule review]

One of Buñuel's most astringent and forceful attacks on formal religion, the story, told in the manner of a Christian parable, is about a humble and unworldly priest who attempts to live by the precepts of Christianity, but is despised for his pains. The film, based on a 19th-century novel by Benito Perez Galdos, was ambiguous enough to win the International Catholic Cinema Office award - A supreme irony for the cinema's most famous anti-Catholic atheist. The theme of the impossibility of leading a pure Christian life was further explored in Viridiana (1961), but that film didn't win any awards from the church.

Time Out

One of the least sardonic of all Buñuel's films. Father Nazarín, a non-denominational journeyman priest, wanders through the plagues, sins and poverty of the secular world, experiencing a number of episodes that echo incidents in the gospels...until he learns the momentous lesson that he can receive charity as well as give it. Buñuel never ridicules Nazarín's efforts to follow Christ's teachings, but instead stresses the priest's fundamental detachment, and observes how irrelevant most of his work is to the sinners he tangles with. To the extent that the open ending is optimistic, Nazarín is a true Buñuel hero.

All Movie Guide [Michael Betzold]

During his period of filmmaking in Mexico, Luis Buñuel explored the outer reaches of his efforts to satirize Christianity. Nazarin is the firmly tongue-in-cheek story of a defrocked priest who wanders through the barrios of Mexico, recruits a motley flock of disciples, and ends up exiled in the desert. Buñuel's purpose was to show how a literal interpretation of Christ's teaching would make a believer in modern society into a lunatic. Church leaders at first were unsure how to respond; the international Catholic cinema office considered giving it their prize at the 1959 Cannes Film Festival. Later films, such as Viridiana and Simon of the Desert, in which Buñuel further developed the themes of Nazarin, made more obvious his intent, which was to defrock organized religion as a form of institutional power. Nazarin has an elegant, almost poetic simplicity, unusual for Buñuel, yet it is also rich and complex in exploring fundamental questions about the human condition.

Decent Films - faith on film [Steven D. Greydanus]

One of the 15 films listed in the category "Religion" on the Vatican film list.

Graham Greene’s The Power and the Glory tells the story of a priest in early 20th-century Mexico who endures rejection, betrayal, suffering, and judgment in a way dimly but distinctly evocative of the passion of Christ. He is by no means a particularly virtuous or holy priest; on the contrary, he is a worldly, carnal little cleric, a "whisky priest" with an illegitimate son.

Yet he strives as best he can to do the work of his vocation, to aid souls in need with the sacraments and moral instruction. Tragically, his efforts meet with unbroken indifference, ingratitude, and failure. In the end he is deprived of all consolations, from the satisfaction of having in any way helped even one soul to the hope of having at least pleased God to the succor of a fellow priest who might have heard his confession.

In spite of his near despair, Greene’s priest consistently does one thing right. At every turn, offered an alternative between self-interest and a chance to help others, he reluctantly but invariably sacrifices his own good for the potential good of others. It is always for nought; but his refusal to put his own good, even his own life, before others is unswerving, if reluctant. In this way he is conformed to the image of Christ and vindicates his faith, and, hopefully, his soul.

Luis Buñuel’s Nazarín tells a story that is in some ways strikingly similar to Greene’s, but differs in a number of crucial respects. Unlike Greene’s frail whisky priest, Fr. Nazario (Francisco Rabal) is in almost every way admirable and virtuous. Upright but not sanctimonious or judgmental, devout but not superstitious or unscientific, ascetical but robust and manly, concerned both with the spiritual and temporal well-being of others, Fr. Nazario seems almost the epitome of a good priest.

Yet, like Greene’s whiskey priest, Nazario meets with constant failure and rejection. On one occasion a sick child for whom he prays recovers, but this only causes a pair of superstitious women (alternately suggestive of Mary and Martha or of Mary Magdalene) to regard him with nearly idolatrous devotion, following him like groupies while ignoring his efforts to enlighten or instruct them. In one plague-striken pueblo the priest finds a young woman on her deathbed and tries to turn her thoughts to spiritual matters, but she wants only to be with her lover and the priest is forced to leave. In the end it seems doubtful that he has done anyone any lasting good.

Yet Buñuel’s interpretation of Nazario’s ineffectiveness apparently offers the greatest point of contrast to The Power and the Glory. Where Greene regarded his whisky priest’s despairing fidelity as a hopeful vindication, Buñuel seems to regard Nazario’s pious impotence as a devastating indictment of the irrelevance of faith.

In a key exchange toward the end of the film, a sympathetic criminal (a type of the Good Thief) says fatalistically, "You’re on the side of good, I’m on the side of evil, but neither of us is any use for anything." This comment goes home like a shot, leaving Nazario lost and foundering.

On the surface, Nazarín’s ostensibly positive depiction of an honorable priest suggests one of those intriguing artistic homages to belief or believers that come now and then from artists who aren’t themselves believers, such as The Gospel According to Matthew, from homosexual Marxist filmmaker Pier Paolo Pasolini, or A Man for All Seasons, written and adapted by non-Christian Robert Bolt. (Buñuel was a longtime atheist, though he reportedly experienced a religious conversion toward the end of his life.)

Yet the film’s actual import seems quite the contrary. Nazarín appears to bespeak a religious skepticism so rigorous and thoroughgoing that makes child’s play of the mere scurrilous or muckraking anti-church exposé (e.g., The Crime of Fr. Amaro; Priest). It doesn’t stoop to smug debunking of naive idealism. There’s no heavy-handed manipulation, no dishonest stacking the deck. Buñuel makes his case against faith, not by attacking its foolish or corrupt practitioners, but by arguing that the thing itself, even when lived almost to perfection by a near saint, is moot, even harmful. It may be the most breathtaking cinematic cross-examination of faith I have ever seen.

A good, strong cross-examination that doesn’t muddy the waters with snide scandal-mongering or misdirection of other sorts can potentially be a catalyst for constructive thought and dialogue. Nazarín may be strongly skeptical, yet it is aware of religion in a profound way, and the very attention it gives even to the question of faith bears tacit witness to man’s spiritual dimension. (In his autobiography Buñuel noted that Nazarín had been criticized by French filmmaker Jacques Prévert simply for focusing on a priest as the main character, since, as Prévert fretted, "It’s ridiculous to worry about their problems.")

At the very least, Nazarín is not content either to ignore religion as a non-issue, or to take cheap shots at its practitioners, as some would prefer to do. It’s a deeply problematic film, but one that deserves critical viewing and thoughtful engagement.

The New York Times (Renata Adler)

"NAZARIN" is the most relentlessly pessimistic of Luis Bunuel's films, less brutal than "Viridiana" more Bunuel than "Belle de Jour." It is so grim that it lacks even the energy to present itself dramatically. The sense of misery is so profound that everything, except the pure, etched photography of Gabriel Figueroa, comes out mediocre. The French newspaper La Croix thought the film carried an evangelical message, very fierce; the Communist paper l'Humanité found blasphemy and rabid anticlericalism. The film is so bitter, with just a ghostly, uncontagious smile, as to be almost bored with itself. Any ideologue who could take heart from it must have gone to see it on a very sunny day.

Francisco Rabal plays a vapid young priest in Mexico, under the dictator Porfirio Diaz—plays him without vitality, without purity, without even a lovable, bumbling goodness. The priest lives in a slum house, teeming with thieves, whores and entrepreneurs of various kinds. As the movie begins the poor man has been robbed. The architecture of the house makes it easier for people to step into his room through an arched window from the corridor than to go around and enter by the door and, in a kind of dim, recurrent joke, people keep climbing through his window. He takes alms and gives them away; he preaches.

He says a few pious banalities to a ruined young woman, (Marga Lopez) who is supposed to be wildly in love with a gross, ridiculous horse trader who has abandoned her and for whom she tries ineffectually (the smile again) to hang herself. He harbors a prostitute who has killed somebody. He is forced to flee on a pilgrimage and he manages to bring complete unhappiness to nearly everyone with whom he comes in contact. Except for curing one superstitious hysteric, he manages everywhere to leave the world just a little worse than he found it.

There are plagues, brutalities, uglinesses throughout the film, and Bunuel smiles just about twice more. Once, when the priest is boring an already dying young woman.to death, she keeps murmuring quite distinctly that she wants her lover. "Not heaven, Juan," she says repeatedly. Again, when Miss Lopez faints and has convulsions at the merest suggestion she might be in love with the priest—and she goes off, in despair, with her horse trader. Finally, and this is the closest the film actually gets to a kind of bubonic mirth, the priest is offered a pineapple by a sympathetic woman as he walks in chains across Mexico along a long hot road to jail. He rejects the pineapple. Then, in an agony of spirit, he accepts it after all. The soundtrack is rising drumbeats. Faith, his anyway, renewed.

The acting, by Mr. Rabal, Miss Lopez, Rita Macedo as the prostitute, and the rest of the cast, is quite equal to what Bunuel is trying to do. In other films, quite notably "Viridiana," Bunuel's recurring themes, poverty, meanness, religion, sexual pathology, were there in force. You might share them or be moved or repelled or even bored by them; but they assaulted you. This one is milder, passive, deadlier. It is so tired, that—aside from its photography and one fascinating dwarf—it hardly exists at all. You have to be determined to like it in order to be affected by it.

The screenplay by Bunuel and Julio Alejandro, is based on the novel by Benito Pérez Galdós.

"Nazarin," which won a Grand Prix at the Cannes Film Festival in 1958, opened yesterday at the Carnegie Hall Cinema.

Slant Magazine Superb Buñuel reviews continue from Ed Gonzalez

ToxicUniverse.com [John Nesbit]

CineScene [Howard Schumann] or in another variation, here: Talking Pictures (UK)

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

Real and Surreal terrific photos from the film

FEVER RISES IN EL PAO (La Fièvre Monte à El Pao)

France Mexico (97 mi) 1959

Chicago Reader (Jonathan Rosenbaum)

Luis Buñuel's 1959 El fievre monte a El Pao follows a Latin American country's attempts at political reform after its dictator is assassinated. Buñuel described this as the worst of his French films (it was a French-Mexican production), yet it has its ardent defenders, among them Jean-Marie Straub and Daniele Huillet. As Buñuel's most directly political work, it certainly warrants a look. With Gerard Philipe, in his last screen appearance, and Maria Felix.

Time Out

Philippe's last role before his death from cancer, playing a small-time government administrator - the setting is a South American dictator-state - whose time comes when the governor is assassinated and he temporarily takes over until a successor is appointed. The film is a study in the futility of liberal sentimentality when it refuses to acknowledge the fascist mechanism for what it is: Philippe's few attempts to improve the lot of political prisoners prove useless in face of a stronger rival and his own desire for security and power. It's hardly major Buñuel - he himself blamed its shortcomings on the inevitable compromises of a co-production - but his view of greed, hypocrisy and cruelty is as lucidly sardonic as ever, and the portrait of the dangers of trying to improve a totalitarian regime from the inside remains as relevant today as when the film was made.

Slant Magazine more superb Buñuel reviews from Ed Gonzalez

Luis Buñuel's El fièvre monte à El Pao (Fever Mounts at El Pao) is the story of a South American dictatorship on the brink of liberalization. Though the film would become Buñuel's least favorite of all his French productions, it's difficult to dismiss the film if only because it remains the great director's most overtly political creation. The plot is a feverish gumbo of political intrigue, red tape, loose sex and double-crossings: Governor Mariano Vargas (Miguel Ángel Ferriz) is assassinated by Lieutenant García (Raúl Dantés), who blames the liberal-minded governor's aide, Ramón Vászquez (Gérard Philipe), of conspiring to murder when the aide's relationship to the assassinated governor's wife, Inés Rojas (sex kitten María Félix), becomes known. However powerful many of the vignettes may be, the whole is less than the sum of its parts. The opening narration describes El Pao as an island so isolated from the rest of the world that leaving the island is next to impossible. The island's unseen president governs from atop a hill while thousands of prisoners work day and night constructing the mayor's plantation. As the newly elected governor, Ramón must reconcile his liberal agenda with regard to an oppressive dictatorship that scoffs at worker's rights. Buñuel more or less wears the film's anarchist agenda on his sleeve (slogans uttered throughout include "if he would only show more humanity," "they'll hang him one day" and "when they're hands aren't busy they'll be thinking") though he fabulously evokes El Pao's mounting "fever" via Inés's hellfire temperament, a metaphor-laden bullfight and the sounds of native drums not unlike those that herald the second coming of Christ in L'Age d'Or. (Comparisons between the film and Metropolis, a film Buñuel was very critical of when it was first released, are obvious and its easy to equate Inés with Lang's infamous Bolshevik Maria.) What with all the missives and writs of agenda waiting to be signed, Fever Mounts at El Pao is noticeably burdened by excess paperwork. All is forgiven though when Buñuel fascinatingly contemplates the ultimate price of freedom when Ramón Vászquez scoffs at those very missives and is liberated as a result.

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

THE YOUNG ONE (La Joven)

Mexico USA (95 mi) 1960

Time Out

Not one of Buñuel's more celebrated films, The Young One may be relatively crude in its production values and acting, but it is nevertheless thematically complex. A black jazz musician (Hamilton), escaping a wrongful rape charge, lands up on an island inhabited only by a gamekeeper (Scott) and his teenage ward (Meersman), an unspoilt nymphet. The gamekeeper's racial prejudice bursts forth, though it is he who eventually deflowers the consenting innocent. Buñuel has made of his potentially exploitative material an amoral parable, outlining the ways 'civilisation' can prove as harmful or as beneficial as untamed nature.

Chicago Reader (Jonathan Rosenbaum)

Luis Bunuel's two English-language films, this picture and the 1952 The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, are among the most neglected of his middle-period Mexican films--made between his early surrealist masterpieces (Un chien andalou, L'age d'or, Land Without Bread) and the late European features (Viridiana, That Obscure Object of Desire) that revived his world reputation. The Young One is a taut comedy-thriller from 1961, set on a game-preserve island off the Carolina coast, though shot, surprisingly, in Mexico. A northern black jazz musician (Bernie Hamilton), fleeing a trumped-up rape charge involving a white woman, arrives on the island and is briefly befriended by a young teenage orphan (Key Meersman), the granddaughter of a handyman who's just died. An unfriendly game warden (Zachary Scott) who's taken a shine to the girl tries to kill the musician; eventually a local preacher (Claudio Brook) and the game warden's boatman (Crahan Denton) also turn up. A satiric look at both racism and sexual hypocrisy that refuses to take sides, this dark, sensual comedy of manners, adapted quite freely from a Peter Matthiessen story by the gifted blacklisted screenwriter Hugo Butler (under a pseudonym) along with Bunuel, is full of poetic asides and unexpected developments, revealing Bunuel's dark, philosophical wit at its most personal.

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

A rabbit is seen in its death throes, but the Renoir remembered by Luis Buñuel is The Southerner, from which he draws Zachary Scott resembling Pedro Armendáriz. The island is gamekeeper Scott's world, he lords over it and over pubescent nymph Key Meersman, who sobs blankly while untying her dead grandfather's boots; Scott's face lights up when he notices the unformed beauty underneath her scraggly hair, and guesses her age by squeezing her thighs, "like a pig's." The intruder is a black hepcat (Bernie Hamilton), who pulls into the island with the lynching mob's cries of rape still ringing in his ears. Meersman squishes a spider and tends to bees, Hamilton bites into the crab crawling at the end of his spear, they become friends -- the prejudice plaguing Scott hasn't yet solidified in the girl, dubbed "an angel of mercy, ya dig." The (cocked) shotgun gag from Susana is repeated and compounded with Hamilton's "licorice stick" clarinet, until Scott curtails his jazzing with a homemade grenade; the two men form a truce, and that night Scott visits Meersman in bed and robs her of her innocence. No other Buñuel picture, not even The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, boasts a more tangible, zestful feel for nature (Gabriel Figueroa's photography is a high-contrast dance of swamp, sand, air, sea), with the faultless handling of Meersman's jailbait gawkiness chief amid countless directorial miracles. Reviewers at the time somehow decided the filmmaker was not up to Stanley Kramer standards, for racism here isn't a matter of ebony saints redeeming pasty demons but an elemental human darkness, linking the white supremacist (Crahan Denton) who tells Hamilton how sorry he is about God "leaving something out of you... your soul" to the padre (Claudio Brook) who flips over his mattress after learning that the black man has slept on it. Scott overcomes his prejudice, yet Buñuel keeps the fable's humanism sharp by perversely connecting it to his lust for the girl, another shattered taboo -- Meersman learns to balance herself on high heels and is sent to absorb society's ways, Scott remains in the wilderness to purge himself from them. In black and white.

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez] Superb Buñuel reviews continue from Ed Gonzalez

Poets have said that eyes are the windows to the soul, but Luis Buñuel believed that our legs and feet revealed more about us than any other parts of our bodies. In the 1960 Cannes darling The Young One, only one of two English-language films Buñuel ever made, the director's fractured obsession with legs and feet may seem excessive (even by his typically fetishistic standards), but this irrational focus reflects the horror and absurdity of the complex issues of race and sex around which the film pivots. Visually, the little-seen The Young One is Buñuel's most expressive film—it's setting may be Spartan but its look is scarcely unceremonious. Framed by a monophonic rendition of "Sinner Man" by Leon Bibb, the film has the scorching emotional urgency of a black spiritual.

Traver (Bernie Hamilton), an African-American musician, escapes to an insular Carolina island hunting preserve after he's accused of raping a white woman. There he discovers Evalyn (Key Meersman), a naïve and unmolded 13-year-old girl who's never seen a television and who has no idea what a "licorice stick" might refer to other than Traver's clarinet. Evalyn lives with the racist Miller (Zachary Scott), who takes to diddling the young girl now that her mixed-blood grandfather has passed. Salacious enough to make Elia Kazan's Baby Doll and Luis Malle's Pretty Baby blush, The Young One shouldn't be mistaken for a trivial provocation. Buñuel intriguingly conflates Miller's systematic abuse of Evalyn with the spectacle of the racist man's psychosexual contempt for Traver.

Miller is given many an opportunity to kill his prey but passes nearly every time; he is at once torn by whatever guilt he feels over having sex with Evalyn and the affections the young girl has for Traver, who, unlike the saints played by Sidney Potier in countless films, has no problem talking back to his tormenters. In the many thrilling ups and downs of this twisted, racially-charged update of The Most Dangerous Game, the roles of hunter and huntee constantly reverse, with guns perpetually swapping hands and Traver returning to Miller's house for one reason or another (his boat is repeatedly shot with holes and, later, his foot gets caught in an animal trap). In the constant frustration of Traver's escape and Miller's inability to play nice with him, Buñuel evokes the face of humanity repeatedly peeking out from and retreating into the steely shell of a racist comfort zone.

To this already unnerving gumbo of feelings and ideas, the director adds a white supremacist hellbent on lynching Traver and a priest whose compassion has limits: he makes a case for Traver's innocence but has Evalyn turn a mattress over so he won't have to sleep on the same side Trever did the night before. Caught in the crossfire of Traver's indignation and Miller's contempt, Evalyn is the obscure object through which Buñuel himself enters the story. Not a single frame is wasted in The Young One and every image conveys the forcible weight of its maker's appalled moral and social viewpoint, from Evalyn's legs peeking out from beneath a makeshift shower to a raccoon terrifying a group of chickens. Like the best films of Buñuel's career, The Young One connects to us on a blood level but the incision it makes to reach us there is made with flabbergasting sensitivity.

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VIRIDIANA A 100

Spain (90 mi) 1961

One of the greatest films ever made about religious hypocrisy, where it’s almost a Monty Python skit of satire, perhaps Buñuel’s funniest film, which is also a devastating commentary on precisely those downtrodden individuals that Jesus elevated to “the meek shall inherit the earth.”  The Beggar’s Banquet scene is one of the greatest in all of cinema, as it’s a magnificently constructed film that starts out harmlessly enough and quietly builds, with the best of Christian intentions, into an orchestrated feeding frenzy of sin, rape, and murder. The finale is equally memorable, a kind of Sartre No Exit metapthor while rock ‘n’ roll music plays, supposedly the music of sin and degradation, sure to drive the next generation of youth into moral corruption.  The film holds a mirror into the arrogance and pomposity of religious ritual, where disturbing sexual patterns are cloaked under the protection of religion - - a film way ahead of its times. It's bathed in Catholicism, still a world power in Spain and Latin America, where they take all the religious rituals seriously, believing the Pope is second only to God. Nearly all Buñuel’s films are a scathing indictment of Catholicism, none better than VIRIDIANA.

Fassbinder watched this film, as well as Godard's VIVRE SA VIE (1962), more than any others, reportedly twenty seven times and considered them the most important films in his life, as from them, he learned to make films. VIRIDIANA marked Buñuel’s brief return to Spain. Franco’s government financed the film, then attempted to suppress it, but copies had already been sent to France. The film, which is by no means subtle, is a scathing, blistering satire on an unprecedented scale, along the lines of Simon of the Desert (Simón del Desierto) (1965), which ends similarly, just a magnificent film that is an undisputed masterpiece. The man takes religious hypocrisy to unscaled heights. It is difficult to watch this film from start to finish without a little smirk or smile on your face when you leave the theater. That’s the Buñuel twist.

Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” from The Messiah opens the film, along with church bells from a convent, as we see the sensuous Sister Viridiana, outstandingly played by Mexican film star Silvia Pinal, being told by her Mother Superior that her uncle, Don Jaime, played by Buñuel stalwart Fernando Rey, who paid for her studies, won’t be present as she takes her vows to become a nun. Viridiana, however, is unconcerned, telling her “He never bothered about me before. It’s too late for affection from him.” She is urged to pay him a visit instead, an estate in the country. Interesting images greet her arrival, constant shots of feet, a young girl jumping rope, Viridiana and her uncle walking, Don Jaime playing the pedals of an organ of what sounds like a devout English hymn, which is a marked contrast to the view of Viridiana removing her stockings, as seen by the maid through a keyhole. Later, Viridiana sleeps on the floor with her wooden cross and crown of thorns.

Viridiana mentions to Don Jaime the next day that he has a son, followed by an interesting image of a bee trying to swim in a barrel of water, while the maid Ramona swears his mother is taking good care of him. More suppressed sexual imagery follows, as Don Jaime listens to church music and is later seen rifling through Viridiana’s sensual undergarments. His sits by a chair in front of the fireplace when Viridiana stunningly sleepwalks in front of him. He notices her legs and naked feet as she collects ashes from the fire and dumps them on his bed. When told of this incident the next day, Viridiana remembered she used to do that as a child, but embarrassingly remarks she would do anything he asked. Don Jaime initially feigns foolishness, but is dead serious when he asks her to wear his deceased wife’s white wedding gown, which of course fits perfectly. Don Jaime then drugs her coffee, takes her in his arms and carries her to his bed, where she inertly lies in that white dress like a corpse, as the little girl spies through the window. To a reprise of the “Hallelujah Chorus,” Don Jaime kisses her, unbuttons the white dress, then kisses her on her breasts until he gets nervous and runs away.

To keep Viridiana from returning to the convent the next day, Don Jaime locks her in her room and tells her he ravaged her in the night, attempting to coerce her into marriage. Confused, believing she must hate him now, he relents, and Viridiana is seen walking through crowded streets with ordinary people, wonderful images of dogs running around, an unleashed freedom from the repressive air at her uncle’s estate. Yet just as instantly, we see dogs tied to the sides of wagons. As she is about to board a bus, the authorities stop her and bring her back to her uncle’s estate, where he is still hanging from a tree with the girl’s jump rope, followed immediately by the same image without the body of the young girl jumping rope. When she doesn’t return to the convent, the Mother Superior visits and remarks “Such a terrible act against our Lord. Why did he do it?” as Viridiana is scrubbing the floors of the house. Viridiana bears full responsibility, claiming she can’t return to the convent, that she’ll follow the Lord’s path in her way, alone – words of insolence to the Sister.

Viridiana rounds up all the beggars on the street and invites them to move into her mansion, while at the same time, Don Jaime’s son Jorge arrives with his girl friend, Lucia. But before long, the beggars start taking offense with one other, as well as their host, bickering over every little comment made when meals are served, and they’re less than thrilled when Viridiana puts them to work around the estate, even calling them in from the fields for a prayer session. Out of sheer boredom, Jorge is seen playing with a crucifix that turns into a switchblade, Lucia has nothing to do and eventually leaves, leaving Jorge free to pursue Ramona the maid.

The rest of the film is a rollercoaster ride of sheer cinema heaven, as the masters of the mansion go into town, leaving the beggars in charge, which turns into a looting frenzy with dizzying images of an out of control beggar’s banquet, stuffing themselves on all the food and wine in the house, leaving food spilled, tables, dishes and glassware broken, all at first dancing for joy, but eventually the women start grabbing at each other’s hair, while the men pull any available women to the ground in brutal rape scenes, all to the music of the “Hallelujah Chorus.” When Viridiana and Jorge return, some meekly head for the exits remarking, “Good night, we were just leaving,” while others continue their relentless, riotous uproar and attack Jorge with a knife, another smashes him over the head with a wine bottle, knocking him out, tying him up, then grabbing Viridiana, who is just another woman thrown to the ground and raped in an astonishingly grotesque display of human degradation.

In the aftermath, all the beggars and the help gone, Viridian looks at herself in a little pocket mirror as the music abruptly changes from the earlier solemn church music to carefree rock n roll, a song called “Shimmy Doll,” which continues playing as we see the little girl outside playing with Viridiana’s crown of thorns, eventually throwing it in a bonfire, “Shake, shake, you gotta shake it every way.” Ramona and Jorge are flirting in his room. Viridiana takes her hair down and walks to Jorge’s door, surprised to see Ramona already there. Jorge remarks, “We need to do something to fill the long nights,” and starts to deal the cards to both of them, as the camera pulls away, the three of them are sitting at a table idly playing cards as we hear the song, “Shake your cares away. I love her and she loves me, I’m gonna shake her apple tree. Shake, shake, shake your cares away...”

Time Out

After years in Mexican exile, Buñuel returned to his native Spain to make this dark account of corruption, which was immediately banned. A young nun, full of charity, kindness, and idealistic illusions about humanity, visits her uncle and tries to help some local peasants and beggars. But her altruism is greeted with ridicule and cruelty. Pinal gives a superb performance in the title role, and Buñuel's clear-eyed wit is relentless in its depiction of human selfishness, ingratitude, and cynicism. The final beggars' orgy - a black parody of the Last Supper, performed to the ethereal strains of Handel's Messiah - is one of the director's most memorably disturbing, funny, and brutal scenes. A masterpiece.

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson]

After 13 years of establishing his post-surrealist voice in the penny arcade of Mexican cinema, Luis Buñuel returned to Franco-ruled, censorship-crazed Spain and made, characteristically, the most incendiary feature of his mature career. Viridiana (1961) is no less than a schematic attack on Catholic piety, with Silvia Pinal's sugar-spun nun returning to her uncle's estate only to have the old lech (Fernando Rey) drug her and lie about raping her so as to corner the traumatized virgin into marriage. From there, it's suicide, betrayal, and a catastrophic experiment in philanthropy, as still devout Viridiana transforms the estate into a hostel for the homeless, who gleefully turn on her like plague rats. Buñuel enjoyed viewing Christianity as a fat whore at which to throw rotten fruit, but Viridiana is also a clawhammered critique of liberal aristos, responsible for constructing a society that creates a beggar class and then "doing good" through fits of unwelcome charity. The film was banned in Spain, condemned by the Vatican, and awarded top prize at Cannes. Among the DVD extras are three interviews, one with Buñuel from a 1964 episode of Cinéastes de Notre Temps.

CINE-FILE: Cine-List Ben Sachs

The selection of Buñuel's VIRIDIANA as the Palme d'Or winner in 1961 was more than the validation of a zeitgeist—it was a display of political solidarity. The film's making and arrival at Cannes have become the stuff of legend: Its satire of both greed and piety attacked the primary totems of a Catholic, Fascist country—Franco's Spain; the film was banned upon completion and a print had to be smuggled out of the country for its premiere. But Buñuel is not among the greatest of all filmmakers simply for courting controversy. Each of his formal decisions, even when seemingly anarchic, reveals a piercing worldview. Michael Wood writes in his notes for the Criterion Collection's DVD release: “The film is divided very clearly into two parts: the story of an elderly man's hopeless love and suicide, and his near violation of a young woman; and that of the young woman's attempt to rescue a small portion of the world's unfortunates. There is desperation in the first part and grimly comic failure in the second, but the overall effect is more spirited than that sounds—because of the endless, irreverent life in the filmmaking itself, and because of Buñuel's commitment to the possibility of change, even when it seems impossible.”

All Movie Guide [Mark Deming]

One wonders just what Francisco Franco and the leaders of his regime were thinking when they invited arch surrealist and stubborn anti-Fascist Luis Buñuel back to the land of his birth to make Viridiana. Buñuel had made a career out of confronting his audiences and defying creative authority, and anyone who imagined that he had meekly begun sleeping with the enemy was in for a shock. Viridiana was a gleefully blasphemous tirade against Catholicism and the Spanish bourgeoisie that proved something of an embarrassment to Spain despite winning top honors at the 1961 Cannes Film Festival. Fernando Rey, one of Buñuel's favorite actors in his late period, is deliciously sleazy yet refined as Don Jaime; Rey's easy charm and understated wit are the perfect match for the elegantly corrupt man whose sense of propriety does not rule out drugging and seducing his niece, who happens to be a nun. Silvia Pinal's performance as Viridiana often suggests that she isn't entirely in on the joke, but the distance works in her favor, as the young novitiate seems blissfully unaware first of her uncle's designs upon her, and later of the contempt that the beggars and street people she tries to help feel for her. The final scene -- in which the beggars freeze into a recreation of The Last Supper as a filthy woman "photographs" them by lifting her skirts -- is, along with Simon of the Desert, one of Buñuel's strongest and funniest anti-clerical moments. Like the best of Buñuel's work, Viridiana is smart, witty, deeply cutting, and thoroughly uncompromised, a fitting bit of revenge from an old Loyalist against the dictator who defeated him. Buñuel would have the last laugh yet again when he returned to Spain nine years later to make Tristana, a fitting companion piece to Viridiana.

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez] Superb Buñuel reviews continue from Ed Gonzalez

More than 40 years after its original release, Viridiana still shocks. In 1960, Franco invited the long-exiled Luis Buñuel to return to his native Spain to produce a film completely to his liking. Ask and you shall receive: Viridiana was Buñuel's sly "fuck you" to the Spanish dictator and his political bedfellows, including the Catholic Church. Upon its release, the Vatican and Franco's government immediately condemned the film. Not surprisingly, Viridiana went on to win the Palm d'Or at the Cannes Film Festival. Though the film is noticeably derivative of the similarly-themed Nazarín (both films were adapted from novels by Benito Pérez Galdós), not only is Viridiana more economical than Buñuel's 1958 masterpiece but its remarkable classicism recalls the style of later works like The Diary of the Chambermaid and Belle du Jour. The film tells the story of a virtuous young nun (Silvia Pinal) whose efforts to do good and remain virtuous are constantly thwarted by the world around her. Both here and in Nazarín, an outraged Buñuel doesn't so much attack a saint's good intentions as much as her naivete and unwillingness to realize that the world is incapable of appreciating them.

When summoned by Don Jaime (Fernando Rey) to his estate, Viridiana tells a fellow sister that she would rather stay at the convent she calls home. Her loyalty to God is particularly extreme: her nightgown is made of rough muslin; she sleeps on the floor; she carries a crown of thorns inside her suitcase; and she performs religious rituals while sleepwalking. When she visits Don Jaime's barn and asks a cowhand for a glass of milk, the man suggests that she milk the cow herself. More startling than the delirious innuendoes implied in this scene (not surprisingly, they slipped by the censors when the film was approved for production) is the fact that Viridiana, more so than anyone around her, is on constant alert and sees sex in places where there obviously isn't any. Don Jaime (here, Buñuel's doppelganger) pesters Viridiana to stay at his estate, forces her to dress in his deceased wife's wedding dress, drugs her with the help of his loyal maid, Ramona (Margarita Lozano), and convinces her that they slept together when she subsequently passed out. The maid's daughter, Rita (Teresa Rabal), is reprimanded early on for spying on Viridiana (and seeing her in her nightgown). Later, the girl's mother chooses not to believe Don Jaime when he claims he didn't sleep with Viridiana precisely because her daughter observed him kissing his niece.

Viridiana seems to believe her uncle when he tells her he didn't deflower her but she leaves his estate anyway. But as soon as she reaches the bus station, the local police notify her that Don Jaime committed suicide using little Rita's jump rope. Even in death, Jaime continues to test Viridiana's spiritual complacency. She uses his home as a shelter for a group of beggars, but her good will is no match for the sad viciousness of the people she tries to help and the blunt level-headedness of Don Jaime's prodigal son, Jorge (Francisco Rabal). Buñuel's sister Conchita once observed: "In Viridiana, there's a scene where a tired dog is attached by a rope to the underside of a cart as it rumbles along the road. Luis suffered when he shot this scene because in real life it was so very common. The habit was so ingrained in the Spanish peasant that to try to break it would have been like Don Quixote tilting at windmills." During this beautiful scene, Jorge buys a dog from a local peasant so that the poor animal won't have to suffer any longer. When he turns his back to the road, another cart rumbles by with another dog attached to the vehicle's underside. This is Buñuel's poetic expression of life's sinister cycle.

Viridiana is a fable about one woman who discovers just how difficult it is to change the world around her. Jorge respects Viridiana's instinct to do good but continuously reminds her that her efforts are futile. "You can't save everyone," he says, not long after he himself tries to save a dog from the brutality of man. When the members of the house leave the estate for the night, Viridiana's beggars play Handel's "Messiah" on Don Jaime's phonograph and reenact their own version of Da Vinci's "The Last Supper" in what remains one of the most infamous sequences ever mounted for the screen. After nearly destroying Don Jaime's dining hall, the beggars attempt to rape Viridiana when she returns to the estate. Viridiana's controversy is ironic because, like Nazarín, it doesn't attack Christianity as an institution but its failure to truly and imaginatively connect with the people it seeks to help. Why break bread with people who don't even want that bread? Viridiana learns her lesson, religious hymns give way to "Shake Your Cares Away," and her rituals of denial usher in a very wholesome game of cards. And with that, Buñuel seems to welcome the girl into the real world.

by Michael Wood Criterion essay

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Luis Bunuel: Viridiana | Features | Guardian Unlimited Film Derek Malcolm’s Century of Films from the Guardian

Luis Buñuel: Viridiana « The Mookse and the Gripes

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THE EXTERMINATING ANGEL (El ángel exterminador) A 100

Mexico (95 mi) 1962

The best explanation of this film is that, from the standpoint of pure reason, there is no explanation.
—Buñuel's preface to The Exterminating Angel

Time Out

In the best surrealist tradition, Buñuel claimed that his brilliant, disconcertingly funny joke - after an upper class dinner party, the guests find some mysterious compulsion making it impossible for them to leave the premises - has no rational explanation. True enough, but there are meanings aplenty in his powerful central image of decay as the vast, magnificently appointed bourgeois salon is gradually reduced to a sordid rubbish-heap where the once elegant guests squat and gnaw at bones. Significantly, the whole thing takes place under the sign of the church, but what still delights about the film is the way it refuses to be pigeonholed. Devastatingly funny, illuminated by unexpected shafts of generosity and tenderness, it remains one of Bunuel's very best.

DVDBeaver.com - Review [Gary W. Tooze]

Luis Buñuel (collaborated with Luis Alcoriza) to create what some consider to be his greatest film. It expresses itself as another stylistic and biting satire on the bourgeois, only in the vein of a horror film. It is called The Exterminating Angel.

In Mexico some rich folk are inexplicably invited to a dinner party at “Calle de la Providencia” - a mansion. As the night progresses it becomes apparent that they are all incapable of leaving the house. A message of idle rich dependency is the subtext. With the servants outside and no contact with them what becomes apparent is the hollowness and pettiness of the bourgeois lifestyle. Buñuel champions the exposure of the aristocratic *lack* of nobility for those who have more wealth than sense and have lost any touch with reality and a value structure. The monsters that are feared start to rear their ugly heads and as the comic strip character Pogo once said " We have met the enemy... and they are us."

A true masterpiece of cinema.

All Movie Guide [Mark Deming]

As a son of old money who later fell on hard times and embraced Marxism, Luis Buñuel had a well-earned contempt for the idle rich, and he rarely put it to better use than in El Angel Exterminador. While the opening titles, in which Buñuel coyly proclaims that the film has no literal meaning, seem a perverse challenge, one can watch the film at face value and practically hear the wicked old surrealist chuckling at the fate of his clueless upper-crust types, whose baffling inability to go home confounds all logic but their own. With the inexplicable going on all around them, their puzzlement may not be quite so difficult to understand -- What are the sheep and the bear doing there? What do the servants know that caused them all to leave? -- but the outside world seems to have fallen in line with the delusion: as family, friends, police, and casual onlookers keep watch over the mansion, no one has the courage to go inside. After all, these people have money and power, and if they think they can't come out, there must be some reason why. While the characters seem benignly absurd in the film's early stages, they seem at once dangerous, pathetic, and darkly hilarious as they devolve into animalistic barbarism. Buñuel did not have much use for pity, and he never expends a drop for his characters here. Packed with dark, offhand humor, casually bizarre images, twisted dream sequences (including one that seems to refer to Buñuel's alleged contributions to the B-horror opus The Beast With Five Fingers), and a simple but deceptively intelligent visual style, El Angel Extermindor is the sort of film that only Buñuel could have made; along with Los Olvidados, it's the finest of his Mexican films, and an ideal warm-up for the triumphs of his last period, especially Le charme discret de la bourgeoisie, with which it would make a superb double bill.

Slant Magazine Superb Buñuel reviews continue from Ed Gonzalez

After 1961's controversial Viridiana, Luis Buñuel collaborated with Luis Alcoriza for the first time since Fever Mounts in El Pao. The end result was the wicked bourgeois horror film The Exterminating Angel, considered by many to be Buñuel's crowning achievement. If not Buñuel's greatest film, this unclassifiable creation must count as one of the most twisted stunts ever mounted for the screen. In the film, members of Mexico's bourgeois are invited to a dinner party at a mansion on "Calle de la Providencia" and for some unexplained reason find themselves incapable of exiting the house by night's end. An inexplicable force similarly drives the home's servants, though they're propelled to leave the house rather than stay inside. Immediately, Buñuel points to all sorts of natural calls to action and rituals of bourgeois dependency.

Buñuel likens the house in the film to a sunken ship and the film's elite to its helpless prisoners, and as such the hysterically funny The Exterminating Angel plays out like a perverted disaster flick. Incapable of functioning as rational humans beings once the house servants have left for the evening, the film's bourgeois nationalists quickly descend into savagery. Though the front door is readily available to them as an exit, they seem unable to access it without being led to it by the servants. Hysterical and dying of hunger, the men and women of the film slaughter and cook a herd of sheep inexplicably kept in the house by the servants. And though there's probably plenty of drinking water in the kitchen, they break through walls in order to access a network of water pipes. Buñuel doesn't so much take on the upper class's dependency on the lower class as much as he evokes an entire nation's failure to recognize just how much societal order hinges on the work of the proletariat.

In stripping these characters of any contact with the lower class and the outside world (which keeps silent and confused watch from outside the house), Buñuel reveals just how empty these people are and how much they hate each other. "Why don't you kill me?" one frantic woman wails on her deathbed. Those who don't succumb to hysteria surrender to carnal desires they would never have consummated under normal circumstances. Some at paper for sustenance while others invent ways of killing themselves. Buñuel knows how funny he's being and several lines of dialogue in The Exterminating Angel both reference the sickness of the film's humor ("This is a bit excessive!") and the twisted pleasure some of the film's rich cattle derive from the helplessness of their situation. "I adore things which go out of the ordinary," one woman says at one point before things really do go awry.

The film's drama queens predictably turn to thoughts of death and subsequently suicide as their bourgeois complacency is slowly compromised over several days and nights. For Buñuel, these nationalist caricatures are really apolitical beings. And what would a Buñuel film be without a religious swipe or 20? The rich dolts arrive at the house after having watched a religious play about a naïve virgin (who Buñuel symbolically transplants into the house as Silvia Pinal's bound-to-be-deflowered Valkyrie). Just as the bourgeois monsters begin to realize they're powerless inside Buñuel's devastated political framework, they predictably seek solace in religion. And after they manage to lead themselves out of the house, Buñuel confines them once more, but this time inside a Catholic church after a morning service. Once again, they're incapable of leaving their glass houses and the same cries they hollered earlier come to mind: "We're lost!"

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DVD Review: The Exterminating Angel and Simon of the Desert Tim Lucas from Sight & Sound, April 2009

The Exterminating Angel: Exterminating Civilization Criterion essay by Marsha Kinder

Paging Dr. Buñuel!

The Exterminating Angel (1962) - The Criterion Collection

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El Ángel exterminador (1962) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

The Age [Iain McKay]

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

Strictly Film School Acquarello

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

PRESS NOTES: WILD AND WOOLLY Critical comments from Criterion

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times in 1968

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times in 1997

The New York Times (Bosley Crowther)

DIARY OF A CHAMBERMAID (Le Journal d'une Femme de Chamber)

France Italy (101 mi) 1964 ‘Scope

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

This wicked adaptation of the Octave Mirbeau novel is classic Luis Buñuel. Jeanne Moreau is Celestine, a beautiful Parisian domestic who, upon arrival at her new job at an estate in provincial 1930s France, entrenches herself in sexual hypocrisy and scandal with her philandering employer (Buñuel regular Michel Piccoli). Filmed in luxurious black-and-white Franscope, Diary of a Chambermaid is a raw-edged tangle of fetishism and murder—and a scathing look at the burgeoning French fascism of the era.

Time Out

Moreau as the beautiful, ambitious Célestine makes it from Downstairs to Upstairs by manipulating her right-wing boss (Piccoli), his leftish neighbour (Ivernel), and his fascist gamekeeper (Géret). Octave Mirbeau's muckraking 1900 novel has abiding insight into the deep structures of French political instability. Buñuel shifts the story to the rise of Fascism in the '30s. He digs right down to that spiritual gunge which links political, sexual and social positions (and impositions) as equal perversions of human desires (in turn perversions of animal desires). Like most Buñuel heroines, Célestine is intuitively a feminist, but before her time, and blows it by her egoism and ambivalence before male ruthlessness. Moreau's baleful charisma complements Buñuel's sardonic sadness. It's his greyest film since Nazarin, and all the more troubling for its impassive flow, which successive explosions of strange desire can never quite disturb.

Slant Magazine More superb Buñuel reviews from Ed Gonzalez

The Diary of a Chambermaid was a crucial turning point in Luis Buñuel's career because it would officially usher in the French period of the director's later years. In 1963, Buñuel met producer Serge Silberman in Spain and together they decided on an adaptation of Octave Mirbeau's Jounral d'une femme de chamber, which Buñuel had read several times and Jean Renoir had previously directed less famously in 1946. Buñuel wanted to shoot the film in Mexico with the great Silvia Pinal in the lead but Silberman refused, wanting the director to make the film for him in France. At Cannes, Buñuel met screenwriter Jean-Claude Carrière, with whom he would work almost exclusively for the rest of his life, and with the help of Louis Malle, Buñuel met and subsequently cast the great Jeanne Moreau as the Parisian chambermaid who arrives at a country estate in provincial France and is overwhelmed by one sexual scandal after another.

It's impossible to compare Renoir's frisky version of Mirbeau's novel with Buñuel's considerably more acerbic one. Buñuel admired Renoir greatly but he refused to see his 1946 film so as to avoid any undue influence on his own production. In Renoir's distinctly Hollywood version, the gold-digging Célestine played by Paulette Godard must still fend off the advances of various suitors, but instead of rewarding herself with bourgeois gold she gives a chest full of stolen booty to the film's impoverished townsfolk. By film's end, her greed has been seemingly quelled by the various misdeeds committed by the Lanlaire's valet: Francis Lederer's Joseph (Francis Lederer). In Buñuel's more modern version (the story is transplanted from the late-19th century to the late 1920s), Joseph (Georges Géret) kills not the next-door neighbor but rapes and murders a young girl on the Monteil estate. As for Moreau's Célestine, the chambermaid freely and passively indulges the whims of the film's elite because she too aims for a position at the top of the bourgeois food chain.

As far as Buñuel's dissections of bourgeois complacency went, The Diary of a Chambermaid ranks pretty low. It's neither as deliriously absurd as The Exterminating Angel or as masochistically metaphoric as L'Age d'Or. Shot in glorious black-and-white Franscope by cinematographer Roger Fellous, The Diary of a Chambermaid is a more unsettling mood piece: a startling evocation of a kingdom on the brink of moral collapse. If Renoir's version plays out like a happy-go-lucky fairy-tale, Buñuel's take is noticeably more Grimm. A miasmic mist perpetually encircles the Monteil estate, a visual motif Lucretia Martel may have borrowed for the similarly themed La Cienaga. And then there's the innocent Claire jogging through the woods a la Little Red Riding Rood. Joseph turns to her as she runs off, muttering sinisterly, "Watch out for wolves."

Buñuel once said, "Sexual perversion repulses me, but I can be attracted to it intellectually." Diary of a Chambermaid features endless images of characters entertaining each other's foot fetishes. Buñuel has acknowledged that this so-called fetish of his seems to transplant itself from his mind and into his films almost entirely subconsciously. If Buñuel refuses to ponder the irrational implications of these images in Diary of a Chambermaid, it's probably because the film is Buñuel's most realist expression of his life-long fixation with ribbing bourgeois orders. Monsieur Rabour's obsession with Célestine's feet is an outlet of some kind for his sexual frustration, but Buñuel seems more concerned with cause than effect here. When he cuts to Célestine and Joseph making love after Madame Monteil (Françoise Lugagne) is seen suffering in silence over not being able to please her husband (the great Michel Piccoli), the unusually sympathetic Buñuel sadly reveals the method behind the Madame's madness.

In moving Mirbeau's story to the 1920s, Buñuel and Carrière allowed for political unrest from the time period to run parallel to the story's sexual perversions. The film ends with a political demonstration. Protesters shout: "Down with the Republic! Death to the Jews! Long live Chiappe!" Buñuel described Chiappe as the "bête noir of the Surrealists." (This right-wing police prefect had suppressed the director's wicked L'Age d'Or.) In many ways, the film's unsettling mood anticipates the horrors of the Holocaust: a character is named Adolf; the film's police commissioner wears a mustache not unlike the Nazi leader; and countless characters in the film are Jew haters. A priest (played by Carrière) is shocked that Madame's husband wants to have sex twice a week, and in having the man whisked away by police along with the racist and alleged racist Joseph, Buñuel points both to the hypocritical madness of French nationalists and the Catholic Church that would turn a blind eye to the Holocaust.

by Michael Atkinson Criterion essay

Senses of Cinema (Victoria Loy) also seen here: Diary of a Chambermaid | Senses of Cinema - Drifting Clouds Cinema ...

DVD Savant Review Glenn Erickson

Epinions [metalluk]

Le Journal d'une femme de chambre (1964) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

filmcritic.com reads a Chambermaid's Diary Julia Levin

DVD Verdict Erick Harper

Combustible Celluloid Jeffrey M. Anderson

DVD Talk (Matt Langdon)

DVD Town (Yunda Eddie Feng)

DVD MovieGuide Colin Jacobson

Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick)

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Rich Rosell)

Images Movie Journal Gary Morris also reviews THE DISCREET CHARM OF THE BOURGEOISIE, also here: Bright Lights Film Journal

DVD Times - Luis Buñuel Box Set by Noel Megahey, also reviewing BELLE DE JOUR and THE MILKY WAY

Mondo Digital also reviewing BELLE DE JOUR, THAT OBSCURE OBJECT OF DESIRE, and THE DISCREET CHARM OF THE BOURGEOISIE

The New York Times (Eugene Archer)

SIMON OF THE DESERT (Simón del Desierto) A 100

Mexico (45 mi) 1965

Simon of the desert, who is the most free man on Earth because he has and does what he wants, without any obstacles. He is there on top of a column, eating lettuce. Total freedom. —Luis Buñuel, 1965

I am still, thank God, an atheist. —Luis Buñuel, in a 1960 L'Express interview

What am I to God? Nothing, a murky shadow. My passage on this earth is too rapid to leave any traces; it counts for nothing in space or in time. God really doesn’'t pay any attention to us, so even if he exists, it’s as if he didn’t. —My Last Sigh, Luis Buñuel’s autobiography, 1983

Besides being a spiritual exercise, blessing is good fun, too. —Simón (Claudio Brook)

Impossible not to like this film, pre-dating the savage satire of Monty Python, this one taking aim at the exalted ambitions of man, one of Buñuel’s most scathingly hilarious films, which starts out deceptively serious before unleashing a bitingly absurd commentary about the pretentious behavior of the church. The inspiration for the film came from a 13^th century book recommended to Buñuel by the poet Federico García Lorca, containing the story of St. Simon Stylites, as ascetic who reportedly stood on a column in the middle of the desert for 37 years during the 5^th century. Similarly set during the early era of Christian ascetics, Simón (Claudio Brook) is the picture of saintly piety, spending years of his life standing atop a small tower in the desert, denying himself all earthly pleasures, where he is already regarded as a saint, which unfortunately has gone to his head, as the ever serious Simón believes he is closer to God than other mere mortals. There is beautiful camera work by Gabriel Figueroa whose high angle views of the lofty tower in an empty desert perfectly embrace the lofty pretensions of man to elevate their souls, with wonderful dialogue written by Buñuel and Julio Alejandro, who together also co-wrote NAZARÍN (1959) and VIRIDIANA (1961). The last of Buñuel’s highly regarded Mexican films, Simón is seen as a heavily bearded Holy Fool, talking superficial gibberish to himself much of the time while believing his conscious is in an eternal struggle with God’s will, continually asking if heaven is ready to accept him yet, where the church makes daily visits to his tower, bringing him lettuce and water, but also praying with him while making snide comments behind his back, jealous that Simón receives greater notoriety than the learned bishops or priests.

While Simón makes blessings and religious pronouncements, as if he’s become God’s spokesperson, he also criticizes others for not being pious enough, chastising a young monk for being too young, as he can’t even grow a beard yet, and then contemptuously pushes his own mother aside at one point when he comes down from the tower after he's been on the same platform for 6 years, 6 months, and 6 days (a Revelations reference to the devil) for a brand new tower just a few yards away that’s even higher, supposedly closer to heaven, specially built for him by a local businessman who he miraculously cured of illness. This gesture appears particularly crude when we see that his mother has been keeping a silent vigil at his side for many years, living a solitary existence in a hut nearby where she can stand watch over her son. Simón even performs a miracle, as a thief whose hands have been cut off by the local priests asks for a new pair of hands, which suddenly appear, whereupon he leaves to go home, hardly even amazed, without an ounce of gratitude, having received what he wanted, and then strikes his kids on the head with his new hands when they curiously ask if they are the same hands as before. But there are those who question his sincerity, accusing him of being a charlatan, who are then struck mad on the spot, as if by divine order.

At one point a visiting monk says to the protagonist “Your asceticism is sublime.” But the real thrill is the presence of Sylvia Pinal as the devil temptress who attempts to lure Simón down from his tower. She takes on various disguises, from a young girl in a sailor suit who bares her breasts and shows off her stockings, who magically appears on the tower next to Simón whispering in his ear, calling him weak and timid, poking fun at his slave-like devotion and his ridiculous display of pretense, a hypocrite who hasn’t an ounce of mercy, before turning into a Christ-like shepherd with a beard who at first fools Simón before tempting him to choose a life of sensual pleasure, so he immediately decides in absurd penance that he will stand on only one leg. She immediately kicks a lamb and asks, “What kind of crap is this?” The running dialogue between the two is priceless, as Simón asks Satan to repent her wicked ways. Satan, wondering what would happen if she did, asks whether God would accept her back into Heaven? Of course the answer is no, as she’s been condemned to Hell. Satan indicates it’s only a matter of time before Simón will join her.

No one despised the Catholic Church as much as Luis Buñuel, where SIMON OF THE DESERT and VIRIDIANA (1962) comprise two of the more devastating attacks not only on the church, but the moral hypocrisy of their role, where much like Dostoyevsky’s The Grand Inquisitor from The Brothers Karamazov, the church no longer needs a living Christ as they have appropriated the religious message from God and replaced it with an infallible theocratic doctrine that only they control, forcing parishioners to submit to their authoritarian rules and dictates while amassing great power and wealth. Too often the church overlooks the moral sins of its own corruption and the criminal activity of sexually impure priests in the interest of the church, which supposedly stands above all and governs by autocratic rule. Buñuel’s films mock the churches power and the sheepish conformity of organized religion by asking the filmgoing audience to think for themselves and exercise their own free will, using Simón as Christ’s misguided and self-important religious fanatic, placing himself above man where he undermines his own special purpose. Even the miracles performed by Simón are taken for granted, having little to do with God or religious faith, and instead are so routinely expected that followers would be disappointed if they didn’t witness one, eventually losing interest in Simón altogether when they don’t, becoming passé, where his message is soon forgotten.

And in a wonderful image of an airplane flying overhead, Simón is whisked ahead into the future surrounded by tall skyscrapers where he and Satan sit at a swinging 1960’s New York City discotheque where writhing kids are dancing non-stop to the grinding electric rock sounds of a group called Los Sinners in an expression of sheer joy and sensuality playing a primitive piece of music called “Radioactive Flesh” Los Sinners - Rebelde Radioactivo YouTube (3:49). Simón, now with short cropped hair, is smoking a pipe, looking very professorial, playing the part of an aging intellectual, serious and forlorn, while Satan in a miniskirt, smoking like a chimney, urges the dancers to keep up their frenetic rhythm as they frolic the night away. Instead of ascending to heaven like he hoped and prayed for all those years placing himself on his own self-inflated pedestal, he’s instead whisked into a purgatory of Hell dancing with the Devil, a near perfect masterpiece that is rollicking fun. Part of a religious trilogy with NAZARÍN (1959) and THE MILKY WAY (1969), the production ran out of money, cutting short what was intended to be a feature length film, but in its brevity becomes a more perfectly concise work with a singularly unique vision and plenty of Buñuel wit.

Chicago Reader [Dave Kehr] (capsule review)

Forty-three minutes of perfect filmmaking (1965). Luis Buñuel tells the story of San Simeon Stylites, the desert martyr who stood for 25 years atop a pillar, and the efforts of the devil to coax him down. Since the devil is played by Mexican musical star Silvia Pinal, her temptations aren't the usual ones. Buñuel's wit is piercingly sharp, his timing impeccable, and his visual style superbly unobtrusive and naturalistic--proving again how much realism is required in surrealism. With Claudio Brook as Simon.

Time Out review

Short, sharp and astounding, this film provides a teasing bridge between the Old Testament Buñuel of Nazarin and Viridiana, and the new - Belle de Jour and Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie. Simon Stylites, literally perched on a pedestal, is assailed by a cynical dwarf and a series of temptations (including Silvia Piñal and some vintage surrealist images) before being swept, like King Kong, from timelessness to the cacophony of modern New York. Not a very reassuring vision, but worth 45 minutes of any sceptic's time.

Cinepassion.org [Fernando F. Croce]

The starting point is the asceticism of Simeon Stylites, the punchline nods to García Lorca’s Poet in New York ("No es el infierno, es la calle"); in between, Luis Buñuel tells one of his most caustic, most tender jokes. The holy fool literally puts his modesty on a pedestal, Simón (Claudio Brook) prays and fasts atop his column, eyeing the heavens: "How long before I am worthy of Thee?" Among the worshipers below is a thief with severed hands -- Simón makes him whole again, the man uses the new knuckles to shove his daughter, the folks who came for a miracle are not impressed. The young priest bouncing around the desert is ultimately banished for being beardless, the dwarf shepherd is close enough to the earth to fondle his goat’s teats, both men "hear the Devil at night." For a brief moment Simón wonders whether his faith frees him or enslaves him, his single indecency is to dream of being able to feel the dirt under his feet; later, having already blessed a fly, he digs a morsel of food out of his mouth ("Besides being a spiritual exercise, blessing is good fun, too"). Like Mary, his mother is relegated to the sidelines, only here she pauses mid-prayer to cover up an anthill. Satan (Silvia Pinal) materializes to tempt him, first as a Goldilocks with garter belts under her schoolgirl skirt, then as a bogus Savior in tunic, whiskers, and ringlets, finally as a plump Venus rising out of a scuttling casket. Buñuel dollies in to reframe Simón as he gently wipes his eye in the middle of a sermon, then later dollies out to reveal the possessed monk about to begin frothing, and no simpler or more expressive camerawork can be imagined. Far from mocking his penitent protagonist, Buñuel values his tenacity of belief even while seeing his sacrifice as a useless monument. He builds, sublimely, to a jibe at Kierkegaard (and H.G. Wells), with the saint leased out of his pillar and an invitation to the dance. With Enrique Álvarez Felix, Hortensia Santoveña, Luis Aceves Castañeda, and Enrique del Castillo. In black and white.

Simón del desierto (1965) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

In the 5th Century, a devout ascetic named Simon stands on top of a tall pillar in a remote desert.  He occupies himself in prayer and in blessing those whom come from far around to see him.  One day, the Devil appears to him in the guise of a beautiful woman and starts to taunt him...

This film has its origins in the story of St Simon Stylites, who is reputed to have spent 37 years on a pillar preaching Christianity to pilgrims until his death in 459 AD.  Luis Buñuel uses the story as the basis for one his most amusing and cynical attacks on religion, in a film which is easily recognisable as a forerunner of the 1979 Monty Python film, The Life of Brian .

Although his is portrayed sympathetically, the Simon in this film is hardly a saint-like figure.  Like many people who commit themselves to a religion, he displays an almost contemptuous regard for others, wrapping himself up in his cloak of self-importance and deigning to bless those who have not attained his level of perfection.  Through his self-delusion and lack of humility, Simon merely distances himself from his fellow man and also from the God he strives to be near to.

As in many of his subsequent films, Buñuel’s satire on Christianity is fiendishly direct yet remarkably subtle and intelligent.  The director returns to the extreme surrealist symbolic approach of his earliest films, so that you are never quite sure what exactly he is saying, but the general sense of his meaning is, probably, quite clear.

This is an exceptional short film which exposes the pitfalls of religious belief with great lucidity and tact, without attacking any specific religion directly.  Some of the imagery and symbolism is perplexing, but it makes interesting viewing. 

The best part of the film is the totally unexpected and mind-blowing shift of location near the end of the film.  We are prompted to ask the following question.  Which is the greater sin – deliberately setting yourself up as some kind of false god through a public display of self-righteous asceticism, or yielding innocently to the natural impulse for unbridled hedonism?   Perhaps both are equally damnable and will ultimately lead us all to the same place...

CultureCartel.com (John Nesbit) review [4/5] also seen here: Old School Reviews [John Nesbit]

Surrealist Luis Buñuel firmly digs his elbows into the side of organized religion in his wonderfully satiric Simón del desierto (Simon of the Desert). Claudio Brook stars as San Simeon Stylites, a religious fanatic determined to live a holy ascetic life on a platform in the desert. Implying the number of the Beast, he's been on the same platform for 6 years, 6 months, and 6 days, and the local villagers (including some priests and monks) trek through the dusty desert to implore Simon to descend from his pitiful perch and ascend a new loftier pillar a few yards away.

One pillar is as good as another, so Simon crawls down and makes his way to the new berth, fending off people who want to touch his “holy” garments or receive his blessing. Simon even rebukes his own mother, refusing to embrace her or give her special recognition when she expresses desire to live close by. To Simon, nothing must get between him and God, so he continues to ignore his own mother while she camps out near his pillar.

The initial group coming to see the spectacle hope to see a miracle, giving Buñuel his first satirical salvo. One man asks Simon to restore his hands, which punitive priests (who have now repented of their act) had chopped off for thievery. Simon states that all he can do is pray, and the man's hands reappear. The desired miracle! But immediately afterwards the crowd disperses and continues on as always—the ungrateful thief now verbally abuses his wife and slaps his child with his newly-restored hands.

Simon continues his solitary existence on his pedestal, eating little but lettuce and continually thinking of ways to deny himself earthly pleasure—making little self tests like waiting until sundown to eat or standing on one foot. He's also tested by Satan, cleverly played by Mexican musical star Silvia Pinal in various guises. The funniest occurs when she comes thinly disguised as the bearded Jesus Christ, at first fooling Simon until she tells him to forgo his ascetic ways and live a life with sensual pleasures. Tempted but puzzled, Simon affirms the spiritual benefits of his ascetic lifestyle, to which Pinal responds with an un-Christlike lamb kick and asks, “What kind of crap is this?” A pervading question throughout the film is whether Simon is truly acting from a sense of freedom or from a slave mentality. Simon's ludicrously spartan existence certainly violates Buñuel's values.

Despite Simon's insistence on living a righteous life of self-denial, Buñuel's absurd scenario isolates him from humanity in useless endeavors, and he begins to sound self-righteous despite his claims of being a lowly sinner. It's like he's testing God to see if he's significant, something akin to the way Buñuel expresses his doubts in his autobiography:

"What am I to God? Nothing, a murky shadow. My passage on this earth is too rapid to leave any traces; it counts for nothing in space or in time. God really doesn't pay any attention to us, so even if he exists, it's as if he didn't."

Buñuel's well paced drama ends abruptly after forty-five minutes with a surreal encounter in the modern world, where Simon remains as detached from humanity as he was atop his pedestal. What good does it do for Simon to deny himself the pleasures of this world if it leads to nothing? Buñuel has often affirmed his own brand of atheism, and Simon of the Desert closely reflects his issues with organized religion:

"My form of atheism, however, leads inevitably to an acceptance of the inexplicable. Mystery is inseparable from chance, and our whole universe is a mystery. Since I reject the idea of a divine watchmaker (a notion even more mysterious than the mystery it supposedly explains), then I must consent to live in a kind of shadowy confusion. And insofar as no explication, even the simplest, works for everyone, I've chosen my mystery. At least it keeps my moral freedom intact."

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez] Superb Buñuel reviews continue from Ed Gonzalez

Simon of the Desert: Damned If You Do . . . Criterion essay from Michael Wood, February 3, 2009

PRESS NOTES: WILD AND WOOLLY Critical comments from Criterion

Simon of the Desert (1965) - The Criterion Collection

JonathanRosenbaum.com » Blog Archive » One-Man Armada November 10, 2000

What Losing Faith Really Means – Roger Scruton T.S. Eliot, Paying Attention to the Sky, also seen here: T.S. Eliot | Paying Attention To The Sky

Simon of the Desert essay by Matt Meyer

Only The Cinema [Ed Howard]

IFC.com [Michael Atkinson]

Ruthless Reviews review Alex K.

Simon of the Desert (Luis Buñuel, 1965) « Forrest In Focus: Critical ... Forrest Cardamenis from Forrest in Focus

Some Came Running: My favorite atheist Glenn Kenny

GreenCine Daily: DVD OF THE WEEK: Simon of the Desert Aaron Hillis

Tim Lucas Video WatchBlog: Mario of the Desert Tim Lucas

Simon of the Desert (1965) ~ reviewed by Nick Burton | Pif Magazine

SIMON OF THE DESERT (1965) J. Riddle from Cinema Archaeologist, June 20, 2009

Sight and Sound dvd review Tim Lucas, also reviewing EXTERMINATING ANGEL, April 2009

Turner Classic Movies review Rob Nixon

DVD Savant (Glenn Erickson) dvd review Criterion collection, also seen here: Turner Classic Movies dvd review

PopMatters (Guy Crucianelli) review Criterion collection

DVD Talk (Jamie S. Rich) dvd review [4/5] [Criterion Collection] also seen here: Criterion Confessions

DVD Verdict (Michael Rubino) dvd review [Criterion Collection]

DVD Town (Christopher Long) dvd review [Criterion Collection]

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Chuck Aliaga) dvd review Criterion collection

filmcritic.com (Chris Cabin) review [4/5]

Luis Buñuel's Cinema of Entrapment

SIMON OF THE DESERT (Simon del Desierto, 1964) Samuel Wilson from Mondo 70

User reviews from imdb Author: José Luis Rivera Mendoza (jluis1984) from Mexico

User reviews from imdb Author: pninize

Movie Reviews UK review [4/5] Damian Cannon

DVD: Buñuel Bounces Back Armond White from The New York Press

User reviews from imdb Author: ShiiStyle from United States

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson) review

GreenCine Daily [Aaron Hillis]

Paste Magazine [Steve Dollar]

Ozus' World Movie Reviews (Dennis Schwartz) review

Simon of the Desert (Simón del Desierto) Everything Is Eventual

Day For Night - Gazira Babeli 23-minute film based on the Buñuel film

Surrealist cinema - Surrealism - film, wife, director ... - Film Reference Erin Foster

Luis Buñuel | Senses of Cinema Dominique Russell, April 2005

TV Guide

San Francisco Chronicle (Walter Addiego) dvd review [4/4]

Mexican-era Luis Buñuel - Los Angeles Times Dennis Lim, February 8, 2009

The New York Times (A.H. Weiler) review

Buñuel at His Wildest, in Circulation Again Dave Kehr from The New York Times, February 6, 2009

DVDBeaver dvd review Gary W. Tooze

Simon of the Desert - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Simeon Stylites - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

St. Simeon Stylites St. Simeon Stylites (390-459 A.D.), by George Lamb from Panmodern website

Simeon Stylites: Definition from Answers.com

Saint Simeon Stylites | Catholic-Pages.com The Catholic Dispatch, 1997

Stylites: Climb a tree and stay there for 36 years BBC News, December 14, 1998

St Simeon Stylites by Lord Alfred Tennyson

BELLE DE JOUR A 100

France Italy (101 mi) 1967

from Time Out London (link lost):

Buñuel's cool, elegant version of Joseph Kessel's novel is an amoral comedy of manners. Beautiful, bored and bourgeoise Séverine, married to a surgeon, decides to while away her afternoons by working in a high-class whorehouse, where she encounters a variety of characters - a Chinaman with a strangely erotic box, a depraved Duke, and a gangster with gold teeth, with whom she falls in love. Or does she? Allowing us no indication of what is real, what is not, Buñuel constructs both a clear portrait of the bourgeoisie as degenerate, dishonest and directionless, and an unhysterical depiction of Deneuve's inner fantasy life, where she entertains dreams of humiliation galore. For a film about such a potentially sensationalist subject, it's remarkably discreet and chaste.

Edinburgh U Film Society [Iain Lang]

Buñuel's film is an adaptation of a novel by Joseph Kessel. It concerns Severine (Catherine Deneuve), the beautiful and bored wife of a surgeon. Tiring of her mundane bourgeois life, she takes a day job at a high-class brothel (one of those institutions peculiar to fictional cinema) where she meets a bizarre sequence of men whose weird fantasies she is employed to enact The film's conceit, however, is that we never know for sure what is real and what, like Severine's submissive fantasies is merely imagined. Buñuel plays with the viewer's perceptions, keeping him/her fascinated and beguiled by the films twists and turns.

Despite the nature of the plot Belle de Jour is surprisingly chaste and can in no way be described as mere sexploitation, yet its sheer force and sexually charged atmosphere is such that it has been described as "like being buried alive in Sandra Bernhardt's dressing room".

Ever the ice-maiden, Catherine Deneuve appears absolutely at home in Buñuel's coolly co-ordinated and restrained handling of such a potentially inflamatory subject.

The Village Voice [Michael Atkinson]

There was something about the sexually agape, porcelainized tabula rasa of Catherine Deneuve in her stardom's infancy that fed the dream lives of filmmakers fat with rose-petal mousse. Bloated and reeling, Roger Vadim saw Sadean excess and Jacques Demy saw pastel lollipops, while Luis Buñuel and Roman Polanski both saw behind their star's dewy placidness an overgrown wilderness of pathology. Deneuve could never not be objectified—she is one of modern movies' golden goats—and in a sense both Belle de Jour (1967) and Repulsion (1965) are tongue-in-cheek efforts to split the idol and see what bloodiness glistens inside. Of course, what we found were our own desires, yanked out like entrails, hoisted on flagstaffs, and exposed to mockery and gunshot.

Of the two, Repulsion is the most overtly psychoanalytical: an afternoon trapped in a flat with Deneuve's quiet walking wounded, and her snowballingly psychotic worldview: cracking walls, rotting rabbits, dream rapists, murdered corpses. But even in the shadow of Conrad and Richard Matheson (co-written, though, by Polanski and crony Gérard Brach), the movie's shake-and-bake mix of "reality" and crumbling subjectivity is too deliberate to be about character—it is, rather, a game of movieness, a masquerade of Grand Guignol–as-psyche, virtually a parody of the surrealist's notion of consciousness bagged and tagged on celluloid. A viewer's empathic bond is never solicited, merely his/her voyeuristic weakness, and willingness to be bruised. At least then, Polanski was a full-on, post-Hitchcockian misanthrope, and Deneuve only aroused him as a plastic ideal to be harried, flogged, and made ugly. (He never succeeded.) The famous, final Rosebud-like shot—dollying in to a family photo oozing with suggested menace and sick history—is exactly the "dime-store Freud" Orson Welles always claimed Citizen Kane's riddle- solution fillip to be. But by then we've been played, the ordeal we and Polanski craved for Deneuve turned out to be just a sport, and we were the ball—just as we'd hoped. We learned nothing about her, only a little about our taste for suffering.

Likewise, Buñuel's impulses with Deneuve ran from Belle de Jour's feigned attempts at sexual degradation to, three years later in Tristana, amputee fetishism, but as always with Buñuel there are no victimizers, just amused victims, and the self-perverting subject on hand is us—the audience, plus the citizenry of the world in which the movie was made, plus the characters who fulfill our wishes, plus Buñuel himself. A famous, relaxed fantasy scene in which white-satin-slip Deneuve is tied up and hit with black mud—it's her daydream—is hardly scandalous: It is a spirited, child-like revel, an affirmation of magnificent human silliness. Only Buñuel could make a film about Deneuve being a secretly masochistic housewife distractedly taking on prostitution as a hobby and never seem interested in her psychology. Instead, this silly little masterpiece regards Deneuve as the goddess of light she really was—a figment of our collective appetite for the unreal. If we detect sex lurking somewhere inside her, it's only our blood and hormones humming for what we can never have.

Deep Focus (Bryant Frazer)

One of my favorite unanswered questions in all of the movies is this: What does the Japanese client keep in his box in Belle de Jour?

A little background is in order, in case you’ve never seen the film. Belle de Jour is a definitive statement on eroticism, and a deeply personal experience. Catherine Deneuve gives a flat yet evocative performance as Severine Sevigny, a virginal newlywed whose everyday life is broken up by masochistic fantasies in which she’s beaten, smeared with filth, and humiliated by a variety of men. Her husband, Pierre, seems gentle and loving, but Severine remains in thrall to the idea of less wholesome relationships. When Severine probes one of her husband’s friends for information, he gives her the address of a Parisian brothel catering to businessmen. Severine dons black hat, coat, and sunglasses, and wanders through the neighborhood, finally working up the courage to enter the establishment, where Madame Anais agrees to let her work as a prostitute (Severine is just the right type, she says -- fresh and classy). Because Severine is insistent that she must be free to leave by evening, Anais christens her Belle de Jour.

The remainder of the film is broken into episodes, as Severine confronts new and different clients while living a second life at home. For the most part, the customers are vaguely repulsive caricatures: the fellow who fancies himself a ladies' man, and forces himself clumsily on her; "the Professor," a mousy gynecologist who insists on being scolded, whipped, and trod upon. More intriguing is the Japanese businessman who carries with him a small box. He shows the contents to one of the other two prostitutes, who snaps "Not for me, thanks," and turns away in a hurry. When Severine peeks inside, her eyes grow wide and we hear a soft whirring noise. "Don’t be afraid," she is urged.

When the man leaves, closing the latch once more on his little box, Severine lies spent, stretched across the bed as the maid tidies her room. She confides to Severine her understanding of what the prostitutes go through; even the maid finds men like the Japanese client somewhat frightening. Severine looks up from the bed with an expression of exhaustion and bliss. "What do you know?" she spits.

Director and co-screenwriter Luis Bunuel is one of the most subversive of filmmakers. His career began in 1939, with Un Chien Andalou (An Andalusian Dog), a classic of Surrealism that he made with artist Salvador Dali. The first scene featured a razor blade slicing sideways across a woman’s (actually an animal’s) eyeball. That most offensive of all images, which creates an uproar to this day whenever it’s shown to a classroom full of first-year film students, is a challenge to viewers, renewed with each project in Bunuel’s long career. Here, he seems to be at first challenging us to identify with Severine and her deviances, convincing us to distance ourselves from them, and ultimately to examine our own responses to her situation.

Bunuel is aided and abetted in this perverse venture by Sacha Vierny, the cinematographer who worked with Alain Resnais on Night and Fog, Hiroshima, Mon Amour, and Last Year at Marienbad, and who has lately been salvation for British filmmaker Peter Greenaway, whose films take divine advantage of Vierny’s cool, stately image-making. A good deal of Belle de Jour’s quiet power comes from the mannered beauty of its compositions, as Vierny catches the light on Deneuve’s face just so.

Eventually, Severine pays a terrible price for pursuing her aberrant fantasies, and the film could almost be a treatise on the importance of prudence and fidelity. It’s tempting to assume that Bunuel is blaming Severine for giving in to her own desires and betraying her husband -- blaming Woman for the ruin of Man. Perhaps he is, but it’s maddening to try and prove it. The movie is quite clearly Severine’s story, not Pierre’s. Her status as perpetrator of a misdeed is undermined by her status as a tragic hero (which is bolstered as Bunuel goes out of his way to develop Severine’s character). What’s important isn’t what Deneuve gives away in her low-key performance, but what she doesn’t show -- the essence that the audience itself has to fill in. Typically, the director gives us something more intriguing and revealing than a simple narrative. Bunuel plays our own judgmental tendencies against our desire for erotic satisfaction, and leaves us in a quandary.

Which brings us back to one of the great questions of the cinema. What’s in the Asian client’s box is the same thing that’s in Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction briefcase. It’s the MacGuffin from a dozen different Hitchcock films. Judging from the look on Deneuve’s face as she recovers from its effects, it may be, like the Maltese Falcon, the stuff dreams are made of.

But as far as dreams go, it’s the stuff that’s outside the frame that matters. Our own moral scheme, shaped by personal loves, regrets, and fantasies, surrounds and permeates Bunuel’s deliberately ambiguous value system. Like Greta Garbo’s at the climax of Queen Christina, Deneuve’s face is a mask, and also a receptor for our own emotions. The final truth of this film is that we are forced to do our own moralizing, if we feel it needs to be done -- no matter how skillful the intrusion of Bunuel as auteur, Severine’s life-changing experience is unmistakably a function of our own.

Nitrate Online Carrie Gorringe

During his thirty-four years of filmmaking, the Spanish director Luis Bunuel (1900-83) was truly one of the most brilliant -- and controversial. From his Surrealist experimentations with Salvador Dali Un Chien Andalou (An Andalusian Dog, 1929) and L'Age D'Or (The Age of Gold, 1930) to his final film, Cet Obscur Objet du Desir (That Obscure Object of Desire, in 1977,) Bunuel returned repeatedly to his favourite themes: the moral bankruptcy and even degeneracy of bourgeois life and religion, the hypocritical facades that are utilized in an attempt to conceal the bankruptcy and the brutality of totalitarianism disguised in calls for the restoration of "social order." In short, Bunuel was obsessed with the impossibility for individuals of distinguishing between "reality", the ideological constructs around them and their own desires, if any of the above could be defined as separable, or even separate. Yet, in his social critiques, shades of grey, not stark black and white, often prevailed. When Bunuel turned his eyes to examinations of injustice, there was more than a touch of jaundice available for observing the behavior of all of the chosen participants, no matter how downtrodden they might be; in this vein, the most immediate example that comes to mind is Los Olvidados (The Forgotton Ones, 1950), in which Bunuel could be rightfully outraged over a society that allowed a poor boy to be buried in a garbage dump like so much human refuse while simultaneously refusing to portray the poverty-stricken as one-dimensional individuals who suffer nobly (Bunuel undercuts that sort of wishful thinking in one scene by showing a group of poor young boys as they humiliate a crippled man with no legs by stealing his only means of transport). His themes were often delivered in a furiously sardonic tone which, although always thought-provoking and thus at times painfully hilarious, could be intolerable for those with more tender sensibilities. Not surprisingly, Bunuel was a perennial favourite for condemnation by the Catholic Church, which proclaimed that his film, Viridiana (1961), containing a rather vicious parody of the Last Supper, was "an insult to Christianity." Bunuel, who always thanked God that he was an atheist, probably could not have written a better tribute to his own work.

In 1967, Bunuel made Belle de Jour. This film represented a radical departure in style, if not in his beliefs; although the trademark social satire is still present, for this single moment in his career Bunuel chose to diffuse his usually angry explorations of social hypocrisy threatening to erupt into social chaos into a more lyrical format, in which atmosphere and style are paramount.

Belle de Jour is the story of Severine (Catherine Deneuve), the wife of a young doctor who is rapidly rising in his profession to the point where he has neglected both her and their marriage. Already inclined to sadomasochistic fantasies due to some unknown trauma in her past, Severine is increasingly drawn to acting upon her need for degradation. Bored with her life, she works during the afternoons at a brothel which caters to this proclivity, yet she is still the good bourgeois wife who informs her madam that she has to be home by five p.m.(her alias at the brothel is Belle de Jour, a pun on the French euphemism for prostitute, "belle de nuit"). She enjoys this double life until one of her customers, a gangster, becomes so obsessed with her to the point that he is determined to kill her husband. What follows next is a meditation on ambiguity on all levels. Severine is morally torn between living as an upper-class ice maiden and an abandoned fantasy woman. Although Severine is trying to stop her husband's murder, her efforts seem to be somewhat half-hearted, almost as if she is willing to tempt fate.

Thanks to Sacha Vierny's stunning color cinematography, Yves Saint Laurent's couture and her own genes, Deneuve herself looks so beautiful that even she seems unreal (an indication of how beautiful Deneuve is in this film can be found by recalling Grace Kelly in her Hitchcock period, and then multiplying that beauty by a factor of at least one hundred). Finally, the narrative structure is strained by events to the point where the audience cannot be certain whether anything recounted in the course of the film belongs to the realm of the physical or the psychological -- not unlike life itself, at times.

Belle de Jour most definitely belongs to the realm of cinematic classics. It is arguably the most accessible of Bunuel's films and probably the best introduction to his work. Unfortunately, the film has been unavailable for nearly thirty years until the release of this newly-restored print. In keeping with Bunuel's ability to offend, a certain unnamed but wealthy individual was so offended by Belle de Jour that he began buying up every print he could and destroyed each of them in a vain attempt to eliminate the film entirely. Go and see this film, if only for the cinematography or to gaze upon Deneuve; in the current political climate, some ideologue with offended sensibilities could decide to take up where the last censor left off.

Slant Magazine Superb Buñuel reviews continue from Ed Gonzalez

Read Full Review Laughing All the Way to the Grave, Matthew Wilder from City Pages

Epinions [metalluk]

DVD Times Noel Megahey

ToxicUniverse.com [John Nesbit]

New York Observer (Andrew Sarris)

culturevulture.net Arthur Lazere

Belle de jour (1967) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

James Berardinelli's ReelViews

Reel.com DVD review [Mike Gregory]

Strictly Film School Acquarello

All Movie Guide [Tom Wiener]

PM Media Review (Mark Runyon)

Pedro Sena

Bina007 Movie Reviews

FilmExposed Magazine Andrew Pragasam

Erasing Clouds [Dan Heaton]

Apollo Movie Guide [Derek Smith]

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young] Crossing Europe Film Festival (Linz) report

DVD Times - Luis Buñuel Box Set Noel Megahey, also reviewing DIARY OF A CHAMBERMAID and THE MILKY WAY

Mondo Digital also reviewing DIARY OF A CHAMBERMAID, THAT OBSCURE OBJECT OF DESIRE, and THE DISCREET CHARM OF THE BOURGEOISIE

The Guardian (Rob Mackie)

Guardian/Observer

Time Out

Washington Post [Rita Kempley]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Renata Adler)

DVDBeaver [Gary W. Tooze]

Belle de Jour (BFI Film Classics, London, 2001), Michael Wood Belle de Jour by Michael Wood, book review by Jonathan Dawson from Senses of Cinema

THE MILKY WAY (La Voie Lactée)

France Germany Italy (105 mi) 1969

Time Out

One of the least accessible (and successful) of Buñuel's later films, it is mainly of interest for its pre-Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie narrative structure: as it follows a couple of tramps on their pilgrimage from Paris to a shrine in Spain, they encounter various characters and slip through time-warps, space-warps, and numerous narrative digressions en route. It is of course beautifully put together, and there are frequently very amusing interludes. But much of the humour is either too obvious in its general anti-clerical stance, or conversely, too obscure in its examination of the niceties of different Catholic doctrines. One for the Buñuel collectors, or for those knowledgeable about religious dogma.

La Voie lactée (1969) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

Two tramps, Pierre and his younger friend Jean, undertake a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela in Spain, to visit the tomb of Saint James.  Along the way, their faith is tested by an extraordinary range of characters, including Jesus, bizarre priests, the Marquis de Sade and a prostitute.

Often cited as Luis Buñuel’s most overtly religious works, La Voie lactée is certainly one of his most intellectually demanding and shamelessly irreverent.   In common with his later satirical films, Buñuel combines a free-flowing narrative with surreal images and an acute Pythonesque comic slant.  The format works well here because it fits the film’s subject perfectly - the physical journey of the two tramps is interwoven with a spiritual journey which freely dips in and out of religious history as and when the mood takes it.

In contrast to many of Buñuel’s other films, La Voie lactée does not directly attack the Church or religion, but rather argues the necessity for and the absurdity of faith.  It picks up some of the themes from Buñuel’s earlier film, Simón del desierto (1965), which should be watched in conjunction with this film.   Both films contain material which some viewers will find heretical, but both also provide an intelligent and thought-provoking comment on faith and religion.

MSN Entertainment [Sean Axmaker]

A pair of shaggy modern day pilgrims (Paul Frankeur and Laurent Terzieff, with the fitting names Peter and John) follow the traditional route (the Milky Way) from Paris to the ancient Santiago de Compostela in Spain in Luis Buñuel's surreal road movie. Along the way they wander through a series of religious debates and, briefly, back into medieval times. Think of them as passive hosts of an ecclesiastic skit comedy: theological follies with a surreal slant, where defiantly religious men might die for their beliefs before offering food or shelter to a pair of poor travelers. The first film in what Buñuel later proclaimed a trilogy of comically surreal satires (along with "The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie" and "The Phantom of Liberty") is a cheeky return to some of his favorite themes -- religion and hypocrisy -- but the first film where he really dismantled the conventions of storytelling and rebuilt them in a playfully fractured form: jumping to unrelated flashbacks for a punch line, wandering off with a side character for a spell, dissolving the distance between the past and the present without a comment. But his real triumph is mining humor in the centuries of theological conflict that once split churches, sentenced believers to death, and started wars, not the farcical, intellectual slapstick of "The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie," but a sly, sneaking humor that ridicules the dogma without quite dismissing the faith.

There's no commentary on Criterion's disc but the rest of the supplements are quite hearty. Film critic Ian Christie places the film within the political culture of May '68 and the youth appropriation of surrealism and notes the influence of Wojciech Has' narratively labyrinthine "The Saragossa Manuscript," a film that Buñuel loved, in a 28-minute video interview. The 2005 French TV documentary "Luis Buñuel: Atheist Thanks to God" revisits the film with screenwriter Jean-Claude Carrière, surviving cast members, and Buñuel's friends and collaborators, and delves into some of the more obscure theological debates. Also features a brief video introduction by Carrière and a 36-page booklet featuring new essays by Carlos Fuentes and Mark Polizzotti, and a reprinted interview with Buñuel.

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez] More superb Buñuel reviews from Ed Gonzalez

In his autobiography The Last Sigh, Luis Buñuel suggests that "The Milky Way, The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, and The Phantom of Liberty form a kind of trilogy, or rather a triptych. All three have the same themes, the same grammar; and all evoke the search for truth, as well as the necessity of abandoning it as soon as you've found it. All show the implacable nature of social rituals; and all argue for the importance of coincidence, of a personal morality, and of the essential mystery in all things, which must be maintained and respected." Buñuel and his frequent collaborator Jean-Claude Carrière wrote the first draft of the film in 1967 at the Parador Cazorla in the Andalusian mountains; a year and countless discourses later on "the Holy Trinity, the dual nature of Christ, and the mysteries of the Virgin Mary," the script was completed. Though highly regarded in some circles, The Milky Way may be Buñuel's worst film; at the very least, it may be his most jaded. It starts promisingly enough with Buñuel and Carrière likening points on a map to stars in the sky—a conflation of cultural tradition and transcendental ambition. Two French beggars are making their way to the holy city of Santiago de Compostela in Spain, and via a series of endless diversions, Buñuel takes repetitive jabs at dogma and heresy. Suggesting a heresy itself, Milky Way is disconcerting in its randomness and monotonous in its arguments. It is funny in parts (the filmmakers brilliantly demystify Jesus's beard during a goofy flashback, and when a beggar fantasizes about the Pope's death, the man sitting next to him swears he hears the execution from inside the man's head), and it's easy to see why it's considered a precursor of sorts to Monty Python's Life of Brian and The Meaning of Life, but unlike The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie and The Phantom of Liberty, it's unusually heavy on its feet for something so picaresque. (Doug Cummings of filmjourney.org mentions that in a 1972 article for Sight and Sound, Jonathan Rosenbaum described The Milky Way as coming "dangerously close to being all notations and no text.") Buñuel was frustrated by the critical indifference with which Milky Way was greeted, which may explain why he says in The Last Sigh that the film is "neither for nor against anything at all," and though he evocatively reads the story as a "journey through fanaticism," I can't think of more damning evidence against its quality than the director's own ambivalence. Milky Way is intelligent but pretentious, sardonic but callous, and unlike, say, Simon of the Desert, its single-minded intentions lack for resonance.

Filmcritic.com Chris Cabin

Approaching a film like Luis Buñuel's The Milky Way isn't a cut-and-dry affair. Part of you wants to look at it in the pantheon of 's oeuvre, citing his patented sense of sarcasm, skepticism, and wit. Another idea is to tackle it as a singular film, discuss its theories, its themes and characters, and the director's "point." Another dead end: Way has an episodic surrealism that makes clearly describing it somewhat in the vein of teaching a humpback whale how to solve a Rubik's cube. My editor told me the best way might be to just babble incoherently. [You're doing fine at that so far! -Ed.]

There are only two consistent elements in Buñuel's film: Its mocking of Catholicism and the two bums making a pilgrimage to the altar of St. James. Outside of these elements, there are high-flying moments that disregard time altogether. You'd call it goofy, but it's so well-crafted that you just hold on for dear life through all the outright daffiness that pours out of Buñuel's imagery.

Amongst the sights and sounds: Jesus contemplating shaving his beard until Mary tells him that the long hair looks good on him; a nun getting crucified by her fellow brides of Christ; a Jesuit getting into a duel over the existence of grace and free will. These are just the bits that don't involve the two pilgrims, Pierre (Paul Frankeur) and Jean (Laurent Terzieff), who themselves come across all sorts of fanatic loons and religious blowhards on their travels to Spain. They get tossed out of a car for saying "goddamn," get invited to an orgy of pious, half-naked men and women, and witness a school play where little girls cite all the little, dirty things one can be condemned for.

Though by many means one of his less concentrated works, the Buñuelian charm is all over this baby. His critiques and satirical cuts are well-considered and just complex enough to make you raise an eyebrow. More so, his surrealism has a placidity to it that throws you off his trail time after time, something that works both to his advantage and against it. Still, Buñuel's aim is to find some truth in Catholicism, and the religion sadly comes up wanting in every instance.

The Milky Way was Buñuel's first film in a trilogy about "the search for truth", predating both The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie and The Phantom of Liberty. The point comes across hard, but it doesn't have the director's patented deviousness and subtleness. Considered against more developed masterpieces such as Viridiana and Land Without Bread, both Buñuel's surrealism and commentary seem to be a bit obvious and written with wild abandon in Way, which gives it a distinct charm but also a loose center. The point still rings out loud and clear: There is absurdity and hypocrisy in Catholicism that is still accepted and revered no matter what anyone says. You can't even begin to approach that.

DVD Talk - Criterion edition [Jamie S. Rich]

Goatdog's Movies (Michael W. Phillips, Jr.)

Luis Buñuel's The Milky Way: Crucifiction Alan Dale from Blogcritics magazine, June 26, 2005

The Milkyway by Luis Bunuel « Chatquah and Galoshes blog comments

Reel.com DVD review [Jim Hemphill]

DVD Verdict [Dylan Charles]

Bible Films Blog [Matt Page]

DVD Times - Luis Buñuel Box Set Noel Megahey, also reviewing DIARY OF A CHAMBERMAID and BELLE DE JOUR

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

DVDBeaver.com [Arvid Sollenby]

TRISTANA

France Italy Spain (95 mi) 1970

Time Out

This is late Buñuel, mockingly sensible black comedy, set in Toledo in the early 1930s, in which an old guardian (Rey) seduces/rapes his young ward Tristana (Deneuve) but is unable to possess her, betrayed by Surrealist lurches in time and reality, and by Tristana's changing 'nature' (the amputation of a tumorous leg). Rey is brilliant as the mephistophelean, anti-clerical Socialist, dandy and outmoded master of social graces: father, lover and husband all in one. His passion ruins and softens him, but (caught as she is in the chauvinist paradox of woman as cause and eternal object of male aggression) it hardens Tristana from innocent virginity to icy revenge.

All Movie Guide [Wheeler Winston Dixon]

This is a typically brilliant film by Luis Buñuel, with the old master at the top of his late form as a European master. The outlines of Buñuel's career are well known, from the surrealist provocateur (with Salvador Dali) of Un Chien Andalou (1929) and L' Âge d'Or (1930), the brutal documentarian of Las Hurdes (1933), and then a long break from the director's chair while Buñuel busied himself with supervising the Spanish version of mediocre Hollywood films, working at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, and then finally packing up and moving to Mexico to restart his career. There, he moved into one of the worst areas of Mexico City, and after two conventional but lightweight entertainments, created Los Olvidados (1950), perhaps the ultimate condemnation of life in the slums, and won Best Director at the 1951 Cannes Film Festival for his efforts, along with numerous other honors. Thereafter, Buñuel was unstoppable, and progressed through a series of violent and hallucinatory films in Mexico in the 1950s and '60s, moving his production base to Spain and then France in the 1970s. Tristana belongs to this last period in Buñuel's career, along with La Voie Lactée (1969) and Belle de Jour (1967). Buñuel regular Fernando Rey (most famous for his role as Alain Charnier, the unscrupulous heroin dealer in William Friedkin's The French Connection [1971]) stars as Don Lope, an aging figure of respectability who becomes the guardian of Tristana (Catherine Deneuve), a young woman with whom he is soon completely smitten. The film is essentially a contest of wills between the two, with Don Lope initially in control, and rapidly losing ground as his sexual obsession overcomes his bourgeois sensibility. The film was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Picture in 1971, and Buñuel would direct only three more films before his death: Le Charme Discret de la Bourgeoisie (1972), Le Fantôme de la Liberté (1974), and Cet Obscur Objet du Désir (1977). In his old age, Buñuel mellowed, but never lost his bite; these final films are the works of a master at the peak of his powers, still defiantly making films to please only one person: himself.

Edinburgh U Film Society [Spiros Gangas]

One of Buñuel's best films which had been inexplicably overshadowed by Belle de Jour, but which in fact is far superior both in terms of aesthetics and in terms of insight. Set in Toledo during the 1930s it scrutinizes on several levels the relationship between Don Lope (Fernando Rey), an old conservative gentleman and Tristana (Catherine Deneuve) who becomes his ward and eventually his mistress. However she starts seeing Horacio (Franco Nero) a young painter but as she becomes seriously ill and her leg is aputated it is vengeance that she seems to be seeking...

Buñuel plays here with several themes which are problematic in the relationship between the sexes: rape, incest, exploitation, and the sexually repressed if not abused female (Deneuve here takes up many characteristics of her role in Polanski's Repulsion) are all tackled by Buñuel with uncompromising cynicism and a paradoxically present humanism. The metamorphosis of Tristana from pure innocence to cold revenge dominates the flow of the filin and it points to Buñuel's remarkable ability to guide his actors and actresses through situations which on film are quite difficult to portray. The depiction of men is particularly unfavourable regarding both characters. The mephistopholean Don Lope is unsympathetically portrayed although his change of roles from lover to husband and father radiate occasionally if not warmth then certainly an ambivalent sense of sadness and pity characterizing every tormented soul which is the product of an oppressive society. It is probably Horacio the person we are inclined to feel mostly uncomfortable with since his love for Tristana proves spurious and subject to materialist compromise. Our sympathies are thus left with Tristana as we observe the way she eliminates her torturer.

The way Buñuel mingles each of the person's flaws gives rise to the ambivalence the viewer is faced with. The film, black comedy as it is, includes delightful moments such as the one with Don Lope refusing the entrance of a priest into his house. Beautifully photographed in colour, it captures accurately the historical context of the story and its complex psychology cannot but provide much food for thought.

Slant Magazine Still more superb Buñuel reviews from Ed Gonzalez

Because it showcases so many of the director's signature obsessions, the mundane but nonetheless competent Tristana may be the perfect entry point for the Luis Buñuel novice. Tristana (Catherine Deneuve, dubbed in most versions of the film) goes to live with the liberal Don Lope (Fernando Rey) after the death of her mother and is subsequently polluted by the hypocritical old man over the course of several years. Though she's free to do as she pleases, Tristana is still stifled by the tyrannical and demanding older man. She leaves the house in order to live with a handsome young artist, Horacio (Franco Nero), but returns two years later after she's diagnosed with a leg tumor (only in a Buñuel film!). Once she's fitted with a prosthetic leg, the embittered Tristana finally gets her revenge by killing Don Lope with the same illogical masochism that he suffocated her with when he took her under his care.

Both the names of the film's characters and the beautiful Toledo setting suggest a Shakespearean battle of the sexes, but I can't imagine Shakespeare allowing a metaphor to be worn so carelessly and humorlessly on the sleeve of any of his creations. Subtly shot by the great José F. Aguayo (Viridiana), Tristana basically boils down to a collection of battle sequences between the weak and the strong: lawlessness versus authority, the crippled versus the non-crippled, the old versus the young. Buñuel is clearly coasting here, lazily entertaining himself by evoking this power dynamic in everything from a rabid dog being shot down by local police to the dialogue, which leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. "Police represent force and I always defend the underdog," Don Lope says to Tristana after saving a young thief from the law by sending a pursuing officer down the wrong alleyway.

Fans of the director are likely to see Tristana as a routine facsimile of both Él and Viridiana (also co-written by Julio Alejandro), though the film's latter half unnervingly anticipates the bizarre surrealist panic of That Obscure Object of Desire. Because Buñuel's symbols have a mythic power all their own, Tristana comes alive the closer it moves toward its evocation of the titular heroine's triumphant victory over her decaying master. A random prosthetic sits on top of Don Lope's fireplace, foreshadowing Tristana's fate with a sober delirium that's missing from the more obvious asides that tend to explicitly point to the film's all-too-obvious thesis (most criminal: "If you want an honest woman, break her leg and keep her home").

There's no escaping the film's vaginal imagery: Tristana is teased by two cripples on her way to a belfry via a cramped stairway; finds love after walking fearfully down an alleyway; and contemplates her final battle against Don Lupe after walking incessantly through the main hallway of the house on crutches. There's a naughty secret world to the film that's as alluring as it is frustrating, perhaps because Buñuel deliberates refuses to open the door to that world. The deaf-mute son of Don Lupe's maid constantly locks himself inside closets and it's assumed he's pleasuring himself. Fascinated by the older Tristana, he's later seduced by the dominatrix when she walks stealthily onto a veranda and flashes him her breasts. (This sequence no doubt informs a similar sequence in Francois Ozon's Swimming Pool.) True to the film's cock-tease tone, Deneuve's breasts are hidden below the filmic frame. And like her breasts, Tristana ultimately gets the upper hand.

Epinions [metalluk]

DVD Times Anthony Nield

Tristana (1970) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

Channel 4 Film [capsule review] Laura Bushell

Chris Dashiell at CineScene (down the page)

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

DVDBeaver [Gary W. Tooze]

YouTube - Tristana - Trailer - Catherine Deneuve - Luis Bunuel

THE DISCREET CHARM OF THE BOURGEOISIE (Le Charme Discret de la Bourgeoisie) A 95

France Italy Spain (102 mi) 1972

Time Out

Delightful if overrated comedy from Buñuel, flitting about from frustrating situation to frustrating situation as six characters in search of a meal never manage actually to eat it. Are they prevented by their own fantasies? by their lack of purpose? by their discreet charm? Buñuel never really lets us know, while managing to skip through some very funny scenes en route. But it does lack the savage bite and genuinely nightmarish feel of his earlier work (comparison with The Exterminating Angel shows up the later film's complacency), while the chic stylishness of the characters comes over as overbearing rather than satirically revealing.

The Village Voice [J. Hoberman]

Luis Buñuel's 1972 film boasts one of the best titles in movie history and a cast to match. Three divas of the post–nouvelle vague French cinema—Delphine Seyrig, Bulle Ogier, and Stéphane Audran—are supported by the suavest of Buñuel regulars, Fernando Rey, the comic Jean-Pierre Cassel, and the veteran secondario Paul Frankeur. They form a sextet, four of whom arrive a night early for dinner at the other two's home. This faux pas sends the universe reeling. Subsequently thwarted by a combination of narrative digressions and outrageous plot devices, the six never manage to consummate their meal. Buñuel invites us to savor their endless frustration and feast on their irrational impulses. Blithely discontinuous, Discreet Charm has echoes of Buñuel's early surrealist films, although its episodic, interlocking stories suggest the influence of The Saragossa Manuscript and Godard's Weekend. In populating his movie with blatant bourgeois piggies and bedeviling them with third-world terrorists, Buñuel was—more than usual—responding to the moment. It's mildly amazing that this movie won an Oscar—but that was back in the heyday of the New Hollywood. Typically, the filmmaker told a credulous Mexican journalist that his producers had bribed the Academy.

Edinburgh U Film Society [Spiros Gangas]

This is another of Buñuel's witty satires of the bourgeoisie, strongly reminiscent of Viridiana, less caustic but stylistically more refined. It is a very intelligently structured film, almost flawless in terms of directorial technique but at the same time, virtually flawless in its critique.

There is not very much which can be said about the plot. The whole film concentrates around a group of people which includes characteristic types of the bourgeoisie - for example, a bishop, a former military officer, an ambassador - who gather for a meal but they can never eat it because they are interrupted by all sorts of unexpected events.

Buñuel fuses ingeniously dream and reality and carries the notion of illusion to extremes. He combines the minute mannerisms and savoir vivre of the bourgeois type with the bourgeoisie's gross indifference towards substantial issues and the result is often hilarious, often astonishing in its rang of perception. Politics, sex, religion, ideology are all placed under close scrutiny by Buñuel's sensitive eye. Laden with some well placed symbolism - the moment of cunning seduction of the revolutionary by the bourgeois - and with some unique injections of Surrealism, The Discrete Charm..., is ultimately a film of brilliant twists and turns, a humorous treatise on sociability which finds its best expression in the bourgeoisie. Buñuel's eclectic cast is uniformly sensational and is led by Fernando Rey, Delphine Seyrig and Stephane Audran.

The Discreet Charm... was awarded the Oscar for be foreign-language film in 1972, an indication perhaps of the bourgeoisie's own attempt to legitimise and incorporate within its sphere self-criticism. Buñuel though gives his answer with a particular sequence which recurs in the film, namely with the bourgeois group on the road to nowhere.

The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie Mike D’Angelo from Time Out New York

Midway through Whit Stillman's Metropolitan, a wry comedy of manners about a group of rudderless preppies who refer to themselves as the UHB (for "urban haute bourgeoisie"), resident worrywart Charlie asks his pals if they've ever heard of Luis Buñuel's film The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie.

"When I first heard that title," he says, "I thought, Finally, someone's gonna tell the truth about the bourgeoisie! What a disappointment. It would be hard to imagine a less fair or accurate portrait."

"Well, of course," replies Sally. "Buñuel's a Surrealist; despising the bourgeoisie is part of their credo."

"Where do they get off?" demands Nick.

Okay, so maybe Stillman's lovable twits are being a tad defensive. They do have a point, though. Buñuel's bizarre satire—the first of several of the director's films scheduled to be rereleased this year—sometimes flirts with overkill, portraying its sextet of upper-middle-class protagonists as so irredeemably hollow that the act of mocking them smacks of redundancy. Scoffing at their petty infidelities and moral turpitude is all well and good; depicting them ridiculing a chauffeur for drinking a martini incorrectly, on the other hand, defangs the intended criticism, resorting as it does to cheap-shot caricatures.

But these are quibbles, really. Discreet Charm may not be especially profound, but few comedies have equaled its juxtaposition of politesse and savagery. Initially appearing to be little more than a disconnected series of vignettes, the film only gradually reveals its strange, hilarous conceit: Every time its characters attempt to eat or drink, they are immediately interrupted. The beloved owner of a favorite restaurant has just died. A battalion of soldiers turns up at the doorstep needing shelter. A curtain opens, and the diners find themselves onstage, observed by a thoroughly puzzled audience, the "food" before them merely rubber props. After half a dozen or so permutations, a statement as innocuous as "Dinner is served" is enough to prompt gales of expectant laughter. ??Crammed with non sequiturs and Chinese-puzzle-box dream sequences, Discreet Charm is essentially the comic flip side of Buñuel's 1962 masterpiece The Exterminating Angel, in which a similarly shallow group of revelers attend a dinner party and mysteriously find that they cannot leave. That film is ideally seen just prior to a fancy meal. This film should be viewed immediately following one.

Slant Magazine Still more superb Buñuel reviews from Ed Gonzalez

The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie won the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film in 1973 and remains one of Luis Buñuel's more popular and recognized works. More so than any other film in the director's canon, this vintage inquisition of bourgey entitlement hasn't aged well, but if its commentary isn't quite as incisive or complex as, say, The Exterminating Angel's, Buñuel's set pieces, like coal being heaped into the engine of a speeding locomotive, fuel a dream-like narrative that moves forward with remarkable comic fierceness. In many ways, the film is the antithesis of Exterminating Angel, the director's 1962 masterpiece about bourgeois monsters who can't leave a dinner party they've been invited to after they've already eaten. Here, six upper-class dolts are in constant motion but find their every attempt to stuff their stomachs frustrated by a series of strange disruptions and misunderstandings.

Fernando Rey stars as Don Rafael, the drug-dealing ambassador of a fictional Latin American country who lives in constant fear that he will be kidnapped and murdered by the guerilla terrorists outside his Mirandan embassy. His friends repeatedly convene at the home of Monsieur Senechal (Jean-Pierre Cassel) and his wife Alice (Stéphan Audran), whose dinners are constantly interrupted: guests seemingly get the time and day of a dinner date wrong and, later, a group dinner is invaded by army battalions and police forces. At a local restaurant, the recently deceased owner of the establishment is laid out in a room adjacent to the living room. And when the group is invited to dine at the home of a battalion commander, a curtain rises and reveals that they are part of a stage performance, and their gross embarrassment is matched only by the shock of having forgotten their lines.

Bishop Dufour (Julien Bertheau) enters the Senechal home while the couple is having sex in the garden. Dressed in their ex-gardener's attire, the man introduces himself to the Senechals, who subsequently throw him out of their home. When he returns to the house dressed as a bishop, they welcome him with open arms. Meanwhile, Don Rafael is having an affair with Madame Thevenot (Delphine Seyrig), the wife of his close friend and associate (Paul Frankeur). After Monsieur Thevenot nearly catches them in the act, Don Rafael asks his friend for one moment alone with his wife because he wants to "show her the suricks." Confused, the man waits for his wife downstairs. We quickly discover: there is no such thing as suricks! Throughout these and other ridiculous transactions (Alice forgets that Dufour is a bishop when a local peasant looks for a man of the cloth to pray for a dying man), Buñuel repeatedly takes on the gross presumptuousness of his characters—their unwillingness to admit defeat and to take things only at face value.

Both The Discreet Charm Of The Bourgeoisie and 1974's The Phantom of Liberty are radical comedic patchworks. Each film's sketches (essentially bourgeois war stories) have a way of slowly and devilishly peeling back the many layers of their respective characters' realities in order to reveal the hypocritical notions of entitlement that possess these people. While Don Rafael and his friends wait to eat at the Senechal home, the ambassador asks his chauffeur to have a dry martini with the group. After the manservant drinks and leaves, Don Rafael ridicules the unmannered way the man downed the ambassador's elitist concoction (curiously, the recipe for this particular martini is Buñuel's own: a Buñuelino). "No system can give the masses the proper social graces," says Don Rafael, oblivious to the fact that the Senechals have just climbed down the side of their house in order to have sex in the yard before greeting their guests for dinner.

by Carlos Fuentes Criterion essay

by Luis Bunuel The Perfect Martini, Criterion essay

Salon.com [Charles Taylor]

Salon (Andrew O'Hehir)

The Onion A.V. Club [Scott Tobias]

filmcritic.com Jake Euker

DVD Savant [Glenn Erickson]

City Pages, Minneapolis/St. Paul Terri Sutton

Film Freak Central Review [Bill Chambers]

Film-Forward.com Jack Gattonella

All Movie Guide [Lucia Bozzola]

DVD Journal JJB

ToxicUniverse.com (John Nesbit)

moviediva, for the last word on classic films

100 films Lucas McNelly

10kbullets John White

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

digitallyOBSESSED! [Jeff Ulmer]

DVDTown [John J. Puccio]

Le Charme discret de la bourgeoisie (1972) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

Reel.com DVD review [Rod Armstrong]

PopMatters Sabadino Parker

Strictly Film School Acquarello

Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick)

CineScene.com [Chris Dashiell] (capsule review)

DVD Movie Central Michael Jacobson

Epinions [metalluk] really missing this one

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

CineScene.com [Ed Owens] (capsule review) a good look at the DVD supplements

A Guide to Current DVD [Aaron Beierle] also includes supplements

Images Movie Journal Gary Morris also reviews DIARY OF A CHAMBERMAID, also here: Bright Lights Film Journal

Mondo Digital also reviewing DIARY OF A CHAMBERMAID, BELLE DE JOUR, and THAT OBSCURE OBJECT OF DESIRE

Seattle Post-Intelligencer Sean Axmaker

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times in 1972

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times in 2000

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

THE PHANTOM OF LIBERTY (Le Fantôme de la Liberté)

France Italy (104 mi) 1974

Chicago Reader (capsule) [Jonathan Rosenbaum]

Following on the heels of his 1972 masterpiece The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, Luis Buñuel's penultimate feature, made two years later, struck many critics at the time as a disappointing tapering off for the old master. But time has treated this puzzling provocation well, and today Buñuel's episodic procession of mini plots may seem even more daring--less immediately accessible to be sure, yet perhaps closer in its radicalism to L'age d'or than any other of Buñuel's late works. The challenging lack of a narrative center doesn't prevent this film from having a great deal to say about the modern world and its ambivalent grasp of freedom. With an all-star cast featuring, among many others, Monica Vitti, Jean-Claude Brialy, Adolfo Celi, and Michel Piccoli.

All Movie Guide [Michael Costello]

In his next to last film, the great Luis Buñuel makes a hilarious assault on the notion that the human race is in any sense free. As with many of his late masterpieces, such as The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie and The Milky Way, the director strings together a series of anarchic events tinged with the surrealism that had been his signature since he helped found the influential art movement in the 1920s and 1930s. In one, a pair of detectives search for a missing girl who is right in front of them, and in another, a group of aristocrats defecate publicly at a formal dinner, while secreting themselves to perform the shameful act of eating. Always a faithful Freudian, the director insists on the powerful role of unconscious processes in determining our behavior and the arbitrariness of the elaborate social arrangements which result therefrom. Appropriately, the film opens in anarchy and ends with cries of "long live chains."

Time Out

As a good Surrealist who aimed to disturb rather than to please, Buñuel must have felt that the Oscar which crowned the worldwide success of The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie was the last straw. At any rate, he made sure that this isn't such an easy pill to digest, though its delightful humour goes down just as easily. The Chinese box structure, with a series of bizarre episodes never quite reaching the point of resolution, is exactly the same as in the earlier film. But where The Discreet Charm used the interrupted dinner-party as a comfortably recognisable motif, The Phantom of Liberty works more disconcertingly by stringing its episodes on an invisible thread woven by the prologue (where Spanish patriots welcome the firing-squad with cries of 'Long live chains!', and a Captain of Dragoons falls in love with a statue of a saint). Thereafter, beneath the surface, the film busily explores the process whereby the human mind, burying itself ostrich-like in convention, invariably fails to recognise the true nature of freedom and sexuality.

Mike D’Angelo from Time Out New York (link lost):

Sometimes, the line between Surrealism and mediocre sketch comedy can be surprisingly thin. The Phantom of Liberty, Luis Buñuel's penultimate film, walks that line with the deliberate yet unsteady gait of somebody well past tipsy but still comfortably shy of blotto. Structured as an endless series of sudden digressions, with the camera repeatedly losing interest in Character A upon catching sight of Character B (Richard Linklater borrowed the idea for Slacker), Buñuel's follow-up to his masterful The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie doesn't offer the viewer the security of a unifying thread, à la the latter's conceit of the interrupted meal. Instead, there's just a steady accumulation of playfully absurd juxtapositions: the sniper who's first sentenced to death, then immediately released to sign autographs for an adoring crowd; the frantic search for a "missing" little girl who's standing right there in plain sight; the dumpy middle-aged woman who removes her clothes to reveal the lithe, unblemished body of a Playboy centerfold.

Droll, relaxed and self-assured, The Phantom of Liberty makes for a pleasant diversion even when its provocations go nowhere in particular, which is roughly half the time. At its best—as in the famed sequence that finds a group of friends defecating en masse but excusing themselves to eat in private—Buñuel's wit proves remarkably trenchant, forcing us to reexamine orthodoxies so deeply cherished that we scarcely even realize they exist. At its worst, it succumbs to what I call the Fallacy of the Profane Granny: the mistaken belief that a single mundane incongruity is sufficient to inspire big laughs. Photographs that inspire first shock, then lust in a married couple turn out to be...picture-postcard shots of the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre! A group of monks turn out to enjoy...boozing it up and playing poker! If not for the subtitles and expert cinematography, you might think you were watching a subpar Monty Python episode. Which would still be preferable to most of what's currently in multiplexes.

DVD Savant [Glenn Erickson]

The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie is probably more a more satisfying entertainment, but if one wants to understand the core of Luis Buñuel's take on surrealist playfulness, the picture to see is The Phantom of Liberty. Criterion's tidy package includes an interview and several text extras that clarify the rationale behind the unique wickedness that sparks Buñuel's best work.

An invading French officer seeks to resurrect a dead queen in Toledo, 1806. Schoolchildren are passed filthy postcards on modern-day French playground. A man's visit to the doctor is interrupted to follow a nurse's trip to the country, where she meets some odd monks and an S&M couple at an inn. A social gathering reverses the roles of the bathroom and the dining table. A young girl disappears and her distraught parents seek the help of the police. A mad sniper is apprehended by the police and put on trial. A prefect of Police receives a phone call from his dead sister, and goes to her tomb to see if she's really there.

After thirty years of melodramas and classical adaptations with undertones of surrealism, Buñuel returns to the roots of the movement with The Phantom of Liberty, a blatantly nonsensical non-narrative that resurrects an early surreal aim, the destruction of narrative forms. Young avant-garde enthusiasts in the twenties and thirties wrote that their idea of creative anarchy was to theater-hop between cinemas. They would arrive in the middle of a story in one movie. As soon as some interesting development came along, they'd leave and rush to the next theater to plop down in the middle of some other movie, and so on. In what now sounds like a primitive form of channel-surfing, they constructed their own illogical narratives that purposely made hash of artistic intentions and moralising messages. The essential content of the films was liberated by being pulled out of their original contexts.

The Phantom of Liberty follows this idea explicitly. Just as one character or story grabs our attention, Buñuel's camera opts to follow another character into a completely different narrative thread. Interesting characters are introduced and then dropped as arbitrarily as might a minor bit player.

Naturally, the tale teases with satirical jabs at social conventions and other mundane realities that the surrealists would have liked to see exploded. Some are simply wicked observations, such as the fairly uncomfortable sequence that asks why civilized humans eat together as a social gathering, while bodily eliminations are hidden away in private. Never mind that there's plenty of logic to back up the convention; the work of surrealists is to yank the rug out from under complacent givens.

Nothing thrilled the surrealists more than the idea of the fantastic erupting into everyday life, an obsession that politicos frequently link to ideological extremism. Some of the play-fragments of the 'story' deal explicitly with famous surrealist themes. Surrealists loved the idea of blurring the lines between fantasy and reality, between responsible action and 'liberated' instinct. They were mostly talkers and writers that proposed all kinds of shocking ideas but thankfully didn't carry them out. It's understandably difficult to grasp the intended purity of intention behind their talk about crazy violent acts, or doing things like showing pornographic films to children expecting a cartoon matinee. The Marquis de Sade merely wrote about obscene sex and tortures, but society equates dangerous thinking with dangerous acts.

According to the filmmakers, writing a surreal tale is not as easy as it might seem. If the idea makes sense, has a demonstrable purpose or needs to be premeditated, Buñuel claimed that it wasn't any good from the surrealist point of view. A mad killer like Whitman on his Texas tower doesn't qualify, even though The Phantom of Liberty shows a similar shooter following a similar impulse. Buñuel's mass murderer isn't crazy and shows no reaction to being served a death sentence for his crime. The kicker comes when he's unaccountably released. His judges light his cigarette and autograph seekers run to him. It's as if the definition of 'death sentence' had been changed to mean 'forced to live in human society' - just as Hell turns out to be a discotheque in Buñuel's Simon of the Desert.  

By Buñuel's definition, Orson Welles' trick of (presumably) purposely seeing if he could start a panic with his War of the Worlds radio show doesn't qualify either. Whether or not he intended to vault to Hollywood on the basis of a stunt, it was a calculated effort for personal fame and gain. Like the wholly mysterious reason that Buñuel's sniper is let off the hook, the surreal act needs to be gratuitously irrational.

In the film's most maddeningly amusing sequence two parents, teachers and the police frantically search for a lost child, who is among them all the time and is simply being ignored. When the policeman asks for the child's description so the cops will know what they're looking for, the girl's mother has her stand up so the policeman can see for himself!

In another 'basic' skit, a man gives a schoolgirl what we think are pornographic postcards. Her parents look at with horror and then seem to be turned on by one of them. I won't give away the punch line except to say that it's essentially identical to the premise of the first episode of the 1963 The Addams Family TV show, the one where Morticia and Gomez are scandalized to find out what filth is being taught their children at school - Grimm's fairy tales. Surrealism is where you find it.

Elsewhere Buñuel gets in side digs about insects, grave-robbing (which might lead to necrophilia), indifference to sexual provocation, incest between a young man and his aged aunt, and the expected jabs at organized religion. A gallery of actors famous and unknown fill out the large cast - Jean-Claude Brialy, Michael Lonsdale, Michel Piccoli, Jean Rochefort, Bernard Verley and 'friendly guest star' Monica Vitti.

Elaborately filmed and presented, The Phantom of Liberty presents every scene from a serious, level-headed standpoint, even its historical opening in which a statue comes to life to deliver a blow to an amorous French officer. Amusingly, a scene in which a man is given a traffic ticket has no satirical or illogical aspect whatsoever - Buñuel and his writer Jean-Claude Carrière obviously think the situation is sufficiently bizarre without further elaboration. The only organizing principle is the title, said to be a quote from the Communist Manifesto. A famous painting of a massacre of rebels is repeated once or twice as a motif. The purest expression of the filmmakers' artistic intent comes when Jean-Claude Brialy shoves aside a clock on a desk-top to make room for an inappropriate decoration, a huge preserved tarantula. "I hate symmetry," the man says. I think Buñuel's approach is correct. Even after many years, the events in his provocative movies are impossible to forget.

Slant Magazine Still more superb Buñuel reviews from Ed Gonzalez

by Gary Indiana Criterion essay

Down With Liberty Michael Wood from Sight and Sound

Senses of Cinema [Marco Lanzagorta]

filmcritic.com Jake Euker

Epinions [metalluk]

Not Coming to a Theater Near You [Teddy Blanks]

Turner Classic Movies Pablo Kjolseth

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray]

DVD Talk - Criterion Collection Bill Gibron

Reel.com DVD review [Pam Grady]

MovieFreak.com [Dylan Grant]

Le Fantôme de la liberté (1974) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

DVD Verdict [Mike Pinsky]

Pedro Sena

The QNetwork Film Desk [James Kendrick]

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

digitallyOBSESSED! [Nate Meyers]

DVDTown [Christopher Long]

Ruthless Reviews Matt Cale

Film Threat [Phil Hall] perhaps the most negative review out there

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

DVDBeaver [Gary W. Tooze]

THAT OBSCURE OBJECT OF DESIRE (Cet Obscur Objet du Désir)

France Spain (102 mi) 1977

Time Out

Buñuel's last film, adapted from the Pierre Louys novel (about a woman who drives a man to distractions of frustrated desire) which also served as a basis for Sternberg's The Devil Is a Woman. Full of echoes from Buñuel's earlier work, it might almost be seen as a summation of his preoccupation with the connection between sex and violence, first annotated in L'Age d'or. His great coup here is to have the object of the hero's lusts played by two different actresses, with the alternation of svelte coolness and steamy voluptuousness lending teasing credibility to the way in which his ardour is cruelly cooled and heated by turns. These sexual games are brilliantly and tantalisingly funny, but the film is meanwhile secretly pursuing another obscure object of desire: the terrorism which surfaces in various forms (moral, social, cultural, economic, psychological, and even political), ranging from the bomb outrages that accompany the hero in his sexual odyssey down to the financial pressures he exerts in order to have his way. And just as L'Age d'or ended with an equation between the sexual and revolutionary acts, so does That Obscure Object of Desire, though in a deliberately coded, mystificatory form.

Edinburgh U Film Society [Iain Harral]

Buñuel, for the last time, explores favourite themes of violence, desire, and denial. Like the woman in Buñuel's first feature L'Age d'Or, whose sexual frustration leads her to suck the toes of a statue, Fernando Rey's character is utterly perplexed by the elusive object of his passions; a woman who alternates between a seductive smouldering sensuality and an icy devotion to chastity.

Buñuel, being a staunch advocate of the uncanny, pulls off the remarkable feat of casting two different women (Angela Molina & Carole Bouquet) in the same central role, one embodying sexual warmth, the other a concerted coldness.

Naturally, much of the appeal of That Obscure Object... is dependent on the comedy inherent in Rey's situation: a ridiculous desperate, vain, old man chasing a woman half his age, constantly imagining that he's on the verge of making a conquest only to fall flat on his face once again.

The film's teasing nature is continued with a strange, unexplained sub-narrative involving an obsure terrorist campaign whose activities are alluded to through media reports and nearby bombings.

Buñuel's last movie revisits many of his favourite thematic haunts and is fittingly esoteric and amusing.

Slant Magazine The final superb Buñuel review from Ed Gonzalez

From Un Chien Andalou to That Obscure Object of Desire, Luis Buñuel spent almost 50 years cataloging the frustrated romantic desires of his characters. Though not as revered today as, say, L'Avventura, The Obscure Object of Desire (based on the Pierre Loyuys novel which Josef von Sternberg previously filmed as The Devil is a Woman) similarly uses a radical rhetorical device to hone in on the particulars of its characters' strange romantic entanglements. Because he was so fascinated with the mysteries of life, it's strange how Buñuel often underplayed the savage poetry of his creations. Though he was quick to reject psychoanalytic readings of his work, he also shunned overly logical interpretations of his films. When writing That Obscure Object of Desire with Buñuel, Jean-Claude Carrière suggested the script's lead female role be played by two actresses, an idea the director quickly brushed aside at the time as "the whim of a rainy day." That whim, though, would become a fascinating wish fulfillment.

At the time of its release, That Obscure Object of Desire was preceded by controversy. Hot off Antonioni's The Passenger, Maria Schneider (Last Tango in Paris) was originally cast in the role of Conchita, but Buñuel had a terrible time working with the actress, and after a month's worth of shooting was replaced by, not one, but two actresses (the Carole Bouquet and Angela Molina). In an interview with José de la Colina and Tomás Pérez Turrent, Buñuel explained, "You two already know: it was out of necessity." But if replacing Schneider was necessary, why replace her with two actresses? Critic Emilio García Rivera tried to explain this decision: "No one knows the person he loves, it's that person and at the same time, another." But there is no logical explanation for this decision because Buñuel uses this bizarre casting device in order to call attention to the film's irrational war of sexual terrorism. This is more or less confirmed by the fact that film's scenes were divided equally between the two women and that the constant switching back and forth are not meant to evoke changes in Conchita's mood.

Mathieu (Fernando Rey) follows Conchita everywhere, repeatedly trying to win her sex by buying her things or giving her impoverished mother a steady nest egg. She repeatedly proclaims her independence throughout the film ("I don't owe you a thing" or "My guitar is mine, I'll play it for whom I please"), accusing Mathieu of wanting her only for her sex. Buñuel equally divides his scorn between the two, and if it's obvious that the hypocritical Mathieu only wants to devirginize Conchita (or, more accurately, break through her makeshift chastity belt), the director reserves some scorn for the woman's masochistic behavior. Conchita says she won't go to bed with Mathieu until she knows he loves her and subsequently teases him with a series of seemingly arbitrary acts. Does she or doesn't she break a vase on purpose in order to lead Mathieu into the room where she's hiding a male friend who could also be her lover? Most cruel is the scene where she has sex with her friend in front of Mathieu but not before locking the older man out of his Spanish villa and putting a grille between them.

Much of That Obscure Object of Desire is told via a series of flashbacks. After boarding a train to Paris, Mathieu must explain to his fellow passengers (a judge, a midget psychologist and a woman and her daughter) why he just poured a bucket of water on Conchita at the Seville train station. Not unlike The Phantom of Liberty, That Obscure Object of Desire is very much about those irrational and mysterious acts that bring us together. It toys with our curiosity but seemingly shuns our inquisitiveness. Buñuel was a great moralist, but one of the things that makes That Obscure Object of Desire so fascinating is how Mathieu's moral justifications are betrayed by the director's own irrational defilements. Mathieu attempts to excuse his rank misogyny, but by the time Conchita pours water on his head we've come to realize that they're both equally to blame for their sex war.

Paris is under attack by a group of terrorists, most prominently the Revolutionary Army of the Baby Jesus, and the film's terrorist undercurrent fabulously parallels the film's romantic acts of violence. When Mathieu is mugged at a local park, his assailants only ask for 800 Francs. Confused by this transaction, Mathieu can't even report the crime to a police officer. The mysterious nature of the attack only serves to frustrate Mathieu's ability to ask questions. And while telling his story on the Paris train, Mathieu and his fellow passengers are momentarily stunned when the midget psychologist humorously declares, "Yes, there's no mistaking me for anyone else." This can be read as a direct reference to the film's two actresses (more successful, though, is the delirious symmetry of Mathieu's living room, a shot of which prefigures Conchita's first appearance in the film), though it more accurately points to Buñuel's resistance to digging too deep beneath the surface of his films. When Mathieu and Conchita go up in terrorist flames by film's end, we're left to wonder if their war will go on and, more importantly, if they ever consummated their love.

by William Rothman Criterion essay

Images Movie Journal Gary Morris, also here: Bright Lights Film Journal

Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick)

Raging Bull [Mike Lorefice]

DVD Journal D.K. Holm

End of Media [James Slone]

Goatdog's Movies (Michael W. Phillips, Jr.) also here: Movie Vault [Goatdog]

ToxicUniverse.com (John Nesbit)

Cet obscur objet du désir (1977) James Travers from FilmsdeFrance

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Jeff Ulmer)

Strictly Film School Acquarello

Apollo Movie Guide [Derek Smith]

DVD Town (Yunda Eddie Feng)

A Guide to Current DVD (Aaron Beierle)

filmcritic.com (Gordon Bass) also here: Gordon Bass

DVD Talk (Jason Bovberg)

Mondo Digital also reviewing DIARY OF A CHAMBERMAID, BELLE DE JOUR, and THE DISCREET CHARM OF THE BOURGEOISIE

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

DVDBeaver.com - Graphic Review [Gary W. Tooze]

Buozyte, Kristina

THE COLLECTRESS (Kolekcioniere) D- 54

Lithuania (84 mi) 2008

This is one of those what-were-they-thinking movies, as it’s unclear why this film made it across the ocean for American distribution some two years after it was made, no matter how limited, or what drew anyone to this film project in the first place. This is a movie that will likely make you feel brain dead afterwards, as it’s pretty close to worthless and isn’t really about anything. Shot in high definition video with a brownish tinge throughout, there isn’t a single shot one can say actually looks good, as instead color is drowned out and close ups reveal way too much in the form of facial crevices and craters. Gabija Ryskuviene as Gaile is in nearly every shot of this film, opening as a speech therapist, patiently helping kids learn to properly enunciate their words. But something happens that makes her snap, apparently the death of her father, a man she wasn’t even that close to from the outset, but we see a faded bleached home movie clip where she’s about 4 years old that plays over and over again throughout this picture, never giving us much reason to care, as Gaile becomes overbearing and obsessively controlling, to the point of sadism, becoming a character we learn to detest, as she apparently stops going to work and instead hires a drunken slob video editor to initially make a work demonstration video, where initially embarrassed at what she sees, at least she connects to something onscreen, demanding more footage of herself, eventually feigning intimacy onscreen as she demands that nearly everything she does is captured on film, ordering this poor guy around, throwing money at him as if she owns him while treating him and everyone else with utter disdain. Her self destructive nature overwhelms all who come near, never once developing any sympathetic characteristics, and never really making a case for why she’s so miserable to herself and to others. Why are we supposed to care? This is a pretentious waste of time that never should have been screened in the first place. Apparently, so few films are made in Lithuania now that they’re gleaning student graduation films as representative of the nation’s film culture.

13th Annual European Union Film Festival | Gene Siskel Film Center Marty Rubin

Winner of Lithuania's Silver Crane award for best feature film of the year, this provocative psychological drama explores a theme previously probed in VIDEODROME: in a media-shaped modern world, we may live more fully in images than in the flesh. After her father's death, speech therapist Gaile finds herself numbed to the point that she can experience emotions only when she is watching herself on film. She hires a videographer to film her in staged situations, beginning with pranks (e.g., passionately kissing a groom in front of his astonished bride) and progressing to ever more transgressive acts. In Lithuanian with English subtitles. 35mm print courtesy of UAB Tremora.

blog Jason Halprin from CINE-FILE

The voyeuristic tendencies of humanity are spilling themselves all over the web as you read this. Cell phone footage of violence and misery are as instantly disseminated and have replaced the daily newspaper of the 20th Century. No longer do we wait for tomorrow, and no longer do we take time to process the events we hear about through the media. Or in our own lives. The immediacy of the mass recounting of history has lead to a numbing of our emotions and a disconnection from others. Or so the argument goes. In one of the smartest films about the continuing intrusion of technology in our lives, the ability to document experience is posited as the only means for reconnecting with emotion. After the death of her father renders speech therapist Gaille void of feeling, she stumbles upon a drunken auteur disguised as a low-grade video editor. Living amongst filth and bottles of vodka, he turns weddings into farces, where brides are ugly and guests gorge on reception food like pigs. He edits some footage of Gaille working for her to present at a conference, and she realizes that only through seeing herself on tape does she reconnect with her feelings. She begins to have herself taped as she engages in a variety of stunts. The pranks begin harmlessly enough, with the taping of Gaille crashing a wedding and kissing the unexpecting groom, but she needs to keep upping the ante. Of course this self-reflexive voyeurism has a price to pay, and Gaille systematically severs her connections to everyone around her. Although comparisons to VIDEODROME are not unfounded, where Cronenberg tried to shock us into agreeing with his thesis, Buozyte uses her video sequences to humanize her characters. This film shows a deft eye for visual style and a light touch in pacing, somewhat remarkable for an MFA thesis film. Expect more from Buozyte in the future. (2008, 84 min, 35mm)

Variety (Alissa Simon) review

Traumatized by her father's death, a young professional attempts to revive her numbed feelings by performing increasingly loathsome stunts that she later obsessively watches on tape in "The Collectress." Provocative but unappealing drama is the MFA graduation project of Lithuanian helmer Kristina Buozyte, who seems to aspire to the seductively transgressive style of Italo director Liliana Cavani. Lacking sympathetic characters, an emotional hook and ultimate catharsis, pic is likely limited to the fest circuit.

Script doesn't clarify why its protag is so unhinged by the passing of her alcoholic, gambling-addicted father, but cool blonde Gaile (a valiant perf by looker Gabija Ryskuviene) spins out of control, hiring an alcoholic, gambling-addicted video editor (Marius Jampolskis, epitomizing shifty) to provide artsy documentation of her extreme behavior, which includes deliberately slamming the door on a small puppy and seducing her sister's fiance. Seeing her do these things twice (as they happen and as they appear on tape) drags out the relatively short running time. HDV-shot visuals have video grain even in the non-playback scenes. Interesting orchestral score by Titas Petrikis is fine on its own terms, but doesn't seem attuned to the action.

Camera (color, HDV-to-35mm), Feliksas Abrukauskas; editors, Eimantas Belickas, Paulius Zavadskis; music, Titas Petrikis; art director, Paulius Arlauskas; costume designers, Daiva Samajauskaite, Dalia Kiaupaite. Reviewed at Karlovy Vary Film Festival (East of the West), July 5, 2008. Original title: Kolekcioniere. Running time: 84 MIN.

Burger, Neil

THE ILLUSIONIST B+ 91

USA (110 mi) 2006

An extremely dark and somber story set around the turn of the 20^th century in Vienna, Austria, adapted from a Steven Millhauser story “Eisenheim the Illusionist” about a young boy who, completely by chance, runs into a magician on the side of the road sitting under a tree, who allegedly makes himself and then the tree disappear. The boy becomes obsessed with magic tricks and illusion, while at the same time finding romance with a young girl who is a member of the royal family, thus forbidden from socializing with commoners. After they become forcibly separated, he travels the world perfecting his act, becoming a remarkably adept magician, until, as fate would have it, fifteen years later he returns home to his native Vienna.

Edward Norton plays the intense illusionist with a mysterious purpose, followed closely by a hound dog police inspector, Paul Giamatti, who must protect a crown Prince (Rufus Sewell) with aspirations to become the Austro-Hungarian Emperor. All utilize a thick eastern European accent that suggests vampires may appear at any moment. The master showman has a special flair for embarrassing and showing up the prince, who invites him to a private audience, believing everything can be scientifically explained. But things are not what they seem when the magician recognizes the young girl, now a glamorously beautiful duchess, a positively luminous Jessica Biel, who is expected to marry the prince. Through an interesting interplay of the major players, along with some eerie, inexplicable stage illusions, preceded by moments of dead quiet, then erupting into a marvelous score by Philip Glass, which sends wave after wave of sound, adding a lush sensuality to the secret romance between the illusionist and the duchess, spied on by the police inspector, who seems to attend every performance, hounded by the prince who suspects foul play and wants him arrested for fraud.

The film places us in the audience where we witness a man on stage silently sitting alone in a chair challenge our concepts of art and life, illusion and reality, and eventually life and death. In an era of rationalism, this is a wonderful return to the mystery of ghosts and apparitions, things that can’t be explained, which beautifully appear and disappear before our eyes. Impeccably filmed by cinematographer Dick Pope in Prague as an able substitute for Vienna with moody, candle-lit interiors, horses galloping out of dark forests of the night, a prelude to the smoldering emotions of a secret late evening rendezvous, eyes aglow from a burning fire and the spark of remembrance. Much like Bergman’s THE MAGICIAN, the real invisible force appears to be the illusion of power, which is a struggle of Shakespearean proportions between the magician and the corrupt Machiavellian prince, the powers of good and evil, love and ambition, imagination and logic, where the perception of the illusionist keeps changing from being a religious savior to a con man, or from a brilliant artist to just a man.

Chicago Reader: Movie Reviews Jonathan Rosenbaum, also seen here: Cinema as a Social Act

Burnett, Charles

I think a strong case can be made that Charles Burnett is the most gifted and important black filmmaker this country has ever had. But there’s a fair chance you’ve never heard of him. —Jonathan Rosenbaum

All-Movie Guide Jason Ankeny

Along with Spike Lee, Charles Burnett was among the most crucial African-American cinematic voices to emerge during the final decades of the 20th century; unlike Lee, however, Burnett earned little mainstream recognition for his work and has remained largely a non-entity even within the bounds of the black filmgoing community. Motivated to action by years of one-dimensional black stereotypes and story lines in Hollywood features, Burnett has endeavored to bring to the screen a deeply personal, realistic portrayal of contemporary African-American existence, drawing his inspiration from the work of the Italian neorealist movement. Unfortunately, consistent victimization at the hands of studios and distributors has repeatedly conspired to silence his unique voice, and while younger and less accomplished black filmmakers rose to commercial success in his wake, Burnett himself has remained at best a highly regarded cult figure throughout his career.

Born in Mississippi in 1943, Burnett was raised in Los Angeles, where in the late '60s and early '70s he attended U.C.L.A.'s graduate film program alongside fellow African-American movie innovators Larry Clark, Julie Dash, Haile Gerima, and Billy Woodberry. After serving as the cinematographer on 1976's Bush Mama, Burnett made his feature debut in 1977 with the acclaimed Killer of Sheep. The victim of poor distribution, the picture never gained the widespread notice it deserved, but in 1981 it won honors at the Berlin International Film Festival, as well as what later evolved into the Sundance Film Festival, and it was also among the first works chosen for inclusion in the Library of Congress' Historic Film Registry. After winning a Guggenheim Fellowship in 1980, Burnett began work on his sophomore feature, 1983's My Brother's Wedding, but he again faced insurmountable distribution difficulties resulting in an abortive release.

Upon receiving a 1988 MacArthur Foundation Fellowship grant, Burnett began work on his masterpiece, 1990's To Sleep With Anger. Though it starred box-office favorite Danny Glover, the film was screened in only 18 theaters nationally, with an advertising budget of less than 400,000 dollars. Burned again by the Hollywood system, Burnett next turned to television, where in 1991 he filmed a documentary about U.S. immigration titled America Becoming. Returning to feature films, he began reworking The Glass Shield, a long-dormant screenplay about police corruption. When American financing fell through, he received backing from the French production company CIBY 2000, but the company later forced Burnett to relinquish the final cut, and the film was also edited by American distributor Miramax prior to its 1994 release. Nightjohn, an adaptation of a Gary Paulsen novel, premiered to great acclaim on the Disney Channel in 1996. After directing two more made-for-TV features, Oprah Winfrey Presents: The Wedding (1998) and Selma Lord Selma (1999), Burnett returned to the screen as the director of a quirky romance, The Annihilation of Fish, starring James Earl Jones and Lynn Redgrave.

Film Reference Rob Edelman

Prior to the release of To Sleep with Anger in 1990, Charles Burnett had for two decades been writing and directing low-budget, little-known, but critically praised films that examined life and relationships among contemporary African Americans. Killer of Sheep, his first feature, is a searing depiction of ghetto life; My Brother's Wedding knowingly examines the relationship between two siblings on vastly different life tracks; Bless Their Little Hearts (directed by Billy Woodbury, but scripted and photographed by Burnett) is a poignant portrait of a black family. But how many had even heard of these films, let alone seen them? Thanks to the emergence in the 1980s of the prolific Spike Lee as a potent box office (as well as critical) force, however, a generation of African-American moviemakers have had their films not only produced but more widely distributed.

Such was the case with To Sleep with Anger, released theatrically by the Samuel Goldwyn Company. The film, like Burnett's earlier work, is an evocative, character-driven drama about relationships between family members and the fabric of domestic life among contemporary African Americans. It is the story of Harry Mention (Danny Glover), a meddlesome trickster who arrives in Los Angeles at the doorstep of his old friend Gideon (Paul Butler). The film details the manner in which Harry abuses the hospitality of Gideon, and his effect on Gideon's family. First there is the older generation: Gideon and his wife Suzie (Mary Alice), who cling to the traditions of their Deep South roots. Gideon has attempted to pass on his folklore, and his sense of values, to his two sons. One, Junior (Carl Lumbly), accepts this. But the other, Babe Brother (Richard Brooks), is on the economic fast track—and in conflict with his family.

While set within an African-American milieu, To Sleep with Anger transcends the ethnic identities of its characters; it also deals in a generic way with the cultural differences between parents and children, the manner in which individuals learn (or don't learn) from experience, and the need to push aside those who only know how to cause violence and strife. As such, it becomes a film that deals with universal issues.

The Glass Shield is a departure for Burnett in that his scenario is not set within an African-American universe. Instead, he places his characters in a hostile white world. The Glass Shield is a thinking person's cop film. Burnett's hero is a young black officer fresh out of the police academy, JJ Johnson (Michael Boatman), who becomes the first African American assigned to a corruption-laden, all-white sheriff's station in Los Angeles. Johnson is treated roughly by the station's commanding officer and some of the veteran cops. Superficially, it seems as if he is being dealt with in such a manner solely because he is an inexperienced rookie, in need of toughening and educating to the ways of the streets. But the racial lines clearly are drawn when one of his senior officers tells him, "You're one of us. You're not a brother." Johnson, who always has wanted to be a cop, desires only to do well and fit in. And so he stands by idly as black citizens are casually stopped and harassed by his fellow officers. Even more telling, with distressing regularity, blacks seem to have died under mysterious circumstances while in custody within the confines of the precinct.

As the film progresses, Burnett creates the feeling that a bomb is about to explode. And it does, when Johnson becomes involved in the arrest of a black man, framed on a murder charge, and readily agrees to lie in court to protect a fellow officer. Burnett's ultimate point is that in contemporary America it is impossible for a black man to cast aside his racial identity as he seeks his own personal destiny. First and foremost, he is an African American, existing within a society in which all of the power is in the hands of a white male elite. But African Americans are not the sole powerless entity in The Glass Shield. Johnson befriends his station's first female officer (Lori Petty), who must deal with sexism within the confines of her precinct house as much as on the streets. Together, this pair becomes united in a struggle against a white male-dominated system in which everyday corruption and hypocrisy are the rule.

Burnett's themes—African-American identity within the family unit and, subsequently, African-American identity within the community at large—are provocative and meaningful. It seems certain that he will never direct a film that is anything short of insightful in its content.

TCMDB brief profile from Turner Classic Movies

Charles Burnett Nelson Kim from Senses of Cinema

New U.S. Black Cinema Clyde Taylor from Jump Cut, April 1983

New York Times A Director Who Collects Honors, Not Millions, by Bernard Weinraub, January 30, 1997

The Austin Chronicle Far from Hollywood, by Charles Nafus, January 19, 1999

Nashville Scene The Stuff of Legends, Jim Ridley profile from the Nashville Scene, June 7, 1999

Freedom in Film Award by Phillip Taylor, from the First Amendment Center and the Nashville Independent Film Festival, November 6, 1999

CineScene Article Charles Burnett, by Chris Dashiell, 2000

"Black Independent Cinema and The Influence of Neo-realism" Chris Norton from Images

Burnett, Charles They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

Charles Burnett Susan Gerhard interviews Barnett for GreenCine

Film Comment Interview (2007) School of Hard Knocks: Charles Burnett interviewed by Alex Cox and Tod Davies in December 2002

SEVERAL FRIENDS

USA (45 mi) 1969

"Several Friends" (Charles Burnett, 1969) Andy Rector from Fipresci magazine

Milestone Film's eventual re-release of all of Charles Burnett's directorial efforts pre-To Sleep With Anger (1990) will hopefully right many of the wrongs done to this director. Finally Burnett won't be judged achronologically or by the compromised work for PBS, Oprah Winfrey, and Miramax. It will at last be more widely possible to evaluate his films from the extraordinary beginning of "Several Friends" (1969), and in the process fill a major gap in the history of American cinema. "Several Friends" is Burnett's first film, made while he was still a student at UCLA, and there is not a compromise to be seen in it.

Inevitably, the film will be seen as a preparatory sketch for Killer of Sheep (1973). This wouldn't be wrong, but "Several Friends" has its own glories to speak of. If the generosities are less round, and elements like its "poor" soundtrack jut out and make the film more angular, that angularity takes on an aesthetic and even a social significance here (e.g. the scene of two men conversing with a car engine between them, dubbed) unique to Burnett's practice.

A bolder, almost structuralist formal clarity can be seen at work in "Several Friends." In its relaxed spatial precision it resembles an Ozu film as much as a film of neo-realism. The first scene is incisive: a man in a military uniform stumbles in an alley as a little girl in a white dress looks on — suddenly a large white sedan enters the frame and stops, cutting the space between them. The car slices through the potential meeting, and the film itself cuts to the interior of the car, where the magnificent second scene will almost entirely take place.

Four unemployed young people inside a parked car somewhere in South Central Los Angeles are looking for something to do, and Burnett sticks with them in long duration, opting to let the goddess-like Delores Farley (from Killer of Sheep's "you about as tasteless as a carrot") narrate the consequences of an off-screen fight that is going on simultaneously outside of a liquor store. The scene unfolds, tense with the inevitability of showing their surroundings and structured by the direct sound of Delores's distinct drawl. "A confrontation should be avoided... the police will be called," she says in several variations as the driver, Charles Bracy, dips in and out of the car/frame asking if they should get wine, while another passenger, Eugene Cherry, shoots glances at the camera and smokes, and Andy Burnett (Charles's brother) reads the paper in the back seat. This introduction to the characters, a rich and exciting chunk of image/sound, builds to an exhaustion that permeates the rest of the film. The wonderful Andy Burnett is the center of the subsequent drifting events at home. He and his friends pick up and put down a number of mundane labors around the house. He flips on a record and tries to dance with a woman, the soundtrack seizing the diegesis for a moment (like the trumpet playing in To Sleep with Anger and When It Rains), but is thwarted.

Like Killer of Sheep, "Several Friends" shows the labor that's necessary at home, to literally maintain the home, but it shows it in a more lumpen sequence without the family. The actions of moving a washing machine or fixing a car engine are randomly picked up, more alienated. These are moments, tender and strange at times, of perseverance in both large and small orders, shown to be dependent on community, large and small. One wonders, however, when the car is fixed and the clothes are washed, will these youths abandon the community? It all comes back to the community in Burnett. When an outsider is introduced, a white hippie girl from "Hollyweird," she isn't accepted as a ghetto escape route, she's simply someone from another community, viewed a bit skeptically. The visual style is acutely intimate with the space of the community. Wide city/street shots are avoided, backdrops for action are plain; just bricks, sidewalk, or lawn with a few branches. Even in the liquor store scene, the street itself is cut out of the shot — simply a piece of parking lot with most of the frame taken up by the giant blank wall. Storefronts and signs of any kind are absent (the opposite of this would be John Schlesinger's Midnight Cowboy which came out the same year). This is a very illuminating refusal. It not only pares away the usual images of urban living, full of violent streets and imposing signage, but forces one to look at what's really there: concrete, steel, twigs, and people. "I have seldom, in a movie, seen the corner of a brick building look at once so lonely and so highly charged with sadness and fear." This quote is James Agee on The Southerner (Jean Renoir, 1945), one of Burnett's favorite films; it could easily apply (sans fear) to the fearless "Several Friends."

KILLER OF SHEEP A 100

USA (83 mi) 1977 Milestone Films

This bitter earth

Well, what fruit it bears

What good is love

mmmm that no one shares

And if my life is like the dust

oooh that hides the glow of a rose

What good am I

Heaven only knows

Lord, this bitter earth

Yes, can be so cold

Today youre young

Too soon, youre old

But while a voice within me cries

I’m sure someone may answer my call

And this bitter earth

Ooooo may not be so bitter after all

“This Bitter Earth,” by Dinah Washington

A spare, near documentary examination of everyday life in the poverty stricken black neighborhood of Watts, Los Angeles in the mid 1970’s, brought to near poetic poignancy by Burnett’s obvious affection for his subject matter, and like Cassavetes (certainly SHADOWS and FACES come to mind) in his early independent ventures, he uses many of his own family and friends, made for about $10,000 shooting mostly on weekends, a film that was submitted as his UCLA film school thesis. What’s particularly affecting in the film are his naturalistic shots of so many children at play, many throwing rocks in dusty vacant lots, abandoned construction zones or railroad yards, jumping off and climbing on roofs, hanging out in back alleys, fighting and playing taunting word games with one another, and occasionally a child will be seen crying or getting hurt, but the playing immediately resumes afterwards. The affection that Burnett displays for children, catching a young 4-year old girl unawares as she puts her clothes on all by herself, observing unsupervised kids eating at the breakfast table, where sugar is the obvious condiment of choice, or eavesdropping on conversations, as one girl notices the other was missing in school, warning her that she might fall behind. While some may find the repeated images of a lambs to the slaughter metaphor a bit heavy handed, but there’s no disputing what the future holds for these children and how accurate Burnett’s reflections are, as today one-third of all black males under 30 are incarcerated at some point, and this film was made 30 years ago (see: The Crisis of the Young African American Male and the Criminal Justice System).

Mostly we spend time with the family of Stan, played by Henry Gayle Sanders, a slaughterhouse worker who lives paycheck to paycheck, who is too proud to think of himself as poor, but he obviously struggles how to get by each and every day. While there’s no real narrative, instead there’s a fluid dynamic of Burnett’s camera observing life as it happens, where kids engage one another, adults have typical problems that are difficult to discuss, friends come and go, opportunities present themselves, people have to go to work, and it’s hard for parents in this neighborhood to ever find some free time for themselves. One of the most telling images in the film is the look on the face of Stan’s wife, Kaycee Moore, a sensuously expressive woman who is simply glaring at him as he’s refusing her outright requests for affection and is instead allowing their young daughter (Burnett’s daughter, Angela) to hang all over him and get the affection that she obviously needs. Her slow burn is unforgettable – and painful to watch. When a couple of shady characters attempt to engage Stan as a partner in a robbery attempt, Stan’s wife steps from out of the background and speaks her mind, aggressively placing herself between these guys and her husband, holding her ground, never backing down. Earlier the couple slow danced together to the music of Dinah Washington’s “This Bitter Earth,” where she made her feelings imminently clear, but he was strangely unresponsive, which is typical of Burnett, demythologizing the overactive black male sexual myth by simply showing how easily one man’s thoughts can drift elsewhere from time to time.

Mostly this is a gentle, occasionally humorous, lyrical film with fleeting images presented as vignettes that respect the world we live in rather than cast judgment, much of it wordless set to evocative music, from the historic bass tones of Paul Robeson’s “The House I Live In” or “Going Home,” to the classy lyricism of Dinah Washington, from the harmonica led, blues infused Little Walter’s “Mean Old World,” to an undaunted 4-year old singing along to the more pop culture of the era, Earth, Wind, and Fire’s “Reasons,” from Elmore James' Chicago blues classic "I Believe," which wails over a back door craps game, to the joyous, free-spirited strutting music of Louis Armstrong's “West End Blues,” which accompanies the couple’s attempt to step out for a change, all of which adds a classical dimension to the film’s structure, shading each sequence with yet another layer of intimacy and grace, providing a musical heritage to black people’s lives. Made about the same time as David Lynch’s ERASERHEAD (1977), these films couldn’t be more opposite, yet they aren’t like anything else from that or any other era, which makes them especially significant, as first films have a unique tendency to unleash the artist’s imprint. This is an elegant, uncompromising film, a time capsule from a soft-spoken man of quiet dignity who raises our eyebrows with the elegiac images he composes from one of the least accurately portrayed neighborhoods in films. This has the feel of a fervent prayer.

The Wily Filipino: Killer of Sheep Soundtrack Mix.

In musical tribute to Charles Burnett's Killer of Sheep, hopefully playing at a theater near you, a soundtrack / mix of sorts, more or less in chronological order:

1. Paul Robeson's "The House I Live In," from Ballad for Americans (kids playing in the ruins near the railroad tracks)

2. Paul Robeson's "Going Home," from Live at Carnegie Hall (herding sheep, and also at the closing credits I think)

3. Elmore James's "I Believe," from Let's Cut It

4. Earth, Wind & Fire's "Reasons," from That's The Way Of The World (Stan's daughter singing to a doll)

5. Arthur "Big Boy" Crudup's "Mean Old Frisco Blues," from That's All Right Mama (in the liquor store, I think)

6. Scott Joplin's "Solace," from The Entertainer (after carrying the engine)

7. Dinah Washington's "This Bitter Earth," from The Complete Dinah Washington on Mercury, Vol. 6 (slow dancing)

8. Faye Adams's "Shake A Hand," from The Herald Recordings (jumping from roof to roof)

9. Little Walter's "Mean Old World," from The Essential Little Walter (killing of sheep)

10. Louis Armstrong's "West End Blues," from The Louis Armstrong Collection, Vol. 4 (off to the racetrack)

11. and a bonus, left off the re-release because the rights couldn't be cleared, but was originally playing in the last slaughterhouse scene: Dinah Washington's "Unforgettable," from Compact Jazz

I left off the third movement from William Grant Still's Afro-American Symphony (playing in the first slaughterhouse scene), the section from Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 4 (playing right after "This Bitter Earth"), and Franz von Suppe's Poet and Peasant Overture (also playing in the liquor store scene). God I'm obsessed with this movie.

Chicago Reader (Jonathan Rosenbaum) (capsule review)

The first feature (1978) of the highly talented black filmmaker Charles Burnett, who has set most of his early films in Watts (including My Brother's Wedding and To Sleep With Anger); this one deals episodically with the life of a slaughterhouse worker. Shot on a year's worth of weekends on a minuscule budget (less than $20,000), this remarkable work--conceivably the best single feature about ghetto life that we have--was selected for preservation by the National Film Registry as one of the key works of the American cinema, an ironic and belated form of recognition for a film that has had virtually no distribution. It shouldn't be missed. With Henry Sanders.

All Movie Guide [Putnam Trumbull]

While still a film student at UCLA, Charles Burnett made Killer of Sheep about the kinds of lives he observed in his youth. The film tells the story of a family living in poverty in an L.A. ghetto. Rather than a traditional plotline, Burnett's film is structured like the lives of his characters: it picks up on something, gets going, and just when it seems to be heading toward a climax, collapses. We follow the characters from failure to failure, from efforts toward family and income to impotence and frustration. Burnett is aware that the freedoms an audience typically relates to on the screen -- the trajectories of a film's various characters -- are just as typically only available to people who can afford those freedoms. Poverty, he suggests, deserves a different plot structure. Killer of Sheep can be placed modestly alongside the films of other, more strictly modernist directors, particularly Michelangelo Antonioni or Abbas Kiarostami, who also have found classical narrative constructions inadequate. Killer of Sheep is highly poetic, offering metaphor, lyricism, and sensual symbolic order, and seeks to illuminate lives through a tender visual style. Though it is about poverty and isolation, rather than collapsing into a nightmare of total alienation (as might an Antonioni film), Killer of Sheep balances the despair it contains with humor and warmth.

Slant Magazine Ed Gonzalez

In a telephone interview with LA Weekly reporter Erin J. Aubry four years ago, critic Armond White said, "Spike [Lee] has become a first-rate marketer—he knows what a young audience wants, and he supplies it. Spike picks hot topics—basketball, interracial dating—but that doesn't mean you break ground. Barbara Walters picks hot topics every day. The pretense of seriousness doesn't mean you're serious." In defense of Charles Burnett's 1977 masterpiece Killer of Sheep, White went one further by suggesting that Burnett, not Lee, shows black American life as it really is. (White wrote a piece on Killer of Sheep for The A List: The National Society of Film Critics' 100 Essential Films.)

It's easy to see why Armond White has it in for Spike. The black filmmaker's joints aren't so much disingenuous as they are loud, brash, and confrontational. They're filmed and marketed in such a way to appeal to the same youth that typically favors American Pie over All the Real Girls, Trainspotting over All or Nothing, and Dead Presidents over George Washington. There's nothing wrong with accessibility, but it's easy to see how Lee's Hollywood success oppresses true-grit independent black filmmakers like Burnett and Julie Dash (Daughters of the Dust). Where Lee has been championed for delivering his vision of black life in America to a mass audience, the elegiac films of Charles Burnett go largely ignored.

Killer of Sheep, like most of Burnett's early films, takes place in and around the Watts ghetto of Los Angeles. The fly-on-the-wall narrative observes the life of a slaughterhouse worker, Stan (Henry Gayle Sanders), who grapples daily with poverty, misbehaving children, and the allure of violence. The film at once recalls the episodic nature of John Cassavetes's earlier works, primarily Shadows and his masterpiece Faces, the plaintive allegory of Robert Bresson's Au Hasard Balthazar and the humanist works of Jean Renoir. Despite these influences, the film's sad yet proud vision of black life in the ghetto is distinctly Burnett's own, and one that would influence David Gordon Green's beautiful George Washington.

Burnett shot Killer of Sheep over a series of weekends on a shoestring budget of just under $20,000, using friends and relatives as his actors. None of these things should be taken as limitations; if anything, the film is ennobled by them. If not for the often devastating poetry of Burnett's images and the biblical overtones of his dialogue, Killer of Sheep could very well pass for a documentary about life in the Watts ghetto. Stan's wife advises him not to engage in shady business dealings with murderous men, but not before slowly entering frame from within the dark shadows of her home's interior and suffering through a debate on human nature that likens a man's fists to that of an animal's teeth. This is storytelling at its most primal.

The whole of Killer of Sheep is comprised of quiet evocations economic denial, muted desire, and a child's playful (but sometimes violent) friendships in the Watts. Though Stan's wife prevents him from being led to slaughter, he leaves her in sorrow after a dance between the two begins to hint at sex. When kids fight near railroad tracks, Burnett frames the action using a series of abstract, tight close-ups, elevating their strangely silent action to that of urban poetry. And then here are Burnett's juxtapositions, which reveal infinite truths and notes of grace beneath the most mundane actions. Most memorable is a shot of Stan's wife dolling herself up, followed by a shot of her daughter playing dress-up with a white doll.

What distinguishes Killer of Sheep from films like Do the Right Thing and Clockers is its absence of malice despite its acknowledgement of the oppressive forces of a white capitalist society. Music plays an important role in the film. But while Burnett's musical choices often address the plight of black people in America, the music is drunk on hope and reinforces the joy of Burnett's sad images. That means you won't hear Nina Simone belting "Black Is The Color Of My True Love's Hair" or "Strange Fruit" but Dinah Washington singing "Unforgettable," [edit – note, rights for this song could not be cleared for the re-release] which plays over the closing image of little lambs no doubt oblivious to their impending doom. In 1990, Killer of Sheep was added to the National Film Registry by the Library of Film of Congress's National Film Preservation Board—no small feat for a film that never received a proper U.S. release.

The Village Voice [J. Hoberman]

There are first films like Citizen Kane or Breathless, which, as radically new and fully achieved as they are, unfairly overshadow an entire oeuvre. And then there are first films, perhaps even more radical, which haunt an artist's career not through precocious virtuosity but because they have an innocence that can never be repeated.

This second type includes Satyajit Ray's Pather Panchali, John Cassavetes's Shadows, and Jack Smith's Flaming Creatures—impoverished productions all, shot on weekends over extended periods of time, pragmatic in their means, necessarily based on improvisation and consequently filled with rich, ingenuous mistakes. Charles Burnett's legendary Killer of Sheep, which was finished in 1978 and, despite its enormous critical reputation, is only now getting a New York theatrical release, belongs with these.

Made while Burnett was a 33-year-old grad student at UCLA, Killer of Sheep is a study of social paralysis in South Central Los Angeles a dozen years after the Watts insurrection. The subject matter harks back to the heyday of Italian neorealism but Burnett uses the film language of experimental documentaries like In the Street, Blood of the Beasts, and Kenneth Anger's Scorpio Rising. (Like Anger, Burnett never cleared the rights to his extensive pop-music score—one reason why Killer of Sheep could not be commercially shown.) Sui generis, Killer of Sheep is an urban pastoral—an episodic series of scenes that are sweet, sardonic, deeply sad, and very funny. It's a movie of enigmatic antics, odd juxtapositions, disorienting close-ups, and visual gags, as when a guy sitting in the front seat of a car reaches through the nonexistent windshield to retrieve the beer can perched on the hood.

Killer of Sheep has an improvised feel and a studied look—as if Burnett decided on his often unconventional camera angles and then set his mainly nonprofessional actors loose. Songs of innocence and experience collide. Even before the opening titles, the movie makes it clear that life (or maybe history) is apt to hit you upside your head. Much of the movie considers children at play, staging rock fights in a rubble-strewn lot or frisking around some derelict railroad tracks or, shot from below, jumping from roof to roof. The kids, who almost always travel in packs, have their own subculture—half seen through their imagination. A little girl affects a hangdog mask, perhaps in imitation of her father, Stan (Henry G. Sanders).

The movie has an unusual protagonist: Depressed, dreamy, always worried looking, Stan works in an abattoir (hence the title) and has two kids and a pretty wife (Kaycee Moore). She loves him but he's curiously unresponsive—at one point they dance to Dinah Washington's "This Bitter Earth," then drift apart. Stan doesn't smile and he has trouble sleeping. For much of the movie, he wanders impassively from one scene to another. To the degree that the movie has a narrative, it largely concerns Stan's ongoing attempt to get his friend's car together. In one lengthy scene, the guys buy a $15 replacement engine—the motor is an image of futility so visceral that, rolling through the movie, it positively ungathers its moss.

On the one hand, Stan's neighborhood is a wasteland—devoid of commerce, isolated, and entropic. On the other, it's filled with vitality or at least everyday madness. People scowl and scrap their way through ramshackle lives, wandering in and out of each other's business—as when two guys dart on-screen lugging a stolen TV. The verbal jousting is often superb. (Language police should note that the zesty vernacular includes ample use of the N-word.) Neighborhood jivesters try to bring Stan in on their criminal exploits but he's stubbornly uninterested. "I'm not poor," he insists, "I give away things to the Salvation Army sometimes."

Stan is just about the only character in the movie who has a job—and it's the fact of the job, even more than its nature, that seems to oppress him. Intermittently he's shown at work, hosing down the slaughterhouse killing floor. At one point, Burnett uses Paul Robeson's pop front anthem "The House I Live In" to segue from an empty lot to the abattoir; Robeson's "Going Home" provides the background for the sheep headed toward death. The bluntness with which Burnett employs music hardly detracts from the effect. This, as Little Walter reminds us, is a "mean old world." Stan's job brings him in intimate contact with the fate awaiting all living things. He is the reality principle. The only time he smiles—or nearly smiles—is when chasing those sheep who have dimly realized what might be in store for them.

However original, Killer of Sheep has had only a subterranean influence— primarily on Burnett's UCLA colleagues (Haile Gerima, Billy Woodbury, Julie Dash), who were surely inspired by his ability to get the movie made. More recently, there have been the movies of Southern regionalist David Gordon Green, whose 2000 debut, George Washington, mined much of its eccentricity from Burnett's film. But not even Burnett seems to have followed through on his youthful explorations; it was seven years before he completed a second feature, not that he has ever ceased working.

In the time since Killer of Sheep, Burnett's made several mangled or unreleased commercial productions, a number of striking telefilms on African-American history, and one fully realized, exceedingly unusual, and underappreciated feature, the 1990 To Sleep With Anger. Given this stoical tenacity, it's hard not to see Stan as a prophetic projection of the filmmaker.

In retrospect, it can be seen that the two great independent features of the late '70s were Killer of Sheep and Eraserhead. Perhaps when someone writes the reception history of American independent cinema, it will be explained how and when Killer of Sheep—which had its original screenings at museums and underground showcases—came to be considered not just a good but a great movie, placed on the Library of Congress's National Film Registry in 1990.

Clearly foreign film festivals had something to do with it—the movie won a prize at Berlin in 1981—as did the various black film series that booked it for years. It's striking that, as a 16mm production, Killer of Sheep first appeared in the context of avant-garde cinema. When it opened in New York in November 1978, as part of the Whitney Museum's ongoing New American Filmmakers series, The New York Times saw it as a study in "monotony and alienation," and scored the filmmaker's "arty detachment."

That apparently was the movie's lone notice. The closest Killer of Sheep received to a review in the Voice was the blurb filed by a callow part-time third-stringer:

Charles Burnett calls his well- observed first feature, made with nonactors in Watts, an ethnographic film. More a succession of linked images and anecdotes than a narrative, its power is in its accumulation of details and gesture. Burnett withholds judgment on his scuffling, self-absorbed characters, using a score that runs the gamut from Paul Robeson to Dinah Washington to Big Boy Crudup to comment on their lives. His hero works in a slaughterhouse but the film leaves little doubt that the real "killer of sheep" is America.

I hadn't seen the movie again until this past month. As fresh and observational as it was 30 years ago, Killer of Sheep seems even more universal now. Today, I'd change my blurb to note that the killer of sheep isn't only America, but life.

Killer of Sheep Jonathan Rosenbaum from the Reader (long review), also seen here: The Unobserved Life

The Nation (Stuart Klawans)

The masterful 'Killer of Sheep,' at 30, goes public ... Dave Kehr from the International Herald Tribune

Images Journal Black Independent Cinema and the Influence of Neo-Realism: Futility, Struggle and Hope in the Face of Reality, by Chris Norton

Filmjourney Doug Cummings

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

Salon (Andrew O'Hehir)

Killer of Sheep (1977) Bryant Frazer from Deep Focus

Lessons of Darkness [Nick Schager]

Charles Burnett's Killer of Sheep on DVD Brandon Soderberg of No Trivia

KPBS Online Film Reviews [Beth Accomando]

filmcritic.com (Keith Breese)

The Lumière Reader

Killer of Sheep reviewed. - By Dana Stevens - Slate Magazine

Chris Dashiell at CineScene

Film Journal International (Eric Monder)

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

Film-Forward.com Nora Lee Mandel

Monsters and Critics (Ron Wilkinson)

Lucid Screening Tram

Siffblog [Kathy Fennessy]

Reverse Shot [Chris Wisniewski] KILLER OF SHEEP vs BUBBLE

Directors Guild of America Under the Influence, by Jerry Roberts from DGA, September 2001

Life after Life Ray Pride from New City

Los Angeles Times [Kenneth Turan]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Manohla Dargis) brief capsule review in 2007

The New York Times (Janet Maslin) mildly missing the point in 1978

MY BROTHER’S WEDDING A 96

USA (116 mi) 1983 director recut 2007 (87 mi)

We’re eatin’ like white folks tonight

While many cinephiles use film festivals just to see the most recent films, as there’s only so much time, but there are also retrospectives or restorations, which when shown in this setting, give earlier works a chance to be evaluated against the best films of today. It is not a stretch to say this recently restored film is as good as anything shown at the fest. Initially shown as a rough cut at the New York film festival running just under 2 hours in 1983, it disappeared from sight due to mixed reviews and has been re-edited by Burnett to a shorter running time, bother versions expected to be released on DVD next month as part of the Charles Burnett Collection, a 2-disc offering which also includes KILLER OF SHEEP and 4 shorts, including the one shown today. Beautifully shot by the director himself, once again featuring priceless South Central locations in LA, this film was made nearly 7 years after his first film. Exploring a family dichotomy, very similar to the dark skin/white skin controversy where lighter skinned blacks receive preferential treatment, the parents who run a Watts dry cleaners shop overly praise one brother, Wendell (Dennis Kemper), who is studying to become a lawyer and is about to marry a wealthy doctor’s pampered daughter, Sonia (cast as Burnett’s own wife, Gaye, who co-produced the film), immediately jettisoning his status into the upper middle class, while another son Pierce (Everett Silas) is more adrift, continuing to work at the family dry cleaners, still hanging out with his old ghetto buddies and typically gets blamed as a troublemaker for everything that goes wrong, including the actions of his friends.

Told with a naturalistic flair, completely immersed in the fashion, styles, and cultural humor of the era, most of the film focuses its attention on Pierce, a decent guy whose best friend Soldier (Ronnie Bell) has been in and out of prison and is about to be released, where Pierce tries to get him a job ahead of time and spends a good deal of time in tender scenes visiting Soldier’s mom, encouraging her that he’ll stay out of prison this time, or providing care during visits to his his elderly grandparents. When Soldier is released, where his reunion with his family is pitch perfect, the film is renewed with fresh energy, capturing the two of them running through the streets together acting like kids, bearing a resemblance to Cassavetes’s youth oriented SHADOWS (1959), using a similar reliance on natural sounding dialogue, close friendships that are laced in humor, the light skin and dark skin factor within the same family, and plenty of outdoor street sequences that feature captivatingly realistic images with astonishing detail. My favorite character is the director’s daughter Angela, also featured in his earlier film, who constantly persists in flirting with Pierce despite being about 10 years younger, whose facial expression and body language is stunningly believable, adding considerable charm to the overall appeal of this film.

This film has a more expansive charm, looser, funnier, and much more free flowing than the near documentary imagery of KILLER OF SHEEP, actually veering towards vaudeville style comedy on occasion, but always brought back to earth by the real life situations that continually plague Pierce. His Bible strict mom (Jessie Holmes – think Divine, as she steals all the laughs) is constantly criticizing him, while his dad teases him by catching him off guard with wrestling moves, and his brother pretty much ignores him, but somehow Pierce agrees to be his brother’s best man at his wedding, even though he has no respect for the girl he’s about to marry, as she’s never earned anything in her life, but has had everything handed to her. The family dinner sequence at her parent’s upscale home is priceless for its wickedly comic observational social commentary, balanced against the spiraling emotional turmoil after Soldier gets killed. When Pierce discovers that his best friend’s funeral is scheduled on the same day as his brother’s wedding, he faces an unsolvable dilemma, as no matter what he does, someone will feel he did the wrong thing. In the end what matters is how he feels about his decision, as he’ll have to live with it for the rest of his life, but he keeps feeling like the world is spinning out of control without a clue what to do.

Time Out

A young working class black living in one of LA's seedier ghettos is having problems with his sense of duty to others, bothered by his brother's forthcoming marriage to a wealthy doctor's daughter, and hanging around with his wastrel ex-con pal against his family's wishes. Somewhere between domestic soap and Mean Streets, Burnett's low-budget film confronts a number of universal dilemmas without ever becoming turgidly heavy. Overlong, perhaps, but the witty script and generous characterisations often work wonders.

My Brother's Wedding Jonathan Rosenbaum from the Reader

The least known of Charles Burnett's first three features (the other two are Killer of Sheep and To Sleep With Anger) and in some respects my favorite focuses on the family pressure exerted on a young man in Watts (Everett Silas) who works at his parents' dry cleaners--pressure to abandon his disreputable ghetto friends and adjust to a more middle-class existence. This struggle is pushed to the limit when he has to choose between attending his older brother's wedding to a woman from an affluent family and attending the funeral of his best friend, a former juvenile delinquent. Burnett's acute handling of actors (most of whom are nonprofessionals) never falters, and his gifts as a storyteller make this a movie that steadily grows in impact and resonance as one watches. If a better film has been made about black ghetto life, I haven't seen it.

New York Times (registration req'd) A.O. Scott

One of the most heartening recent developments in the world of American film has been the revival of interest in the work of Charles Burnett. At a moment when the term independent film is taken to refer either to midbudget studio projects anchored by Oscar-soliciting performances or to the aimless navel-gazing of under-stimulated hipsters (Speak up! Stop mumbling!), Mr. Burnett’s work is an indelible reminder of what real independence looks like.

His early films in particular also testify to the vitality of a neorealist impulse that has never quite taken root in American cinema. “Killer of Sheep” (1977), which was revived last year, and “My Brother’s Wedding,” which begins a weeklong run at the IFC Center today, have a sense of place and personality that is marvelous and rare. Shot in South Central Los Angeles, they are full of the rough poetry of everyday experience, and their depictions of African-American working-class life are humorous, loving and honest, devoid of either condescension or political posturing. (Both films, along with four shorts by Mr. Burnett, will make up a DVD set to be released by Milestone in November.)

A longer, unfinished version of “My Brother’s Wedding” was shown at the New Directors/New Films festival in 1983, after which the film faded into obscurity. Mr. Burnett has re-edited it in the meantime and has produced an 81-minute feature of astonishing richness and density. The central character is Pierce Mundy (Everette Silas), a not-quite-young man who works in his parents’ dry-cleaning business. Pierce seems stuck on the way to full-fledged adulthood and also caught between his duties to his brother, who is about to marry a doctor’s snooty daughter, and his loyalty to his best friend, Soldier, who can’t stay out of trouble or jail.

Somehow, Mr. Burnett, using nonprofessional actors, tells Pierce’s story in a way that balances melodrama with calm observation. Quite a lot happens in “My Brother’s Wedding,” but the story may be less important than the faces and voices of the actors and the subtlety of their interactions. They are involved, with Mr. Burnett and his crew, in a project of making art out of materials and inspirations that lie close to hand. And the result is a film that is so firmly and organically rooted in a specific time and place that it seems to contain worlds.

My Brother's Wedding Milestone Films

In 1983, after many long months of shooting, Charles Burnett sent his rough-cut of MY BROTHER'S WEDDING to his producers. Ignoring his request to finish the editing of the film, the producers rushed it to a New York festival screening, where it received a mixed review from the New York Times. With distributors scared off, MY BROTHER'S WEDDING was tragically never released. Film critic Armond White called this “a catastrophic blow to the development of American popular culture.”

When Milestone first acquired the rights to MY BROTHER'S WEDDING, Charles Burnett's one request was a chance to complete his film the way he wanted to almost 25 years ago.

Now, following a beautiful restoration by the Pacific Film Archive and a beautifully-accomplished digital re-edit by the director, MY BROTHER'S WEDDING is set to have its theatrical premiere this September at the IFC Center in New York, where Burnett's first film, Killer of Sheep played for 12 weeks this spring. And just like his initial effort, MY BROTHER'S WEDDING is an eye-opening revelation -- it is wise, funny, heartbreaking and timeless.

Pierce Mundy works at his parents' South Central dry cleaners with no prospects for the future and his childhood buddies in prison or dead. With his best friend just getting out of jail and his brother busy planning a wedding to a snooty upper-middle-class black woman, Pierce navigates his conflicting obligations while trying to figure out what he really wants in life.

“My Brother's Wedding is a tragic comedy that takes place in South Central Los Angeles. The story focuses on a young man who hasn't made much of his life as of yet, and at a crucial point in his life, he is unable to make the proper decision, a sober decision, a moral decision. This is a consequence of his not having developed beyond the embryonic stage, socially. He has a distinct romantic notion about life in the ghetto and yet, in spite of his naive sensitivity, he is given the task of being his brother's keeper; he feels rather than sees, and as a consequence his capacity for judging things off in the distance is limited. This brings about circumstances that weave themselves into a set of complexities which Pierce Mundy (Everett Silas), the main character, desperately tries to avoid.” - Charles Burnett

Siffblog Review [Kathy Fennessy]

Film-Forward.com Nora Lee Mandel

Film Journal International (Eric Monder)

Salon.com [Andrew O'Hehir]

My Brother's Wedding (1983) Ferdy on Films

Time Out New York (Mark Holcomb)

The New York Times (Janet Maslin) still finding it difficult to comprehend, or here: Read NYT Review »

BLESS THEIR LITTLE HEARTS

USA (80 mi) 1984 director: Billy Woodberry writer and cinematographer: Charles Burnett

Bless Their Little Hearts Jonathan Rosenbaum from the Reader

Scripted and photographed by Charles Burnett and directed by his former film-school classmate Bill Woodbury, this wonderful neorealist look at a working-class black family in South Central LA (1984) is worthy of being placed alongside Burnett's Killer of Sheep. Passionately recommended. 80 min.

Bless Their Little Hearts Hal Erickson from All Movie Guide

This independently produced domestic drama features a talented cast of unknowns in a story that truly needs to be seen rather than described. Nate Hardman plays a black, unemployed Watts resident. At home most of the day, Hardman gets on the nerves of his wife (Kaycee Moore) and three children. One evening, while getting some fresh air, Hardman makes the acquaintance of a welfare mother. After this, he's not underfoot at home any more; he's found another bed to occupy. Bless Their Little Hearts transcends its nonexistent budget with believable performances and a compelling plotline.

Read the New York Times Review » Vincent Canby

''BLESS THEIR LITTLE HEARTS,'' which opens today at the Film Forum, is a small, self-assured, independent American film that, though severely even-tempered, never disguises its own anger or that of its characters, the members of an economically cornered black family who live in the Watts section of Los Angeles.

In the course of the film, Charlie Banks (Nate Hardman), an unemployed factory worker, and his pretty, tight-lipped wife, Andais (Kaycee Moore), who supports the family by apparently working as a domestic, have only one fight. Most of the time they treat each other with the elaborately polite though genuine concern of people hanging onto sanity by their finger-tips, and now are nearing exhaustion.

Charlie and Andais, who have three young children, have obviously seen better days. Their house, though modest, is neat and clean and comparatively roomy, equipped with all of the appliances standard to average American lives. Though the film never says so, the Banks family seems to have migrated from the South to Los Angeles some years before, when jobs were plentiful and upward mobility a reality.

Charlie tries to make ends meet by taking pick-up jobs, most often as a handyman and sometimes as a house painter. He gets no encouragement at the unemployment office. A barber friend suggests that Charlie may just be ''too choicy'' about the kind of work he'll do, which is clearly not the case.

With some his unemployed pals, he comes up with hare-brained schemes for making money, including fishing off the rocks and selling their catch to passing motorists. Another pal suggests they go shoot some rabbits. ''You know how far we'd have to drive to find rabbits?'' says another, squelching that plan.

By the time Charlie gets home at night, Andais, worn out, is already in bed, while Angela, 12, the eldest child, feeds her younger brother and sister. It's the children who feel the full impact of Charlie's frustration. He jumps on Ronald, 10, for allowing his fingernails to grow too long. ''You want to be a sissy?'' Charlie bellows at the boy. ''Go get the nail clippers.'' As Charlie trims Ronald's nails and questions the boy's virility, Ronald's lower lip quivers in humiliation.

Charlie's anger is even expressed by the force with which he turns off the water faucet after shaving. Kimberly, the youngest child, has to use a wrench to turn the faucet back on.

It's through a succession of brief, sometimes comic, emotionally loaded but understated scenes like these that Billy Woodberry, the director and editor, and Charles Burnett, the writer and cameraman, dramatize the almost serenely desperate situation facing Charlie, Andais and their kids. Except for one brief flare- up between Charlie and Andais, when she confronts him by her knowledge that he's been having an affair, the film makers avoid any hint of melodrama. Charlie is being emasculated, not by people or forces he can see, but by a casually disinterested system.

''Bless Their Little Hearts'' is so understated that at times it seems diffident, as if it were too shy to display its fury in more robust terms. This, however, is the style of the film that Mr. Woodberry, Mr. Burnett and their splendid cast, headed by Mr. Hardman and Miss Moore, have chosen to make, and it works beautifully.

Images Journal Black Independent Cinema and the Influence of Neo-Realism: Futility, Struggle and Hope in the Face of Reality, by Chris Norton

TO SLEEP WITH ANGER

USA (101 mi) 1990

To Sleep With Anger Jonathan Rosenbaum from the Reader

It seems scandalous that Charles Burnett, the most gifted black American director offering purely realistic depictions of black urban life, was able to make this 1990 feature only because Danny Glover agreed to play a leading role. Harry Mention (Glover), an old friend from the rural south, arrives on the doorstep of a Los Angeles family, wreaking subtle and not-so-subtle havoc on their lives. The family is headed by a retired farmer (Paul Butler) and his midwife spouse (Mary Alice), whose two married sons (Carl Lumbly and Richard Brooks) are in constant conflict. Burnett's acute and sensitive direction is free of hackneyed movie conventions; even something as simple as a hello is said differently from the way you've heard it in any other movie. All of Burnett's features have the density of novels, rich with characters and their interplay, and this one is no exception. 102 min.

Time Out

Burnett's ambitious blend of folklore and family feuding opens startlingly: Gideon, an elderly black paterfamilias, sits unflinching as a conflagration slowly engulfs first his feet, then his body, to the soulful gospel strains of 'Precious Memories'. The scene, at once baffling, poignant and absurd, is a fine indication of the hybrid vision that follows. Emerging from his hallucination to a waking nightmare, Gideon (Butler) finds his family threatened with destruction. Catalysing the domestic turmoil is Harry Mention (Glover), a brooding, malevolent charmer whose mystique stems from a professed allegiance to the ancient forces of darkness, and whose arrival sows dissent between Gideon's sons, threatening his patriarchal role and even, perhaps, his life. Poised between mystical fantasy and humdrum melodrama, the film muses on the complex relationship between present and past, while remaining firmly grounded in a linear (yet ghostly) narrative. Despite uncertain pacing, Burnett's evocation of a thriving cultural milieu that embraces both superstition and mysterious wisdom is almost flawless. Laughs, too, are frequent and full-blooded. For those who fall under the film's spell, the rewards are magical.

The Independent Vision: Charles Burnett Ray Carney’s essay on the film

Folk Culture and Masculine Identity in Charles Burnett's To Sleep with Anger Karen Chandler from the African American Review, Summer 1999

Dual Lens - Review Davin Lagerroos

CineScene.com (Howard Schumann)

Charles Burnett interview by Alexs Cox and Tod Davies from Film Comment

Guardian/Observer

Washington Post [Rita Kempley]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times mildly missing the point

Read the New York Times Review » Vincent Canby

DVDBeaver.com - Review [Gary W. Tooze]

AMERICA BECOMING

USA (90 mi) 1991

America Becoming Jonathan Rosenbaum from the Reader

A documentary by the great Charles Burnett (Killer of Sheep, My Brother's Wedding, To Sleep With Anger) that focuses on immigrants from Asia, the Middle East, Africa, and South America in half a dozen communities in the U.S., including Chicago, Houston, Miami, and Philadelphia. Considering that it comes from Burnett, this is far from being as distinctive as one might wish, but it remains both sympathetic and interesting. The narration is by CBS news correspondent Meredith Vieira.

THE GLASS SHIELD A 95

USA France (109 mi) 1994

Time Out

Burnett's first film since the provocative To Sleep with Anger in 1990 is a Lumet-style policier inspired by an everyday tale of LAPD-sponsored murder, racism and corruption. Boatman is the first black cop to serve in Anderson's precinct. He's proud to pull on his uniform, and readily bends the truth to put away a bad guy, but he can't just stand by and watch when he realises his colleagues are framing an innocent man, and they'll kill to keep it quiet. It's a familiar story, but Burnett draws strong character work from the cast (Petty is outstanding as a rookie who latches on to Boatman as a fellow outsider). Ultimately, however, the movie feels sketchy, as if Burnett chopped the flesh off his screenplay and left us only the bare bones.

Jonathan Rosenbaum - Chicago Reader

The fourth feature (1995) by this country's most gifted black filmmaker, Charles Burnett (Killer of Sheep, My Brother's Wedding, To Sleep With Anger), is his first with a directly political edge--a heartfelt and persuasive look at the racism and corruption of the Los Angeles police force, based on a true story and calculated to burn its hard lessons straight into your skull. The plot concerns the adjustments and accommodations made by a sincere black rookie cop (Michael Boatman) who joins an all-white precinct and wants to be accepted by his fellow officers; his only real ally turns out to be the one woman in the precinct (Lori Petty, in a singular performance), a Jew who gets plenty of abuse herself. When a murder case arises involving a black suspect (Ice Cube), the hero's decision to perjure himself in order to support his white partner opens a Pandora's box of ironies and ambiguities that the movie squarely faces. Never relinquishing his poetic and highly intelligent sense of character or his inventive mise en scene, Burnett refuses to reduce his drama to the ritualized and oversimplified formats of the standard police procedural thriller (don't look for much violence or any profanity here)--one reason, perhaps, why the distributor forced him to tone down the anger and despair of his original ending, though this still packs a mighty punch. With Elliott Gould, Richard Anderson, Bernie Casey, and M. Emmet Walsh.

The Glass Shield Mark Deming from All Movie Guide

In this crime drama, an honest lawman has to decide where his loyalties lie in a corrupt system. All his life, J.J. (Michael Boatman) has dreamed of being a cop, and after graduating from the Police Academy, he gets his wish, becoming the first African-American policeman based out of Los Angeles' Edgemar station. However, J.J. discovers that his race makes him an outsider among his fellow officers. His presence is not welcomed by his superior, Massey (Richard Anderson), and the only colleague who is truly hospitable to him is Deborah (Lori Petty), the only female cop at Edgemar and the target of as much abuse as J.J. Hoping to somehow fit in, J.J. digs into his work and tries to be "just one of the guys," ignoring the racism and corruption around him. However, one night J.J.'s fellow officer Bono (Don Harvey) pulls over Teddy Woods (Ice Cube), an arrogant and uncommunicative young black man, and in the midst of an illegal search of his car, he finds a gun; even though he knows that Bono acted improperly, J.J. put his loyalty behind the force and lies to support Bono's story. The gun's serial number matches that of a weapon used to murder the wife of Mr. Greenspan (Elliott Gould), a prominent Jewish businessman, and Woods is charged with the killing. However, J.J. discovers that the number of the gun had been altered, and he has to decide what to do when he realizes that Teddy could be sentenced to death without having committed a serious crime. The Glass Shield also features Bernie Casey, Sy Richardson, and M. Emmet Walsh.

Slant Magazine [Eric Henderson]

James Berardinelli's ReelViews

Philadelphia City Paper [Sam Adams]

ToxicUniverse.com (Tony Pellum)

DVD Town [John J. Puccio]

Austin Chronicle [Marjorie Baumgarten]

Washington Post [Hal Hinson]

Los Angeles Times (Peter Rainer)

WHEN IT RAINS – made for TV

USA (13 mi) 1995

Chicago Reader (Jonathan Rosenbaum) also seen here: Short Film Poetry

One of my all-time favorite films, this beautiful 12-minute short by Charles Burnett (Killer of Sheep, The Glass Shield), made for French TV in 1995, is a jazz parable about locating common roots in contemporary Watts and one of those rare movies in which jazz forms directly influence film narrative. The slender plot involves a Good Samaritan and local griot (Ayuko Babu), who serves as poetic narrator, trying to raise money from his neighbors in the ghetto for a young mother who's about to be evicted, and each person he goes to see registers like a separate solo in a 12-bar blues. (Eventually a John Handy album recorded in Monterey, a "countercultural" emblem of the 60s, becomes a crucial barter item.) This gem has been one of the most difficult of Burnett's films to see.

NIGHTJOHN

USA (92 mi) 1996

Jonathan Rosenbaum, Chicago Reader

Charles Burnett's fifth feature (and the first he didn't write), made for the Disney Channel in 1996. Adroitly scripted by coproducer Bill Cain from Gary Paulsen's sketchy and rather lurid short novel for young adults, this is a powerful, skillful tale about one antebellum plantation slave (the title character, played by Carl Lumbly of To Sleep With Anger) teaching another slave (the narrator, a 12-year-old girl played by Allison Jones) how to read. As a parable about empowerment through reading this is at least as strong as Fahrenheit 451, and as a didactic fairy tale about the relationship between slavery and literacy it's even stronger. In keeping with their Disney origins, Burnett delivers the story and drama in broad strokes, though he depicts even the white villains with humanity and some complexity (as in his only other film involving white as well as black characters, The Glass Shield). A wonderful, fully realized work--passionate, stirring, and beautiful. With Beau Bridges, Lorraine Toussaint, Bill Cobbs, and Kathleen York.

The Onion A.V. Club [Keith Phipps]

Don't let the fact that it first aired on the Disney Channel throw you: Nightjohn is a tough and touching drama that benefits greatly from the restrained presence of acclaimed director Charles Burnett (To Sleep With Anger). The title character is a slave who secretly teaches a young fellow slave to read and write—a severely punishable offense. Without being preachy, Nightjohn presents a complex and brutal depiction of slavery as an institution humiliating to both slave and master, and manages to convey the subversive potential of knowledge. Although the tone and pacing occasionally betray its origins as a TV movie, Nightjohn transcends those limitations. Smart, memorable and well worth seeing, Nightjohn is the sort of film that often gets undeservedly overlooked.

Nightjohn Josh Ralske from All Movie Guide

Sarny (Allison Jones) is born into slavery and separated from her mother at an early age. She's raised by Dealey (Lorraine Toussaint), who promises early on that "nuthin' too bad" will happen to her young charge. Clel Waller (Beau Bridges), who owns the plantation, is a cruel man, who sees the slaves only in terms of their monetary value. Life on the plantation changes when Clel buys Nightjohn (Carl Lumbly), a hulk of a man, with scars across his back from the whip. Branded as a troublemaker, Nightjohn has trouble earning the trust of the other slaves. But one night when their work is done, he offers to make a trade with Sarny to get some tobacco. In exchange, he begins to teach her the alphabet. Sarny is fascinated and takes to learning with passion, but when the other slaves find out, they are afraid. Old Man (Bill Cobbs) shows Nightjohn how he's been punished for his own literacy; his thumb and forefinger have been chopped off. But Nightjohn explains that he gave up a chance to escape to the North so that he could teach. "Words are freedom, Old Man," he explains. "That's all slavery is: words." Sarny reads the love letters that she delivers from Clel's wife (Kathleen York) to an educated doctor who lives nearby, and she reads Clel's ledger, in which he lists the monetary value of all the slaves. She soon learns that knowledge, for all its dangers, brings a certain power. Nightjohn was directed by venerated independent filmmaker Charles Burnett (To Sleep With Anger) for the Disney Channel. It's based on the young adult novel by Gary Paulsen.

Chicago Reader (Jonathan Rosenbaum) full review, also seen here: Chains Of Ignorance

Critic After Dark: A pair of Burnetts: 'Nightjohn' and 'Selma, Lord Selma' Noel Vera from Critic After Dark

Read the New York Times Review » Stephen Holden

SELMA, LORD, SELMA – made for TV A 95

USA (94 mi) 1999

Selma, Lord, Selma Jonathan Rosenbaum from the Reader

Charles Burnett directed this 1998 TV docudrama for the Disney Channel, about the emotionally charged 1965 voter registration drive Martin Luther King led in Selma, Alabama, just before the Selma-to-Montgomery march. Despite the sincerity of the project and some touching moments, this doesn't measure up to the marvelous Nightjohn (1996), an earlier Disney feature directed by Burnett. The script (adapted by Cynthia Whitcomb from a childhood memoir by Sheyann Webb and Rachel West Nelson, as told to Frank Sikora) is too pedestrian, though it does have the virtue of contextualizing some of the major events that led to the famous march. Presumably because of clearance problems, James Reeb, the white Unitarian minister from the north who was clubbed to death while working on voter registration, has been turned into a white priest in training named Jonathan Daniels (MacKenzie Astin), who is shot--a change that leads to some confusion at the end, when a printed title informs us that Daniels was eventually canonized. With Jurnee Smollett and Clifton Powell (as King).

RaEL Film Guide Noel Vera

Critic After Dark: A pair of Burnetts: 'Nightjohn' and 'Selma, Lord Selma' Noel Vera from Critic After Dark

THE ANNIHILATION OF FISH B+ 91

USA (108 mi) 1999

The Annihilation of Fish Jonathan Rosenbaum from the Reader

James Earl Jones and Lynn Redgrave star as mutually insane neighbors in a California apartment house who become romantically involved (she thinks she's sexually intimate with Puccini, and he periodically wrestles with a demon of his own named Hank). Charles Burnett (Killer of Sheep, The Glass Shield) directed this whimsical, bittersweet 1999 feature, handling the actors with sensitivity, but the preciousness of Anthony C. Winkler's screenplay, adapted from his own novel, only underlines how much better off Burnett is writing his own scripts (Nightjohn being an exception). With Margot Kidder. 108 min.

Film Threat Review Merle Bertrand

"Loneliness ain't no laughing matter," intones retired Jamaican janitor and former mental patient Obidiah "Fish" Johnson (James Earl Jones) solemnly. Yet, director Charles Burnett's touching yet hilarious "The Annihilation of Fish" somehow defies that maxim. The efforts of widowed landlady Mrs. Mulroone (Margot Kidder) and her oddball senior citizen tenants Fish and Poinsettia Cummings (Lynn Redgrave) to combat loneliness and find a reason to keep on living are the themes of this brave, absurdly ridiculous, yet heartwarming golden years romantic comedy. Mrs. Mulroone, adamant about spelling her name with the "e" she tacked on to the end to spite her abusive husband, nonetheless carefully nurses a stubborn weed in her garden as a sort of tribute to him. Seems it so infuriated the man, it caused him to die of a heart attack. Fish, meanwhile, has spent the past ten years of his life in a mental home. There, he periodically wrestled with Hank, an invisible demon and cheap-shot artist he once caught looking up a woman's skirt. Finally, Poinsettia has spent almost that long trying to marry her paramour, an invisible Italian opera singer who died in 1938. When Fish hears his lonely neighbor lady stumbling up the stairs and finds her passed out in the hallway after a desperate binge at a local bar, he tenderly tucks her in on his couch. As a result, the two forge a gradual, if awkward, friendship, especially once she nervously agrees to referee his matches with Hank. Eventually, their relationship blossoms into a twilight romance. But as Poinsettia starts hearing wedding bells again, Fish realizes that Hank hasn't come round in a while. Seems the demon won't fight Fish any longer because he's sleeping with the referee. Thus torn between ending his romance with Poinsettia or being forced into early retirement from wrestling, Fish knows that either choice will annihilate him by depriving him of his reason for living. Burnett has crafted a poignant, utterly believable film out of the most unlikely of set-ups. While Redgrave and Kidder, nearly unrecognizable under her "American Gothic" gray-haired wig, ostensibly share the leads and successfully bring their complicated characters to life, this baby is Jones' show to steal and steal it he does. A formidable presence throughout his career, it's disconcerting at first to watch him in such a seriously undignified, borderline slapstick role. Yet, he absolutely nails it. (If you thought you've seen everything, wait until you see James Earl Jones in a sex scene.) Romantic comedies have become something of a tired staple in indie filmmaking, these days. Yet, odd as it may seem, it's the unlikely interracial geriatric chops on display in "The Annihilation of Fish" that breathe new life into the genre.

Chris Dashiell at CineScene (down the page)

NAT TURNER: A TROUBLESOME PROPERTY – made for TV

USA (58 mi) 2003

Educational Media Reviews Online Ayodele Ojumu

Nat Turner: A Troublesome Property is a documentary film that takes on a very ambiguous, controversial as well as historical figure. Nat Turner, a slave, driven by divine intervention or insanity, organized one of the most infamous 24-hour slave insurrections in American history. On August 21, 1828, in Southampton County, Virginia, Turner began his rebellious force with six of his men. Within the 24-hour period, the rebels rose to forty slaves who killed a total of fifty-five white people. On November 11th, Nat Turner was executed by hanging and then skinned.

Days before his execution, Turner’s words were recorded and compiled by Thomas R. Gray, a Virginia lawyer, from jailhouse interviews. These sessions were eventually published in The Confessions of Nat Turner, which stands as the main source of information regarding Turner’s reasons for launching the insurrection. Were these the actual words of Nat Turner? Or, were his words re-shaped and embellished? It’s difficult to take the words of Gray’s publication on face value, yet they cannot be discounted.

Nat Turner: A Troublesome Property not only chronicles the August 21st slave uprising, but also highlights how the man has been remembered and interpreted throughout the years. Interviews, archival footage, and dramatizations of various points from Turner’s life are interspersed allowing the viewer to form their own conclusions. I appreciate the avoidance of establishing one definitive interpretation of Nat Turner. The technical quality of Nat Turner: A Troublesome Property is excellent. Both public and academic library collections, alike, will be enhanced by this film, which is highly recommended. 

Nat Turner: A Troublesome Property; The Astronaut Farmer Jonathan Rosenbaum from the Reader, also here: Beautifully Fake and Just Plain Phony

VERY LITTLE IS known about Nat Turner, the black slave in Virginia's Southampton County who led a revolt by more than 50 other black slaves in August 1831. Over two days they slaughtered 57 white men, women, and children, and after the rebellion was suppressed, 60 to 80 slaves were summarily executed and mutilated. As one historian notes in Charles Burnett's hour-long TV documentary, Nat Turner: A Troublesome Property (2003), screening Sunday at the DuSable Museum of African American History, we have precise information about Turner's victims but know almost nothing about the slaughtered blacks.

Most of what's known about Turner is based on his unverifiable "confession" to a white lawyer, Thomas Gray, before he was executed. "In the days before his execution he will agree to tell his story," says Burnett's narrator, Alfre Woodard, "but after his death, his words will become the property of others, as his body was during his life." There have also been speculative accounts of his life by many historians and two major novelists, Harriet Beecher Stowe and William Styron. But Burnett refuses to privilege any single version of Turner, instead giving us two dozen talking heads, half of them black, and seven actors playing him.

This is what's daring about Nat Turner -- it doesn't attempt to persuade us that any of these separate versions of Turner is true. It's interested only in showing us where each came from. So the artificiality is deliberate when Tom Nowicki, playing Gray, turns to the camera to address us directly, while the great Carl Lumbly (who also played the title role in Nightjohn, another Burnett film about slavery) is visible as Turner in the jail cell behind him. Equally deliberate is the sequence in which actor Patrick Waller plays gently with a cat to illustrate the softening in Stowe's fictional depiction of Turner. Viewers have to suspend judgment and understand that whatever conclusions they ultimately draw say more about them than about Turner.

As Burnett argues when he appears as one of the last of the film's commentators, it's possible to represent objectively positions one doesn't hold. For instance, I happen to know from a conversation I had with him while he was working on the film that he rejects the view of Turner presented in Styron's 1967 The Confessions of Nat Turner, but you wouldn't know it given the way he adapts several scenes from the novel. Much more important to him is that in light of the very same facts many of the white commentators consider Turner a madman and many of the black ones consider him a hero. According to many white people in Southampton County in 1831, slaves there were "treated well," which made Turner's butchery doubly shocking to them. But the black commentators in the film tend to see slavery as the ultimate violence, making Turner's efforts to overthrow it, no matter how bloody, a lesser evil.

Ultimately Burnett offers a remarkable gift: an intelligent sense of relativity. As Woodard's narration puts it, "For a nation unable to come to terms with the legacy of slavery, Nat Turner remains a troublesome property." The real Nat Turner, whoever he might have been, remains a troublesome property. But as long as we realize we're the ones responsible for determining his historical meaning we can use him to fathom the legacy of slavery a little bit better.

Reaching Out of a Painful Past Media Rights article, July 19, 2002

Variety.com [Scott Foundas]

QUIET AS KEPT – short film on video B 85

USA (6 mi) 2007

An interesting, if somewhat overly obvious take on the effects of Hurricane Katrina by the Lee family, a husband, wife, and son who have been displaced from their home with the possibility that they’re never going back. Amusingly told in conversational style, standing around with dad who is working on an old beat up car, the son just wants money to go to the movies, but after a hilarious family squabble about what constitutes a good film (Dad likes THE MACK!), they realize they don’t have enough money left over from their FEMA check after buying the groceries, so they’re stuck at home in a restricted, prison-like lifestyle. Mrs. Lee offers her view that they should call Katrina “Gone with the Wind,” as that’s what happened to so many black residents who have been relocated across America, claiming it’s the rich whites in New Orleans, not the poor, that don’t want blacks to return. This is an interesting observation, as racism used to be thought of as a condition grounded in ignorance and lack of education, but the new modern version is perpetrated by the most educated class, people who have the money to get what they want, including lawyers and PR people to add politically correct spin to their desire to live in all-white neighborhoods, or run for President. This is a refreshingly candid film that openly explores the “new racism” in America.

Burns, Ken

Ken Burns Hal Erickson from All Movie Guide

After earning his BA at Hampshire College, Brooklyn-born Ken Burns pursued a career as a documentary filmmaker. At age 22, he formed Florentine Films in his home base of Walpole, New Hampshire. Dissatisfied with dry, scholarly historical documentaries, Burns wanted his films to "live," and to that end adopted the technique of cutting rapidly from one still picture to another in a fluid, linear fashion. He then pepped up the visuals with "first hand" narration gleaned from contemporary writings and recited by top stage and screen actors. Burns' first successful venture was the award-winning documentary The Brooklyn Bridge, which ran on public television in 1981. While he was Oscar-nominated for his 1985 theatrical release The Statue of Liberty, Burns' work has enjoyed its widest exposure on television: such films as Huey Long (1985), Thomas Hart Benton (1986) and Empire of the Air (1991) (a bouquet to the pioneers of commercial radio) have become staples of local PBS stations' seasonal fund drives. In 1990, Burns completed what many consider his "chef d'oeuvre": the eleven-hour The Civil War, which earned an Emmy (among several other honors) and became the highest-rated miniseries in the history of public television. Civil War was the apotheosis of Burns' master mixture of still photos, freshly shot film footage, period music, evocative "celebrity" narration and authentic sound effects. In 1994, Ken Burns released his long-awaited Baseball, an 18-hour saga which, like The Civil War, was telecast at the same time as the publication of a companion coffee-table book.

Ken Burns . About the Filmmakers . Ken Burns | PBS biography

Ken Burns | PBS

Florentine Films Burns Production Company

Early Hour for War Series, Salty Language and All Elizabeth Jensen from The New York Times, November 6, 2006

PBS Supports Ken Burns Against Latinos' Complaints Elizabeth Jensen from The New York Times, May 5, 2007

TV Review | 'The War': What So Proudly We Hailed Alessandra Stanley from The New York Times, September 21, 2007

CONNECTIONS; Letting World War II Unfold as a Story From the Heart, Not the Maps Edward Rothstein from The New York Times, October 1, 2007

With His Newest Documentary, Ken Burns Is the Voice of the ... Elizabeth Jensen from The New York Times, September 10, 2009

Write TV Public Television Interview with Ken Burns March 2007 interview on YouTube (27:56)

Downloadable 15-minute interview with Ken Burns from Wisconsin Public Television March 31, 2007

Ken Burns Stephanie Klein from MyNorthwest, April 20, 2009, including TV interview with Dave Ross on YouTube (5:14)

September 24, 2009: Ken Burns TV appearance on the Colbert Nation (5:30)

Ken Burns - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Image results for Ken Burns

BROOKLYN BRIDGE

USA (58 mi) 1981

User comments from imdb Author: movieman-187 from NYC

When this film delves into the history of and construction of the "East River Bridge" or what is now known as the Brooklyn Bridge, the film is masterfully constructed and endlessly fascinating. However, when Mr. Burns tries to romanticize the bridge in the present day (1981 when this film was shot), it becomes a mess, at the same time pedantic and preachy. I would highly recommend the first half of this film to anyone interested in historical documentary filmmaking, NYC history or architectural history, but the second half could be skipped by anyone save an Oscar completist (this film was nominated for best documentary feature in 1982) or the most hard core of Mr. Burns' fans.

The New York Sun (Nicolas Rapold) review May 23, 2008

The Brooklyn Bridge seems ageless in its monumental beauty, but Saturday marks the glorious span's 125th year of connecting New York City to itself. To celebrate the occasion, the Brooklyn Academy of Music is offering a free, onetime screening that afternoon of a 1981 documentary about the structure by a filmmaker who is himself a fixture of American history — on the storytelling side of the equation.

"Brooklyn Bridge" marked the debut of the popular mythmaker and PBS stalwart Ken Burns. If something's American, and historical, and big, Mr. Burns has "done" it. The Civil War, baseball, jazz, and, most recently, World War II have all received his signature treatment. "Brooklyn Bridge," which made its premiere at BAM 27 years ago, was the start of it all.

"I learned everything" from the five-year production period of the film, Mr. Burns said recently from the offices of his production company, Florentine Films, in New Hampshire. "I learned how to get inside photographs, how to shoot, the patience of looking from every vantage, day and night."

The 58-minute documentary, which is divided evenly between the embattled construction of the bridge and its reception, bears all the hallmarks of Mr. Burns's style, especially his dynamic use of still photos, extensive readings in voice-over from contemporary documents, and an unabashed tone of wonder about the American endeavor. The historian David McCullough, whose book on the bridge inspired Mr. Burns, and a rosy-cheeked Lewis Mumford sit in to join the chorus.

The result is a stirring record of how engineering know-how and valiant persistence overcame what were often petty obstacles ranging from a bait-and-switch fraud scheme by a steel cable manufacturer to Franco-American suspicion.

But the movie is equally significant for popularizing a certain approach to history on film that, for better or worse, has defined the documentary form for millions of viewers and a generation of filmmakers. Mr. Burns is not shy about wearing that mantle and taking responsibility for a cinematic technique of examining photos that famously became a standard tool on Mac software — the "Ken Burns effect."

"No one ever sold a film with first-person narration or still photos to tell a story," Mr. Burns said of his debut, which was nominated for a Best Documentary Oscar in 1982. "But then it became this huge success."

In truth, Mr. Burns's inspiring enthusiasm may get the better of him; in the world of documentary alone, the use of still photos was actually pioneered in a 1957 film about the Gold Rush by Canadians Colin Low and Wolf Koenig (filmmakers whom Mr. Burns has credited in the past). The device would flourish on NBC's prime-time historical series, "Project XX," in the following decade.

But it's impossible to deny that "Brooklyn Bridge" and the films that followed it (including the 60-minute "The Statue of Liberty" and the 88-minute "Huey Long") made Mr. Burns the first nonfiction filmmaker to attain household-name status, a distinction that has only recently been usurped by Michael Moore. "The Civil War," his real breakthrough, was a gargantuan (more than 11 hours) and surprising success in 1990, arguably tapping the same need for communal reconciliation that also made "Gone with the Wind" and "Roots" two of the most watched films in 20th-century film and television.

"My goal has been to transcend the smaller 'p' of politics, and I've gone on from 'Brooklyn Bridge' to engage a variety of subjects," the Brooklyn-born Mr. Burns said. "I'm sure we're all aware of hugely successful polemical films that speak to the choir. But to each his own; I'm sure my stuff is a bitter pill for some."

Indeed, Mr. Burns has seen his share of criticism, mostly stemming from individuals and groups who feel slighted when they don't appear in his compulsively inclusive histories. Most recently, protests from Hispanic groups over his World War II chronicle, "The War," led to a reworking of the film. Others have grumbled about the simplification of political matters, sleight of hand in the use or reuse of photos, and, with "Jazz" especially, glaring omissions from cultural timelines. More generally, the case of the warm fuzzies glowing within the series' patriotic spirit has been a take-it-or-leave-it element for many viewers.

But these are, arguably, all ways of saying that Mr. Burns's oeuvre is what it is — a work of popular history — and "Brooklyn Bridge" can be a refreshing change from current documentary styles. The primary materials — letters from mastermind engineer Washington Roebling, pseudo-witty editorials from contemporary journals, architectural sketches — feel grounded, informative, and functionally elegant in a way that is absent from much of today's niche-market marginalia.

In the years since the film's arrival, Mr. Burns has secured all-important funding on a consistent basis from public television and elsewhere to pursue his projects freely (culminating with a recently signed 10-year contract with PBS). The lucrative television model, with its episodic format, has allowed Mr. Burns to extend his histories into notoriously elongated affairs.

But in 1981, of course, the money was touch and go.

"It was turned down from foundation sources," Mr. Burns said of "Brooklyn Bridge." "This child is trying to sell me the Brooklyn Bridge!" When cash came, it was an adventure. Meade Esposito (the Democratic party leader who reigned over Brooklyn politics for a quarter century before being convicted in a 1988 influence-peddling scandal) handed me a check. I went up to a second floor of some office and he just handed me an envelope."

If the landscapes of New York and documentary film have changed since then, "Brooklyn Bridge" remains an enjoyable Burnsian artifact — a piece of old New York, as well as a filmmaker's aperitif that presaged the all-you-can-eat opuses to come. ("Now I know how to extend the caisson fire sequence [in 'Brooklyn Bridge'] into 15 minutes," Mr. Burns said excitedly.)

Work on his next project, about our country's national parks, will preclude Mr. Burns's attendance at BAM on Saturday, to his great regret. ("It's like my first child.") But for the rest of us, the screening is a walk or subway ride away — and a mere stroll from experiencing the film's subject firsthand. As you leave the theater, the film's concluding paean to the structure, improvised by none other than Arthur Miller, will ring in your ears: "Maybe you, too, could make something that could be lasting and beautiful."

If that doesn't put a twinkle in your eye, don't blame Ken Burns.

Epinions.com [Patti Aliventi]

UpcomingDiscs.com (David Annandale) dvd review [2.5/5]

THE SHAKERS: HANDS TO WORK, HEARTS TO GOD

USA (57 mi) 1984 co-director: Amy Stechler

Spirituality & Practice [Frederic and Mary Ann Brussat]

The Shakers: Hands to Work, Hearts to God is a very fine 1984 documentary by Ken Burns about this sect founded by Ann Lee, an illiterate English factory worker. The Shakers, an offshoot of the Quakers, settled in America during the late 18th century. They adopted a simple and celibate lifestyle where work was consecrated as a gift to God.

Using historic photographs, excerpts from diaries and letters, reactions from outsiders, and vignettes from the lives of three surviving Shaker women, Burns reveals their inventiveness (the clothespin and the circular saw), their well-crafted furniture, and their beautifully designed meeting houses and barns.

THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

USA (60 mi) 1985

User comments from imdb Author: treeskier802 from United States

One of Burns' earliest documentaries, there are strikingly beautiful images of The Statue of Liberty. Burns does a great job showing the Statue in different light and angles. I particularly enjoy his images of the Statue at sunset and the one that shows a panoramic view of the New York harbor, including the Twin Towers.

Like all Burns films, a great array of interviews from well known Americans to immigrants is included. I particularly like Mario Cuomo's views of the Statue as well as James Baldwin's.

I watched instantly on Netflix to kill and hour and possibly learn something. It accomplished both. Rating 7 of 10 stars.

Epinions.com [AliventiAsylum]

This was perfect timing. I’d loaded up my queue at Netflix with Ken Burns documentaries last year after finally viewing all of the Baseball boxed set and seeing just how terrific these documentaries are on DVD. As the news broke this past weekend that the National Parks Service is looking to finally reopen the Statue of Liberty to tourists after new security measures have been installed, Burns’ DVD documentary arrived in my mailbox.

The Statue of Liberty is structured like a video essay, and divided into parts. The DVD opens with narration reciting a quote by Thomas Jefferson from the Declaration of Independence with a shot of the statue against a New York sunset as birds and ship’s horns sound in the harbor. Pictures of immigrants, both still photos and grainy black and white films are interspersed as other comments are made.

What it makes us feel inside that’s so important... - David McCullough.

McCullough is the prime narrator of the piece, but there are comments from the likes of Milos Forman, Barbara Jordan, Jerzy Kosinski, Carolyn Forche, and James Baldwin defining liberty.

THE IDEA

This first section deals with the actual physical statue itself and talks about how it came to be as a gift from the French people to the United States. Frederick August Bartholdi is the most well-known name connected with the statue. His idea was Liberty enlightening the world...

Only a little bit of biographical background information is given of Bartholdi, who created quite a few larger-than-life statues before he created the Statue of Liberty. The original design was actually first proposed to be at the entrance of the Suez Canal, but Bartholdi was inspired sailing through the Verrazano Narrows into New York Harbor that this was where his lady with the torch should go.

A lottery was formed in France to fund the 600,000 francs Bartholdi believed construction of the statue would cost. The Freemasons played a pivotal role in the construction of the statue as well, and there are a few moments of background given on them and how they influenced his design of the statue. Bartholdi actually became a Freemason while designing and building the statue. He supervised the work, building three models, each one larger than the last. The third was 1/4 of the final size.

What I didn’t know was how many complaints there were about the statue by Americans well before it arrived. Bartholdi expected Americans to provide the place for it, and many objected to it. Many religious leaders saw it as a Pagan goddess. The New York Times even panned it. It was seen as being foisted off on the Americans, and as a souvenir which offends them...

If there is any place in America that needs light, it is certainly New York... - Bartholdi

Alexander Gustav Eiffel came into the picture to help design the support work for the statue. Here there are some amazing pictures of the statue rising above the buildings of Paris, as well as sketches and watercolor paintings of what artists saw at the time.

On July4, 1884 she is handed over to the U.S. Minister to France.

The pedestal was being designed in New York by Richard Morris Hunt. The pedestal was almost as tall as the statue itself, a fact I’ve often missed when I’ve seen the lady in the harbor - I’ll have to pay attention the next time I’m in there!

Just as the statue was being offloaded from it’s cross-ocean journey, the money ran out to pay for the pedestal. Joseph Pulitzer led the drive in his paper The New York World. It took almost a year for the funds to be raised and the pedestal to be completed before the statue could be raised.

At the opening dedication ceremony, nobody said a thing about welcoming immigrants.

ELLIS ISLAND

This brings Burns to the second part of the documentary, how the statue became a symbol for immigrants coming tot his land. Comments made by immigrants are read over old black & white films of the immigrants coming into and through New York.

...a symbol of why we came and let’s not forget it... - Mario Cuomo

For many, seeing the Statue of Liberty as they first set foot in America made it feel like a whole nation was welcoming them. It’s an image for immigrants - many had a need to have their photographs taken with her in the background to send back to those they left behind. A variety of immigrants from across the globe are interviewed and provide feedback as to what it meant the first time they saw the Statue for themselves.

The Communist papers portrayed her quite differently, and images, not seen by many Americans, are shown. This documentary was first presented in 1985, so it was at a time when the Cold War was still going on. Burns also addresses briefly how her image was commercialized by Coke, beer, candy, cookies, wine, used for wartime propaganda (buy bonds, conserve wheat), etc.

... isn’t a symbol of power, she’s an act of faith...

For some, though, what she represents isn’t what’s actually been realized in this country. James Baldwin states, For black inhabitants of America, the statue of liberty is a bitter joke...

This leads to a discussion of what the threats to liberty are. In light of events of the past few years, many of us think we know. However, I liked viewing this without that perspective coloring the documentary. Sure, there are plenty of images of the Statue with the World Trade Center in the background, but even during the heart of the Cold War, we seemed to value liberty above all else. In particular, Mario Cuomo’s comments as a governor here and how tempting it is for politicians to erode our sense of liberty are compelling.

The greatest threat is the inattention of the people of this country to liberty...

The pictures are amazing quality for how old they are. Passages read from newspapers reporting on the progress of the building of the statue. Sketches, watercolors, etc. depicting the statues progress also reproduced. The quotes are great - often surprising. Burns sets them to a soundtrack that brings emotion to the still photos. He has an amazing talent and I commented while watching this that he’s a true artist of his craft.

Although this was filmed in the early to mid 80's, many of the scenes feel like they are older - possibly ten years older or more. This is probably due to some graininess and lack of clarity in the film quality. However, this was an age before digital photography, and in some ways the graininess sets the tone for the piece better than the clearest picture could.

Special Features

Ken Burns: Making History - Burns talks about he and his crew approach the various projects they embark on. Not specific to The Statue of Liberty, but a general overview of how he’s made some of the most amazing documentaries I’ve ever viewed.

A Conversation with Ken Burns - an interview with Ken Burns about what he wants to create as he creates his documentaries about moments in American history. Go beyond the statistics and the history books, and get into the emotions contained in history. Neither of these is more than ten minutes long.

This is an excellent piece that’s only an hour long (plus the Special Features should you choose to view them). It’s an excellent bit of history which does not just touch on the physical statue, but the idea of liberty itself and what that’s meant for various people in this country.

HUEY LONG

USA (88 mi) 1985

Chicago Reader (Dave Kehr) capsule review

The life and death of Louisiana's dictatorial populist governor, Huey Long, recounted in a highly polished documentary by Ken Burns. It's the usual combination of newsreel footage and interviews (among the speakers are Robert Penn Warren, Arthur Schlesinger Jr., Russell Long, and Mrs. Hodding Carter), yet Burns's narrative presentation is as slick and seamless as a Hollywood feature—which is both the film's chief virtue and its main sticking point. Historian David McCullough narrates.

User comments from imdb Author: sfuser from San Francisco, California

Ken Burns is properly regarded for the outstanding quality of his documentaries. This early work shows the exceptional qualities that would lead to better-known later works like "The Civil War", "Baseball" and "Jazz".

Burns examines Huey Long, Louisiana's Kingfish. Long rose from poverty and became one of the most powerful leaders in the nation's history. Long was an outstanding orator, hero of the common people, advocate of big government, revolutionary political strategist, and totalitarian. Utilizing corrupt practices that had been common in Louisiana since the end of Reconstruction, Long built a political machine that constructed thousands of miles of roads, hundreds of bridges, and millions of school books (every child, black or white, received free textbooks). Long's tenure provided much delayed lasting benefits for regular people in the midsts of the depression.

Secret police were used at first to thwart the illegal efforts of major business efforts opposed to his tax-and-spend programs, and later the political vendetta of his national political opponents, including fellow-Democrat FDR, who dubbed him the "the most dangerous man in America". And yes, his secret police did what secret police do.

Among Long's national causes was the development of Social Security. Long's "Share-Our-Wealth" clubs had millions of members, distributed weekly papers, had weekly radio addresses, and elected many political candidates (including the first woman Senator elected to a full term in her own right, Arkansas' Hattie Caraway in 1932). Huey reputedly planned to run against Roosevelt in 1936 as a leftist third-party candidate, and expected to throw the election to the Republicans, clearing the way for his own 1940 election. Instead, Huey was assassinated in 1935, and largely forgotten outside of his home state.

Long is a truly significant national figure from a pivotal time. He cannot be understood without considering his accomplishments, the force of his enemies and the conditions of 1920's and 1930's Louisiana in addition to Huey's terrible flaws and dangerous corruption. Films don't have much time, but Ken Burns manages to balance all of these issues, presenting a lyric, intimate tale.

You doubt me? You haven't even heard about the "deduct box". Check it out.

User comments from imdb Author: theowinthrop from United States

Huey Pierce Long never became President of the United States. He hoped to, and (probably for the best) a gunshot stopped him. I say probably because there is considerable debate over him to this day.

If you love democracy, with a balance of power approach as in the Federal Constitution (or the states for that matter) Long is an evil aberration. He used the normal methods of rising up the political ladder as a state railway commissioner, a state senator, Governor, and U.S. Senator. On his way up he found ways of reducing the opposition to a set of shrill, impotent voices, and of manipulating the state legislature, the judiciary, and the local governments to do what he wanted. For all intents and purposes Louisiana was a dictatorship under Huey. And once he got into the U.S. Senate, he planned to spread his influence until he was in the White House, and could do the same thing there.

Therefore, his death by gunshot in the state capital building at Baton Rouge, La. on September 18, 1935, was a lucky break. Whether he was shot by Dr. Carl Austin Weiss (the son-in-law of an opponent who'd been racially smeared by Long) or by a trigger happy guard who was joining in the shooting of Weiss does not matter - he would have been bad news for American Democracy.

But here's the problem. Huey did not come from a state that had a history of two party democracy. Most of the states in the south were dominated for decades by the Democratic Party (which was opposed to big business in theory, but also highly racist towards African-Americans and minorities). So when he studied how to get higher in office, he learned how his predecessors did it. He also noted the success of others in other states at turning them into fiefdoms - like Senator Hiram Johnson of California.

Secondly, although his methods were crude and resembled fascist or communist models, Huey actually did do a lot of good for his state. One has to study the man's career in light of previous Democrats who were elected to public office. Huey came from the parishes - the back country, and knew the needs of the farmers (both white, Cajun, and black), and how they were neglected in favor of the large cities, particularly New Orleans and Baton Rouge. He was smart, and managed to get a college education, and eventually became a lawyer (a very good one - he actually argued before the U.S. Supreme Court). The Governors and the legislators and the judiciary were extremely conservative (the popular term in use was "Bourbons"). Huey, as he built up his machine, delivered services, such as roads and highways and power, to the countryside. He also improved school conditions for the countryside.

While still willing to use racial slurs (as with Dr. Weiss's father-in-law) Huey actually got more jobs going for the African-American community. He could also display anti-Semitism when he wished, but when someone pointed out that when he did that he resembled Hitler, Huey became furious: "Don't ever compare me to that son-of-a-bitch!", he yelled, "Every fool whose ever gone against those people has wrecked his state's economy!!" Not a comment of love, but obviously of sense.

Huey was an opportunist. To raise revenues in Louisiana he invited Lucky Luciano to install one armed bandits throughout the state. But he also could sacrifice for reasonable grounds. He signed a law reducing the cotton production from Louisiana to build up prices for the cotton outside the state.

So he is not an easy figure to totally condemn or admire. Ken Burns documentary on "the Kingfish" (Huey used that name, based on a character on the radio show AMOS AND ANDY, for himself) gives a fairly good balanced view. Burns shows what was frighteningly close to happening, but he does show that Huey was more than a power seeker or a buffoon (as some enemies suggested). While not as detailed as the Burns documentaries on THE CIVIL WAR, JAZZ, or BASEBALL, it is a good place to start studying this remarkable political career.

KQEK DVD Review [Mark R. Hasan]

Austin Chronicle [Jay Hardwig]

The New York Times (Vincent Canby) review

THE CONGRESS – Made for TV

USA Canada (90 mi) 1988

Epinions.com [Patti Aliventi]

This documentary, which was originally a part of a series about America produced by noted documentarian Ken Burns, is a portrait of both the building Congress inhabits as well as the Congress itself. Through an extremely creative editing process, Burns manages to weave together the history of the building with the history of this branch of our government.

When Burns focuses on the building, it’s an altogether affectionate portrait. Even as I watched Congressmen who talked of the endless maze of corridors and rooms from the top of the dome to well below the ground, it’s said in an amusing way. When one muses over finding bathtubs in the basement - which former Congressmen use to use for bathing when they didn’t leave for long periods of time - it brought out a sense of mirth as well as the image of the building housing a bunch of packrats.

The footage Burns has shot of the Capitol Building is seemingly from all angles and in many different lights. The beauty of the building during a sunset is stunning. Not only did he shoot outside the building, but inside as well. Many places are sections which are likely not open to public viewing and I had the feeling of looking at a museum. The interior of the building makes a great accompaniment to times when Burns is content to let the viewer imagine how it must have been, for no footage of that time exists. It’s more dramatic to imagine the historical figures such as Calhoun and Webster in there making their arguments that way. Burns also has filmed the paintings in the halls as well, bringing the audience as close as they can get to what these important figures in history looked like.

When he talks more about the actual inhabitants of the building, it is harder. Burns must cram over 200 years of history into a 90-minute segment, originally aired without commercial interruption on public television. He makes the point that Congress is the We The People part of our government. It is the part of the government that answers to the people it governs more than any else.

As he goes through history, Burns turns his focus to some of the more memorable members of Congress, such as Henry Clay, Daniel Webster, Thomas Brackett Reed, Sam Rayburn, and others. Henry Clay was the first man to lie in state in the rotunda of the Capitol upon his death, a great tribute to a man who spent over forty years serving his country in the Senate.

As Burns moves into more modern times, there is modern footage of the business and events in Congress. It seems as if Burns focuses on the more modern era simply because he has more footage to demonstrate his points. He has footage of the debates over civil rights, Viet Nam, and much more to work with. He uses audio archives as well as commentary and interviews by various people to augment the footage he has edited together. There are interviews with David McCullough, known for his historical writing, newspaperman Charles McDowell, historian Barbara Fields, former Senator John Stennis, journalists Alastair Cooke and Cokie Roberts, and more. It’s a very diverse view of the history of this branch of our government.

This was a great documentary, if a bit on the short side. Burns devoted over 18 hours to Baseball, which encompassed just over a hundred years of history. Shouldn’t The Congress have gotten at least half that? Burns does make the point during the documentary that our history books tend to focus on Presidencies and not what’s going on in the rest of government, unless it’s a particularly hot debate such as the previously mentioned Henry Clay’s famous compromises.

While by no means a comprehensive documentary of the inner workings, successes, and failures of this branch of our government, it is a nice overview and portrait. I guess now with all the cable channels out there, we can find biographies and documentaries more frequently about various members of Congress as well as pivotal points in history. However, I love the job Burns does with his documentary and wish he had been given as much breadth with this as he was with Baseball or The Civil War.

SPECIAL FEATURES:

• Ken Burns: Making History
• A Conversation with Ken Burns

Both of these have been available on other Ken Burns documentaries and are not specific to this feature.

UpcomingDiscs.com (David Annandale) dvd review [3/5]

THOMAS HART BENTON – Made for TV

USA Canada (85 mi) 1988

KQEK (Mark R. Hasan) dvd review

After the release of writer/producer/director Ken Burns's monstrous serial documentaries - "The Civil War," "Baseball," and "Jazz" being the best-known - some of his older work is making its debut on DVD, here through new distributor Paramount.

Though less grand in scope and length, the 90-odd minute works nevertheless contain the same enormous wealth of archival visuals that made viewers of his larger works stop and pay attention. Using elegant cinematography and intercutting between photos, archival interviews, newsreels, and surviving audio recordings, Burns's doc captures the pros and cons of American artist Thomas Hart Benton.

One can trace a particular thematic similarity to the art of Norman Rockwell; that is, an artist whose work showcased particular views of American life via an identifiable style that often reached pop culture status. Whereas Rockwell's art is better known - frequently sampled or parodied in TV and print ads, for example - Benton's less idyllic angles on the American south often got him into regular trouble. Battling executives, museum directors, art critics, and becoming a vociferous whiner against the evils of the abstract movement (as practiced by former student Jackson Pollock), Benton's work also showed a lewd side of the American psyche, which shocked more conservative minds in his day.

Burns's doc is an excellent portrait of the artist using archives, Benton's original art, and a balanced mix of loving supporters (from his daughter), friends with a realistic grasp of Benton's persona and ego, and a mix of critics who either enjoyed his eccentricities, or pegged him a lousy artist; the fact a nay-sayer is allowed by Burns to call Benton a maker of bad art for myopic, naïve art lovers is pretty startling (and funny).

The excess of personal style was also commercially appealing, and the political and entrepreneurial astuteness learned from his politician pop no doubt helped pay the Benton family bills over the decades, largely for commercial and civic commissions which Benton often instigated himself.

PBS's DVD boasts an excellent transfer of the doc, featuring footage not present in the original broadcast version. The included two extras are actually from "The Civil War" set. "A Conversation with Ken Burns" is a Q&A session with Charlie Rose discussing his technique in creating a narrative that's independent of the demands and focal limitations of commercial network TV. The interview also has Burns discussing the death of his mother, and his affected childhood. "Making History," while largely visually favoring music and stills from "The Civil War" doc, illustrates the methodology in filming stills, and the immense chore of editing a narrative from the mass of archival materials.

This PBS title is available alone, or as part of The Ken Burns's America Collection, which includes "Brooklyn Bridge," "The Statue of Liberty," "Empire of the Air," "The Congress," "Thomas Hart Benton," "Huey Long," and "The Shakers."

THE CIVIL WAR – Made for TV

USA (680 mi – 9 episodes) 1990 full episode list

KQEK (Mark R. Hasan) dvd review

Originally broadcast in 1990, the legendary PBS documentary finally makes its debut on DVD in this loaded edition. Even without the extras, "The Civil War" is a thoroughly engaging, provocative, and hugely moving 9-part film that proves why funding PBS is worth every penny.

Originally photographed on 16mm film and transferred with 1990 cutting-edge technology, the filmmakers have gone back to the original film and audio elements and completely re-transferred the series in a vastly superior format, as detailed in "The Civil War Reconstruction" featurette, on Disc 1. All of the film's key participants - director Burns, and the film's sound designer, in particular - show what's been done using today's technology. The main differences include special software that stabilizes the colour fluctuations, and brings out the beauty of the film's location and interview cinematography: sunsets are gorgeous, greens are natural, and flesh tones no longer wallow in the murky realm that tends to date video transfers from a mere 10 years ago. Blemishes and artifacts have also been digitally removed, and it's to the credit of the restoration team that a balance between the inherent flaws and the cinematographer's intentions is maintained; viewers don't have to worry about watching the digital filtration busily working onscreen, and won't notice the production's age.

The film's audio - already an exceptional mono mix that combined between 20 and 50 separate tracks to convey the vivid imagery of the various events - has been sweetened for the Dolby 5.1 environment, and like the visuals, the enhancements aren't oppressive, but add some nice depth. (Note: some players may experience a sync problem with the 5.1 track, noticeable during on-camera interviews.)

What critics and viewers quickly realized is how the series' power came from Burns' assimilation of letter, news, and diary readings from carefully chosen actors; important location shots; moving assessments by historians (mainly Shelby Foote); and a stunning variety of period photos. Though documentarians sometimes resort to fast cutting and digital transitions, Burns recognized the value of pacing, and knew holding on a single image can maximize the absorption and comprehension of his intellectual and factual points. Almost a million photos were taken during the Civil War, and to fill the gap between the surviving 100,000, Burns employs period paintings and location cinematography. (As to what happened to the remaining 900,000 photos, the truth is pretty shocking, but we'll not spoil it here.)

Each of the discs include battlefield maps with direct links to specific chapters, and a Civil War Challenge Q&A game for those with stellar memories. The director commentaries vary between a few minutes to under 10 minute chunks, and are indexed from a separate menu. You'll have to shuttle between gaps, but a voice notifies listeners when the selection is over, and pressing the Menu button will permit the next commentary selection.

Burns' commentary does repeat some info already covered in the doc and in some of the featurettes, but his production recollections are very concise, and he spends more time detailing the project's genesis, funding challenges, and the immense effort in constructing a fluid narrative with so many aural and visual elements. There's also some excellent background info, including the discovery of a former slave's daughter, now 104 years old, and her moving poetry recitation; and a touching anecdote regarding the show's airing during the Gulf War, and its use by General Norman Schwartzkopf.

If you haven't seen "The Civil War" before, watch the reconstruction doc first, and it's pretty safe to look at the Ken Burns Interview; save the rest for a post-wrap-up, though, since the interviews and perspectives will answer viewer questions, and reinforce the swirling emotions that linger after having seen such a powerful documentary.

The Ken Burns Interview covers the before and after, and includes a moving anecdote regarding President Bill Clinton and the immediate recognition that befell the director. Though he'd already made 5 highly respected docs for PBS, Burns chose the Civil War because each of the previous works included elements from that traumatic 5-year period; it just seemed logical to attack the beast, but do it justice like never before.

Recognition was another aspect historian Shelby Foote had to deal with after the film's original broadcast, and one he ironically continues to encounter every time the series reappears, with admirers often calling him up from his phone listing. Foote's perspective and on-camera moments are more than narrative links; besides adding perspective, his naked motions and humble pauses still resonate, and are secondary to the period photos - indelible impressions for many viewers.

Both the Gorge Will and Stanley Crouch interviews present 'outside' opinions from politically savvy personalities, and men who share a sublime respect for History. William Faulkner's observation is key to their philosophy, where 'History isn't Was, but Is.'

The musician featurette contains interviews with violinist Jay Unger and guitarist Molly Mason, members of "Fiddle Fever" who performed on some of Burns' previous docs but achieved a level of immortality through their myriad versions of period songs; and Unger's own composition "Ashoken Farewell," which became the doc's theme song. Heavily overused by Burns, the theme's creation and power are nevertheless addressed, and the musicians also perform the song for the camera.

The remaining interview, "A Conversation With Ken Burns," is an oddly filmed Q&A between the director and Charlie Rose, though multiple angles are used in place of straightforward head-shots, and Rose is only seen in silhouette. This 'vintage' session covers some of Burns' personal life, including the death of his mother, and some of the subjects that attract the director.

Finally, "Ken Burns: Making History" is a vintage featurette with behind-the-scenes footage, and reveals some of the ways the director and cinematographer photographed and gave life to the myriad period stills, and some footage of interview and location filming. The quality of both vintage pieces is very clean, with little artifacting.

User comments from imdb Author: Robert J. Maxwell (rmax304823@yahoo.com) from Deming, New Mexico

It's a technically revolutionary film. Burns and his colleagues have changed the nature of the documentary. Working with old photos on glass plates, an unpromising base, the occasional talking head, and often penetrating and sometimes poignant voiceovers, he contributed to our cultural iconography. His touches have been imitated often in the following decade: the sound of buzzing locusts, the voice-over reading a letter and then signing off by reading the name of the writer aloud, are now taken-for-granted techniques in documentaries (and commercials as well).

Before this series, interest in the Civil War was practically nonexistent. I'm not referring to seeing pretty ladies bounce down the stairs of the big house wearing hoop skirts and ribbons, but the ghastly things taking place at locations that previously had barely rung a bell, like Shiloh. I was teaching at an eastern university when this series appeared, roughly fifty students, known to be among the brightest available, majoring in communications.

I asked the class how many had watched at least one episode. One hand went up, tentatively. I asked why she'd been so tentative and she said, well, she hadn't really "watched" it, but her husband was a CW buff and was taping it while she passed through the living room. Fewer than fifty percent of our High School seniors can pin the Civil War down to the correct half-century.

It's against this background of general ignorance that "The Civil War" should be viewed. It's structure was more popular than academic, and it seems to have had a good deal of general appeal, my elite class notwithstanding. Popular enough so that a book appeared shortly afterward, "Historians Respond," edited by Bob Toplin, which predictably consisted almost entirely of carping over details, and of claims that Burns missed the whole point of the CW, that he didn't pay enough attention to the role of women and African-Americans. In other words, that he didn't make the kind of movie that THEY would have made. They demand too much. For one thing, a viewing of the series makes it clear that Burns does present the points of view of women and African-Americans. If the prevailing professional opinion is that he didn't go far enough, well, every book has a last page. A program dealing exclusively with the part that slavery played in the CW would have been another program.

A word about the commentators. Bearse knows combat; he was a marine on Guadalcanal. He sticks to military facts, mostly tactical. Senator Symington is surprisingly smooth and knowledgeable. The two chief commentators represent the original opposing points of view. Shelby Foote states proudly in the epilogue to one of his historical volumes on the CW, "I am a Mississippian."

But he's a gentleman, not a stereotypical redneck. He admires the Confederate Southern Army without disparaging the Federals. (Who could help admiring the CSA as a military force?) But, like all polite Southerners, he seems slightly ill at ease discussing the CW in a public venue. He seems like a nice guy and is a marvelous story teller. Barbara Fields, an academic historian, has less screen time. The first impression the viewer gets is that, wow, she's a knockout! The second is that she's cool as a cucumber and presents the modern view that the CW was all about slavery, that whites were almost peripheral to the issues. It's hard to argue with her. After all, slaves were suffering for two hundred years while whites were engaged in "the pursuit of happiness". Yet her anger flares up and it seems misplaced to me. "I don't have much patience with people who say that abolition was difficult because of political circumstances". I hope future historians are kinder to us than our current ones are to Americans of the 1860s.

Slavery should never have been sanctioned under the Constitution but if allowances hadn't been made, the South would not have joined the Union. It was the slaves that paid the price for that union. Given that it was already in place, what could Lincoln have done about slavery that he did not in fact do? Declare it illegal at the firing of the first shot? Hardly. There were slave states that did not secede. Any attempt to turn the CW from a fight to preserve the union into a fight to free the blacks might have turned them back into the Southern camp. Moreover, Lincoln's support in the legislature depended on Democrats, and Republicans too, who were opposed to any attempt to make the CW into a struggle for black freedom. If Lincoln lost his majority in congress he might have lost the whole game. As it was he jumped at the first chance to issue his Emancipation Proclamation. Fields was wrong, too, in saying that we're still fighting the CW today. The chief issues of the war have been resolved. There is no more slavery. African-Americans can vote if they want to. They can take whatever empty seat on the bus is available. Affirmative action works to their benefit. If she means that "social equality" has still not been achieved, she's quite correct. One of the reasons perfect equality hasn't been achieved is that the achievement would involve our completely ignoring the fact of race in this country, and at this point it's inconceivable.

Equality depends on everyone's ability -- and willingness -- to ignore race and ethnicity. I'm all for it. These tribal loyalties are nothing if not bothersome. Burns's series shows one earth-shattering step that has brought that still impossible goal a little closer than it was.

Sync: The Regent Journal of Film and Video (Matthew Melton) essay Ken Burns' Civil War: Epic Narrative and Public Moral Argument

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Movie House Commentary Johnny Web

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EMPIRE OF THE AIR: THE MEN WHO MADE RADIO

USA (100 mi) 1991

User comments Author: LONE SOLO from Floyd Montana

Ken Burns once again hits paydirt with a documentary on the birth of radio and it's ultimate demise at the hands of television. Granted, this film had more of a limited appeal than BASEBALL or CIVIL WAR did, however it is still a fine project. The film goes deep into how radio works and tells stories from the early days of broadcasting, before there was tv, radio had all sorts of radio shows, ranging from BURNS AND ALLEN, to musical shows, to THE SHADOW. Ultimately a new invention called television killed radio and forever transformed it. All of the entertainment shows put on radio ended up on tv. This film also goes into some of the technical aspects of how radio and tv work and how they were invented. Anyone in the business or interested in how it all began should check this one out. This is a great documentary! PBS does it again and so does Ken Burns.

KQEK (Mark R. Hasan) dvd review

After the release of writer/producer/director Ken Burns' monstrous serial documentaries - "The Civil War," "Baseball," and "Jazz" being the best-known - some of his older work is making its debut on DVD, here through new distributor Paramount.

A real gem for radio buffs is "Empire of the Air," which strings three narrative threads into a funny/sad tale of the heroes and geniuses who created the technical and commercial infrastructure that begot radio.

Though most buffs will recognize the name of "General" David Sarnoff (creator of RCA, and its extraordinarily successful corporate legacy and bullying to influence government policy), the best characters are Edwin Howard Armstrong, and self-anointed "father of radio," Lee de Forest.

Sonically, Burns weaves multiple strands of archival audio - pop ditties, interviews, and test sounds - and uses periodic blackouts and fade-ins to plunge viewers into a brief simulation of what audiences experienced when entertainment came from a beautifully sculpted radio receiver, and one's limitless imagination.

We all know TV helped kill radio, but the assembled historians, friends, co-workers, and associates of these three figures give us a superb slice of what these remarkable, devious, and colourful men achieved in a short time-span. While de Forest shored up his ego (topped by a horribly maudlin appearance on "This Is Your Life"), rival Armstrong created FM radio - which RCA poo-pooed in favour of a steady income stream from its AM radio sales; Armstrong subsequently spent his personal fortune to assert his patents and historical position in what became the longest patent war in U.S. corporate history.

The real shocker for viewers will be the utter familiarity of the described bickering, technological strides, pop culture fascination, and Sarnoff's marvelous foresight that made radio a turning point in popular entertainment; substitute the word Internet, and the pivotal changes and rapid absorption of radio culture within the family and work environment is nearly identical. (With banks and doctors setting up their own radio stations to boost local business, the parallels with the 'net are crystal clear.)

A gem of a doc that deserves repeated viewing, with Burns's typical brew of archival still, film and TV goodies to enrich an already engrossing history lesson.

This PBS title is available alone, or as part of The Ken Burns's America Collection, which includes "Brooklyn Bridge," "The Statue of Liberty," "Empire of the Air," "The Congress," "Thomas Hart Benton," "Huey Long," and "The Shakers."

digitallyOBSESSED.com (David Krauss) dvd review

BASEBALL – Made for TV

USA (1140 mi – 9 episodes) 1994 full episode list

Epinions.com [AliventiAsylum]

It's been a tradition in my house that every year as spring training begins, I break out the Ken Burns documentary, Baseball. I've had the VHS set for quite a few years now. This year, thanks to my VCR eating several of the tapes, I had the opportunity to take a look at the DVD set, and I can tell you that it's now #1 on my list of what I want for Christmas.

The DVD boxed set includes ten discs, covering baseball from it's origins all the way through the 1990's. Each disc covers a specific time period, although there are some ties to other time periods as well. There are quite a few narrators, both those involved in the sporting world and celebrities and writers who are just big fans of the game (like me!)

I love this series because of the way it brings everything together. Baseball is so intertwined with our history in this country. During the timeframes covered on each disc, the narrators give historical references as to what was occurring in the country at the time. It's fascinating to know that during the Civil War soldiers organized games where sometimes they were shot at (and killed) while playing the outfield.

Likewise, the differences in the fans over the years is also interesting. Fans used to be able to stand in the outfield and the foul lines. There weren't any walls to speak of, and by leaning in or pulling back when a ball was hit near them, they could affect the outcome of the games.

On thing that has always been consistent since the dawn of organized, professional baseball is the animosity between players and owners. I always find it remarkable to see that a hundred years ago the players and owners have almost the same issues that we read about now in the papers.

The series is put together beautifully. Most of the early material consists of black and white photos. These are put together nicely and the camera does a great job panning over them, making the still pictures come to life with the narration. Many of the photos and early films have been digitally restored and have an amazing clarity when viewed on the DVD. It's something to marvel at especially when I look at fading pictures in my mother's own albums.

The soundtrack chosen to accompany such pictures is pivotal, and I thought it added a great deal to the stories. Songs were chosen that are a part of baseball, and played with deliberate slowness at times of melancholy during the game's history. The general instrumentation also seems to set the tone for each piece.

Although these discs obviously convey a love affair with the game, Burns doesn't pull any punches either. He actively talks about how the African-American players were excluded from the game. Even the few that owners would sign because they did play so well were eventually excluded due to other players' attitudes, or the fact that trying to pass them off as an American Indian or Cuban didn't work. He also talks about the role of women in baseball and that for many years they weren't allowed to play simply for fear of getting hurt.

Burns also tells it like it is with the players. Although Ty Cobb is regarded as one of - if not the - greatest players of the game, Burns is not afraid to talk about what a nasty S.O.B. the guy was. To give him credit, he does go into Cobb's background a bit and talks about what might have made him this way.

It's fascinating to see the background behind such legends of the game such as Branch Rickey, Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson, and more. Players who I'd never heard of (or only heard a little about) from the early years of the game suddenly come to life. The game itself seems to take on a whole new meaning as an integral part of our American fabric. It's well worth the time I spend each spring watching it, because I come away with a new-found excitement for the game after the long winter.

What's unique between the DVD boxed set over the VHS it the fact that it is interactive. When certain players are profiled, there is a PBS emblem in the bottom left of the screen. I simply press the ENTER button on my DVD player's remote, and this takes me to a "baseball card" of sorts on the player, giving various facts about his life and career statistics. When I'm done, I move the cursor down to PLAY BALL and I cut back to the part of the program I just left.

There is also interactive trivia on each disc. The questions are from the material covered on that disc. If the viewer answers the question right, it moves immediately to the next question. If the viewer answers the question wrong, it takes you to that part of the disc where the answer lies, then back to the next question.

More than any other sport, baseball is a part of American history. For finding out how it affected and was affected by that history, this series can't be beat. It's long, but one part doesn't hinge that much on another, so it can be spread out over several nights or weeks. I highly recommend the series to any fans of the game. Even non-fans will probably come away from it with a new found appreciation for the sport.

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DVD Talk (Jeremy Kleinman) dvd review [5/5] [Part 2]

James Berardinelli's ReelViews

Epinions [Pavel21]

User comments from imdb Author: P Carr (pavel@fan.com) from Topeka, KS

User comments from imdb (Page 2) Author: classicalsteve from Oakland, CA

Variety.com [Jeff Silverman]

THOMAS JEFFERSON: A VIEW FROM THE MOUNTAIN – Made for TV

USA (180 mi) 1997

User comments Author: mazadroz from United States

A picture is worth...-goes the old saying, and the footage assembled in this documentary is nice and does much to illuminate Jefferson, his times, his contemporaries, his places, etc.

However, this being a documentary, it suffers from two common flaws:

-First, it is shallow, for how can you cram a life, let alone Jefferson's into two hours?

-Second, it is assembled by people who admire the subject, and who are want to gloss over the uglier side, ie,bias.

On the first point - and admittedly it is a bit unfair to expect depth from a documentary - I will confine myself to saying that, while this documentary spends perhaps thirty seconds on Jefferson's role as Secretary of State in Washington's cabinet, it devotes perhaps five to ten minutes on his alleged relationship with Sally Hemmings. Which is more important, the man's sex life (and granted it does reveal something of his character), or the ferocious battles waged in the first cabinet between Jefferson and Hamilton, which led to the rise of parties and the transference of the national capital from New York to the banks of the Potomoc (not even mentioned)?

On the second point, and elaborating on the first, no mention was made of Jefferson's rivalry with Hamilton, and their respective visions for the US: "agrarian republic" vs industrial-urban republic. Nor does this documentary mention Jefferson's often sentimental radicalism: his giddiness at the French revolution and eagerness to pull the US into that conflict. How this miscalculation eventually discredited him in Washington's cabinet. And how he resigned after being repeatedly outfoxed by Hamilton.

What pretense to painting a balanced portrait can a biographical piece possibly have without letting the subject's enemies speak for themselves?

Movie Magazine International review Monica Sullivan

When President Kennedy honoured a group of Nobel Prize winners at a White House dinner, he quipped, "I think this is the most extraordinary collection of talent, of human knowledge, that has ever been gathered together at the White House-with the possible exception of when Thomas Jefferson dined alone." Jefferson's memory has been burnished brightly into our national consciousness: any discussion of our greatest Presidents (Lincoln, Washington, FDR, Wilson) always embraces the Virginia-born genius who drafted the Declaration of Independence at age 33 and won the Presidency 25 years later.

But, according to THOMAS JEFFERSON" A VIEW FROM THE MOUNTAIN, a new MPI Home Video, both Jefferson's life and his philosophy reveal a long series of contradictions that historians have been arguing about for the last 170 years. Why, for example, if he believed that "all men are created equal", did he free only three of his own slaves during his lifetime? And why, for example, if he believed in an agrarian democracy, did he maintain the paternalistic view that slaves were better off under his care and protection than they would be if he paid them a living wage and then threw in the care and protection as a bonus? The huge plantations of the South would not have survived intact if all the slaves were paid a living wage and Jefferson and his fellow agrarian Democrats knew it.

The same man who fought successfully to abolish the paternalistic system of primogeniture that that still exists in Great Britain today, the same man who fought tirelessly for religious freedom, maintained the status-quo of the slave-run plantations systems during his own lifetime. There were deeply personal factors at work here, too, although genealogists are still wrangling about them as well. Did Jefferson father children by the mulatto daughter of his own father-in-law? Was Sally Hemings really his late wife's half-sister and was his fear of disclosing their true origins the reason why he was so reluctant to free his own children? Well-spoken historians of every persuasion thrash it out and the answers may continue to be elusive for many viewers.

The documentary is taped in many actual locations and a wide-ranging selection of primary source materials from the era is also shown. Tackling yet another president among his gallery of statesman is Edward Hermann as the voice of Jefferson, Sissy Spacek is daughter Martha and Danny Glover reads the words of Jefferson's slave, Isaac. THOMAS JEFFESON: A VIEW FROM THE MOUNTAIN, available this spring from MPI Home Video, is a thoughtful point of departure for further research and is well worth seeing for its rigorous questioning and fresh perspectives on the Jefferson legend.

DVD Verdict (Amanda DeWees) dvd review

Fulvue Drive-in dvd review Nicholas Sheffo

LEWIS & CLARK: THE JOURNEY OF THE CORPS OF DISCOVERY – Made for TV

USA (240 mi) 1997

User comments from imdb Author: CitizenCaine from Las Vegas, Nevada

Ken Burns directs this PBS documentary on the expedition taken by Lewis & Clark from 1804-1806 at the behest of then President Thomas Jefferson. The film traces their journey, with nearly 50 expedition party members, northwest from St. Louis across the northern Louisiana Territory, into Oregon Territory, and to the Pacific Ocean and back. The film's composition includes beautiful cinematography and bridging music and the typical voice over narration that we've come to expect from a Ken Burns film. The narration includes commentary by historians and writers as well as excerpts from the actual daily journals of expedition members. The film details the many perilous obstacles they confront along the way, including changing river currents, disease, hostile Indians, lack of direction, lack of shelter, mental and physical fatigue, never-before-seen animal species, and weather changes.

It took them two and a half years to complete the journey, without ever finding a northwest passage to the ocean (which, of course, did not exist). However, the film highlights some of the important discoveries they made, such as plotting a map of the undiscovered West, documenting new plants and wildlife, and being able to diplomatically negotiate with different groups of Indians along the way. This is a skill America would later lose sight of. The film spends less time detailing the return journey, but illustrates a few important principles that we like to think of as American today: democratically voting when it was time to make a tough decision for the group, treating others as equals, and remaining steadfast in attempting to achieve goals. There's also a bit of sad irony when the expedition encounters the Nez Perce, if you know American History. The film is exciting and inspiring, without being too reverent. It's quite clear that these men and women faced tremendous hardships, had great courage and luck, and took great risks in making a journey, whose historical significance none of them realized. The journey itself is an extension of the visionary thinking that great, early Americans, like Jefferson, had. It was a journey of a lifetime for them and the journey of the century for the history of the United States. This should be required viewing in every high school History class. ***1/2 of 4 stars.

Epinions.com [Patti Aliventi]

I can’t remember exactly how much time was actually covered in history class about the journey of Lewis and Clark to explore the land purchased from Napoleon and France by President Thomas Jefferson in 1803. I know it was discussed, but essentially it was glossed over in text and given a paragraph or two. The magnitude of what they did, especially in those times, was never presented.

Thankfully, the Ken Burns documentary production of Lewis & Clark: The Journey of the Corps of Discovery rectifies this. Burns makes the case that the journey of Lewis & Clark as at least as important as the journey to the moon - if not more important. When they set out, the United States was a collection of former British Colonies on the Atlantic Ocean. By the time they returned, the nation stretched from sea to shining sea. In addition to exploring the land purchased, they also explored the disputed Oregon Territory, came back with details of many of new species of plant and wildlife, forged relationships with Native Americans along the way, and provided confirmation that the mythical Northwest Passage, searched for by so many for so long, didn’t exist.

The history behind the two men who led the expedition is in itself somewhat astonishing. Merriweather Lewis was Thomas Jefferson’s personal secretary. Only twenty eight years old, he was an unlikely selection. He had been an army officer and considered to be skilled on the frontier. It had been noted he was prone to depression and sometimes he drank too much. The depression seems evident at times when there are no entries in his journal. Burns focuses on these bouts of depression quite a bit, as they resulted in the suicide of Lewis a few years after the expedition returned.

William Clark was a frontiersman, having spent time on what was then the western frontier - Kentucky and Ohio. He didn’t have the same education as Lewis, but had the knowledge and temperament. In the end, he would be the one to tell the stories and details of the expedition as Lewis died without ever forming a manuscript from the journals they kept along the way. Luckily, the journals themselves did survive.

The trip itself was treacherous. The budget was just $2,500. In addition to the fact that they spent most of it going upstream against the currents of the muddy Missouri River, there were the usual dangers of frontier life and exploration: wild animals, disease, lack of food, weather. In addition, the men had no idea of where they were going or what they would encounter along the way. While the astronauts could look up and see the moon (and remain in contact with their base back here in Houston) Lewis & Clark were on their own, venturing to places they could never have imagined. There were no photographs or descriptions of the Great Plains or Rocky Mountains. In addition, they could never be certain of how the Native American population would react to them along the way.

Burns tells the tale in a beautiful and reverent manner. He’s shot all along the route the Corps of Discovery took; beautiful shots of prairie and mountain, of sunrises and snowstorms, of river and ocean. The cinematography is stunning all the way through. The trademark moving soundtrack - present in all of Burns’ productions - is here too, evoking emotions and setting the tone for what’s happening. Even though we know what happened in history, it’s handled here in such a way that at times there is suspense, as there is also hope.

Largely narrated by Hal Holbrook, with commentary by various writers, the story of the journey is told based on the journals that Lewis & Clark kept, plus a few letters penned by other members of the expedition which were preserved. Burns brings in other characters’ points of views by having the narration switch to different actors, such as Adam Arkin, Matthew Broderick, and Sam Waterston.

Points are clearly made throughout the documentary as well. Clark brought one of his slaves with him, and throughout the journey was treated as an equal - even being allowed to vote at one point. Indeed, Lewis & Clark, although the leaders, took votes from time to time among their men to decide issues such as where to spend the winter. They ran the expedition much like the democracy Jefferson had helped to build.

Burns also accents how the Native Americans were treated along the way. Lewis & Clark tried to broker agreements and trade with the tribes. The point is made that they honestly believed in what they were doing and believed the United States government would honor and stand behind the agreements and promises being delivered to the tribes. It’s a sad bit of history in light of what would take place over the next hundred years.

What was also interesting is that Native Americans were brought in for commentary and they could recount the stories of the Corps of Discovery arriving at their villages. It was fascinating to see how the stories had been passed down through the years and so much of the detail still remained.

This DVD should be shown in schools, although I have the feeling many classes would grow restless. At about four hours in length, it could seem tedious to some. I was enthralled the whole way through watching the scenery of parts of the country I’d never seen. Burns somehow captures it in unmarred beauty, something I doubt many of us will ever have the chance to see. Watch it and learn more about this expedition than the few paragraphs in your high school history book ever taught you.

Bonus Material:

• Interview with Ken Burns and Dayton Duncan - taken from The Charlie Rose Show
• Interview with Stephen Ambrose - also taken from The Charlie Rose Show
• The Making of Lewis & Clark
• Ken Burns: Making History
• A Conversation with Ken Burns

User comments from imdb Author: rrichr from Berkeley CA

Variety (Tony Scott) review

FRANK LLOYD WRIGHT

USA (146 mi) 1998 co-director: Lynn Novick

culturevulture.net, Choices for the Cognoscenti review Arthur Lazere

Architect Frank Lloyd Wright was one of the great creative geniuses of the twentieth century, though his long career was an uneven one. Early successes were followed by a period when he could not land a commission and his wife had to wear hand-me-down coats in the cold Wisconsin winter.   As seems to be true of others like him, great genius was accompanied by great ego, with a resulting sense of being above the constraints of ordinary people. Controversy was inevitable. Wright's series of wives, mistresses, and children, both legitimate and not, provoked scandal and ill will in a more innocent period of American history than our own. The tale is spiced with financial delinquency, elopement, fires, madness, and murder.    

Surely this is fodder for a stimulating documentary treatment, but, alas, Ken Burns (Lewis and Clark, The Civil War) and Lynn Novick have directed a rather unimaginative, though workmanlike, film in the mold of PBS's less than memorable, standardized format. Their efforts have not been enhanced by the voice over performance of Edward Herrmann, an actor with a long list of credits, who here has a flatness of tone with a range of expression, as the mot goes,  from A to B.   

Telling Wright's story in straightforward chronological order, Burns uses photos, archival film and video clips, talking heads, and newly shot film, all accompanied by carefully selected music and sound effects. Among the speakers, some genuine liveliness and insight is injected into the proceedings by Brendan Gill, Paul Goldberger, and William Cronan. In a video clip of a Wright interview, Mike Wallace is more notable for blowing cigarette smoke into Wright's eyes than for any skill in engaging Wright in meaningful conversation.   

The film rises above its plodding narrative in Burns' wonderful cinematography, his camera roaming over Wright buildings and interiors, providing the viewer with a sense of the original, arresting, and luminous spaces that the architect designed, as well seen here as can be imagined, aside from actually being there. Burns' camera is especially good at picking up wonderful details of design, reflecting the fanatical control that Wright exercised over his creations. The last third of the film shows Wright, at an age when most have retired, generating an amazing body of work - from exquisite Falling Water to the Johnson Wax Building, Taliesin West, the Marin County Civic Center, and the Guggenheim Museum. Burns' shots of these masterworks justifies the entire film. For those whose interest in Wright is already established, this is a film worth seeing for that footage alone. Others, I fear, may reach for the remote control sooner.

User comments from imdb Author: swagner2001 from New York, NY

Wright complained to a friend about about how many thousands of dollars he owed. His friend lent him money to pay off his debts. Later that day, Wright went out and purchased three grand pianos! And went back to complaining about his debts. He felt a compulsion to live at 'the edge.' "Take care of the luxuries of life, and the essentials will take care of themselves," Wright philosophized.

Ken Burns examines the character of Frank Lloyd Wright. What made him 'tick'? How does one go about becoming the greatest American architect of the 20th Century? (or as Wright would say: the greatest architect of all time)? A few of Wright's grandchildren are interviewed to help solve this puzzle. A 100-year-old son of the famed architect wheezes his views, in a raspy voice. Those views aren't very flattering: Wright abandoned his first wife, and his children, for various women over the years. In fact, he was jailed in Minnesota for crossing the state border in the company of a woman for 'immoral purposes.' He proved an embarrassment to his family. "I have felt fatherly feelings towards my buildings, but never towards my children," FLW muttered.

Burns interviews the long-lived architect, Philip Johnson: "I hated Wright. Hated him." Embittered with feelings of jealousy, and contempt, Johnson (serving in the 1930's as a curator at New York's Museum of Modern Art) had the unenviable task of wrestling a small home design from FLW - to be displayed with other modern architects at a museum exhibition. Wright, who was penniless at the time, refused to cooperate, insulted that he wasn't offered a solo show.

Johnson: "I felt he was the greatest American architect of the NINETEENTH century. When someone at MoMA said they wanted Wright to be part of a modern architect showcase, I said sarcastically, 'Isn't he dead?'" Wright may have been 'dead' in 1930, but FLW's creative output after his 1935 comeback (Fallingwater) remains unequaled.

Many of the interviews (including some of Johnson's answers) are very positive regarding FLW's work. Sometimes overly reverent. FLW is compared to Beethoven. And the Johnson Wax Building is called his 'Ninth Symphony.' FLW, the man, on the other hand, is branded a con-man, a charlatan, a child who liked to play with other people's money.

Titles, such as "Can you just build me an office building?" or "I am immortal," divide the documentary into focused segments. Much like chapters of a biography. Each 'chapter' includes a question and answer with FLW himself - taken from an early television interview - with young Mike Wallace as reporter.

In response to another reviewer on this site who claimed that the Tokyo Imperial Hotel is not covered...perhaps that was true for the PBS broadcast...but that is NOT true for the extended home video version of this film. The earthquake-proof Imperial Hotel (for which FLW designed every aspect - down to the Hotel stationery) is briefly covered, but for no more than five minutes.

Many building projects are shone, but few are examined in any real detail. Perhaps one or two pervading traits of a particular structure will be mentioned and shown. Burns gives you enough information to get a taste of FLW's genius, but not enough for you to learn the nuts and bolts of architecture. Aspiring students will need to consult a book for that. But, for the rest of us, who are merely curious, the footage of the buildings are long enough to grant us a sense of place, a sense of serenity, and a glimpse of that organic truth for which Wright devoted his life.

The Trades (Raul Burriel) dvd review

Variety (Todd McCarthy) review

NOT FOR OURSELVES ALONE: THE STORY OF ELIZABETH CADY STANTON & SUSAN B. ANTHONY – made for TV

USA (210 mi) 1999

User comments from imdb Author: edwagreen from United States

Superb documentary dealing with the lives of Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony. These 2 women were born into entirely different lives yet bonded for the work to be done to achieve women's equality.

We never realized how the work of Anthony and Stanton led to women owning property and the right to keep children when a divorce occurred.

Obviously, Stanton was much more of a fighter and militant than Anthony. The latter was certainly used for her organizational abilities and the fact that she had the time, since she never married and could go on speaking tours. Anthony did not want anything to come into the way that would prevent women from attaining suffrage. Too bad that these gallant women died without ever realizing their fulfilled dream of women's suffrage.

This excellent series makes you think if there were some sort of lesbian relationship between these 2 outstanding women.

The Trades (Raul Burriel) dvd review

JAZZ – Made for TV

USA Great Britain (114 mi – 10 episodes) 2001 full episode list

Documentary Films [Ronnie D. Lankford, Jr.] for an episode guide: Click here

Jazz, a new documentary by Ken Burns, is a celebration of a unique American art form and of the people that made it. Miles Davis, Louis Armstrong, John Coltrane, Duke Ellington, Charlie Parker, and Dizzy Gillespie—these are the illustrious names that fill the history of jazz. Burns begins at the beginning—in New Orleans—then traces jazz’ history from Dixieland to Avant-Garde, from the East Coast to the West Coast, from predictable ensembles to totally free improvising. Jazz wants to re-introduce the viewer to this grand, uniquely American art form; it wants to remind the viewer just how special a Charles Mingus is; and it wants to remind the viewer of the contributions and sacrifices that African Americans have made to bring this music to the culture.

The story of Jazz is told in ten parts, lasting a total of 19 hours. Each section covers a time period, providing biographies of important figures and covering social developments within that time. Episode 1 titled, "Gumbo," explores the origins of jazz in New Orleans. The most musical of American cities during the 19^th century, the viewer learns of cultural and musical ingredients that went into the "gumbo" that would become jazz. Jazz provides biographies of notable artists like Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington, which are told over a number of episodes. This allows the viewer to see the full career of these giants—not just the parts where they were "in style." Jazz is also a social document, continually reminding the viewer of the segregation and prejudice that have been inflicted against African Americans within American society.

There are many highlights throughout the series. Episode 8, titled "Risk," covers the be-bop insurgency and the short, troubled career of saxophonist Charlie Parker. Injured as a teenager in an automobile accident, Parker seemed troubled for the remainder of his life. Clips of Parker’s performances show what appears to be a totally emotionless person, playing rapid, beautiful solos. Many musicians, fascinated by Parker’s style, would also adopt his drug habit (heroin) to emulate their hero. Parker’s sometime partner, Dizzy Gillespie, would spread the gospel of bop, kindly sharing technique and musical theory with young players. Many older players like Armstrong thought bop was nonsense, and the swing audience surely couldn’t dance to it. But by the time Parker had died in 1955, jazz had entered the modern era with a completely new sheen.

Jazz continually relates issues of race both heartening and harrowing. Episode 3, "Our Language," tells the story of the Empress of the Blues, Bessie Smith. While performing in a Southern local, one of her musicians informed her that several members of the Klan were descending upon the tent show. Smith, no pushover, stormed out to meet them—shaking her fist. "I’ll get the whole damned tent out here. You just pick up them sheets and run!" They left. Other stories prove more disturbing. While performing in a downtown club, Miles Davis decided to go outside during a break. A white police officer asked him to move along. When Davis refused, explaining that he was working at the club, the officer beat him bloody. In 1957, Louis Armstrong had been asked by the State Department to go on a goodwill tour of Russia. When Eisenhower did little to stop the violence surrounding desegregation at Little Rock Central High School, Armstrong refused to go on the tour.

Jazz will receive criticism on several accounts, but the criticism will come from jazz critics and aficionados, not the general audience Burns is aiming for. Some will view the series as musically conservative, failing to explore the more adventurous styles of Avant-Garde and Free Jazz. The ever-present Wynton Marsalis will reinforce this feeling. Others will criticize the scant coverage of jazz after 1961, with fusion only being mentioned in relation to Miles Davis’ later work, and Charles Mingus only receiving a very short biography. None of these points will probably bother the casual fan or jazz novice. Besides, Jazz has so many strong points, it would be a disservice to concentrate on these smaller items.

Jazz is an audacious undertaking that will successfully introduce jazz and jazz history to the uninitiated, as well as teach jazz lovers a thing or two. It is possible that every viewer will not want to invest the 19 hours required to watch the entire series, but that would be unfortunate. Though lengthy, Jazz offers a chance to view the panorama of the music, and to see how one movement fed into another. Jazz should also leave the viewer much more aware of the evils of segregation, and of the vast contribution of African-American artists like Armstrong, Ellington, Parker, and Coltrane. Many viewers—like this one—will undoubtedly want to go out and buy the music they’ve heard while watching the series. If they do, then the series has accomplished what it aimed for: inspiring Americans to listen passionately and appreciate one of their culture’s crowning achievements.

Reason Online [Charles Paul Freund]

The opening note of Jazz, Ken Burns' new 10-part series for PBS, comes from trumpeter Wynton Marsalis, who's not playing but lecturing. "Jazz music objectifies America," he tells us, then offers a lesson about what jazz really is. The form's great power emerges from musicians who "negotiate their agendas with each other." According to Marsalis (he's Lincon Center's artistic director for jazz), that negotiation, that handing off and passing around of inspiration - that jam - is jazz's transcendence.

Most jazz musicians would agree. As the cliché goes, it's one thing to do a show for your paying customers, playing what they expect and have paid to hear, but after the squares go home, you can stop blowing shit and make another kind of music altogether. Yet many musicians would also agree that, more often than not, it's a lot more satisfying to play that personal kind of music than it is to sit and listen to it. Jazz musicians involved with each other in intimate creativity may well be negotiating their way to improvisational sublimity, but they've often left the audience out of the musical deal. This is a central but rarely acknowledged tension in Burns' documentary treatment.

Neither Burns nor PBS would be presenting nearly 19 hours of archival footage and contemporary performances and interviews unless the series could claim, as it does repeatedly, that jazz is a fundamentally American art form that reveals much about the culture from which it has sprung. But it would reveal nothing if jazz had not been a commercial form to begin with, if - to put it in Marsalis' terms - its original makers had not hungrily included the customers in the negotiation. For all its knowing (and legitimate) commentary about expressive artistry, for all the context of romantic creation, Burns' film actually works best when it showcases jazz as an opportunity for its audience's ecstatic pleasure.

Albert Murray, one of American culture's greatest critics (because his work is broadly instructive, rather than narrowly judgmental), puts the matter directly in one of his appearances. Playing a contrapuntal riff to Marsalis' Professor of Negotiation Studies, Murray says simply, "Jazz is dance music." That doesn't mean jazz isn't also a lot of other things. But it does mean that jazz's artistry is deeply rooted in sensual pleasure. The farther jazz has strayed from those roots, away from breathless, sweat-beaded ecstasy, the more clubs have closed, the more radio stations have switched programming (often to its rhythm-and-blues-based offspring), and the nearer it has approached its appointment with public broadcasting. PBS has fallen into the role of cultural memorializer, the celebrator of dead genres.

Yet Burns' series, its self-conscious gestures toward epic notwithstanding, is filled with rewards, many of them proffered unintentionally. Jazz is indeed an American story, which means that art and commerce need not be separate and opposing forces. Indeed, the former triumphed through the latter, rising from whorehouse scorn in such places as New Orleans and Kansas City to find an enthusiastic audience despite the original dismissal of gatekeeper critics (Gilbert Seldes notably excepted), editorialists, and even doctors, before eventually falling into the suffocating embrace of Lincoln Center itself.

Burns doesn't set out to tell that tale, but that's the story that emerges, over and over again. Burns' documentary gifts are not visionary, analytical, nor even properly historical. Rather, he is a talented biographer, and his films are most effective when he is able to present an overarching narrative in terms of the biographical detail of that narrative's participants. The approach worked especially well in his Civil War series, because it unexpectedly humanized the war. It didn't work so well in his baseball series, because the mass of detail tended to obscure the game itself; few sports fans really want to know their heroes out of uniform.

But as Vasari might have told Burns, biography - even when it's legend - is a good way into culture. Thus we have a century's worth of the lives of the jazzmen and women, told sequentially and profusely illustrated. (The rap against Burns is that he has left some important people out of his group portrait, a charge he invites by claiming epic comprehensiveness.)

What has Burns revealed? Given 19 hours in praise of every kind of jazz, viewers will be able to take away every kind of moral. But one lesson that seems hard to ignore is that jazz was at its strongest when its makers embraced their audience and used their popularity to develop the audience musically, even leaving themselves open to learning something from that audience. Anybody can play the contemptuous bohemian, a type that was eventually to overwhelm the world of ever-more isolated jazz makers. The real artistic work lies in forging a connection with the audience, inviting it to share in the innovation. That's actually a rhetorical skill as much as it is a musical one, and is on display in every frame Burns includes of Louis Armstrong. Armstrong was as immensely influential as he was not only because he was a great trumpet player, but because he embraced his audience, was anxious that it enjoyed itself, and was thus able to take it with him, note by soaring note.

Perhaps the most instructive sequence in Burns' series involves Armstrong's character opposite, Duke Ellington. Ellington's whole career was built on a remarkable marriage of jazz , elegance, and dignity (traits embodying the cultural longings of Ellington's black Washington, D.C. milieu). Yet in 1956, with jazz receding into elitist taste and his own career in the balance, Ellington jump-started his creative life by nearly starting a riot at the Newport Jazz Festival. Characteristically, Ellington had composed a long, serious suite for the occasion. But when he saw his audience heading early for the parking lot, he broke the band into "Diminuendo and Crescendo in Blue," a hard-driving work he'd written in 1937. The crowd turned back. Famously, one beautiful woman started to dance, and the crowd gathered around her. Ellington dug into the number, even when the worried festival impresario signaled for him to cut it off before the usually polite Newporters got violent. Saxophonist Paul Gonsalves did 27 choruses, and the band followed with four encores. "I was born at Newport," Ellington liked to say afterward.

There's also a cautionary tale for this theme of audience embrace: the career of Miles Davis. Davis had enjoyed success as a musician of aloof cool, but started to chafe when pop groups like Chicago used his riffs to get very rich. Davis actually asked his label to stop calling him a jazz player at all, having concluded that it was a barrier to reaching a larger audience and making real money. He eventually was to find that audience, at least for a while, by playing the rock-jazz mix known as fusion. But many people agree that this was a dead end for both Davis and his listeners.

Why? The answer again has to do with the issue of musical negotiation. Davis' musical identity was originally built on artistic distance, on insisting that the audience come to his music. But when he switched strategies and went in search of a larger audience, he made the (perhaps inevitable) mistake of staying aloof: He never learned how to teach his new audience what he wanted it to appreciate, or for that matter to learn from it either. In the albums that follow 1969's Bitches Brew, Davis doesn't seem to know what he wants to play. Sustained success is not just about a happy, buying audience. It's an ongoing dialogue - a negotiation.

The same is true for many other forms, of course. But jazz's lesson is especially valuable because, for one thing, its compressed history is a fractal of these other cultural histories, and for another, that history is suffused with unmitigated pleasure. Burns gives his audience 19 hours of that history, a lot of time for a lot of extraordinary people to play and find (posthumously, in many cases) another generation of admirers to talk with.

Never mind the lectures: What a concert.

CounterPunch [Jeffrey St Clair]

Nitrate Online [Gregory Avery]

User comments from imdb Author: RobT-2 from Tulsa, Oklahoma

User comments from imdb Author: jay_zhead from Israel

User comments from imdb Author: B.E. from Cheney, WA

User comments from imdb (Page 2) Author: trumpetboy from USA

culturevulture.net Gary Mairs

The Bill Evans Webpages [Jan Stevens]

Read full review David X. Young from All About Jazz

Epinions.com [Patti Aliventi]

TheCritics.org [Jason Van Bergen]

dvdfuture.com (Anthony Clarke) dvd review

TV Guide

Read full review Heads, Jazz Wins; Tails, It Loses, by Don Heckman from The LA Times, January 28, 2001

Read full review Music and Race: The Glory and the Pain, by Julie Salamon from The New York Times, January 8, 2001

MARK TWAIN – Made for TV

USA (212 mi) 2001

User comments from imdb Author: annmason1 from Bellingham, WA

This is one of the finest films I have ever seen. And I have watched it over and over. One comes away awed that one man could have endured so much sorrow and been able to translate it in a way other people could learn from, sometimes through laughter.

Ken Burns is a treasure. He has given us a well rounded picture of a gifted man who was all too human. Could one person have lived his life more fully than Samuel Clemens? This is a fascinating study of a writer I knew little about and now will honor whenever I hear his name.

Mark Twain was not afraid to write about ugly things, evil things, but wise enough to do so in a manner that lead the reader deep into the subject before realizing the truths he met along the way, and by then it was too late. The reader learned something about slavery or how one group of people treats another or about human nature that he had not intended to learn.

This film is a masterpiece and worth viewing often.

User comments from imdb Author: Tom Murray (tamurray@sympatico.ca) from Belleville, Ontario, Canada

The life of Mark Twain, whose real name was Samuel Clemens, is a totally fascinating and moving story. He hated and spoke out against slavery and was a supporter of full adult suffrage. He was the first American to write in the vernacular and to write a sympathetic and well-developed portrait of a black person: Jim in Huckleberry Finn. He sponsored a struggling black man through law school, who later became the mentor of Thurgood Marshall, who was the first black American Supreme Court justice. Clemens struggled with depression; he was a man of constant sorrow; humour was what kept him from killing himself. He was born into modest circumstances, became wealthy and even became obsessive about it, to the point that it interfered with his writing. His dabbling in investments was a complete disaster; it ruined him financially. He moved in the circle of the elite but was a powerful and outspoken opponent of all that was wrong with society. Since he included himself in that group of wrongdoers, he was accepted by them as a sort of group conscience.

As usual, Ken Burns has made another great documentary. The pace is moderate, the narration is excellent and often very moving, the talking heads are brief and concise and the mood is sincere. After two viewings, it is still on my list of films to see.

The story is amazing! Samuel Clemens was the epitome of "The American Dream": rising from poverty and a wild lifestyle to great wealth and respect; forging a marriage, based on strong and abiding love; loving his family above all else; gambling on investments and the subsequent financial ruin; recovering by hard work (although legally bankrupt, he still paid off all of his debts); bouncing back after each one of more tragedies than any man could expect and, most of all, honesty, integrity, charity and the deepest understanding of what is means to be human. In all this, he was unique in the world. He was a great and inspiring man.

The Digital Bits capsule dvd review Todd Doogan

220 mins, NR, full frame (1.33:1), Amaray keep case packaging with slipcase, dual-sided, RSDL dual-layered (Part One layer switch at 1:25:17 in chapter 8, Part Two layer switch at 1:26:20 in chapter 6), The Making of Mark Twain documentary featuring interviews with co-producer/director Ken Burns and co-writer/co-producer Dayton Duncan, A Conversation with Ken Burns video interview, video gallery of photos (with Mark Twain quotes read by actor Kevin Conway), Ken Burns Making History featurette, 4 galleries of interview outtakes, weblinks, film-themed menu screens, scene access (8 chapters for each part), languages: English (DD 2.0), subtitles: none, Closed Captioned

Mark Twain. He's a man most of us only appreciate for the fact that we were forced to read his books in school. Then most of us never looked back. Leave it to documentarian Ken Burns to help us re-examine a writer many Americans owe a great debt to.

Personally, I was never a real fan of Twain's work. Maybe it's because I was too young in my school years to really appreciate him for what he was trying to say. I still can't really say that I'm a reborn fan of his work. But after seeing this new documentary, I really feel like I understand who the man was.

Twain, as you will learn while watching this film, was the purest form of egotist. Now, I mean that from the most possible textbook definition. This guy thought everything was all about him. So much so, that even the death of his loved ones had to have been caused by something he did. That belief followed him throughout his life. Even though this film is about his work and his life, it's incredible how Burns and company craft a story about the man over and above who he was. Mark Twain really shows you how this guy ticked... and death was a cog in his works that clicked more than any other. What a sad life.

Mark Twain joked that he wasn't an American, that he was THE American. I think that, behind the wit, there was a lot of truth there. His life mirrored what it means to be an American, and in these times of heightened patriotism, it might be nice to see what we're so proud of. Besides that, the thing I walked away with after watching this film, is reinforcement of my belief that everyone in the world is a product of who they meet. There's one story in the film, where Twain meets a former slave who teaches him a fact about slavery he never considered in his life. That one moment made him who he was, and still is today for everyone who has ever read his work. That single moment solidified his work, and shaped the voice we now know. And it was a simple chance encounter that lasted less than an hour. It makes you imagine where you've come from, and how you got to where you are in life.

I know I do this a lot, but I'm not going to sum up the film for you beyond what I've already said. I review stuff, so I often think that my job is to distill and point. Mark Twain is a stellar documentary and totally stands on its own merits. I don't think I need to sell it to you more than that. It's simply worth your time. It's a documentary that sucked me in, and I didn't even want to watch it in the first place. It was a happy accident that I popped this disc into my player. I had no idea what to expect... and that made the experience all the more worthwhile. My advice for you is rent or buy this and check it out yourself.

Mark Twain on DVD is a fine presentation. The video quality is above average for a full frame feature. It's crystal clear and free of artifacts. The sound is also very good, in Dolby Digital 2.0. It's way better than TV quality and suits the feature fine. The extras on board aren't really necessary, but end up being quite fun. First off, there's a set of video interviews titled: The Making of Mark Twain. They're with co-producer/director Ken Burns and co-writer/co-producer Dayton Duncan separately. They discuss Twain the man, Twain the production and how the project came together. The featurette A Conversation with Ken Burns is an interview with Burns about his work as a whole and his relationship with PBS. It has nothing to do with Twain but is a great watch nonetheless. You'll also find a video gallery of photos, with some really cool Mark Twain quotes read by actor Kevin Conway running over them. There's also a featurette about Burns and his documentary team doing what they do, entitled Ken Burns Making History, and four galleries of interview outtakes that round out the special features. The outtakes are pretty cool, although the quality is a bit shabby. They include most every interviewee from the feature, and some are actually extensions of quotes given in the documentary. All in all, there's a lot of worthwhile stuff here that you wouldn't be expecting on a single disc (and a documentary at that).

Mark Twain is a phenomenal film and a great DVD. Do check it out.

World Socialist Web Site James Brewer

CultureCartel.com (John Nesbit) review [4/5]

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DVD Talk (Gil Jawetz) dvd review [3/5]

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Apollo Movie Guide [Jamie Gillies]

Needcoffee.com - DVD Review HTQ4

UpcomingDiscs.com (Jeremy Frost) dvd review [4/5]

HORATIO’S DRIVE: AMERICA’S FIRST ROAD TRIP – Made for TV

USA (107 mi) 2003

Documentary Site Heather McIntosh

A century ago Horatio Nelson Jackson’s famous road trip began much like many road trips do today: on a whim. Unlike today, however, 1903 America offered few paved roads and even fewer cars, and not even reliable ones at that. But those obstacles, and many others, failed to dampen Jackson’s enthusiasm or stop him from making the drive from San Francisco to New York City, a journey Ken Burns chronicles in his new film Horatio’s Drive: America’s First Road Trip.

A “whim” is probably an understatement for the motivations behind Jackson’s trip – upon listening to a discussion about the passing fad known as an automobile, he makes a $50 bet to prove that the “horseless carriage” is more than an “unreliable novelty” by making the trip in less than three months. Some men take him up on it, and Horatio spends the next four days hiring Sewalle A. Crocker as a mechanic and co-driver, purchasing supplies, and even buying a car. He puts down $3,000 (on a $50 bet, remember) for cherry red Winton touring car, with a two-cylinder, 20-horsepower engine that could reach speeds of 30 miles per hour. The car has no roof and no windshield, and Horatio christens it the “Vermont” in honor of his home state. Loaded up, he and Crocker leave San Francisco on May 23, 1903, for their cross-country journey. As the narrator too grandly describes it, “It was the beginning of America’s first road trip, a trip that would collect a thousand impressions of a country and a people on the cusp of an extraordinary change.”

Burns’s film, then, is primarily a whimsical but meticulous travelogue of the two men’s trials and tribulations they experience on the trek. They encounter numerous problems along the way – mechanical issues, road and weather issues, navigational problems, and even gas price gouging, to a small degree. Like most cars of the time, the Winton is not reliable, and it breaks down constantly with blown tires, cracking screws, and breaking springs, among other things. But Horatio and his partner are traveling at a time when Autozone and Pep Boys, not to mention car dealers, are nowhere to be found, so replacement parts come, ironically, either by stage coach or by train. Roads also prove an issue – of the nation’s more than two million miles of roads at that time, only 150 are paved. Add that to wet weather, and the drivers spend a good deal of time pulling the car out of mud and puddles, and through rivers. Just as much as mechanical failures and weather cause problems, so do directions. Roads are not marked with highway numbers and directional signs, and often Horatio finds himself backtracking several miles here and there before going in the right way. And one opportunist in Medicine Bow, Wyoming, charges Horatio $5.25 for five gallons of gas. But 5,600 miles, $8,000, and 63 days, 12 hours, and 30 minutes later, Horatio arrives in New York City, well ahead of his 90-day deadline. He wins the bet but never collects on it.

The film features Burns’s usual mix of techniques: voiceover narration, talking heads, voice reenactments, period music, archival photographs and motion pictures, old postcards, newspaper clippings, and, of course, the migrating camera. Keith Head provides the narration, and several famous names give voice to the people and the newspaper clippings. Tom Hanks dramatizes Horatio’s voice through readings of his letters, while Tom Bodett, Philip Bosco, and the late George Plimpton, among others, read clippings from the old newspapers. Usually, the amount of voices is overwhelming in a typical Burns film, making it difficult to discern who is speaking as what voice and when. Here, however, by minimizing the talking heads, both in number and in frequency, more of the history gets to speak for itself.

The newspaper clippings provide the best insight into the novelty behind this road trip and offer the best observations about people’s reactions to seeing a car for the first time. One newspaper in awe calls it, “A Real Live Automobile,” and another refers to it as a “whiz wagon.” “People surrounded the Vermont as flies surround a keg of molasses,” writes another. Dramatized by Hanks, Horatio’s letters home to his wife reveal not only his endless enthusiasm for his road trip, but also his enduring love and affection for his wife.

One of the fundamental problems of doing a documentary about era when the motion picture industry was still in its infancy is finding pictures to show with the commentary. This problem is one Burns has faced in most of his other work as well. Here, a wide variety of still photographs illustrate the towns and their people, not to mention Horatio and his dog, Bud. Throughout the entire trip, audiences wave to the drivers from their fields, from the streets, and even from the trees, and some offer them food and other niceties in exchange for a ride in it. The narration mentions that Horatio takes along a Kodak camera, but it never mentions where the still shots come from – are they from the driver himself or from other archival sources? Other recreated shots of the touring car bumping down muddy roads attempt to establish a sense of authenticity, though their repetition gets wearisome after a while. Color photographs of dynamic plains storms seem out of place in a film that attempts for historic authenticity in its look, done notably well through its used of title cards, iris-in and iris-out transitions, and sepia tones. An animated map, similar to ones used in World War II documentaries, even charts Horatio’s progress across the country with red lines.

In some other ways the film tries too hard to universalize the experience as truly and uniquely American. The elevated rhetoric in places attempts to place the road trip a little too squarely as fundamental to American culture – as William Least Heat-Moon states, “There is no thing that we can do that is more American than getting in a car and striking out across the country” – but fortunately these grandiose statements are few. Quotes from American poet Walt Whitman open and nearly close the film, though their use seems superfluous, as does the inclusion of “Stars and Stripes Forever” on the soundtrack.

The film also does not seem to know when to end. After returning to Vermont with the Winton, Horatio parks the car in his stable – a small bit of irony that speaks to the transitions about to come. About a month later, in October 1903, Horatio is arrested in Burlington, Vermont – for speeding! He is charged with going more than six miles per hour and pays a $5 fine and court costs. Instead of ending on this humorous note, the film keeps going, with another Whitman quote; a list of other technical advances of the age; follow-ups on Horatio, Crocker, and Bud; and commentary from the talking heads, all of which feel tacked on.

These issues aside, the film’s key strength is its humor, something Horatio definitely needed in order to cope with all the problems that arose during his trip. The humor comes through in the voiceover and in the letters. For example, in referring to Bud, Horatio comments, “He was the one member of their trio who used no profanity the entire trip.” Other moments come in the details used. In one instance, the Winton needs towing, and a cowboy comes along, ropes the car, and uses his horse’s strength to pull it out to safety. These moments of whimsy and irony make what could have been a dull timeline amusing and engaging.

A road trip today requires almost no second thought – just get into a car and see where the road takes you. But 100 years ago, it was not so easy, and this film invites us along for that pioneering – and bumpy – ride.

UNFORGIVABLE BLACKNESS: THE RISE AND FALL OF JACK JOHNSON

USA (214 mi) 2004

Exclaim! dvd review Laura Francis

On July fourth, 1910, Jack Johnson, the son of a former slave, became the first black man to win the heavyweight boxing championship. Brash, towering, and with a penchant for flashy tailored suits, Johnson was an uninhibited carouser whose unrepentant individualism and disdain for society’s demand that he be a subservient second-class citizen made him the prime target of white racial hatred. In his riveting documentary, Unforgivable Blackness: The Rise and Fall of Jack Johnson, filmmaker Ken Burns so meticulously details Johnson’s remarkable journey that the audience comes to understand not only how difficult it was for him to become a black heavyweight champion in America, but also how perilous it was to be a black man at the turn of the century. Set to a lush original score by Wynton Marsalis, the disc is broken into two parts: the first chronicles Johnson’s rise, the other his subsequent fall. Burns and his team (producers David Shaye and Paul Barnes, as well as writer Geoffrey C. Ward) tell Johnson’s story by fixing him firmly in his time. Those familiar with Burns’s more sweeping oeuvres (Baseball, The Civil War) will be familiar with his style of mixing archival photos, newsreel footage and interviews with straightforward narration, but what is refreshing is that because Burns’s canvas is less vast, it provides for a more compelling focus. It doesn’t hurt either that Burns has surrounded himself with the "best of the best," including social historians Stanley Crouch and George Plimpton, and actors Sam L. Jackson and James Earle Jones, just to name a few. Burns reveals in the "making of" documentary that these interviews were done far in advance of the script and that the ones that do appear are there due to "happy accidents of extraordinary trial and error." Jones, who portrayed Johnson on both stage and screen, provides an interesting perspective of Johnson’s failure as being a product of hubris and not race; while boxing historian Bert Sugar, who despite having not been born the at the time Johnson’s greatest fights, provides the sort of detailed fight analysis that leads you to believe that he was seated ringside. But it is in the outstanding fight footage of Johnson’s championship bouts against "great white hopes" Jim Jeffries and Tommy Burns that he really comes alive as an iconoclast. With his "aboriginal" blackness, as Stanley Crouch puts it, in full regal view, you get the feeling that he is a man that "didn’t just want to pummel white fighters; he wanted everyone to know he was enjoying it." What a pleasure to see it in such a dazzling context. Plus: deleted scenes, music video featuring Wynton Marsalis.

ReelTalk (Donald Levit) review

Boxing is the proverbially dirty game, life an even nastier one. Voted with Robert Flaherty “the [two] most influential documentary makers” ever, New Hampshire-based Ken Burns repeatedly examines life in these United States, famously through sports, music and politics, and finds it rooted in the unclean open secret of racism.

Through his Florentine Films, the director’s newest entry in twenty-three years of award winners, is Unforgivable Blackness: The Rise and Fall of Jack Johnson, one of six Special Events at the current New York Film Festival, where it is co-presented with Jazz at Lincoln Center and will air on PBS January 17 and 18 next. It is not the same experience, and unfair, to judge big-screen film from a TV viewing; equally difficult to appraise shorter television episodes combined in the theater as a 110-minute Part One “The Rise,” a brief coffee break and then the ten-minutes-less second part “The Fall.”

The continuous theatrical screening, as opposed to choppier home viewing, underscores emotional buildup and social backbone yet at the same time introduces, or emphasizes, drawbacks such as repetitiousness as the same point is hammered again and again. With the usual impeccable research, organization and smooth incorporation of music (Wynton Marsalis) and rare film material, Burns employs his core story to manage a portrait of society over a period of years. Fallen into oblivion among today’s younger generation, John Arthur “Jack” Johnson surfaced on late ‘60s Broadway with Howard Sackler’s The Great White Hope, re-scripted by him for Darryl Zanuck’s financially unsuccessful 1970 film. Not a boxing story, or even social commentary, that tale of “Jack Jefferson” was at heart a character study, an aspiring Aristotelian tragedy down to its black Tiresias who warns star James Earl Jones against selling out.

Unforgivable Blackness, in contrast, focuses half on the Galveston, Texas, heavyweight who changed the manly art with an Ali-like combination of art and power, was unbeatable for thirteen years, in 1908 became at thirty years nine months the first -- for many years, only-- black champion at any weight, and aroused the anger, envy and sometimes vengeance of most whites worldwide and of many “so-called decent, middle-class black people.”

The film opens in 1910 Reno, population 15,000 and vying with Goldfield for status, where in the “Battle of the Century” the African-American champion would face undefeated ex-titleholder Jim Jeffries, goaded from retirement as the best of suggested great white hopes. Interspersed with interviews with several modern commentators (including Jones), the documentary traces Johnson’s beginnings and life up, and subsequent, to that point, placing them in the context of prevalent racist attitudes and laws.

During intermission, a German-accented lady marveled at these revelations of discrimination, which should be sadly familiar to Americans even if much of the archival material itself is not. Johnson attracted enmity because his ring prowess contradicted stereotypes of all colored races as “yellow” and further outraged the righteous by an ostentatious show-biz lifestyle. The final straw was his openly living with a harem of white women, two of whom eventually became his wives, which sexual “transgression” would lead to an unscrupulous but successful legal attack by way of the Mann Act.

To narration by Keith David and with Samuel L. Jackson as the voice of the boxer’s sensitive and learned 1927 autobiography, this proud man who would live life his way, emerges. His approach was not that of a crusader for equality on a racial basis but on the level of each individual. If the background of Jim Crow, lynchings, race riots, abusive epithets and media and government collusion, comes as revelation, that is the failure of our attitudes and educational system. The film’s assertion that the exiled Johnson did not throw the 1915 Havana fight against white hope Jess Willard is new, though perhaps debatable, and the jerky “stretched” record of that fight and others is a discovery, along with information about fight-film sales nearly a century ago. The subject is admirably served here, and one hopes that his unique person and contribution will at last be recognized. In large-screen continuous format, however, the social theme becomes unnecessarily redundant, and this is a case where less would have been more.

The Onion A.V. Club dvd review Nathan Rabin

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THE WAR – Made for TV

USA (124 mi – 7 parts) 2007 co-director: Lynn Novick full episode list

Variety review Robert Koehler

Ken Burns continues his long march through key passages in U.S. history with "The War," a characteristically serious, patriotic yet flawed account of Americans and their memories of World War II. Utterly of a piece with the work of PBS' favorite documaker, this 14-hour epic contains a fresh wrinkle only in that there's no parade of history experts to offer a distanced perspective. Rather, Burns has made a deliberately populist American version of the so-called "good war," with all the assets and deficits that entails. Cannes fest launch predated September broadcast, sure to lock up a new batch of older PBS subscribers.

Burns (credited here as co-director with Lynn Novick, though pic is billed as "a film by Ken Burns") must now be declared, stylistically and thematically, the most conservative of all major U.S. documakers. The familiar Burns formula is aggressively applied here: a storytelling strategy that tackles big topics through useful but often miscalculated narrative prisms, and a filmmaking approach that blends warmly lit interviews, carefully selected photographs, archival film footage, written material of the period voiced by actors, and a text written by Geoffrey C. Ward and spoken in a voice-of-God manner. (God's voice this time belongs to the elegant Keith David.)

Although his subject this time is global, Burns' style is unwaveringly nationalistic, and his decision to explore America's role in WWII through the perspectives of vets and residents from four corners of the country creates a central problem that only grows deeper with each of the seven episodes. Very much like the choice to tell the story of "Jazz" via the distorted influence of Wynton Marsalis, or the story of "Baseball" through the blinkered view of New York City, the framework becomes a severe limitation that denies viewers a great deal of what made WWII the central event of the 20th century.

The episodes are crafted to run about two hours each, with the initial chapters covering longer swatches of time and latter chapters concentrating on only a few months each. Opening minutes, as well as several interludes throughout, will call to mind Tom Brokaw's description of WWII as the act of "the greatest generation." But to Burns' credit, he also gives equal weight to the harsh reality that the war was a savage business, viciously waged on all sides.

The realities of life in Sacramento, Calif.; Luverne, Minn.; Mobile, Ala.; and Waterbury, Conn., are recounted in episode one alongside the growing menace from Japan, finally exploding with the unprovoked Dec. 7, 1941, Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. The figures who prove to be most valuable to Burns' narrative are unveiled here, including POW survivor Glenn Frazier; exceptionally thoughtful fighter pilots Quentin Aarenson, Sam Hynes and Earl Burke; Mobile resident Katharine Phillips, whose vivid, witty and textured memories of Stateside life are easily a series highlight; Sen. Daniel K. Inouye, who saw the first Japanese planes over Pearl Harbor and won the Medal of Honor after fighting on the Euro front lines; Sacramento farm girl Sascha Weinzheimer, held in brutal captivity in a little-known Japanese concentration camp for Allied civiliansin Manila; and John Gray, who offers the view of a young black man in the South during the war.

As always with Burns' work, on-camera participants apply a great deal of the project's human touch, reaping several rewarding passages, including Burke's exceptional description of air fights over Germany in episode two that are precisely matched with brilliantly edited battle footage (by supervising editor Paul Barnes and episode editor Erik Ewers), and the lucky Aarenson's wildly improbable stories of multiple brushes with death.

Despite Burns' efforts to draw a portrait of the war as a domestic as well as foreign event, accounts of the conflict itself utterly blow away everything else, including such charged social aspects as the Japanese-American internment camps and women's liberation of sorts on the assembly line.

When compared to the blistering stories of such Pacific battles as those on the islands of Guadalcanal, Saipan and Peleliu, or the Bataan death march endured by Frazier, or the European battles of Anzio, Normandy and the lesser-known and horrific Hurtgen Forest, little else registers with anywhere near as much power.

As such, WWII as a whole is short-shrifted in "The War," with such enormous conflicts as the Japanese conquest of East Asia and the painfully protracted but finally victorious Soviet defense against Hitler's invading armyeither ignored altogether or reduced to a footnote, merely because the U.S. wasn't involved.

In the wake of Clint Eastwood's two-part Iwo Jima epic, "Flags of Our Fathers" and "Letters From Iwo Jima," which distinguished itself by dramatizing American and Japanese perspectives, Burns' approach looks exceedingly parochial. It also opens up speculation that a war account portraying four towns in four different countries would have captured more of the conflict's global reality, while retaining the intended populist view.

Soundtrack retains Burns' usual trademarks: stentorian narration and text readings by thesps (Rebecca Holtz and Bobby Cannavale's vocal perfs as, respectively, little Sascha and soldier Babe Ciarlo, are gems). Nothing in the pic better conveys the war's existential angst than Josh Lucas' reading of the uncensored, graphic and bitter diary entries of vet Eugene Sledge, drawn from his book, "With the Old Breed."

Marsalis once again makes his presence felt in a Burns film, this time with an uneven quasi-jazz score. While music selections from Kayhan Kalhor, Edgar Meyer, Alfred Schnittke and Olivier Messaen elevate pic, an original song by Gene Scheer (sung by Norah Jones) is pure hooey.

Epinions.com [Patti Aliventi]

The Second World War was fought in thousands of places, too many for any one accounting. This is the story of four American towns and how their citizens experienced that war.

The Second World War is personal for me. I have no memory of it and on the outside, having been born more than twenty years after it ended, some would wonder how I can say that. I exist largely due to the fact that my birth-grandfather was so affected by the war (he lost a leg in it) that his family suffered. My birthmother was born within a year of the end of the war and has the scars from his own emotional scars to prove it. My father who raised me was about to be shipped out from California and an Uncle was on a ship in the Pacific when the atomic bombs were dropped on Japan. With an estimated cost of 500,000 American/Allied lives to force a Japanese surrender (they were training women and children in combat so as to cause invaders to have to fight literally to the end) there's a good chance that one or both of them would not have survived. I exist, for better or worse, because of the events and choices made then.

Thinking abut how the events of nearly sixty years ago have had such a profound impact on my life, I watched the Ken Burns documentary The War. With 1,000 veterans of the Second World War dying every day, Burns felt it was important to capture their memories as well as the memories of those who lived through the war back home. Burns solicited material and gave many veterans a chance to voice their experience. The additional stories of the civilians who experienced the war on the home front are something quite new when getting an idea of the entire picture.

The War is different than other documentaries about World War II. It doesn’t have the clean look of the old movies about it, either. The gritty realism is there, both in memories and in the recreated scenes from Burns.

The central theme is how the war affected four American tows: Sacramento, California; Luverne, Minnesota; Waterbury, Connecticut; and Mobile, Alabama. The War shows how the physical look and population of the towns changed over the course of the war. Between men and boys going away, refugees from Europe coming to live there, and war plants springing up, these towns went through great changes.

Burns has compiled interviews with residents from those towns; both those that stayed behind and those that served in the armed forces. He has intricately woven the stories together with footage from home and overseas to create a terrific narrative that’s something everyone can relate to.

The story that stayed with me the most was that of Glenn Frazier, who joined a peace-time army in the Phillipines after being jilted and ended up in the Bataan Death March and Japanese Internment Camps. The horrors he recounts are sobering and shocking.

Despite all of the flag-waving that gets shown as our soldiers are depicted as one-upping the enemy at every turn in nearly all movies and documentaries I've seen, the truth was that we got the crap beat out of us in North Africa. Even General Eisenhower agreed that our soldiers were nowhere near ready to fight and the British feared they would not be able to help in an invasion of Europe. The soldiers eventually did come together and turn the tide, but this side of the war was something I hadn't heard about before.

I also had never heard about the effects the influx of workers had on the industrial war towns. Mobile, Alabama ended up with "the worst schools in the nation" for the simple reason that they were so overcrowded with the children of workers in the war plants.

Burns touches on things many people don't like to think of when we get on patriotic airs thinking about World War II. When talking about Sacramento, the subject of the Japanese internment camps comes up. At the same time, there were Japanese-American soldiers fighting and distinguishing themselves in battle, while their family and friends were interned in those camps .

Likewise, the segregation of the black troops is discussed. They were never given the same opportunities as white draftees and enlistees, and when there were some opportunities granted them it was on a much smaller scale. One soldier injured in the Pacific had trouble getting a haircut on a hospital ship until the Captain of the ship intervened.

Time is spent on all the minorities, including the Native Americans beyond what is known about their help developing a code that couldn't be broken. In fact, after viewing the documentary, Hispanic Americans were noticeably absent and complained to Burns, who researched their participation and added a chapter detailing their contribution to the war effort.

To tell these stories, Burns uses old newsreels in addition to black and white photographs. He uses maps like many others have before, but by far, the personal accounts of experiences during the war, both at home and overseas, are what resonates with the viewer. The Newsreel footage of President Roosevelt in 1945 shows how exhausted and weary he was. I loved the color footage of the liberation of Paris, as well as the photographs.

One of the most poignant moments is the beautiful tribute to D-Day with the photographs shown the way Burns does - in a way that gives them life - while American Anthem plays.

The War definitely gives a more in-depth look at the era than anything I can remember studying either in high school or college. It realy serves to put into perspective even to how things are today. The desperate situation of the Marines on Guadalcanal was never reported at home. Would people have thought that little island wasn't worth the horrendous conditions and the number of lives lost? If the same media coverage was given to this as is given to "wars" we fight today, would the outcome have been the same?
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Burns manages to match the stories up with footage quite well. If they are talking about a young German soldier, they manage to find a clip of a young German soldier. I can’t imagine the time, dedication, and research that went into all of this. With seven parts of the documentary spread out over six discs, it’s truly a marvel to think of how it all came together.

I did notice a problem with the sound on the discs. The sound would suddenly drop to a barely audible level, and then slowly come up again. This happened at various times throughout the production, with no apparent rhyme or reason. It was distracting and at times frustrating, and the only negative in a production that is giving a subject the attention it so deserves in a personal way.

In 1933, there were nine million Jews in Europe. By 1945, two out of three of them were dead.

That quote alone shows how necessary World War II was. That we were as close to defeat as we were at times and managed to turn it around is a tribute to those who lived through it and fought together - at home and on the battlefield. The country never came together in such a way before or since. This should be required viewing in high school as I never saw or learned anything close to what I learned here.

The New Criterion [James Bowman]

PopMatters [Marco Lanzagorta]

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User comments from imdb (Page 2) Author: Cosmoeticadotcom (cosmoetica@gmail.com) from United States

Filmcritic.com Chris Barsanti

FilmEdge.net Scott Weitz

Edward Copeland on Film

DVD Verdict [Brendan Babish]

Movie Views [Ryan Cracknell]

The Onion A.V. Club [Noel Murray]

The Trades (Paul Schultz) dvd review

Moviepie.com review [7/8]

Documentary Films .Net [Bryan Newbury]

UpcomingDiscs.com (Mark Dancer) dvd review [4/5]

Movieman's Guide to the Movies - DVD Review Elyusha Vafaeisefat

TV Guide

Variety.com [Brian Lowry]

San Francisco Chronicle [David Wiegand]

San Francisco Chronicle [Tim Goodman]

THE NATIONAL PARKS: AMERICA’S BEST IDEA

USA (120 mi – 6 episodes) 2009 full episode list

User comments from imdb Author: buzzerbill (buzzerbill@aol.com) from Atlanta, GA

I want to like Ken Burns' films. I really, really want to like Ken Burns's films. And yet—overall, National Parks: America's Best Idea showcases some of the best things about Burns—but alas more of the bad things.

Let's start with the good. The park photography is splendid. Burns is as ever a master of the use of panned still images—a technique he pioneered, and which now appears to be in the visual vocabulary of every documentary director. There is quite a lot of interesting information scattered over the 12 hours of this documentary.

But: Burns' most consistently interesting work—Empire of the Air, Horatio's Drive, The Shakers—has been in shorter films. The multi-episode long form brings out stretches of tedium and long and pointless digressions. To name several in National Parks—the Marion Anderson and Martin Luther King segments (justified by the happenstance that the Park Service manages the Lincoln Memorial); the segment about the couple who visited many different parks; and a great many of the "witnesses" or talking heads.

There is however a much deeper problem than discursiveness or peripheral topics. When I was at Harvard Business School in the early 1980s, one of my good friends was a post-doctoral student in earth sciences across the river. One evening, he told me "You are not going to believe this. The other day, I was at a faculty cocktail party—and overheard one faculty member say 'Don't you think that we have lost so much in going beyond the hunter-gatherer phase?'" In a nutshell, that is a splendid indicator of the mentality of Burns' core audience—a varying mix of snobbishness, neo-primitivism, nature worship, and general left-wing politics. Left-wing politics, you say? The enviro-version--"corporate greed". If that weren't a worn out theme--particularly to anyone with a shred of economic understanding.

The intellectual underpinning of Natural Parks fits with much of this complex of ideas. The presiding genius, the core thinker behind the film is John Muir, the naturalist who was largely responsible for the creation of Yosemite Natural Park. One becomes terribly tired of Muir. From Thoreau, he inherits the philosophic error—one might say curse—of solipsism. He couples that with a kind of Transcendental nature worship—for Muir, to say that Yosemite was a cathedral was not a metaphor, it was a statement of fact. Burns takes that point of view and never questions its validity.

We do have discussions of the two points of view around which national park policy revolves—on the one hand, accessibility and use by the American public, and, on the other, the wilderness, don't touch it at all, Thoreau-Muir-Sierra Club-Wilderness Society philosophy. There ought to be a healthy tension between the two—and yet Burns unquestioningly gravitate towards the latter. There is something deeply anti-democratic about this position—only the chosen few willing to abase themselves may be permitted a view of the wonders of these areas.

In fact, National Parks very neatly shows that a religious point of view has nothing to do with organized religion. In the film, a nature-worship reverence is posited as the "real" experience of the parks—or what should be the experience of the parts. Speaking personally, I have visited some 16 major parks and national monuments, and had a variety of reactions—aesthetic delight, scientific curiosity, scientific insight—but never nature worship reverence. And I daresay that I am not alone. And I daresay that my reaction is not invalid.

In a very real sense, National Parks is a polemic for the nature worship that begins with Thoreau and Muir—neither of them first rate philosophers, and neither of them first rate scientists beyond the descriptive and observational. This, perhaps, is what I dislike the most about this film. (Disclaimer: I was trained as a physicist.) A few other cavils—was it really necessary for virtually all of the male talking heads to wear flannel shirts and be bearded up to the eyebrows—a la Muir? And who are these "historians" and "writers"? You could have sliced out a good deal of the commentary and had a much better 8 hours film.

If you like this sort of a thing—well, that is the sort of thing you like. But I grow increasingly weary of literal pieties wrapped in pretty pictures—which seems to be Burns' inevitable direction. National Parks is a beautiful slide show with a tenth rate narration.

DVD Verdict (Blu-Ray) [Clark Douglas]

There is perhaps no documentary filmmaker who has earned as much regard from the American public as Ken Burns. Though some may prefer the intense originality of Werner Herzog or the thoughtful beauty of Errol Morris or the entertainingly fiery passion of Michael Moore, Burns stands tall as the official king of the form. His film The Civil War is still regarded one of the great documentaries of all time, and his intensely comprehensive and well-researched miniseries such as Baseball, Jazz, and The War have earned similar acclaim. Now Burns returns with The National Parks: America's Best Idea, a typically sweeping 12-hour undertaking in which Burns and writer/producer Dayton Duncan examine the history of our national parks in that stirringly heartfelt manner that is so closely associated with Burns' work.

The National Parks is more than just a chronicling of the history of these parks; it's a poetic and passionate art piece that attempts to engage the viewer on every level. It is a collection of facts, it is a sequence of dreams, it is a reflective celebration of nature, and it is a surprisingly spiritual affair. A great deal of time is spent reflecting on the idea that we are looking at the best of God's handiwork; thus making the preservation of our national parks not only an attempt to protect Mother Nature but a form of spiritual warfare on earth. It's God's mighty Parks and Recreation warriors against Satan's rapists of the environment, and the battle is underscored by endlessly grandiose poetry and an equally endless collection of melancholic folk music fiddling. There is little interest shown in the specific natural factors that played a role in creating some of our national wonders. Instead, we hear from individuals who wax eloquent while tossing out phrases like "supernatural magic" and "God's paintbrush."

This mentality may frustrate the scientifically minded, but then again Burns and Duncan are not attempting to reach the scientists. As with the other Burns documentaries, this material is as accessible as possible. It's easy to imagine how a 12-hour documentary about national parks might become a bit dry after a while (honestly, doesn't the phrase "12-hour documentary about national parks" sound a bit like a punch line?), so I suppose it's unsurprising that Burns and co. do as much as possible in order to prevent the documentary from becoming clinical. Personally, I'm a little torn on the tone, as there were moments when I wanted The National Parks to ease up on the lofty purple prose and start digging into the meaty historical information again.

To be sure, there is a great deal of fascinating history contained within this sprawling beast. It's presented in chronological order, with each two-hour segment spotlighting the next chunk of time. The six two-hour episodes are spread across six Blu-ray discs.

Disc 1: The Scripture of Nature (1851-1890)
Disc 2: The Last Refuge (1890-1915)
Disc 3: The Empire of Grandeur (1915-1919)
Disc 4: Going Home (1920-1933)
Disc 5: Great Nature (1933-1945)
Disc 6: The Morning of Creation (1946-1980)

The first two discs spend a great deal of time focusing on the colorful life of John Muir, one of the earliest and most significant American environmentalists. We hear about his efforts in saving Yosemite Valley and other areas of importance, and his struggle to convince other Americans of the importance of preservation and conservation. It is interesting to note that making great strides in conservation was seemingly somewhat less difficult in what was often a rather closed-minded era. We hear about U.S. Presidents like Ulysses S. Grant, Teddy Roosevelt and Franklin D. Roosevelt making dramatic decisions and choosing to preserve massive sections of land, though not always with appropriate systems in place to actually protect the land they had decided to preserve. Though a lot has changed over the course of the last century, there is at least some measure of consistency in the battle over the preservation of national parks. There has always been a significant group of people passionate about defending some of America's greatest nature preserves, while there has also always been a significant group of people determined to take advantage of such land and exploit it for financial gain.

Over the course of the documentary, you will hear about the shifting political factors that played such a significant role in the battle to create and/or preserve various national parks, the various conservationist leaders that rose up to replace their predecessors as the years went on, the hotly-contested decisions made by the likes of FDR and Jimmy Carter during the 20th Century, the struggle to preserve certain endangered species living within the national parks, and of course examinations of the ways in which the national parks have affected the realms of art, politics, the economy, agriculture and the lives of many different American citizens. By the time I reached the conclusion of The National Parks, I confess that I was a bit fatigued due to soaking in such a massive amount of information in such a short span of time, but I was also impressed with the sheer ambition and generally strong level of craftsmanship contained within the project. Burns may be the sort of filmmaker who feels that the greatness of an effort is at least partially defined by its length, but taken in reasonable doses this is really engaging stuff.

The Blu-ray transfer is offered in 1080i rather than 1080p, but that considered, the transfer is generally strong. As with most other Burns documentaries, this one relies pretty heavily on new location footage, interviews with experts, archival footage and slow-panning shots across thousands of old photos. As such, the image is often only as good as the source material, but I was pleased with the richly detailed rendering of the photos. The most gorgeous moments are predictably the new sequences in which the camera wanders through the most majestic portion of a national park. Colors are vibrant and distinct while blacks are typically quite deep. The audio is excellent, as the effective period music blend quite nicely with the narration from the likes of Peter Coyote, Tom Hanks, Campbell Scott, and many other voice actors of note.

The supplemental package is actually very generous, particularly when you consider that many documentaries make their way to home video via bare-bones releases. The only slightly bothersome thing is that the supplements are spread across the entire set, so you'll have to pop in every disc if you want to see them all. Disc 1 offers "The Making of The National Parks," a 25-minute featurette offering thoughts from the filmmakers on the who, what, when, where, why and how of this production. On Disc 2 is another making-of featurette, "Capturing the Parks." Disc 3 presents a pleasant series of "Musical Journeys Through the National Parks." Disc 4 includes a handful of additional sequences and outtakes that were cut from the finished documentary. Disc 5 turns in a mini-documentary called "The National Parks: This is America." Finally, Disc 6 offers a handful of short films spotlighting specific areas: "San Antonio Missions: Keeping History Alive," "Yosimite's Buffalo Soldiers," "Mount Rushmore: Telling America's Stories," "Manazar: Never Again," and "City Kids in National Parks."

homevideo.about.com (Ivana Redwine) recommendation

San Francisco Chronicle [Tim Goodman]

THE CENTRAL PARK FIVE B+ 90

USA (119 mi) 2012 co-directors: Sarah Burns and David McMahon

Some may question the judgment of a female jogger running alone through New York’s Central Park at night, but no one doubts her right to jog on public grounds at any hour. Trisha Meili worked as an investment banker for Salomon Brothers in downtown Manhattan while living alone in an apartment on East 83rd Street, often working late, changing into her jogging clothes to run six or seven miles through Central Park. She was discovered at 1:30 am on the morning of April 20, 1989, where she was bound and gagged, nearly beaten to death, her skull crushed, her left eyeball smashed, dragged over 200 feet across the grass to a ravine where she was raped and left for dead, losing 75 percent of her blood by the time she arrived at a hospital where she was initially pronounced dead a few hours later. It was nearly two weeks before she awoke from a coma, remembering nothing about the event. By that time, five teenage boys, all black or Hispanic, including Kevin Richardson and Raymond Santana, 14, Yusef Salaam and Antron McCray, 15, and Kharey Wise, 16, had been charged with her rape assault and attempted murder. In a racially charged atmosphere, the newspapers plastered their pictures all over the papers, drawing intense media attention, described as part of a marauding gang of 25 black teen youths terrorizing New Yorkers, likened to wolf packs out on the loose chasing after bicyclists, assaulting pedestrians, some severely, in a heinous animalistic frenzy described as wilding, which was actually something one of the detectives misheard from one of the youths singing Tone Loc’s hip-hop version of “Wild Thing” Tone-Loc - Wild Thing [Official Video HD] - YouTube (4:21). Shortly afterwards, Donald Trump paid $85,000 for four full-page newspaper ads urging New Yorkers to “Bring Back the Death Penalty,” suggesting these kids needed to be executed for their crimes.

Each of the five were eventually convicted and served anywhere from five to 13 years in prison, despite no blood found on any of them and no matching DNA evidence, but all were subject to exhausting marathon police interrogations resulting in damaging confessions, including videotaped testimony, before the real rapist confessed to the crime, Matias Reyes, 17-years old at the time, the perpetrator of a string of rapes on the upper East Side neighborhood, including 5 additional rapes, one of whom he murdered, occurring after this incident before he was eventually apprehended in August later that same year. But it wasn’t until 2002, thirteen years later, that Reyes admitted to the crimes, where his semen and DNA evidence were a match, where the previous sentences were vacated and those still incarcerated were released. Ken Burns directs this film with his daughter Sarah Burns, and her husband David McMahon. Sarah interned with a couple of civil rights attorneys in 2003, where one of them was beginning to explore filing wrongful conviction lawsuits on this case, leading to a book she wrote in 2011, The Central Park Five: A Chronicle of a City Wilding. There’s always something humanly compelling about wrongful conviction cases, which is the central focus of this film, examining the continuing long-term ramifications of a miscarriage of justice. It’s the first time these five had a chance to finally tell their stories, which is the real dramatic power of the film, as Burns sympathetically humanizes them before our eyes, building a film around interview footage, including the thoughts of several journalists, family relatives, defense attorneys, two former mayors, Ed Koch and David Dinkins, and many explosive TV news reports seen during the time of their arrests. What’s missing (from the book as well) is a statement from anyone in the New York City Police Department or District Attorney’s office, as they refuse to go on record, likely due to a pending lawsuit, leaving gaping holes in the story, which remains unfinished.

Each of the five is suing the City of New York for $50 million dollars each, totalling a quarter of a million dollars, which the City refuses to pay, backing the actions of the detectives and attorneys, claiming their actions were completely professional, despite arresting and convicting the wrong guys. As incredulous as it may seem, the police department ran an investigation of their own in 2002 covering their own tracks, finding no wrongdoing whatsoever, “There was no wrongdoing or malice on the part of the prosecutors or the detectives who conducted the investigation. On the contrary, they did solid police work,” still believing from their original confessions that these five had knowledge of the scene of the crime, suggesting they may have had a hand in beating the woman to a pulp before she was raped by somebody else. In their eyes, despite the vacated sentences, they’re still guilty. According to Sarah Burns in her book, the report was intended as political cover. “As far as I can tell, the only people who claim the five had something to do with it have an investment in that outcome.” All of which sheds light on the kind of mistakes society is willing to accept, where that same year, a woman was raped and tossed off a roof in the Bronx and this received little media attention, but a white woman raped by a gang of black youth, this becomes a salacious historical angle, recalling Emmett Till or The Trials of The Scottsboro Boys in the Jim Crow South where blacks used to get lynched on the spot or murdered without a trial for so much as looking at a white girl. According to historian Craig Steven Wilder, a specialist in black urban history, after all is said and done, what’s truly perplexing about this case is “Rather than tying [the case] up in a bow and thinking that there was something we can take away from it, and that we’ll be better people, I think what we really need to realize is that we’re not very good people. And we’re often not.”

Village Voice [Casey Burchby]

Co-directed by Sarah Burns, her dad, Ken, and David McMahon, this documentary revives New York's fear of crime and race paranoia circa 1989 to help explain why five teenage boys were wrongly convicted of the violent rape and beating of Trisha Meili—despite a lack of physical evidence tying them to the crime and the presence of exculpatory DNA. The prosecution's case was built on confessions extracted from the accused after long hours of undocumented interrogation. Years later, the real rapist came forward and proved a match for the long-since-mothballed DNA evidence. The central power of the film comes from hearing the accused finally telling their own stories. Their on-camera statements reflect one of Ken Burns's great strengths as a filmmaker (and interviewer), and the team effort here continues to fit the "talking head" format to revelatory journalism, despite years of bastardization by the likes of the History Channel. The film is built around this interview footage, complemented with reflections by journalists, relatives of the accused, defense attorneys, and former mayors Ed Koch and David Dinkins. Because the filmmakers were unable to enlist anyone from the NYPD or the DA's office to participate, we are left with the sense that mistakes of this magnitude require those in error to hide from them. The film presents the facts of the case with clarity that seems startling, all these years later, and there is no way to avoid the conclusion of historian Craig Steven Wilder: "Rather than tying [the case] up in a bow and thinking that there was something we can take away from it, and that we'll be better people, I think what we really need to realize is that we're not very good people."

The Central Park Five Lee Marshall at Cannes from Screendaily

New York’s Central Park Jogger case of 1989 galvanised public and media attention in a crime-ridden city reeling from a wave of violence, much of it associated with the arrival of crack cocaine and the ensuing gangland drug wars. The brutal assault and rape of a young and successful Upper East Side white woman who had been jogging in the park was seen as a symbolic line in the sand, and the trial of five black and Latino youths aged between 14 and 16 who had confessed to the crime became loaded with symbolic agendas, the more racist of which were hidden behind a thin veneer of political correctness.

Handed down sentences of between six and 13 years despite the lack of any evidence except their own contradictory confessions, all five served complete terms before another man – a serial rapist whose DNA matched traces found on the victim – confessed to the crime. This stirring, well-researched and good-looking documentary, which played out of competition in Cannes, charts the case and its fallout from the point of view of the five wrongly convicted youths, now in their thirties.

It’s a gripping story that comes in a well-crafted package, and although many viewers may end up seeing it on smaller screens (it was part-funded by PBS), the film has what it takes to interest specialised theatrical documentary distributors.

What makes The Central Park Five more than just a campaigning story about a miscarriage of justice is its focus on the why as well as the what: why was the police work so shoddy, why were the underage defendants’ rights not respected, why did the judge and the jury allow inconsistent and inaccurate confessions to trump witness and DNA evidence?

If Michael Moore had taken on the subject he would have told us the answers in no uncertain terms. Here, however, with the exception of some explanatory captions, the three directors eschew the bullying tactics of off-screen narration in favour of a deftly edited and interleaved series of interviews.

As well as the five wrongly convicted men (only one of whom refused to appear on-screen), we hear from relatives, lawyers, journalists who covered the case, a social psychologist, a historian who specialises in racial issues, one of the jurors, and Ed Koch, who was mayor of New York at the time. The interview-only tactic builds authority, and leaves the audience free to draw their own conclusions about how social and political pressure can create narratives of guilt that become self-sustaining.

There’s also plenty of emotion, however, in the accounts of the five men and their relations; they recount their stories with quiet dignity, sometimes choking up as they relive painful memories. Archive footage is also deployed to good effect – most devastatingly when we see the youngsters’ actual videotaped confessions from 1989, as filmed in the police station early in the morning after all-night interrogations by battle-hardened homicide detectives. The HD camerawork is crisp and cinematic, while Doug Wamble’s partly acoustic soundtrack discreetly underscores the film’s emotional arc.

“The Central Park Five”: New York's darkest hour - Salon.com Andrew O’Hehir

If you lived in New York in 1989 – hell, if you lived in America in 1989 and were over 12 years old – then you remember the story of the Central Park jogger. It was a terrible case that seemed to epitomize everything that had gone wrong in America’s greatest city during the reigns of Ronald Reagan and George H.W. Bush — the toxic combination of exploding Wall Street wealth, skyrocketing crime, the crack epidemic and worsening racial tension. This was the “Bonfire of the Vanities” New York, the “American Psycho” New York, in which newly created or reinforced classes, the super-rich and the alienated poor, faced off in nearly open warfare. The legendary power of that failing city is such that many contemporary visitors to New York still expect the Bronx to be on fire and Central Park to be an uninhabited zone of “muggers and trash,” in the words of my mother-in-law, and are startled by the affluent chain-store bustle of 21st century Manhattan.

Indeed, the jogger case did capture much of what was wrong with New York and America, but not exactly the way we thought it did at the time. It illustrated the way we respond to powerful narratives about race, sex and gender, even when they turn out not to make sense. It represented a massive failure of law enforcement, journalism and public imagination, and it led to the last major wrongful-conviction case of the 20th century. As is eerily depicted in “The Central Park Five,” a new film co-directed by legendary documentarian Ken Burns, his daughter Sarah Burns and David McMahon, what happened to a 28-year-old investment banker named Trisha Meili on a pleasant April night in 1989 fed all too perfectly into the public’s anxiety and hysteria.

Meili went running from her Upper East Side apartment through Central Park that evening, as she often did. Partway through her run, she was assaulted on a lonely stretch of park road and was severely beaten with a heavy object, stripped naked, raped and left for dead. When she was found a few hours later in the woods near 92nd Street, she was close to death from hypothermia and blood loss, and her skull had been so badly fractured that one eye was out of its socket. That she survived at all was remarkable; that she regained most of her faculties and an adult level of physical and mental competence was a miracle. (Meili revealed her name in 2003 when she published a book, but such was the divisiveness of the case that black-oriented newspapers and radio stations had already made it public, in defiance of the usual convention.)

Very rapidly – much too rapidly, in retrospect – the police rounded up a group of teenage boys, a subset of a much larger group of 25 or 30 kids from Harlem who had apparently been roaming through the park that night, up to no good. Some of the boys had attacked a homeless person, a couple riding bicycles and a male jogger near the Central Park Reservoir (although, to be clear, the kids accused of the Meili rape insist they had nothing to do with any of that). As longtime New York newspaper columnist Jim Dwyer observes in the Burns film, what happened next was understandable: The Meili attack occurred not far away from where teenage boys were known to have assaulted other people at about the same time. From a law enforcement point of view, it was logical to assume, at least initially, that there was a connection.

And so it was that five juvenile defendants, all of them between 14 and 16 years old – Antron McCray, Kevin Richardson, Yusef Salaam, Raymond Santana and Korey Wise – became the focus of an entire city’s pent-up frustration about crime and urban decay. The symbolism was just too much: five dark-skinned youths running wild in the night versus a slight, pretty, high-achieving white woman who worked for Salomon Brothers. New York’s tabloid headline writers and TV talking heads went nuts, unleashing animalistic stereotypes that seemed to belong to the Jim Crow South rather than a modern, multicultural city that was about to elect its first black mayor. The teenagers were repeatedly described as a “wolf pack” engaged in a ritual gang activity called “wilding” (a term possibly made up or misheard by a police officer).

Feminist activists, understandably angry about the slipshod or careless investigation and prosecution of sex crimes, jumped on board. The prosecutors assigned to the case, Linda Fairstein and Elizabeth Lederer, were legitimate female pioneers and made it clear that this case would be different. After police announced that four of the five kids had confessed to the assault — following a day and a night of sleepless and lawyerless interrogation – it essentially never entered anyone’s mind that they might not have done it. Then-mayor Ed Koch, to his everlasting shame, went on TV and urged people not to believe the defendants’ mothers’ protestations of innocence. As the Rev. Calvin Butts, one of New York’s most eminent black preachers, puts it, many African-Americans had become afraid of their own children in those years, and most people in the black community were content to surrender these boys to their fate and move on. (Four of the five defendants were African-American, while Santana is mostly of Latino heritage.)

All four of the boys who had confessed recanted before trial, saying they had been coerced into implicating each other in a crime they knew nothing about. Even more strikingly, Fairstein and Lederer had no physical evidence linking the boys to the victim, which was remarkable considering the amount of blood and other bodily fluids found at the scene. Semen found in the victim’s body did not match any of the defendants, and no traces of her blood, hair or skin could be found on any of them. (In fact, even in 1989 the crime-scene analysis indicated that all the DNA evidence found on Meili’s body came from a single, unknown person.) So the entire case rested on an incoherent web of confessions that were contradictory on nearly every detail: The boys could not agree on what Meili looked like, what she was wearing, where or when she had been assaulted, or who had done what to her. As Dwyer notes, the chronology of events that police provided to journalists didn’t make sense, and it even provided a likely alibi: Meili’s running route would have brought her to the place where she was assaulted around 9:20 p.m., when the defendants had been seen by multiple witnesses near the reservoir, about half a mile further south.

None of that mattered. All five were convicted and served prison terms ranging from 6 to 12 years, and to this day quite a few people insist that they are “most likely” guilty (to borrow the weasel words of an internal NYPD investigation). That’s despite the fact that in 2002 Matias Reyes, a serial rapist with multiple convictions, confessed to the crime, providing specifics that no one else could have known and that closely fit the forensic evidence. (He was already serving a life sentence and had little to lose.) His DNA, which police and prosecutors had in their files all along, was a perfect match with the samples found on Meili.

Relying on Dwyer’s reporting of the case, interviews with other experts and extensive discussion with the five defendants, who are now adult men in their 30s (McCray declined to appear on camera, but his voice is heard), “The Central Park Five” should go a long way toward demolishing any remaining doubt about guilt or innocence in this 23-year-old rape case that has cast such a long shadow. As Dwyer says, the coverage of the five men’s official exoneration in 2003 (when a judge ordered their convictions vacated) was arguably worse than the coverage of the initial case. It was plagued with resentment, resistance and denial, as if we didn’t want to face the fact that this perfect story of New York’s nightmare years had turned into another kind of story altogether: a story of racism, paranoia and groupthink; a story of injustice piled on top of injury and of one terrible wrong compounded by another.

"A Journey Through the Tangled Case of the Central Park Jogger" Sydney H. Schanberg from The Village Voice, November 19, 2002

"Convictions and Charges Voided In '89 Central Park Jogger Attack" Susan Saulny from The New York Times, December 20, 2002

BOYS' GUILT LIKELY IN RAPE OF JOGGER, POLICE PANEL SAYS Robert D. McFadden from The New York Times, January 28, 2003

The thin blue lie in The Central Park Five | Movie Review | Chicago ... JR Jones from The Chicago Reader

PopMatters [Cynthia Fuchs]

The Central Park Five Reminds Us There Is No Singular New York ... Nicolas Rapold from The Village Voice

Central Park 5 still seeking justice in NYC jogger case | theGrio David A. Love from The Grio, May 3, 2011

Two decades later, Central Park Jogger rape case lives on Joseph Ax from Thomas Reuters News & Insight, December 6, 2012

"Certainties and Unlikelihoods: The Central Park Jogger, 2002" Mark Goldblatt from The National Review, December 16, 2002

Ken Burns co-directs the powerful documentary 'The Central Park Five' Peter Rainer from The Christian Science Monitor

World Socialist Web Site [Joanne Laurier]

"The Central Park Five” Speak for Themselves - Cinespect : Cinespect Christopher McCallion

“Hyde Park on Hudson,” “The Central Park Five” Reviews : The New ... David Denby from The New Yorker

Slant Magazine [Joseph Jon Lanthier]

indieWIRE [Eric Kohn]

SBS Film [Michelle Orange]

Film School Rejects [Simon Gallagher]

The Central Park Five | Killing Them Softly | Unblinking Eye on ... Joe Morgenstern from The Wall Street Journal

ReelTalk [Donald Levit]

In Review Online [Kenji Fujishima]

Movie Reviews - 'The Central Park Five' - Ken Burns Tackles ... - NPR Mark Jenkins

The A.V. Club [Noel Murray]

Mark Reviews Movies [Mark Dujsik]

The Central Park Five (2012) Movie Review from Eye for Film Jennie Kermode

ColeSmithey.com [Cole Smithey]

FRR [Michael Pattison]

Ozus' World Movie Reviews [Dennis Schwartz]

Film-Forward.com [Lisa Bernier]

The Central Park Five - Documentaries - About.com Jennifer Merin

Smells Like Screen Spirit [Don Simpson]

The Hollywood Reporter [David Rooney]

TV Guide [Perry Seibert]

Variety [Alissa Simon]

Time Out New York [Joshua Rothkopf]

Review: The Central Park Five - Reviews - Boston Phoenix Gerald Peary

'The Central Park Five' review - Courant.com Matt Pais from The Hartford Courant

Ken Burns examines 'Central Park Five' case - SFGate Pam Grady

Pasadena Art Beat [Jana J. Monji] also seen here: Examiner.com [Jana J. Monji]

A voice at last for 'Central Park Five' - latimes.com - Los Angeles Times Steven Zeitchik, November 28, 2012

The Central Park Five - Roger Ebert - Chicago Sun-Times

New York Times [Manohla Dargis]

Central Park Jogger case - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Jogger's Attackers Terrorized at Least 9 in 2 Hours - The New York ... David E. Pitt from The New York Times, April 22, 1989

Rage Before Race How Feminists Faltered on the Central Park Jogger Case, by Rivka Gewirtz Little from The Village Voice, October 15, 2002

Marked as the Enemy Central Park Five Members Speak, by Dasun Allah, from The Village Voice, November 5, 2002

Across 110th Street Changed Lives Among Central Park Five Family Members, by Rivka Gewirtz Little from The Village Voice, November 5, 2002

Ash-Blond Ambition Prosecutor Linda Fairstein May Have Tried Too Hard, by Rivka Gewirtz Little from The Village Voice, November 19, 2002

Reyes set self on fire in 1992 - New York Daily News Robert Ingrassia, December 8, 2002

CNN.com - 'Central Park Jogger' speaks out - Apr. 24, 2003 CNN News, April 24, 2003

I Am the Central Park Jogger: A Story of Hope and Possibility book excerpts from Brainline, April 2008

A Story of Hope and Possibility - Trisha Meili: About Trisha 2009

Trisha Meili: Going the Distance Victoria Tilney McDonough from Brainline, April, 2009

Central Park Jogger Still Running 20 Years Later - NYTimes.com April 20, 2009

"Central Park Jogger case forever changed innocent victims & the city" Patrice O’Shaughnessy from The NY Daily News, April 12, 2009, also seen here: Central Park Jogger recalls nothing of attack, but is now 'happy and ...

"Ken Burns, the Voice of the Wilderness" Elizabeth Jensen from The New York Times, September 10, 2009

'I am the Central Park Jogger' - Dateline NBC - Books | NBC News book review from NBC, April 6, 2011

"New York Won't Settle Suits in Central Park Jogger Case" John Eligon from The New York Times, April 19, 2011

Trisha Meili, the Central Park Jogger, tells of recovering her life ... book review from The Cleveland Plain Dealer, May 15, 2011

"City Subpoenas Film Outtakes as It Defends Suit by Men Cleared in ’89 Rape" Russ Buettner from The New York Times, October 2, 2012

With de Blasio elected, justice on horizon for “Central Park 5 ... Natasha Lennard from Salon, November 13, 2013

Report: The 'Central Park 5' and New York City Reach $40 ... Tambay A. Obenson from indieWIRE, June 19, 2014

5 Exonerated in Central Park Jogger Case Agree to Settle Suit for $40 Million The New York Times, June 19, 2014

Your Evening Briefing The New York Times, June 10, 2014

The 'Central Park Five' Settling Jogger Case for $40 Million Denver Nicks from Time magazine, June 20, 2014

'Central Park 5' Win $40 Million From NYC For False ... Scott Neuman from NPR, June 20, 2014

Central Park Five To Receive $40 Million Over Wrongful Rape Conviction Jen Chung from The Gothamist, June 20, 2014

NYC's $40M Central Park 5 Settlement Resolves Wrongful ... court transcript by Natalie Byfield from Democracy Now, June 20, 2014

Donald Trump Doesn't Care if You're Innocent Matt Ford from The Atlantic, October 7, 2016

Donald Trump Keeps Smearing The Long-Since Exonerated Central Park Five Goldie Taylor from The Daily Beast, October 7, 2016

Ken Burns Blasts Donald Trump Over Comments on Central Park Five: "The Height of Vulgarity" Seth Abramovitch from The Hollywood Reporter, October 7, 2016

Central Park jogger case - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

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The Trials of The Scottsboro Boys Douglas O. Linder

American Experience | Scottsboro: An American Tragedy | Timeline

JACKIE ROBINSON – made for TV A- 93

USA (240 mi) 2016 co-directors: Sarah Burns and David McMahon Jackie Robinson PBS page

A return to form for documentary filmmaker Ken Burns, whose earlier film BASEBALL (1994) barely covered the life of Jackie Robinson, despite nearly 19-hours in 11 exhausting episodes, so this is a more extensive portrait, becoming analogous to an exploration of the changing race relations in America, as Robinson’s life is characterized not only by the abject horrors of the journey, but the ability to transcend prejudice and bigotry with an extraordinary talent on the playing field. Targeted with death threats and venomous race-baiting, Robinson was living out the last vestiges of the Jim Crow era in the South where blacks could not stay in the same hotels or eat in the same restaurants as whites, so traveling with the team became a lonely and particularly isolating journey, where these laws were designed to humiliate and punish blacks for their supposed inferiority. Robinson’s stature, however, transcends sports, as he almost single handedly dispelled the notion of black inferiority, where his Hall of Fame career spoke for itself, becoming a role model for courage and grace, both on and off the field as he opened doors, calling into question the senseless injustice of a segregated white and black America, becoming a good will ambassador for integration and equality, an advocate for Civil Rights, where his life serves as a personal and professional inspiration, posthumously awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom and the Congressional Gold Medal. What’s particularly noteworthy in this film is the distinguished presence of Rachel Robinson, Jackie’s surviving widow, who at age 93 remains as sharp and alert as ever, as her own perceptions add an extraordinary dimension to the complexities of her husband’s life, as she shared most all of these moments with him along the way. First Lady Michelle Obama notes in the film, while sitting alongside President Obama, “I think that’s a sign of his character that he chose a woman that was his equal. I don’t think you would have had Jackie Robinson without Rachel. To go back and have refuge with someone who you know has your back, that’s priceless.”

Born Jack Roosevelt Robinson (where his middle name was in honor of the President who died just 25 days before he was born), the youngest son of a sharecropper and the grandson of slaves, Robinson was 14 months old in 1920 when his father abandoned the family, so his mother moved her five children from the small town of Cairo, Georgia to Pasadena, a wealthy suburb of Los Angeles, where she found work as a maid. Moving to an all-white neighborhood, the family faced constant harassment, including burned crosses on their front yard, but they refused to move. The neighborhood pool was for whites only, where blacks, Asian, and Latino kids could use it once a week on “International Day,” where the pool was drained and scrubbed cleaned afterwards before opening again the next day for the exclusive use of whites. Robinson learned early on that athletic success did not guarantee acceptance in American society, as his older brother Mack was an exceptional athlete and a track standout, earning a Silver Medal in the 200 meters at the 1936 Olympics in Berlin, finishing just 0.4 seconds behind Jessie Owens, yet the only job he could find afterwards was as a street sweeper and ditch digger, despite having a college education. Jackie attended Pasadena Junior College, playing alongside mostly white athletes, before transferring to UCLA, becoming the school’s first varsity athlete to earn letters in four sports, football, basketball, baseball, and track, winning the national title in the long jump at the 1940 NCAA Men's Track and Field Championships. Ironically, baseball was Robinson’s “worst sport” at UCLA, hitting only .097 in his only season, although he went 4-for-4 in his first game and stole home twice. Twice he led the Pacific Coast League in scoring in basketball, while he was such a threat to score in football, one of only four blacks on the team, that a rival coach from Oregon claimed, “I guess you’ve got to have a mechanized cavalry unit to stop this guy.” He was a football All-American and, along with Jim Thorpe, a contender for the greatest all-around athlete in American history. Robinson left school in 1941 once his baseball eligibility ran out, without graduating, against the wishes of his future wife, Rachel Isum, who he met as an entering freshman when he was a senior.

After the attack on Pearl Harbor, Robinson was drafted and applied for Officer Candidate School in Fort Riley, Kansas, where blacks were routinely rejected at the time until the intervention of Heavyweight Boxing champion Joe Louis, who was also stationed there, eventually led to his acceptance, quickly leading to a personal friendship between the two men. Robinson was commissioned as a second lieutenant in 1943, became engaged with Rachel shortly afterwards, and was reassigned to Fort Hood in Texas. It was there that a white Army bus driver ordered Robinson to move to the back of a military bus, which he refused, more than a decade before Rosa Parks refused a similar request in Montgomery, Alabama in 1955, which led to his arrest and a recommended court-martial, adding on additional charges, including insubordination and public drunkenness, though Robinson did not drink. Robinson, who described himself as “the kind of Negro who isn’t going to beg for anything,” was eventually acquitted of all charges. The court proceedings, however, kept him stateside, while the unit he was assigned to, the 761st "Black Panthers" Tank Battalion, were the first black tank unit sent into combat during the war. As most of the military training facilities were located in the Deep South, the black trainees were forced to train over several years, while whites were being sent overseas after just a few months, making them subject to hostile acts of violent racism, including beatings and even murder. Rachel graduated from UCLA in 1945 with a degree in nursing and the couple was married a year later, a year before he broke into the big leagues, as he was instead playing baseball for the Kansas City Monarchs in the Negro Leagues, offered an obligatory tryout with the Boston Red Sox at Fenway Park, which was largely a political show to appease black newspapers and desegregationists, with no intentions of ever giving him a shot, as he was routinely subjected to racial taunts throughout. The Red Sox were actually the last team in Major League Baseball to sign a black player in 1959. While there were other black players with bigger names, like Josh Gibson and Satchel Page, it was Robinson who was selected, largely for how solidly grounded he was with a stable marriage. After a lengthy discussion with Branch Rickey, Brooklyn Dodger President and General Manager, who “was looking for a soldier,” according to Rachel, where he famously lays down the law, explaining the turn-the-other-cheek scenario in the first few years requiring Robinson not to respond to the racial animosity that would inevitably come his way, telling him “I want a ball player with guts enough not to fight back,” Robinson was assigned to the Montreal Royals as the first black player in the Brooklyn Dodger farm club of the International Leagues, where he led the league with a .349 batting average while also being named the Most Valuable Player.

Rachel Robinson recounts the ordeal of reporting to Jackie’s first spring training in Daytona, Florida just two weeks after their wedding, where the trip amounted to their honeymoon, flying from Los Angeles to New Orleans, where they were bumped off their connecting flight to make room for white passengers, leaving them stranded at the New Orleans airport where none of the restaurants would serve them. Anticipating this, Rickey met them there offering a bucket of fried chicken, which they graciously accepted, making it last throughout their ordeal. Eventually taking a flight to Pensacola, Florida, with a connecting flight to nearby Jacksonville, they were ordered off the plane to make room for two white passengers. With little recourse, they boarded a bus for Jacksonville, where the driver, calling him by the racial slur “boy,” ordered them to move to the back of the bus, as the front seats reclined, but not in the rear. After a long and arduous journey through a part of the country where blacks who challenged discrimination were often jailed, beaten, or murdered, with six blacks lynched in 1946 (Lynching Statistics), and more than 20 others were rescued from angry mobs, they finally made it to Daytona Beach, where Robinson was so angered and humiliated that he was ready to quit. Only after talking to journalists Wendell Smith and Billy Rowe from The Pittsburgh Courier, a black newspaper avidly following his story, was he convinced that he had to endure these indignities so others after him would have opportunities that were closed to him now. Robinson, the only player allowed to bring his wife, was not allowed to stay with his teammates in the same hotel, so instead the newlyweds stayed in the home of a pharmacist and influential black politician, Joe Harris, known as the “Negro Mayor of Daytona Beach.” Making matters worse, only Daytona Beach allowed him to play on the field, and even there he received death threats, while in nearby towns, the Sanford police chief threatened to close the facilities if Robinson appeared, and in Jacksonville the team arrived only to find the stadium padlocked. During his time in the Negro Leagues, Robinson displayed a defiant spirit, sitting at a segregated lunch counter at Woolworths where he would not move until he was served, refusing to sit in the balcony at movie theaters, the designated area for blacks, while also refusing to buy gas from gas stations that prohibited blacks from using the rest room facilities. Of interest, in the same year of 1946, Robinson’s backfield teammate at UCLA, Kenny Washington, became the first black player to sign a contract with the NFL in the modern (postwar) era. The following year, just days before the start of the season, Robinson was called up to the major leagues at the relatively advanced age of 28, starting at first base for the Brooklyn Dodgers, making his major league debut at Ebbets Field on April 15, 1947 before a crowd of 26,000 spectators, which included 14,000 especially excited black fans. 50 years later, the city of Sanford issued a public apology to Jackie Robinson and proclaimed that day Jackie Robinson Day. Major League Baseball followed suit officially retiring his number on April 15, 1997, adopting a tradition of Jackie Robinson Day in 2004 where baseball celebrates his legacy every year on April 15^th, a day many players elect to wear number 42 in his honor. The last player to wear the number 42 year-round was New York Yankees closer Mariano Rivera, an All-Star Panamanian pitcher who retired after the 2013 season.

Early in his career Armed Forces veteran Robinson was called upon to testify before the House Committee on Un-American Activities in 1949 as a stark contrast to singer and black activist Paul Robeson’s claim that black Americans wouldn’t fight for their country, where he was largely duped by reactionary conservative politicians to undermine a man with a huge black following in Robeson, leading to his eventual blacklisting, this at a time when Robinson was still not allowed to shower with his teammates, forced to accept a locker off to the side in the corner of the clubhouse. But others coming up after him looked to Robinson with hope, thinking now they might get a chance, where the weight of carrying an entire race on one man’s shoulders is never really fathomable to the rest of us, where he certainly felt the weight, according to Rachel, as “He knew if he failed that social progress was going to get set back.” Described by New York Post sports journalist Jimmy Cannon as “the loneliest man I’ve ever seen in sports,” the only way he could fight back was to do well on the field and help his team win, something he did brilliantly throughout his storied career. As President Obama notes in the film, “Jackie Robinson laid the foundation for America to see its black citizens as subjects and not just objects. It meant that there were 6, 7, and 8-year-old boys who suddenly thought a black man was a hero.” While there is famous footage of Robinson at age 36 stealing home in the 1955 World Series, there is also a considerable post career look at his life after baseball, where he served on the board of the NAACP, supported Richard Nixon in the 1960 Presidential campaign, as he attended the 1960 Democratic National Convention, where he heard reports that Kennedy was serious about civil rights, but after seeing him prominently sit arch-segregationist Arkansas Governor Orval Faubus on stage with him, Robinson walked out in disgust, but he later praised Kennedy for the action he took on civil rights, and was disappointed and angered by the conservative Republican opposition to the Civil Rights Act of 1964, eventually becoming a voice for black economic progress, but had his run-ins with Malcolm X, the Black Panthers, and other black activists that felt he was out of touch with the movement, calling him an “Uncle Tom.” A lifelong Republican because the Democratic Party’s Dixiecrat wing ran his family out of Georgia, he became one of six national directors for the unsuccessful 1964 Presidential campaign of Republican Governor Nelson Rockefeller in New York, leaving the Republican Party convention completely demoralized when the nominee chosen was Senator Barry Goldwater of Arizona, where Robinson witnessed firsthand, “out of thirteen hundred delegates, 15 were black, and of those 15, one had his credentials revoked and another had cigarettes put out on him by Goldwater supporters,” claiming in his 1972 biography I Never Had It Made that he now had “a better understanding of how it must have felt to be a Jew in Hitler’s Germany,” eventually switching parties and supporting Hubert Humphrey against Nixon in 1968. According to director Ken Burns, “Robinson was there in 1960 and 1964 when the two parties switched sides on the Southern white vote, and that’s a huge moment in American history. He witnessed it firsthand.”

With Keith David delivering the narration, and Jamie Foxx reading from Robinson’s letters or columns, we get a fuller picture of just what drove the man, as he continued to fight against racism and rail against inequality well after his career was over, where he worked as a business executive, the first black to serve as vice president of a major American corporation, helped found a minority-owned bank, wrote a regular newspaper column, and was politically involved. Delving more into his family history and the relationship with his wife and children, eventually buying a house in Connecticut, we hear the voices of his now grown daughter Sharon and his son David as they reveal a deep sense of anguish felt by their father at his inability to connect with the emotionally distant Jackie Robinson Jr. who had a history of drug abuse, yet was well on his way to an apparent recovery before a car accident took his life at the age of 24, where there is an unseen backside exposed like never before, making him all the more vulnerable and human, as his life is anything but perfect or heroic. Even as a player, Robinson didn’t always remain quietly passive, becoming more aggressively argumentative after his first few years, challenging umpires and opposing players, where his innate personality opened up, but his outspokenness drew the ire of once-adoring fans and beat writers who preferred his passivity and accused him of being “uppity” or ungrateful, where his own black teammate Roy Campanella felt his combativeness on the field was often divisive and hurt the team. “Without that anger, you don’t get Jackie Robinson,” suggests sportswriter Howard Bryant, while according to Rachel, “He was not an angry black man. He was an athlete who wanted to win.” Robinson, who spent his entire Major League career (1947 to 1956) with the Dodgers, was voted Rookie of the Year in 1947 and Most Valuable Player in 1949, when he won the National League batting title with a .342 batting average, becoming an All-Star for six consecutive seasons beginning in 1949, receiving more votes that year than any player except Ted Williams. With a .311 career batting average, he led the Dodgers to six pennants, helped win a World Series in 1955, and was elected to the National Baseball Hall of Fame in 1962. While Brian Helgeland’s Hollywood movie 42 (2013) offers a glimpse into the racism and discrimination that Robinson encountered, even from his own teammates, during his Major League career where more than a third of the league’s players at that time hailed from former Confederate states, this film offers a much more extensive portrait behind the scenes of a man who endured the neverending assault of racial attacks to lay the groundwork for the acceptance of blacks in America, fighting tirelessly for more black managers and executives in the game of baseball, where Martin Luther King Jr. called Robinson “a sit-inner before sit-ins, a freedom rider before freedom rides,” eventually becoming an active spokesperson and fundraiser in the Civil Rights movement, joining King at the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in the March on Washington in 1963 attended by 250,000 people hearing King’s historic “I Have a Dream” speech. He’s a man that helped blacks believe that things they could not imagine were now possible, where Robinson took the hateful insults, racial slurs, death threats and abuse and made it just a little bit easier for the next person of color to become the “first” or second in their school or workplace. Again, according to Burns, explaining his overriding interest in making the film, “Jackie Robinson is the apostle of our better selves and is the apostle of the better angels of our nation.”

Ken Burns' Jackie Robinson: A Timely and Snappy Portrait ... Ian Dawe from Sequart, April 14, 2016

Longtime fans of Ken Burns know that the legendary documentary filmmaker can produce works of great beauty and power, but sometimes falls prey to sentimentality and repetitive, unsubtle narratives. Luckily, his new film Jackie Robinson catches him at his best, and is probably his best short-form (“short” means “only four-hour”) film since Unforgivable Blackness.

One might think Burns has little more to say about Robinson, given how much time the baseball hero gets in Burns’ 22-hour series Baseball, so one of the most pleasant surprises here is now much of the material touches fresh notes in Robinson’s biography. Of course, Robinson’s baseball career takes up over half of the total running time, featured in the last 90 minutes of Part I and the first hour of Part II, and Burns does cover many of the same events he did in Baseball, even pulling some of the interview footage from his 1994 film, which allows Buck O’Neil to take a victory lap in a new film, among others. But even here Burns finds new material, particularly with regards to Robinson’s struggles towards the end of his baseball career, and his uneasy transition out of the sport and on to later business and political interests.

The last hour of Part II gives us a ground-level view of the great civil rights struggles of the 1960s, for which Robinson was on the front lines, along with his remarkable wife Rachel and young family. Robinson wasn’t without contradictions (few American heroes are), such as backing Richard Nixon in 1960 and finding himself slightly out of touch with the more muscular and culturally assertive African American culture that emerged toward the end of that decade, but he showed immense dedication and courage as a celebrity activist.

Burns keeps the pace surprisingly snappy all the way through, taking a very quick tour through Robinson’s childhood and through many of the machinations that got him into Major League Baseball in 1947. Burns seems to presume that the viewer is familiar with the sport and its business operations (never explaining, for example, the distinction between an owner and a manager), as well as its segregated history (the Negro League is mentioned, but a description of its fast, intelligent style of play feels cursory). This is probably a fair assumption for anyone wanting to learn about Robinson, and is of a piece with his larger-scale view of the man and his times. Baseball was only one of the things that Jackie Robinson worked for and did with his life. The political machinations that play out in the last half of Part II set the stage for some very current political issues (George Will explains how Robinson, among others, was responsible for leading African Americans away from the Republican party) and the interviews with President and Mrs Obama throughout do not seem out of place. Robinson had a large life indeed.

Other notable talking heads are Burns’ usual cast of historians and baseball veterans, many of whom can be seen in Unforgivable Blackness and, of course, Baseball, but the most remarkable voice here is Rachel Robinson herself. Vivacious, articulate, witty and extremely clear-minded, Mrs Robinson, now 93, provides a key eye-witness to everything the film discusses and she, along with two of her children, speak very admirably for Jackie. Through them, one gets a very tangible sense of how the man would have wanted his story to be told, and what he would have had to say, looking back from today on the events of his life.

Robinson was far from perfect, but his fiercely determined eyes shine through all the footage and photographs we’re shown of this remarkable American. He made mistakes, and had weaknesses, by his own admission, in business affairs and generally with his temper, but once he committed to something, he was in it to win. That never changed about him, even has he was struck with family tragedy, changing times and finally serious health problems that brought his life to a premature end. Ken Burns finds a creative way to explore the issue at the heart of so much of the American conversation – race – that is neither sentimental nor strident, but simply a story that needs to be told, through the eyes of someone who did his best to negotiate his own path through history.

Ken Burns on Jackie Robinson and the Republican Party's ... Ken Burns on Jackie Robinson and the Republican Party’s Pact with the Devil, by David Zirin from The Nation, April 11, 2016

Ken Burns believes that Jackie Robinson’s mid-century life is a deeply under-appreciated lens for understanding our roiling political present. I interviewed Ken Burns about his triumphant two-part PBS documentary—co-created with Sarah Burns and David McMahon—about the player who smashed baseball’s color line but also confronted so much more. “Think about what [Robinson] was dealing with,” Burns said to me, “the Confederate flag, driving while black, stop and frisk, #BlackLivesMatter, burning black churches…. Jackie is not only inspirational but an agent for how we try to digest the current situation about race.”

With four hours of running time, Burns is able to create a three-dimensional portrait of Robinson, beyond caricature or hagiography. He is also, in the second part, which airs Tuesday night, able to use Robinson as a lens to understand why the Republicans and Democratic parties are so sclerotic on issues of race. As Burns said, “Robinson was there in 1960 and 1964 when the two parties switched sides on the Southern white vote, and that’s a huge moment in American history. He witnessed it firsthand.”

Robinson, sure enough, was present at the 1960 Democratic Convention as well as 1964 Republican Convention, and what he saw left him distraught. Jackie was a lifelong Republican because the Democratic Party’s Dixiecrat wing ran his family out of Georgia. In 1960, angered that Richard Nixon ignored his requests to help a jailed Martin Luther King, he considered endorsing John Kennedy and attended the Democratic National Convention. He also had friends telling him that this senator from Massachusetts was serious about civil rights. Yet Kennedy was still trying to hold that Dixiecrat coalition together and sat segregationist Governor of Arkansas Orval Faubus on stage. Robinson walked out in disgust.

In 1964, Robinson endorsed New York Governor Nelson Rockefeller and attended the Republican National Convention as a “Rockefeller Republican” delegate, only to witness the ascension of Barry Goldwater as his party made its play for Southern whites enraged at Lyndon Johnson’s support for the Civil Rights Act. He saw, in Burns’s words to me, the moment when “the Republican Party made a pact with the devil for which they are still paying, from Ronald Reagan beginning his campaign in Philadelphia, Mississippi, saying ‘I’m for states’ rights,’ through Willie Horton, through, now, Donald Trump taking a couple days to—wink, wink—disavow David Duke and white supremacy in the Ku Klux Klan.”

Burns described the scene that Robinson witnessed firsthand at the 1964 RNC: a place where, “out of thirteen hundred delegates, 15 were black, and of those 15, one had his credentials revoked and another had cigarettes put out on him by Goldwater supporters. There was an angry Alabama delegate who wanted to get into a fight with Jackie, and Jackie was ready to do it. Unfortunately, the delegate’s wife held him back and it didn’t happen.” It was after this scene that Robinson later said he now had “a better understanding of how it must have felt to be a Jew in Hitler’s Germany.”

While Jackie Robinson was trying to find a political home, a new generation of black activists were not waiting for the two-party system to catch up with their demands. Many of these movement leaders classified Jackie as an “Uncle Tom,” and Ken Burns explores this painful part of the story as well: the debates with Malcolm X and the Panthers and Jackie’s own despair at the state of the nation.

Burns believes passionately—you can hear it in his voice—that this story speaks to the current moment and “sets us up to talk about our best selves” in a way that’s open and honest, because “history is a table in which we can still have a civil discourse.”

And we need this discussion now more than ever. As Burns said, “A leading candidate for president of the United States takes two days to disavow David Duke and the KKK, and that goes right back to the Goldwater calculus of ‘let’s go hunt where the ducks are.’ And Republicans who are surprised are crying wolf. You cannot be surprised if you are in Dr. Frankenstein’s lab that suddenly you created a monster.”

I would add to that, the spectacle, three days after my interview with Burns, of Bill Clinton trying to sell the welfare reform and mass incarceration of the 1990s and dismissing Black Lives Matter protesters as part of some “pivot to the general” is part of this tradition as well. After watching Jackie Robinson, it is not difficult to divine what number 42 would have said about the 42nd president. After watching Burns’s documentary, I could hear Jackie Robinson in the words of New Jim Crow author Michelle Alexander, who wrote of Bill Clinton’s performance, “[In the 1990s] it was Bill Clinton’s deliberate political strategy—one he championed along with the ‘New Democrats’—to appeal to white swing voters by being tougher on struggling black communities than the Republicans had been, ramping up the drug war and gutting welfare.”

This searing documentary about Jack Roosevelt Robinson is the best antidote to the Donald, the Bill, and all practitioners of the politics of racial division. As Ken Burns said to me, “Jackie Robinson is the apostle of our better selves and is the apostle of the better angels of our nation.” And he becomes this apostle by being presented as three-dimensional, anguished, and all too human.

Ken Burns documentary 'Jackie Robinson' shows baseball ... Mark Feeney from The Boston Globe

The most amazing sight in “Jackie Robinson” isn’t what you might expect. The two-part PBS documentary about the baseball legend who broke the color line in the major leagues airs Monday and Tuesday from 9 to 11 p.m. Ken Burns co-directed with his daughter Sarah Burns and her husband, David McMahon.

The most amazing sight in “Jackie Robinson” isn’t the Brooklyn Dodger stealing home in the 1955 World Series, amazing as that is. It isn’t his teammate Pee Wee Reese, a white Kentuckian, putting his arm around Robinson’s shoulders to silence a ballpark full of racist fans (since that gesture, as the documentary notes, almost certainly didn’t happen). It isn’t even the sight of Robinson campaigning at Richard Nixon’s side in the 1960 presidential election.

No, it’s the transcontinental smile that spreads across President Obama’s face when Michelle Obama cites the crucial role of Robinson’s wife, Rachel, in her husband’s success. That smile comes from a man who knows. “It’s a sign of his character that he chose a woman who was his equal,” the first lady says.

“Jackie Robinson” shows how pertinent Obama’s comment is — just as her and the president’s presence as interviewees indicates how significant Robinson’s life was and is. “Jackie Robinson” isn’t just for baseball fans. More than half of part two is devoted to Robinson’s post-baseball career. The documentary is a biography, a portrait of an era, and a portrait of a sport that reflected that era’s racial injustice. It’s also a portrait of a marriage.

Rachel Robinson, articulate and radiant at 93, is the documentary’s touchstone — like Shelby Foote in Burns’s “The Civil War” (1990), Buck O’Neil in Burns’s “Baseball” (1994), and Wynton Marsalis in Burns’s “Jazz” (2001). As befits the continuity of both American history and Burns’s ongoing retelling of it, O’Neil pops up in an old clip as a talking head, and Marsalis helped write the documentary’s score.

You have to feel a bit for Marsalis, since in the Ken Burns tradition the trumpeter’s efforts share the soundtrack with a wealth of cannily chosen period music. Once you’ve seen footage of Robinson rounding the bases to the sound of Dizzy Gillespie’s “Manteca,” you may never hear it — or see that lurching, side-to-side gallop — quite the same way.

Robinson’s daughter, Sharon, and son David are also interviewed. Other talking heads include teammates (Carl Furillo, Ralph Branca, Don Newcombe), broadcasters (Vin Scully, the late Red Barber), and scholars (Gerald Early, Jonathan Eig). We also hear from two singers: Harry Belafonte, offering insights from his long history of activism; and, of all people, Carly Simon, whose mother helped the Robinsons buy a house in suburban Connecticut when realtors were turning them away.

Keith David, another Burns regular, delivers the narration, written by Sarah Burns and McMahon. Jamie Foxx reads from Robinson’s letters, autobiography, and journalism. While forceful and moving, Foxx sounds nothing like Robinson’s distinctively reedy voice.

The youngest of five, Jack Roosevelt Robinson was born in Georgia, in 1919. He was the son of a tenant farmer and grandson of slaves. When his father abandoned the family, Robinson’s mother took the children to California. They settled in Pasadena, where she worked as a maid. Robinson, who would letter in four sports at the University of California Los Angeles, excelled at athletics from an early age. He was not alone in that ability. His older brother Mack won a silver medal in the 200 meters at the 1936 Olympics.

Robinson, drafted in 1942, was rejected for Officer Candidate School because of his race. Eventually accepted, he became a lieutenant. While stationed in Texas, he refused to sit in the back of a bus. This resulted in an honorable discharge. Robinson, as he once described himself, was “the kind of Negro who isn’t going to beg for anything.” Already he was as notable for his racial pride as his athletic ability.

The story has often been told of how Brooklyn general manager Branch Rickey had been looking for the right player to break the major leagues’ color barrier — and how in Robinson he found his man. The player had to be strong both on the diamond and off it — willing to suffer taunts and threats without complaint, as well as beanballs and spikes-high slides.

Familiarity makes the story no less gripping. A footnote to it has particular local interest, unfortunately. Pressed by City Councilor Isadore Muchnick, the Red Sox offered Robinson a tryout at Fenway Park in April 1945 that was all out and no try. The team had no intention of signing the future Hall of Famer. Curse of the Bambino? The Sox’s awfulness through much of the ’50s and ’60s was owing to a different, self-imposed curse, as the last major league team to integrate.

Spending the 1946 season in Montreal playing for the Dodgers’ top farm team, Robinson was named the league’s most valuable player. The stage was set for his arrival in the bigs. The documentary relates the famous stories of Robinson dealing with racist teammate Dixie Walker, winning the 1947 Rookie of the Year award, the Dodgers’ World Series battles with the Yankees, and so on.

Less well known are the fact that a third of all major leaguers in 1947 hailed from the old Confederacy; that in 1949 Robinson was called to testify before the House Committee on Un-American Activities to rebut singer Paul Robeson’s saying that black Americans wouldn’t fight for their country; and that it was several seasons before Robinson and his eventual black teammates Newcombe and Roy Campanella were allowed to shower with the other Dodgers. Apparently, some color lines were more breakable than others.

Jackie Robinson in later years.

Robinson left the game after the 1956 season. He worked as a business executive, helped found a minority-owned bank, wrote a newspaper column, was politically involved. Yet as the civil rights movement crested in the early and middle ’60s, a man once far ahead of his time came to seem behind it. This final portion of the documentary tends to drag — or is it just a growing burden of sorrow? By the time of his death, in 1972, Robinson looked a good 20 years older than his actual age of 53. He suffered from diabetes, heart disease, and the strain of decades of controversy.

Ken Burns has been taken for granted for a long time. He shouldn’t be. He’s on any plausible short-list of great working American film directors. The way he uses music and sound, a unique ability to draw heightened expressivity from still photographs, an awareness that education and entertainment can be congruent rather than opposed: These are among the defining qualities of his work. That and the most important one of all: The past isn’t past for Burns. The past is as present as that smile on Obama’s face or the hints of sadness in Rachel Robinson’s eyes.

Neither Burns nor his work is perfect. Would a documentary on the Kings refer to its subjects as “Martin” and “Coretta” as this one does to “Jackie” and “Rachel”? Football may have cheerleaders. Baseball doesn’t. Neither does serious history, which “Jackie Robinson” so richly is. How serious? Wait through the closing credits. You won’t get an Easter egg. You’ll get something better.

The Jackie Robinson Story: Ken Burns Documentary Captures Peter Dreier from The American Prospect

Ken Burns on Jackie Robinson: 'The Most Important Person ... Lottie L. Joiner from The Daily Beast, April 10, 2016

Ken Burns Takes a New Look at Jackie Robinson - WSJ Sophia Hollander from The Wall Street Journal

Where Ken Burns' Jackie Robinson documentary goes awry. Brad Syder from Slate, April 15, 2016

Media Circus: Ken Burns talks Jackie Robinson, new ... Richard Deitch from Sports Illustrated

Blu-ray.com [Brian Orndorf]

Ken Burns Q&A: Telling Jackie Robinson story 'in the ... Doug Padilla interview from ESPN, Apil 8, 2016

Ken Burns on His New Jackie Robinson Documentary: "It's ... Edwin Rios interview with the director from Mother Jones, April 10, 2016

Ken Burns Goes Behind The Bat With Jackie Robinson ... Celeste Headlee and Sean Powers interview with the director, including a Jackie Robinson audio interview with Edward R. Murrow in 1952, from NPR, April 11, 2016

'Jackie Robinson': TV Review - Hollywood Reporter Daniel Fienberg

'Jackie Robinson' Gets Ken Burns Treatment in PBS ... Brian Lowry from Variety

'Jackie Robinson' is another home run for Ken Burns (review ... Mark Dawidziak from The Cleveland Plain Dealer

'Jackie Robinson' brings the Ken Burns touch to the baseball Kristi Turnquist from The Oregonian

Ken Burns' 'Jackie Robinson' - Los Angeles Times Robert Lloyd

Ken Burns' documentary on Jackie Robinson is full of surprise and fresh insight Chris Erskine from The LA Times, also seen here: Ken Burns' documentary on Jackie Robinson is full of ...

Review: 'Jackie Robinson,' on PBS, Covers More Than ... The New York Times

Baseball Has Yet to Deliver Greatest Tribute to Jackie ... William C. Rhoden from The New York Times, April 16, 2016

Burton, Tim

All-Movie Guide bio from Hal Erickson

It should come as no shock to the fans of director Tim Burton that he spent his formative years glued to the tube, watching old cartoons and horror flicks. Such early influences no doubt helped to form the deliciously ghoulish and artfully warped sensibility of a director who was to become known for his forays into the bizarre outer regions of mainstream celluloid. The emphasis on "mainstream" is notable: Burton's career has been distinguished in part by the director's skillful ability to remain just inside the realm of the mainstream while producing work of a decidedly unconventional vision.

A native son of Southern California, Burton was born in Burbank on August 25, 1958. He never really took to suburbia, where he was raised, and instead of joining little league or selling lemonade spent his time drawing, watching old horror movies, and reading the works of Edgar Allan Poe. Winning a scholarship in 1980 to the Disney-created California Institute of the Arts, Burton went to work as an apprentice animator at Disney. It was an aesthetically and financially dead period for Disney animation (megahits like The Little Mermaid were years in the future), and Burton's most vivid memories of his time at the studio were of constant firings, ill-will, indecisiveness, and paranoia. He felt decidedly out of place working on cartoons like The Fox and the Hound, later saying "I was just not Disney material. I could just not draw cute foxes for the life of me." For their part, the Disney higher-ups weren't interested in any of Burton's independent ideas, and refused to release his 1984 short Frankenweenie on the grounds that it was "unsuitable" for children. His first animated short, Vincent -- a 1982 tribute to his idol Vincent Price, who also narrated the film -- met with a similarly cool reception from Disney executives.

After leaving Disney, Burton found both greater creative freedom and commercial success thanks in part to actor/comedian Paul Reubens, who was looking for someone to helm a film about his alter-ego, Pee-Wee Herman. Reubens had watched Frankenweenie; impressed with what he saw, he helped to get Burton hired on as the director of Pee-Wee's Big Adventure (1985). Burton wisely treated the whole project like a live-action Looney Tune, and the film, originally intended for limited release as a kid's picture, became one of Warner Bros.' biggest hits of the early '80s. Pee-Wee's Big Adventure led to the director's next project, Beetlejuice (1988), a comic twist on all the "Shock Theatre" pictures that had kept him up late as a child. The success of the film led to a job directing the 1989 big-budget version of Batman; a darkly lavish, gothic production, the film proved to be a huge hit, securing Burton a place on the roster of A-list directors.

His next film, 1990's Edward Scissorhands, had a lot in common with Burton's earlier Frankenweenie. It was the tale of an artificial boy put together by a benign scientist (Vincent Price again, in one of his last performances), who unfortunately dies before he can complete the boy; as a result, the fabricated youth has hedge clipper-like scissors for hands. Alternately frightening, funny, and touching, Edward Scissorhands proved that Burton could inject humanity and audience empathy into an otherwise unbelievable yarn. By this point Burton was able to write his own Hollywood ticket, which resulted in a lucrative contractual arrangement with his one-time employer, Disney. The company that once refused to release his work now practically tripped over itself giving him carte blanche to produce his next project, a stop-motion animated cartoon about the King of Halloween kidnapping Santa Claus. The film came to fruition as 1993's The Nightmare Before Christmas; although it wasn't the hit everyone hoped it would be, Nightmare was irrevocably Burton's film and his film alone, from drawing board to final release. Disney also put Frankenweenie into mass-market distribution at long last, running the onetime "untouchable" film over and over again on cable's Disney Channel.

In addition to his series of successes, there have been a few missteps in Burton's career, notably the lackluster Family Dog (1993), a TV cartoon series co-produced by Steven Spielberg; there was also the middling Cabin Boy, a 1994 film vehicle for Chris Elliott which Burton co-produced. In 1994, Burton again rode high in film-critic circles thanks to his long-awaited Ed Wood (1994), the biopic of another visionary filmmaker, Edward D. Wood Jr., widely celebrated as the worst director in movie history. Burton well understood how it feels to be unappreciated for one's enthusiasms, and Ed Wood, deliberately filmed to emulate Wood's seedy visual style, has emerged as one of the most affectionate film biographies ever made.

After producing the 1995 Batman sequel, Batman Forever, Burton returned returned to the animation style of Nightmare Before Christmas with a 1996 adaptation of Roald Dahl's classic James and the Giant Peach. Later that year, he had great fun using an all-star cast in his spoof/homage to 1950s horror movies, Mars Attacks! Overshadowed by the simultaneous release of the mega-budgeted Independence Day (1996), and uneven with its blend of humor and sci-fi horror, Mars Attacks! was the sort of film that might have made Ed Wood proud. In 1999, Burton returned to the director's chair with Sleepy Hollow, an adaptation of Washington Irving's The Legend of Sleep Hollow. Starring Burton regular Johnny Depp and Christina Ricci, the film promised moviegoers another dose of the lush, gothic sensibility that Burton served up with such flair.

In 2001, Burton took to the director's chair in an attempt at reviving another dormant franchise, The Planet of the Apes. Promising a "re-imagination" of the ape planet concept rather than a straight remake, Burton's version of the film stars Mark Wahlberg stepping into Charlton Heston's shoes as the astronaut stranded in unfamiliar simian territory.

The Tim Burton Dream Site official website

The Tim Burton Collective

TCMDB extensive bio from Turner Classic Movies

Film Reference profile from Robin Wood

Tim Burton Ben Andac from Senses of Cinema

Tim Burton - Dan's Movie Madness Pages

Dark Visions: The Tim Burton Fanlisting

Everyone Needs a Hobby: The Tim Burton Website with a Sense of Humor a web fanzine

Burton, Tim They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They

PEE-WEE’S BIG ADVENTURE

USA (90 mi) 1985

Time Out

Fed by comic tributaries perhaps, but Pee-Wee Herman comes over as a delightful original. It's a balancing act, and he doesn't put a '50s preppy white buckskin wrong. He lives in a house which is a Heath Robinsonish turn in itself, and responds to his environment with all the restraint of a streaker in a carwash. A nasty boy steals his beloved bicycle. Pee-Wee gives chase, taking in a lot of America's tourist map and winding up in Hollywood (which buys his adventure, and we see their version too). Dreamlike situations hover on the edge of unease (a meeting with a waitress in the mouth of a model dinosaur, pursuit by her giant boyfriend waving a caveman's bone), and there's a wonderfully sustained gag in which Pee-Wee rescues animals from a burning pet shop, nervously stalling the snakes. The score works edgily against the comedy, and the dream sequences are just this side of Dali. Pee-Wee himself comes from the school of acting that usually sits under a bubble - Rage, Foiled, Idea - in a cartoon. Truly weird and wonderfully addictive.

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson)

Tim Burton made an extraordinary feature debut with this odd, slightly dark, and certainly cartoonish film based on the cult TV series "Pee-wee's Playhouse." Paul Reubens stars as the boy-man Pee-wee Herman, who lives a strange mix of a life, combining childhood pleasures with adult responsibilities; he uses a toy to water his lawn and his "shopping" trip consists of visits to a magic shop and a bike shop. His most prized possession is his super-extraordinary bike (the film opens with a dream sequence of Pee-wee winning the Tour de France with it). Unfortunately, despite a couple of hundred yards of chains and locks, it's stolen. A medium tells him that he will find it in the basement of the Alamo, and he begins a cross-country trip to get it back. Pee-wee uses his strange logic and uncanny good luck to maneuver the harshness of the road, but it helps that this world is only partly real. When he runs out of money, he has to wash dishes in a diner (wearing a hairnet over his tiny slick of hair), but at no other time does money become an issue. Mostly the film is filled with bizarre jokes that only grow funnier as the film's cult appeal increases; it wears its 20 years well. It was made for kids, but I imagine that 90% of its audience now consists of squealing grown-ups. The heavy metal band Twisted Sister makes a cameo, performing "Burn in Hell."

Salon (Stephanie Zacharek)

The only thing wrong with "Pee-wee's Big Adventure" is that the real world looks so drab and colorless by comparison. After the last frame, reacclimation to normal surroundings can be tough: You wish you had a giant box of magic crayons so you could rev up the hue of everything in sight.

That's no accident. As production designer David Snyder notes in one of the special DVD features, there wasn't a lot of time or money allotted for the project, so he and his crew had to use colors and shapes wisely to get the right look. Their motto, he says, was: "If it ain't bright, it ain't right."

Everything about "Pee-wee's Big Adventure," from its toy-box colors to its superb, hyperanimated Danny Elfman score to the butch-waxed hairdo and wooden-puppet walk of its star and mastermind, Pee-wee Herman (Paul Reubens), is pure pleasure. Pee-wee's beloved bicycle -- a gleaming, souped-up version of every '50s dream bike you ever saw advertised in the back of a comic book -- has been stolen. Spoiled rich kid Francis (Mark Holton) may or may not be the thief. Pee-wee's search for the missing bike leads him to strange and exotic locales like the Alamo, a movie studio, a biker bar and a truck stop complete with nearby dinosaur exhibit.

The dinosaur exhibit was a real California location, not a set, Reubens and director Tim Burton explain in their audio commentary, and it's just one example of the movie's insanely creative use of found objects and places to fashion a very unreal and wonderful world. "Pee-wee's Big Adventure" was Burton's first full-length feature, and every scene is a marvel of visual ingenuity. One example: Pee-wee's home is furnished with a breakfast machine, a Rube Goldberg-type contraption that features, among other things, a flying pterodactyl skeleton with little clamps on its toes, from which it drops two pieces of bread into the appropriate toast slots.

Reubens' and Burton's commentary is entertaining, if fairly low-key -- Burton comes off as a grown-up version of the shy kid who'd prefer to retreat to his room with a set of paints and a science-experiment kit. Every now and then one of them comments on how they wish they'd snatched up this or that prop, and you can't blame them -- who wouldn't want a mini-rocket-ship ride in his living room? With "Pee-wee's Big Adventure" Burton established himself as a movie director with an art director's touch. In his commentary, he notes that he has a penchant for moving things around a lot to get just the right look. "I guess I'm just a frustrated interior decorator," he says. If only we could get him to redecorate the world.

DVD Times Michael Brooke

This Distracted Globe [Joe Valdez]

Reel.com DVD review [Jeffrey Wachs]

DVD Verdict Mike Jackson

eFilmCritic.com Paulapalooza

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

Girls, Guns and Ghouls Boris Lugosi

Silver Screen Reviews

Shane R. Burridge

Bullz-Eye.com Will Harris

Chainsaw Fodder

Qwipster's Movie Reviews [Vince Leo]

PopcornQ Jenni Olsen

Gods of Filmmaking

The New York Times (Vincent Canby)

BEETLEJUICE A 95

USA (92 mi) 1988

Brilliant Observations on 1173 Films [Clayton Trapp]

Great sets and original perspective on the confusion and drudgery of the afterlife. Michael Keaton is very good in a cowboy/exorcist/used-car-salesman sort of way and Winona Ryder straddles the line between spooky and winsome without adding too much sauce. The lines don't snap though and after a quick start the plot line settles for superficial if valid social commentaries, gross jokes and high-tech gimmickry masturbation. In spite of it all it manages to maintain the original feel and borderline appealing personality and Tim Burton had the good sense not to cast Jim Carrey in it.

Time Out

This ghost story from the haunters' perspective (co-scripted by Michael McDowell) provides some of the most surprisingly enjoyable viewing in years. The drearily happy Maitlands (Baldwin and Davis) drive into the river, come up dead, and return to their beloved, quaint house as spooks intent on despatching the hideous New York yuppie family which had usurped their property. The humour unfolds as the horrible Deetzes (Jones and O'Hara) fill the house with revolting avant-garde art, bulldozers, and camp interior designers spitting venom; while only their mournful teenage daughter (Ryder) seems either aware of or in tune with the ghostly couple, whose failure to shine in the scare stakes finally drags them into the arms of the gunslinger-exorcist Betelgeuse (Keaton), a kind of OTT demonic Clint Eastwood of the underworld (who rids houses of unwanted humans). Off-the wall humour and some sensational sight gags make the movie, maddeningly disjointed though it sometimes is, a truly astonishing piece of work.

FlickFilosopher.com [MaryAnn Johanson] (excerpt)

Leave it to Tim Burton, with his affinity for the misunderstood monster, to be as sweet as he is funny, and not terribly scary, though that's part of his point in 1988's Beetlejuice: the dead are people, too, with feelings to be hurt and aspirations for the hereafter. The nice young dead couple (Geena Davis and Alec Baldwin) that haunts a huge, gorgeous New England house -- their former home -- just wants to be left alone to continue their renovations, though they might be able to tolerate another couple like them. The city slickers (Jeffrey Jones and the marvelous duo of Catherine O'Hara and Winona Ryder as sniping stepmother and -daughter) who move in and turn the house into something that looks like an underground nightclub were not what they had in mind.

Burton's is a wildly inventive vision of the afterlife as a bureaucratic hell populated by all manner of creatures (not to mention the creatures of the pre-afterlife, horrors in their own ways), and it's an ideal movie made for multiple viewings -- there's too much going on in every frame to ever catch every little joke except by setting out to memorize it. It's a film I never tire of -- it was one of the first DVDs I snatched up years ago when I got my player -- but down to not just the darkly scrumptious production design but to the delightful characters, too. Betelgeuse, the "afterlife's leading bioexorcist," whom the dead call in to scare off the living, is prankish, crude, and rude, an outrageous triumph for Michael Keaton, who makes him surprisingly lovable for all his ill manners. But Davis and Baldwin make two of the most pleasant ghosts imaginable, spooks you wouldn't mind setting up house with.

Washington Post [Rita Kempley]

"Beetlejuice" is an extraspectral experience, a wonderfully wacko look at the hereafter's relationship with the here and now. It's a cartoon view of the afterlife landscape, where the living haunt the dead and death's no escape from life's little irritants -- like waiting rooms and elevator music.

Tim Burton, the Disney animator who directed "Pee-wee's Big Adventure," is the mind behind this stylish screwball blend of Capraesque fantasy, Marx Brothers anarchy and horror parody. And Michael Keaton is the juice that makes it go. He's a stand-up zombie as the revolting free-lance bio-exorcist hired to help Geena Davis and Alec Baldwin, playing the Maitlands, a couple of flummoxed young newly deads.

Manic as a cornered squirrel and prankish as Satan's kid brother, Keaton brings a sprinkling of brimstone to the bucolic Connecticut setting where the Maitlands have been lovingly renovating their cozy farmhouse. While driving to the hardware store, they swerve for a fuzzy dog and end up drowning in a picturesque creek.

Before you can say R.I.P., they're back home with no idea how they got there. They realize something's amiss when Barbara finds a copy of "The Handbook for the Newly Deceased." Otherwise nothing is changed -- except that if they walk out the door they're on the planet Venus, where the killer sand worms live. It looks as if they can spend eternity puttering.

Then trendies Charles and Delia Deetz (Jeffrey Jones and Catherine O'Hara) buy the house and desecrate it with Memphis furniture by way of Beverly Hills. Their daughter Lydia (Winona Ryder) mopes about in black veils, while Charles options farmland. Delia replaces the Maitlands' flowered sofa with one made of boilerplate and pony hide. And the Maitlands are trapped in "The Night of the Living Room."

The Maitlands, of the Casperian school, try to scare off the interlopers. But their hauntings only intrigue the Deetzes, who summon them in a se'ance and decide to open a paranormal theme park. It becomes a case of the materialistic versus the materialized. Despondent, the Maitlands are obliged to call Beetlejuice (Keaton), who appears in a trice, with green hair and teeth that haven't been flossed since the Plague. He's pawing Barbara Maitland when his head goes into a Linda Blair spin. "Don't you just hate it when that happens?" he growls, sounding as if he's been gargling with kitty litter.

The movie is a special-effect compendium of decomposing corpses, popping eyeballs and the occasional severed head. Awaiting their caseworker in purgatory, the Maitlands sit uneasily among the other dead folk -- a man with a chicken bone caught in his throat, a magician's assistant cut in half and a charcoal man who offers them a smoke.

This doesn't spook Geena Davis, who made love to "The Fly." She's a naturally blithe spirit, like a female Tom Selleck, who gives a dimpled congeniality to the proceedings. Both she and Baldwin, a "Knots Landing" veteran, bring warmth and believability to their cartoon roles.

The characters were conjured up by writers Michael McDowell and Warren Skaaren. Theirs is a diffuse, unstructured screenplay that doesn't even follow the rules of its own universe. It's strong on lines and situations, but absolutely, happily preposterous. And the moral is a fairy-tale bromide played for laughs: You can't escape your problems. Suicides are forced to become civil servants in the afterlife, and you can't leave your house for 125 years anyhow.

Not since "Ghostbusters" have the spirits been so uplifting.

DVD Times Mark Davis

Movie Cynics (Potentially Offensive) The Vocabulariast

DVD Verdict Mike Jackson

filmcritic.com Keith Breese

SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

eFilmCritic.com Slyder

Crazy for Cinema (Lisa Skrzyniarz)

Close-Up Film [Darren Horne]

"I myself am strange and unusual". - A review of Beetlejuice by GLake George Lake

Exploitation Retrospect

David Wilcock

Gods of Filmmaking

Washington Post [Desson Howe]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

Siskel & Ebert (video)

The New York Times (Janet Maslin)

EDWARD SCISSORHANDS A- 93

USA (105 mi) 1990

“Frankenstein's monster by way of L. Frank Baum" —Pauline Kael
 

Edward Scissorhands (Johnny Depp) is a brilliant Tim Burton creation with a Pinocchio, child-like spirit who is caught between two worlds, the imaginary and the real world, where he has difficulty living in the real world as he’s so easily misunderstood. Winona Ryder is the only one who understands his secret, but finds it impossible to stop the rest of the world from hating Edward, who is odd and too peculiarly different not to be suspected of horrible deeds. But the horror on display is not from Edward, but takes the form of ordinary people, like the bullies who would choose to abuse him, framing him for their own criminal activities, and then setting into motion a hysterical, mob-like mentality of suburban outrage against him when he has no means to defend himself, as he’s an utter innocent.

 
Time Out 

With his electric-shock hairdo and kinky black gear, Edward (Depp) is a model of trendy respectability - except for one thing. This man-made creature has got shears instead of hands, because his creator (Price) died mid-project. He sits lonely and lethal in his gloomy mansion, until the Avon Lady (Wiest) comes to call. She invites him home, and he proceeds to dazzle her family and neighbours with his flair for topiary and surreal hair-styling. With its skewed vision of suburbia, Burton's film bears comparison with his earlier Pee-Wee's Big Adventure. It's a visual treat, complete with pastel bungalows, surreal shrubbery and grotesque outfits, but it remains curiously hollow.

Talking Pictures (UK) Ed Cooper

Tim Burton may be found in most of the real characters of Edward Scissorhands. He is The Inventor of Edward, Pegg Boggs' protector of his creation and Kim Boggs' embracement of his identity - and in this, his recognition of his own directorial entity after the production-stifled Batman. Indeed, at it's most coherent level, Burton is Edward in this doubt-less autobiography. 

The inexactitude of direction in his previous three ventures, although exciting deliriously imaginative rides, has persistently left the heart in the mouth. Burton's self- recognition of this problem is evident now as he slices his interest, Society-like, into two: Edward's introduction to garish suburbia and the inevitable tragedy of culture friction. The dissection of the whole is so precise as to bring the film to an almost noticeable standstill before the tragic narrative begins. Within this structure lie The Past (creation of Edward and subsequent death of The Inventor) and The Present (creation of Edward's emotions and never-never relationship with Kim Boggs), the parallel stories impossibly embracing within the castle on the hill. Burton supports his theme of fateful grief with motifs on all sides, as comic as Edward's anxieties of the waterbed and as satisfying as the topiary hand failing to catch the fall of Edward's adversary, so everyone - Inventor and all - can sleep. 

Potential incest is thankfully smothered in the symbolic fade of Peg Boggs' unquestioning maternal feeling towards Edward to accommodate for the love of her daughter. For this, we can be grateful to Dianne Wiest and Winona Ryder for characterisation of beguiling empathy. Elsewhere, we have superbly delineated neighbours, notably Kathy Baker's tasteless nymphomaniac; similarly crafted production design and costume (out-of-this-world topiaries and haircuts); and Danny Elfman's best score. 

In concentrating on spirit and hope yet still retaining his primary interests of acceptance and rejection in the individual, Burton has focussed finely. Equally importantly, Johnny Depp offers such a controlled performance that he is never less than believable and has never been more sympathetic. Edward Scissorhands was created with hands of steely assurance and a longing heart. 

Washington Post [Rita Kempley]

"Edward Scissorhands" is enchantment on the cutting edge, a dark yet heartfelt portrait of the artist as a young mannequin from the creator of "Beetlejuice," "Pee-wee's Big Adventure" and "Batman." Tim Burton remains the Wizard of Odd with this eye-filling if problematic confection.

The willingly bedazzled -- children and those who see through children's eyes -- won't mind that "Edward," like Burton's other films, attends less to story than to situation. They'll delight in the pastel camp of the setting, a '50s subdivision sprung seemingly from nowhere and nestled improbably against a Munsters-style mansion. There on the edge of civilization, if suburbia can be so called, dwells our poor hero, unfinished and all alone. His inventor (Vincent Price), a Victorian sort, died just as he was about to replace Edward's 10 bristling shears with human hands.

Edward is a disarming waif with his white Kabuki makeup and wild nest of coal-black hair, and his mild-mannered temperament is directly at odds with his deformity. Johnny Depp, nicely cast, brings the eloquence of the silent era to this part of few words, saying it all through bright black eyes and the tremulous care with which he holds his horror-movie hands.

But Edward's dilemma is far more complex than it first seems, for his handicap and his talent are of a piece. Though he cannot so much as dry a tear from his eye, he can sculpt ice angels, toss salads, clip poodles and hedges. He is the Edward Gorey of hair and topiary. By virtue of his scissorhands he can touch others, but only through his art.

Then one robin's-egg-colored day the Avon Lady comes calling. Marching intrepidly through the cobwebs and with the can-do of a sitcom mom, Peg Boggs (Dianne Wiest) decides to bring him home. Wiest is as radiant and kind as the Good Witch Glinda. Having mothered "The Lost Boys," she is already practiced at dealing with odd teenagers. A practical sort, she believes that the right makeup and a nice meatloaf can change not only Edward's life but, well, the whole darn world. Yet no matter what shade of foundation Peg tries, she can't make Edward into a normal boy. He remains like the Little Mermaid or "Crocodile" Dundee, out of his element, source of the film's larky comedy.

Borrowing a chapter from another fable, Burton and first-time screenwriter Caroline Thompson create a Beauty to test their Beast. Winona Ryder plays this duplicitous love interest, Kim, a golden coed whose jealous boyfriend (Anthony Michael Hall, performing with the subtlety of the John Philip Sousa marching band) finally brings matters to a surprisingly violent turn.

Like most fairy tales, "Edward Scissorhands" has its dark side. And Burton's faithfulness to that aspect of myth seems reasonable enough, though it won't sit well with those who want happy endings. It begins, after all, as a tale about where snow comes from, and snow belongs to the saddest season.

Framed as a bedtime story told by an ancient Kim (Ryder with latex jowls), it opens with a wintry flurry. When Edward carves ice, the flakes fly like crystals in a snow globe. Sometimes, the old woman says, she dances in the snow as she did when she was a girl. What she never does is redeem herself for the wrongs she did Edward. In fact nothing is resolved or concluded in this throwing up of hands.

Edward, a victim of a woman scorned and other neighborhood hens, is the censored artist, obsessive as van Gogh in "Vincent and Theo," miserable as the author in "Misery." Another tale of a man and his muse, "Edward Scissorhands" seems to say it is better to work alone in a garret making true art than to prostitute one's scissors.

The Flick Filosopher's take MaryAnn Johanson

Only Tim Burton could take a film that opens with a loving grandmother offering to explain to her adorable granddaughter where snow comes from, and turn it into a dark and disturbing parable of loneliness, nonconformity, and the tyranny of small minds. Edward Scissorhands, one of my favorite films (though that could be said of just about every film Burton has made*) and one that touches me deeply, isn't overtly a Christmas movie, but it does touch on the grimmer side of the religion that currently dominates the much more ancient tradition of a midwinter celebration.

Peg Boggs (Dianne Wiest: Practical Magic), the Avon lady for her cheerful, pastel Levittown of a neighborhood, isn't having much luck pushing her wares the day she decides to venture to the odd house at the end of a cul-de-sac. Improbably, a gray mountain looms at this dead end, at the top of which sits a spindly gothic mansion. Fearless, she wanders insider the decaying old house, and discovers, cowering in a shadowy corner, Edward (Johnny Depp: Sleepy Hollow, Donnie Brasco). His Mad Max getup and the punkishly wild halo of hair around his waifish face only briefly distract from the appalling fact that this poor creature has wicked-looking scissors and knives in place of hands. But Edward is gentle and sweet, despite his frightening appearance, and the good-hearted Peg adopts him instantly, taking him home to live with her and her family.

Suburbia -- with its cookie-cutter houses and gossipy wives -- doesn't know quite what to make of Edward. His mere presence is a disruption to the harmony of uniformity, at first in positive ways: The beautiful topiaries he coaxes from trees and bushes transform the neighborhood into a fantastical garden, and he's an "adorable" and "mysterious" stranger for all the bored women to pant over. A lost boy who shied from touch when Peg found him, Edward had been alone since his Inventor (Vincent Price, playing perhaps the first kindly mad scientist, a nice capper for his career) died before he had a chance to replace Edward's scissors with real hands. Now, Edward is eating up all the attention he's receiving.

But there are snakes in Edward's newly found paradise: Joyce (Kathy Baker), the hot-to-trot housewife who attempts to seduce the innocent Edward; and Jim (Anthony Michael Hall), boyfriend to Peg's daughter Kim (Winona Ryder: Alien Resurrection, Celebrity), who's jealous of the longing looks Edward throws Kim's way. When they finally turn on Edward, it's only the beginning of a concerted attack by the neighborhood on Edward's art, his presence in their lives, and his very existence.

Is Edward the embodiment of Generation X, left to fend for himself and then reviled when he grows into something of a wild child? Is he the artist as outcast, tolerated and even celebrated as long as he's amusing but vilified when the novelty of him wears off? Is he a Christ figure, exiled from the protection of his creator-father and sent into a world in which he'll be misunderstood and persecuted? A case can be made for all three interpretations, and in fact the third isn't necessarily the most fitting to the thumping of religion Edward Scissorhands doles out. It's not mere window dressing that it's Christmastime at the film's the final confrontation, in which a "peasant mob" of suburbanites -- meant to evoke the torch-wielding crowds of films like Frankenstein -- chases Edward back to his mountaintop. Nor is it coincidence that the super-religious neighbor Esmeralda (O-Lan Jones: The Truman Show, The End of Violence), ignored early on when she denounces Edward as Satanic and calls for her neighbors to "trample down the perversion of nature," is later acknowledged to have been "right" in her estimation of the stranger. A faith -- embodied by the holiday and the believer -- that pretends to be about love shows itself as the purveyor of repression, irrationality, and intolerance that it is.

The appropriately over-the-top performances from much of the cast and the overly bright fakeness of the world their characters inhabit might make it easy for some to dismiss Edward Scissorhands as fluff fantasy with nothing of import to offer, but Johnny Depp won't let that happen. Regardless of the oddity of his character, Depp keeps the film rooted in reality -- whatever motive you attribute to the neighbors, the profound affect that their mass rejection of Edward has on him is undeniably, recognizably true. (This is one of my favorite Depp performances, though, as with Burton, I could say that about almost everything Depp has done**.) His Edward is heartbreakingly poignant. His sudden rage, which he expresses by ripping his scissors across wallpaper and drapes, is all the more startling because he has been so courteous with his sharp edges before. His "fingers" snap and twitch when he's nervous, which is often -- not equipped with the verbal skills to defend himself, his despair radiates wordlessly. Even Edward's humorous moments -- as when he encounters the one piece of furniture to which he's a serious danger: a waterbed -- Depp imbues with a touch of pathos.

Edward Scissorhands is an anti-Christmas movie, I suppose. Here we have a creature whose "handicap" separates him from human contact -- the scars on his face attest to the fact that he can't even touch himself. And at the time of year when we're supposed to spread cheer and open our hearts, the "good" people of an all-American suburbia reject Edward's plea for love and companionship, and cast him out.

Merry Christmas to all the normal people. Freaks and weirdoes need not apply.

*Mars Attacks! being the one exception: Tim, what were you thinking?
**The Astronaut's Wife being the one exception: Johnny, what were you thinking?

Gothic Edward Schizohands: The Postmodern Gothic Body, Essay by Russell A. Potter, Dept. of English, Colby College

Cinefantastique Online Steve Biodrowski

Film as Art [Danél Griffin]

Nick's Flick Picks (Full Review) Nick Davis

Culture Dogs [Sam Hatch]

Film Freak Central Review [Walter Chaw]

Reel.com DVD review [Pam Grady]

Classic-Horror.com Brandt Sponseller

filmcritic.com Chris Cabin

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

The QNetwork Film Desk [James Kendrick]

DVD Journal Dawn Taylor, 10^th Anniversary Edition

DVD Verdict Mike Jackson, 10^th Anniversary Edition

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Joel Cunningham) 10th Anniversary Edition

Anniversary Edition, DVD Town [John J. Puccio]

DVD DVD Verdict - Blu-Ray [Dennis Prince]

DVD Talk (Daniel Hirshleifer) Blue-Ray Version

DVD Town - Blu ray [James Plath]

Movie Reviews UK Damian Cannon

Scribble King

Knemonic.com - Colin's Pick of the Week

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson)

Brilliant Observations on 1173 Films [Clayton Trapp]

Gods of Filmmaking

Washington Post [Desson Howe]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Janet Maslin)

DVDBeaver [Gary Tooze]

DVDBeaver - Blu-ray DVD review [Gary Tooze]

THE NIGHTMARE BEFORE CHRISTMAS B+ 92

USA (76 mi) 1993 d: Henry Selick written and produced by Tim Burton

An immersion into Burtonworld, an alternative universe filled with ghoulish undead creatures of the night that inhabit Halloweentown, where a stick figured pumpkin head named Jack rules the roost with his lurid ability to delight the teeming throngs with macabre ghost stories and other ghastly delights through song (yes it’s a musical!). Jack is a kind of debonair Fred Astaire of the village, as his wit and grace are in stark contrast to a town where the inhabitants resemble Frankenstein experiments gone wrong. There’s a mad wheelchair-bound scientist with Dr. Strangelove overtones who has invented his own stitched together girl, who carries her own sewing repair kit as her limbs easily rip apart, whose sole desire is defying her overbearing creator by creating potions that temporarily debilitate him so she can exert her own independence, hiding behind gravestones enthralled by the charms of Jack singing in the moonlight about the wonders of Pumpkinland. Chief among the inhabitants is a two-faced mayor with a leering smile on one face and a grotesque sneer on the other, who drives around town rallying the troops to hear another bedtime story by the infallible Jack, the man who apparently was the mastermind that invented Halloween.

In a story that mixes up its holidays, and its children stories, Jack takes a tumble down a rabbit hole and finds himself at the North Pole where all the elves are preparing for Christmas. Ever a conjuring snake, Jack decides to kidnap Santa Claus (known here as Sandy Claws) and cleverly deliver his own special brand of ghoulish delight to Christmas by delivering diabolical presents that scare the living daylights out of the unsuspecting kids, who have to run for their lives to escape their evil torment. One serpent creature can be seen actually devouring the Christmas tree. Meanwhile, captive Santa falls into the wrong hands of a man dressed in a sack named Oogie Boogie, a seriously deranged jazzman who resembles Cab Calloway doing an impression of the bogeyman, who delights in the idea of murdering Santa through various tortuous techniques all found in the game of roulette. The young girl trying to help only finds herself staring in the face of death next to Santa, as the maniacal Oogie Boogie rolls the dice to determine his next move. Jack, on the other hand, can’t understand what went wrong with his wonderful plan to introduce terror into Christmas, ever perplexed by this boring Santa character that only performs acts of “good.” But seeing Oogie about to turn the lights out on Santa and the girl makes him spring into action in an utterly delightful death match between Jack and Oogie, a truly inspiring sequence that redefines the image of Disney with a particularly demented relish. Yet devilish that he is, Jack actually becomes quite sympathetic, as he’s true to his own nature but also has his own streak of “good” on him. Inventive from start to finish, with clever wit in the lyrics that run by so quickly that it’s impossible to catch all the words, but the delirious fun is infectious, even if a bit on the weird side. But how else would we want it on the night that Halloween took over Christmas?

Slant Magazine [Nick Schager]

As with Tim Burton's prior protagonists Pee-Wee, Beetlejuice, and Batman, Jack Skellington, the misguided hero of 1993's The Nightmare Before Christmas (which receives an IMAX 3-D re-release this month), is a creature whose idiosyncratic personality consigns him to being something of an outsider in his own creepy-crawly community. The Pumpkin King of Halloweentown, Skellington rules his native soil of monsters and mutants with a despondency wrought from boredom—until, that is, a morose midnight stroll leads him to Christmas Town, where his heart is set ablaze by the merry sights and sounds of the Yuletide season. Determined to have his minions supervise Christmas rather than Halloween this year, Skellington comes to learn the foolishness of striving to be what one is not, a mistake never made by director Henry Selick's unique stop-motion animated horror fantasia, which is narratively slight but never less than aesthetically inspired. Based on a Burton story full of his trademark ghoulishness and mordant wit, The Nightmare Before Christmas is a veritable bounty of visual delights, its distinctive character models (often giant rotund bodies with slender appendages and tiny hands and feet), environments (both the gray, oblique angle-infested Halloweentown and warm, cheery Christmas Town) and animation style (graceful in a slightly unreal way) giving the film an eccentric haunted-house beauty. The tall, twiggy Skellington's stilt-like spider movements lend the many choreographed sequences an eerie elegance, and Selick's knack for cluttering his frame with gags is impressive, never more so than during the Pumpkin King's Christmas Eve impersonation of Santa, who's been kidnapped and left to the devices of burlap sack ghost Oogie Boogie, and his delivery of sinister toys to innocent boys and girls. Yet whereas the film is a marvel to look at, it's unfortunately not much in the song or story department, as Danny Elfman's musical numbers are—save for the opening's boisterous "This Is Halloween"—generally banal and unmemorable, and the plot, despite only having to fill out a paltry 76 minutes, ultimately as emaciated and insubstantial as its leading bags of bones.

PopMatters Jon Munn

When The Nightmare Before Christmas was first released in 1993, I recall a reviewer saying, "This is the kind of story Dr. Seuss would have written if he had grown up on heavy metal and horror films." I must say that I agree. I'm not exactly sure what music Tim Burton (who authored the story on which this stop-and-go animated musical feature is based) grew up on, but I know that he is a huge fan of horror film actor Vincent Price. I think it's pretty safe to assume that the many Price films Burton watched as a child helped shape his macabre sensibilities and laid the groundwork for Nightmare. The movie tells the story of a loveable freak named Jack Skellington, the pumpkin king and the brains behind the holiday we know as Halloween.

Burton knows a thing or two about loveable freaks — his movies are full of them. From Batman to Edward Scissorhands, his films are populated with folks trying to live in a world that can neither understand nor accept their quirks. Bruce Wayne, a.k.a. Batman, is the poor little rich boy who lives in seclusion following the brutal murder of his parents. Night after night, he dons a rubber suit and enacts his own brand of non-lethal vigilantism against the evils of society. Edward Scissorhands, the oddball creation of an eccentric scientist (played by none other than Vincent Price), stumbles into an initially welcoming suburbia, but is eventually cast out when the neighbors begin to view his obvious difference from them as harmful. The rest of Burton's characters follow suit — James (of Giant Peach fame), enters a fantasy world of talking bugs and one enormous piece of fruit in order to escape the verbal abuse he suffers at home. And of course, Pee Wee Herman is the nerdy man/boy who travels cross-country to recover his stolen bike (in Pee-Wee's Big Adventure) — and discovers that the outside world is much stranger than he is.

Jack Skellington fits nicely into Burton's stable of misunderstood protagonists, though his situation differs from that of Batman and Edward Scissorhands. Jack resides in Halloween Town, where it is the sole purpose of every citizen — witch, vampire, zombie, or werewolf — to deliver Halloween every year. Jack is in charge of the festivities, but has grown tired of all the same old scares, which he makes clear in a musical lament: "I would give it all up if I only could." But Jack knows it is his duty to create terror and mayhem every October, again and again, and again. He doesn't have a choice in the matter.

Jack's restlessness initiates a chain of events that leads to his discovery of Christmas Town, as well as his eventual kidnapping of Santa Claus and attempt to take his place. The results are predictably disastrous, as the horrors of Halloween are mixed unevenly with the joys of Christmas: Jack, as Santa, delivers shrunken heads, large snakes, goblins, and other frightful things to the children of the world, and is eventually shot down (in his coffin-sleigh) by the military. The real Santa is left to fix Christmas, as Jack realizes that all he really wants and needs to be is the best pumpkin king in the world.

Jack's ultimate epiphany is in keeping with the themes that usually apply to Burton's benevolent losers. We feel sorry for Jack, sympathize with his plight, and gain a better understanding of his personality, but we inevitably realize that there's nothing that can be done to change who he is or how the world looks at him, just as Jack realizes this. It might sound like a defeatist philosophy to suggest that Jack is something of a victim, powerless to affect his destiny, but Burton's fables are typically bittersweet like this. Like Edward and Ed Wood (played by Johnny Depp in Burton's Ed Wood), Jack Skellington comes to terms with who he is and learns to accept his freakish fate.

Movie ram-blings (Ram Samudrala) review

"It was a long time ago, longer now than it seems, in a place perhaps you've seen in your dreams. For the story you're about to be told began with the holiday worlds of old. Now you've probably wondered where holidays come from. If you haven't, then I'd say its time you've begun. For the holidays are the result of much fuss and hard work for the worlds that create them for us. Well, you see now quite simply that's all that they do, making one unique holiday after another especially for you. But once a calamity ever so great occurred when two holidays met by mistake."

—Santa Claus in The Nightmare Before Christmas

I first saw Tim Burton's The Nightmare Before Christmas during its original release in 1993, where I was simply mesmerised. I had no idea what to expect (I was actually dragged to it) and I was completely blown away by the stunning animation supporting a surreal and psychedelic fantasy plot, and an amazing soundtrack by Danny Elfman.

Having memorised almost every word on the sound track, I awaited the big screen year 2000 re-release with much anticipation. The theatre I saw it in was literally empty and this presented me the opportunity to sing along with Jack Skellington and the denizens of the town of Halloween.

The films begins with Jack (Danny Elfman and Chris Sarandon), the pumpkin king, basking in praise after throwing the ghouls of Halloween a great bash. But underneath it all, he is tired of his crown and the same old screams. He's longing for something different, something new. As he wanders around dejected, he stumbles onto Christmas Town and marvels at its wonders and peculiarities. Infused with the Christmas customs and spirit, he decides to kidnap its fearsome ruler (with a deep mighty voice and great bulging arms, whom they call Sandy Claws (Ed Ivory)), and appropriate the Christmas holiday for his own.

Needless to say, Jack's idea of Christmas doesn't sit very well with the people in Christmas Town. Meanwhile, Santa, who has been kidnapped by Lock (Paul Reubens), Shock (Catherine O'Hara), and Barrel (Elfman), three cronies of the Oogie Boogie man (Ken Page), is in grave danger. Oogie Boogie puts Santa and Jack's love interest Sally (O'Hara) in a predicament that threatens to erase Christmas once and for all. however, things turn out for the best when Jack realises that factory-produced mass-delivered Christmas presents aren't as much fun as devising up the next carefully hand-crafted scare.

While the film originated with Tim Burton's vision, the director is Henry Selick who uses the stop-action animation technique to its fullest potential. In addition, he has also created a Halloween and Christmas Town (the latter clearly influenced by Dr. Seuss and the former could've been influenced by Edward Gorey's macabre style) that inspires the imagination. Besides the stunning visuals, the sense of humour that pervades this film, like a lot of other works by Tim Burton, is dark and wicked.

The movie however wouldn't be complete without the soundtrack that complements the visuals depicting Jack's self-discovery. From the initial Halloween song to Jack's lament, his discovery and obsessions of the wonders of Christmas, to the kidnapping of Santa Claus and the confrontation with Oogie Boogie, each piece of music heightens the magic in this fable.

"I'm a master of fright, and a demon of light,
 and I'll scare you right out of your pants.
 To a guy in Kentucky, I'm Mister Unlucky,
 and I'm known throughout England and France.
 
 And since I am dead, I can take off my head
 to recite Shakespearean quotations.
 No animal nor man can scream like I can,
 with the fury of my recitations."
 —Jack Skellington,in The Nightmare Before Christmas

DVD Times review [Michael Mackenzie] also another Special Edition review by Raphael Pour-Hashemi: here

Scott Renshaw

SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

The Onion A.V. Club [Keith Phipps]

James Berardinelli's ReelViews

Movie Views [Ryan Cracknell]

Crazy for Cinema

DVD Verdict Mike Jackson, also his Special Edition review: DVD Verdict (Mike Jackson)

digitallyOBSESSED.com (Joel Cunningham) Special Edition

Reel.com DVD review [Rod Armstrong] Special Edition

UltimateDisney.com - Special Edition DVD Review with Pictures

Bina007 Movie Reviews Disney Digital 3D

Movie Vault [Mel Valentin] Disney Digital 3D

eFilmCritic.com (Rob Gonsalves) Disney Digital 3D

Cinefantastique Online Steve Biodrowski, Disney Digital 3D

Guardian/Observer

Austin Chronicle (Marjorie Baumgarten)

Washington Post [Desson Howe]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Janet Maslin)

DVDBeaver.com [Gary W. Tooze]

ED WOOD

USA (127 mi) 1994

Time Out Geoff Andrew

Burton's biopic of the man often described as the world's worst film-maker (Glen or Glenda, Plan Nine from Outer Space, etc) may offer a somewhat favourably distorted account of the man and his films - it ends before his slide into porn, penury and alcoholism and, while recreating certain scenes from Wood's work with astonishing accuracy, manages to avoid showing his most tiresomely nonsensical sequences - but it certainly succeeds as a funny, touching tribute to tenacity, energy, ambition and friendship. Affection shines through warm and bright, aided no end by Stefan Czapsky's evocative b/w camerawork, and by a host of spot-on lookalike performances. Landau, especially, is superb, bringing fire, acid, pathos, wit and real dignity to the role of the pitiful, occasionally deranged former horror hero Bela Lugosi; and, in the film's most conspicuous, outrageous but surprisingly appropriate bit of fictionalisation, Vincent D'Onofrio makes a notably beleaguered Welles. Depp himself, all innocence, bright-eyed zeal and itchy obsession, never really lets us get beneath Wood's skin, but gives such a good-natured performance that it's hard not to end up rooting for someone who was talentless, naive and misguided in virtually everything he did.

Austin Chronicle [Marc Savlov]

The strangest biographical film ever made is also one of the most charming, melancholy and quirkily humorous films of the year; a wonderfully sparse recreation of the glory years of Hollywood's lowest echelons and the adolescence of independent filmmaking. Who would have thought, years ago, that someday grade-z director Edward D. Wood, Jr. and his motley crew of hangers-on would someday be the subject of a major studio release. Perhaps only Wood himself, he of the eponymous Plan 9 from Outer Space and Glen or Glenda (alternately, enthusiastically titled “I Changed My Sex!”). Burton's film is a loving tribute to this man whose cinematic ambitions outweighed his talent ten-to-one. It's also, in a very palpable sense, a multi-faceted love story focusing on Wood's passion for making movies, his love for the then-over-the-hill Bela Lugosi, and a funky, friendly look at Hollywood in the Fifties. Burton confines himself to dealing with Wood's life at its pinnacle -- the years from 1954-59, during which the director filmed Bride of the Monster as well as the aforementioned films -- and has wisely forsaken Wood's eventual descent into alcoholism and cheap porno flicks. A well-chosen ensemble cast carries the film along at a brisk pace with Depp emerging as a near dead ringer for the handsome director with a penchant for angora sweaters and lacy undergarments, though his characterization occasionally borders on hamminess (and, oddly, occasionally sounds for all the world like one of Jon Lovitz's old characters on Saturday Night Live). Landau's casting as the aging, morphine-addicted Lugosi is equally inspired, firing off fusillades of epithets at the mention of rival spook Boris Karloff and struggling to keep his name in the public eye. Swedish wrestler Tor Johnson (Steele), television horror hostess Vampira (Lisa Marie), flaky seer Criswell (Jones), and assorted other members of the Wood scene are here in all their second-rate splendor as well. Burton and cinematographer Stefan Czapsky have shot Ed Wood in the rich black-and-white tones of the movies they've recreated, but it's hard to imagine the film being seen any other way: Color would only spoil the illusion. It's hard to say if Ed Wood will be as big a box-office smash as Burton's other films have been, though. It's no Batman, or even Edward Scissorhands, but something else entirely: a biographical tribute from one Hollywood visionary to another.

Washington Post [Hal Hinson]

Late in Tim Burton’s sweetly bizarre “ Ed Wood,” an exasperated financial backer asks the director whether he has any concept of film production. Undaunted as always, Wood brightly responds, “I like to think so.” He couldn’t be more wrong.

Famed as the worst director of all time, Edward D. Wood Jr. was a distinctly American phenomenon—a schlock visionary. That Wood’s movies were bad is not really a subject of debate; they were extravagantly, often inexplicably bad. But that this bottom-of-the-barrel auteur never seemed to get wind of his shortcomings is what makes the character here so irresistibly charming.

Actually, Wood’s lack of talent is sort of irrelevant. Wood made movies because he had to, and as Johnny Depp plays him, his greatest gift was a perpetually sunny indifference to the plain facts of real life. After reading about a producer’s plans to make a film about Christine Jorgensen’s sex change, Wood offers his services, claiming that he is better qualified than anyone else to deal with this subject. Why? Because he likes to wear women’s clothes—he even parachuted over Germany wearing panties and a bra under his uniform.

What’s remarkable here is that this revelation isn’t the least unsettling.

Actually, “ Ed Wood” may be the sunniest movie about sexual deviance ever made. Asked whether he likes women, Wood says he loves them, adding, “Wearing their clothes only makes me feel closer to them.” And Depp makes him seem so open and uncomplicated that we immediately take him at his word.

Working from a droll screenplay by Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski, Burton presents Wood as a wide-eyed innocent. Though Wood’s life is filled with personal and professional setbacks of all kinds, nothing seems to break his chipper mood.

Though Burton focuses his story on the hilarious contortions that went into the making of Wood’s films, the pivotal relationship in the movie is between Wood and his lifelong hero, Bela Lugosi (Martin Landau). Now in his seventies and addicted to morphine, Lugosi has been washed up as an actor for years. To Wood, though, he is as big as ever, and though there is absolutely nothing for him to do in his sex change movie—which becomes his transvestite movie, “Glen or Glenda?”—he signs him up anyway.

It’s impossible to overestimate the job that Landau does here as this sepulchral Hungarian. Both vocally and physically, he’s simply astounding. As Burton sees it, Lugosi and Wood were equally good for one another. Lugosi helped Wood sucker backers into financing his disasters, and Wood gave Lugosi a reason to live—plus a little cash to buy more dope. But Depp and Landau create a relationship that is far stranger and more tender than one built solely on mutual advantage. Like Depp and Vincent Price in “Edward Scissorhands,” the actors slip into a moving father-son relationship with Wood shouldering the burden of his aging parent’s deterioration.

As time goes by, the need to bail Lugosi out of one crisis or another becomes the driving force behind Wood’s career. Oblivious to rejection, Wood presses on, beating the bushes for cash and creating work for his friend, despite the fact that, in the case of “Plan 9 From Outer Space,” he is already dead.

Such trivialities were often lost on Wood, and Depp does a brilliantly skillful job of portraying the filmmaker’s engaging single-mindedness. Plus he looks smashing in his blond wig and tight sweaters. From “Batman” and “Pee-wee’s Big Adventure” and “Edward Scissorhands,” it’s clear that Burton has a special affinity for freaks, and he’s surrounded Depp with a sublime bunch, including Jeffrey Jones as the mentalist Criswell, Lisa Marie as horror show hostess Vampira, and George “The Animal” Steele as the Swedish wrestler-turned- actor Tor Johnson. As Wood’s girlfriend, Dorothy, Sarah Jessica Parker is hysterically funny as the only truly sane person in the film, and Patricia Arquette is adorable as the one woman who really understands him. The best of them, though, is Bill Murray, who takes fey to undreamed-of heights.

In a magnificent scene near the end of the film, Wood meets his director hero, Orson Welles (played with uncanny accuracy by Vincent D’Onofrio), in a bar. Even though Wood is dressed in a skirt and pink angora, these two strike up a conversation about the need for artists to stick to their visions. In passing, Welles mentions that the financing has fallen through yet again for “Don Quixote,” and the reference is perfect. When Wood mentioned his link to Welles earlier in the film, it seemed like a joke. But for Burton, they’re both Don Quixotes, tilting heroically at windmills. And so, too, is Burton. Making a movie about the life of Ed Wood certainly qualifies as an impossible dream, but Burton has pulled it off with wit, imagination and something amazingly close to grace.

Erasing Clouds review Cinematic Pleasures, Ed Wood, by J.D. La France

Turner Classic Movies Lang Thompson

PopcornQ Gary Morris from Bright Lights Film Journal

Scott Renshaw

David Cowen

eFilmCritic.com Paulapalooza

Eccentric Cinema [Troy Howarth]

Raging Bull [James Cobo]

Epinions.com [Steven Flores]

eFilmCritic.com (Rob Gonsalves)

DVD Journal [Mark Bourne] Special Edition

DVD Talk [John Sinnott] Special Edition

DVD Verdict [Mike Jackson] Special Edition

Reel.com DVD review [Bonnie Fazio] Special Edition

DVD Town (Yunda Eddie Feng) Special Edition

Film Threat, Hollywood's Indie Voice Brad Cook, Special Edition

Film Freak Central Review [Walter Chaw]

filmcritic.com hires Ed Wood David Bezanson

The SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review Richard Scheib

MovieMartyr.com [Jeremy Heilman]

James Berardinelli's ReelViews

eFilmCritic.com (Brian McKay)

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

Celluloid Dreams Simon Hill

pulpmovies.com (Paul Pritchard)

Dragan Antulov

Crazy for Cinema (Lisa Skrzyniarz)

Exclaim! James Keast

Movie Vault [Arturo Garcia Lasca]

Edward Copeland on Film

All Movie Guide [Mark Deming]

The Sci-Fi Movie Page James O’Ehley

Motion Picture Purgatory (Rick Trembles) cartoon

Gods of Filmmaking

Washington Post [Desson Howe]

Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

The New York Times (Janet Maslin)

DVDBeaver [Gary Tooze]

MARS ATTACKS!

USA (106 mi) 1996 ‘Scope

Brilliant Observations on 1173 Films [Clayton Trapp]

I mean this is why there's no point in having good actors or a really big budget in this kind of flick. The historic all-star cast is capable of being deserving of accolades, but there just aren't many. Sarah Jessica Parker and (of course) dual-roled Jack Nicholson (at one point he asks his other self what he means on tv) are the all-stars of the all-stars. She regularly loses her way into brilliance, and has the most memorable scene where the aliens attach her head to the body of a chihuahua. The irony is that she doesn't look much more bizarre than she usually does. The earth is a varied enough place that there's something suitable for the destruction of everyone, and while the Martians are advanced enough to groove to Tom Jones, country yodeling is too base for their taste. The props are the best, especially the little translation machine with a revolving radar dish on the top. I mean, it's cool to have virtually every character be a familiar face, but that also means that you've seen them all (except for Sarah Jessica) better.

Albuquerque Alibi [Scott Phillips]

Director Tim Burton's entry in the new wave of extraterrestrial menace movies flopped pretty hard in the wake of Independence Day, but we're talkin' apples and oranges here. Where ID4 treated the subject seriously (using the term loosely, of course), Mars Attacks goes for all-out goofiness and, for the most part, succeeds wildly. I'll admit, when I saw the film in its theatrical run, I went ape bananas for the Martian sequences, but the scenes involving humans left me a little cold. Whether it's that I knew what to expect or just that the film works better on the small screen, I didn't feel the same way watching it on video. The Martian stuff still had me busting a gut, but I found myself entertained by my own species, as well. Based on the supercool Topps trading cards, Mars Attacks wastes no time in establishing itself as an over-the-top ass-slapper of a movie, as a herd of flaming cows stampedes over a hillside and a flying saucer zips away into the sky. President Jack Nicholson tries to prepare the world for its first contact with the Martians, but the little bastards start blasting the hell out of everyone in sight and before long, it's nothin' but panic in the streets. The all-star cast assembled by Burton is pretty astounding--Nicholson (in a dual role), Pierce Brosnan, Rod Steiger, Tom Jones, Jim Brown and Pam Grier, to name a few--but the real stars are the computer-generated Martians. These bulbous-brained pricks are the most mean-spirited, wise-assed little scumbags in the history of cinema, and if you're like me, you'll be inhaling your pork rinds in hysteria at their vicious antics. A few slow places, and Will Smith might not be in it, but recommended 100 percent.

Mars Attacks! Mike D’Angelo

Tim Burton's career is the most fascinating in Hollywood. Time and again, he's tackled quirky premises that would seem to have extremely limited appeal -- a guy with scissors for hands; a Pee-Wee Herman movie -- and hit the critical and commercial jackpot; now, he's taken a surefire idea (a picture called Independence Day cleaned up with it earlier this year, you may recall) and made a movie that's alienating everyone, including many of his most ardent supporters. I can't argue with those who complain of the copious misfired gags, wasted opportunities, and pointless interludes that plague Mars Attacks! -- in fact, every criticism of the movie that I've yet encountered is right on the money. I can only report that I've now seen the film twice, and that I laughed my fool head off both times from beginning to end. What appeals most to me, I think, is the movie's sheer anarchic glee, as personified by the invading Martians; unlike the Alien-inspired aliens in Independence Day, these bug-eyed, cerebrum-domed monsters seem to have no particular agenda in mind -- they're like a gaggle of 12-year-old boys turned loose in the forest with pellet guns, magnifying glasses, and heavy boots. The film's enormous all-star cast (mostly underutilized, though Jack Nicholson, Lukas Haas, Pierce Brosnan, and Sarah Jessica Parker have some fun) exists only to be viciously annihilated; the real stars of Mars Attacks! are the Martians, who apparently have unlimited chutzpah: they carve their faces on Mt. Rushmore; they sing backup for Tom Jones; they broadcast a reassuring "Don't run -- we are your friends!" even as they open fire on Earth's screaming inhabitants. In one of my favorite subtle bits of business -- you may have seen it in the ads -- the Martian ambassador taps a microphone a few times to ensure that it's on and functioning before he petulantly swats it away and decimates most of America's legislative branch. Put enough moments like that in a movie, and I don't really care how ineffective the rest of it is, quite frankly. The script for Mars Attacks!, written by British playwright Jonathan Gems, and based loosely upon a notorious banned series of Topps trading cards, is frequently puerile and repetitive, but the film is intermittently hilarious and inspired enough that I'll courteously forget about all of the stuff that didn't work. You're welcome, fellas.

NitrateOnline Carrie Gorringe

Through serendipitous circumstances, Mars Attacks! is the satirical flip side of last summer’s Independence Day. Strange things are beginning to occur in America’s heartland, among them the discovery that while cows can’t fly, they most certainly can fry. It’s the old Bug-Eyed Monster problem again (though, by the looks of these hypercephalic aliens, apparent refugees from the 1955 film, This Island Earth, the proper designation for them might be Bug-Brained Monsters). Into this metaphysical morass steps President Dale (Nicholson), an obvious Clinton clone who is short on perception but long on procrastination. He is amply assisted in this vein by his scientific adviser, Donald Kessler (Brosnan) who equates the possession of advanced technology with a higher form of sensibility and a dislike for conflict; only humanity is capable of savage brutality. He must have been thinking of General Decker (Steiger), a combination of Dr. Strangelove’s Jack D. Ripper and Buck Turgidson. As with them and Communism, General Decker believes that the only good alien is a dead alien. Circumstances prove the General right, and the President ineffective. Soon, in good sci-fi fashion, everyone of importance is either vaporized or immobilized, and the task of saving the earth falls to some Joe Everyone named Richie Norris (Haas), whose Grandmother (Sidney) possesses, unbeknownst to her, the only effective weapon; as those who’ve suffered through bad commercials on late-night television will soon come to realize, the solution is just too wickedly good to give away on any level.

Based upon a set of 1960s trading cards of the same name, Mars Attacks! owes a considerable degree of debt to Kubrick’s master satire on xenophobia, Dr. Strangelove, not only in terms of characterization, but also in terms of sensibility. There are, however, several problems with this type of wholesale borrowing, foremost among them an appalling sense that Mars Attacks! suffers from a bad case of anachronism that is not only creeping, but terminal. It’s questionable whether or not the concept of sudden annihilation from above is topical enough to evoke the magical mixture of both laughter and fear generated by Strangelove (unless you believe in little green men who plan to abduct you for your DNA sample); Mars Attacks! might have stood a better chance if the aliens had landed in Russia and made off with several pounds of plutonium -- a much more likely and far scarier prospect in the contemporary world. Moreover, Kubrick’s satire was built, as is all effective satire, upon a strong base of character devolution; the audience watched as the paranoid Ripper and the pompous Turgidson, among others, were stripped of what little dignity they were permitted to hold, and rendered completely cretinous and scary. Unfortunately, Mars Attacks! doesn’t even allow for this development to occur; its characters start out as nasty clichés, and consequently their behavior (and the film) can’t get anywhere from there. This may also be a side-effect of the anachronistic plot; it’s difficult for modern audiences to believe in public officials possessing any sanctity, and that might be the most terrifying aspect of the film. All of the performances are excellent (standouts include Brosnan as the sanctimonious Kessler and Bening as a recovering alcoholic turned New-Age dipstick), but there’s a severe disconnectiveness between them and the film in which they appear; they’re hitting their marks, but the film isn’t. Nevertheless, all is not lost, because the audience still has Tom Jones available for a post-apocalyptic reprise of It’s Not Unusual. Tom Jones as the repository of Western culture: now, that’s really scary.

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SLEEPY HOLLOW

USA Germany (105 mi) 1999

Brilliant Observations on 1173 Films [Clayton Trapp]

First of all, the Washington Irving story is stupid. Second, this isn't it, and is even dumber. Third, Tim Burton apparently spent all of his effort figuring out how to make semi-cool sets and shots, and none of his talent figuring out how to put anything of any interest or consequence in them. It goes on. Johnny Depp's ridiculous accent and mawkish mannerisms are amateurish and silly. It's his only role where you're instantly and constantly reminded that not only did he arise out of the aesthetic abyss that is American network television, but from a substandard series in even that milieu. Christopher Walken's teeth look like an escapee from a film about impoverished and starving vampires without a dental plan. Christina Ricci can be good, but not here. Lots of blood and gore and sorcery-lite, kind of like a C-student in junior high imagining a bad acid trip. The most constructive use of the time involved in watching this film is to make side bets on who faints the most times, Depp or Ricci. Take Christina and give 'em about 5 faints.

Deep Focus (Bryant Frazer)

One of the most anticipated films of the year (by me, anyway) turns out to be a big, beautiful dud. A must-see for sheer visual splendor, Sleepy Hollow is nonetheless a fundamentally unsatisfying whodunnit that saddles its towering imagery with a tortured story that works so hard at misdirection that it never realizes what it's good at.

Johnny Depp plays Ichabod Crane, who in this version of the classic tale is a New York policeman sent to the picturesque village of Sleepy Hollow, two days' journey up the Hudson River, where a number of locals have been reported beheaded. Lore has it that a beheaded Hessian horseman who was notoriously vicious in life has returned from the dead, galloping through the woods under cover of darkness and decapitating hapless villagers. Crane has arrived with every intention of dispelling this sort of foolish superstition. By the time he leaves, he has learned to believe.

It's too bad Burton isn't much of an action director. Sure, he's big on spectacle, but when it comes time to choreograph a big showpiece fistfight or chase scene for the camera, he can't quite invest it with the requisite sense of physicality. (This is one reason why the first Batman movie puts me to sleep.) This gives most of the beheadings that take place in Sleepy Hollow a detached quality -- they are almost certainly meant to be tongue-in-cheek, but I'd like them to be a little more lively. The marketing campaign (tagline: "Heads will roll") promised some chaotic wickedness along the lines of Burton's previous Mars Attacks!, a sensibility that is, to some extent, in evidence; still, while the scenes are technically impressive, they remain strangely uninvolving. (You'd think a stylist like Burton would be above the kind of shameless computer-animated ooga-booga that's used for a cheap shock in one scene, but you'd be wrong.)

More on-target are the grisly aftermaths of the murders, which are presented with a morbidly tongue-in-cheek sensibility. There's a certain gothic fascination in the sight of Crane kneeling next to a headless corpse, examining the reddish-pink tissue of an open neck. It's gruesome, but it's a friendly gruesomeness (Burton complained that his movie, which is exactly the sort of thing that healthy 13-year-old boys live for, was saddled with a restrictive R rating, rather than a PG-13, and he does have a point).

In counterpoint to these almost elegant visuals, the screenplay, by Andrew Kevin Walker (Se7en, 8MM) is just too busy. Abandoning the premise of the original Washington Irving story, which posited the Headless Horseman as a morbid hoax perpetrated on gullible villagers, Walker positions the Horseman as a strictly supernatural phenomenon -- a fine idea, in itself. The dialogue is pleasantly stylized, but the story is hopelessly overwritten, drawing our attention away from the vengeful galloping ghost who's the film's centerpiece and into the banal convolutions of village life. It only gets worse as the tale goes on. Not only must we buy into some piffle about the horseman being controlled by one of the townspeople, but we're expected to care about their petty schemings and power plays, all this while there's a back-from-the-grave villain running around who's frankly much more interesting than any of them.

That the screenplay is so bloated with unnecessary contrivance is a particular shame in light of the various wonders that Burton and Co. have worked elsewhere. In terms of visuals, this picture is perhaps the most sure-footed of the year. It's photographed in shades of blue and slate-grey, with a bloody garnish the color of cherry pie. Johnny Depp appears as pale and frightened as the little boys who figure into the movie's backstory, and kudos are certainly due for the casting of an uncredited Christopher Walken as a distorted, silver-teethed rhyme to Depp's fragile handsomeness. Christina Ricci is even more delicate here than Depp, her round-eyed and childlike china-doll demeanor married to a potent yet unassuming sensuality. Late in the film, with her head pulled back and her throat in peril, we're convinced that something beautiful is in horrible danger. Sleepy Hollow could have done well with a rewrite that relied more on moments of such innate drama, and less on narrative convolution.

Nashville Scene [Noel Murray]

Director Tim Burton has never been able to decide whether he wants to be David Lynch or Steven Spielberg. His fetish for heroic oddballs has often led him down the Lynchian path, where the bland normalcy of middle-class life hides monsters and paranoiacs. But Burton has also tended toward a childlike fascination with fairy dust and happy endings, to the extent that he always rounds off the corners on his misunderstood outsiders. As a result, Burton's films have stopped short of being disturbing, meaningful, or truly original. And in the case of Ed Wood--Burton's overpraised biography of a hapless Hollywood hack--his obsessive need to cute-ify the eccentric shamelessly turns real people into weightless cartoons.

At first glance, Washington Irving's classic Sketch Book entry "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" would seem a perfect match for Burton's sensibility. The short story has an awkward, geeky character--the cowardly, superstitious schoolteacher Ichabod Crane. It also has a bucolic community haunted by an inexplicable apparition--the ghost of a decapitated Hessian who gallops through the woods as The Headless Horseman. There's even a chaste romance, between Ichabod and a Dutchman's daughter. With little modification, "Sleepy Hollow" could slide right behind Batman, Edward Scissorhands, and A Nightmare Before Christmas as another Tim Burton gothic fantasy.

But Burton and screenwriter Andrew Kevin Walker (author of Seven and an early version of 8MM) have decided to retrofit Irving's story. Ichabod Crane (played by Johnny Depp) has been made into a literal-minded forensic policeman sent to Sleepy Hollow to investigate a series of decapitations, which may portend a plot by one of the town's landlords to increase his holdings through foul play. Crane's nemesis in the Irving story, Brom Bones, has been reduced to a token appearance (perhaps because he's played by the vapid Casper Van Dien). The bulk of the Burton/Walker Sleepy Hollow involves Crane's attempt to solve the mystery of who has summoned the spirit of The Headless Horseman--for which he enlists the aid of a pretty, witchcraft-practicing local girl named Katarina Van Tassel (played by Christina Ricci).

Distancing himself even further from Irving's story, Burton has intended his Sleepy Hollow to be an homage to the bloody, cleavage-laden spookfests of the '60s--the products of the British-based Hammer Films. To that end, he has plenty of lopped-off heads flying about, albeit tastefully and practically gore-free. (Sleepy Hollow has a soft "R" rating--there's little in it to disturb a child over 12.) Burton also has Depp and company stiffen up, to give an air of mock seriousness to the lurid tableau.

The Hammer parody works sporadically--sometimes it's funny to hear Depp drone on about science while he's covered in demonic blood, and sometimes his clipped tones seem like a gratingly bad impression of Dave Foley. As for the changes to Irving's story, they're not worth getting upset about; Burton and Walker have changed the details so completely that the film is a wholly different animal. If anything, one wishes that the filmmakers had just gone ahead and disposed of incongruous holdovers like Brom Bones and the occasionally knock-kneed Crane, and instead delved more deeply into the application of reason in a world of superstition.

Instead, they waste time on a complicated murder-for-real-estate scheme that ends up being one of those mysteries that can be solved only by a long speech at the end by the character we least suspect. (Unfortunately, I don't think that part is supposed to be a parody.) Burton also dwells on Ichabod's recurring nightmares--a compelling subject with a conventional payoff. The ghosts of Crane's past--instigated by a religious fanatic, no less--are typical of Burton's limited imagination when it comes to character; his worst nightmare is a man with a Bible.

What Burton excels at is design, and if ever a movie could get by on its look alone, Sleepy Hollow is it. The film is set as the 18th century turns to the 19th, and the drab post-revolutionary garb blends into the ice-blue haze in the air and the long New England shadows. Burton keeps the pace quick and strings together several pulse-pounding (if not especially scary) action sequences. And The Headless Horseman effect--a combination of CGI and the work of stuntman Ray "Darth Maul" Park--is truly stunning.

In many ways, Sleepy Hollow is the most direct, least pretentious film Burton has made since Beetlejuice. But that doesn't mean it isn't infused with Burtonian clichs. In addition to the dire authority figures and the lovable loner with the scarred past, the movie ends as all Burton gothic fantasies do--with a big fight in a tower.

Then, of course, Burton and Walker ditch the ambiguous conclusion to Irving's story in favor of a more heroic happy ending. That's the Spielberg influence. Except that in Spielberg's best movies, the director's obsessions--his yearning for suburban family life and his interest in World War II--inform the fantasy, often making his films richer and more resonant. Burton's obsessions are like a hurdle he can't jump, and they ultimately render his films predictable and plastic--colorful baubles that could've been jewels.

Jonathan Rosenbaum, Chicago Reader

BFI | Sight & Sound | Sleepy Hollow (1999) Andrew O'Hehir from Sight and Sound, February 2000

BFI | Sight & Sound | The Cage Of Reason Kim Newman from Sight and Sound, January 2000

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BIG FISH B+ 90

USA (125 mi) 2003

One of the more colorful entries from the recent Christmas releases so far, with an outstanding cast, the usual Tim Burton mania, which, in this case, is the director paying tribute to his own films, which I found very funny.  More improbable happenings, only here they are set inside a story which continues to evolve and remain interesting all the way to the end.  Billy Crudup has been mostly dull and uninteresting all his life trying to be a realist, as his father is a world class storyteller, and the son has never been able to compete with all those embellishments through the ages.  In a style somewhat resembling THE BARBARIAN INVASIONS (2003), a man's life passes before his eyes in one memorable film set up after another, until they all come together at the end and actually matter.  I found this to be a father and son film, showing how easy it is to find fault, to pass judgment, to reject the teachings of every previous generation that has come before, as if history has no bearing on the circumstances in the life of every new young man.  What works in this film is the tender way that this particular young man finds meaning in everything he had previously learned to despise.  This is a true redemption film, somewhat in the FORREST GUMP mode, about finding your own path.

Big Fish Anthony Lane from the New Yorker (capsule review)

The title is apt enough; this movie is long, wet, and wriggling, and, after a while, you may want to hold your nose. It tells the story of Edward Bloom, played in his youth by Ewan McGregor and in the final act of his life by Albert Finney. That life is a picaresque, crammed with exaggeration and casual magic—a witch with a glass eye that shows forthcoming deaths, say, or a pair of spangled night-club singers who are also Siamese twins. This is easy stuff for somebody of Tim Burton's gifts, and you seldom feel that the new picture tests him or turns him on in the way that "Beetlejuice" or "Edward Scissorhands" did. The result is his most emotionally reactionary work to date. With Billy Crudup as Bloom's poor stooge of a son, Danny DeVito as a circus ringmaster, Matthew McGrory as a moping giant, and Jessica Lange and Alison Lohman, both badly underused, as the older and younger versions of the hero's only love.

The Onion A.V. Club [Nathan Rabin]

After a remarkable run stretching from 1985's Pee-wee's Big Adventure to 1994's Ed Wood, Tim Burton hit a prolonged rough patch. Though deeply flawed, the clever 1996 satire Mars Attacks! and 1999's visually sumptuous Sleepy Hollow each had much to recommend them, which can't be said of 2001's hopelessly muddled Planet Of The Apes. Taken as a whole, Burton's second decade of filmmaking has looked like a letdown. Fortunately, he rebounds in a big way with Big Fish, a Daniel Wallace adaptation and visual feast that recaptures the fairy-tale simplicity and wrenching emotional power of Edward Scissorhands. Told largely in flashbacks, Big Fish stars Albert Finney as a larger-than-life Southern patriarch who never lets the truth get in the way of a good yarn. Billy Crudup co-stars as his bitter reporter son, who resents having grown up in the shadow of Finney's tall tales, but returns to his ailing father's home to try to get to know him before he dies. Ewan McGregor plays a younger incarnation of Finney who (like McGregor's protagonist in Down With Love) seems to float through a charmed life, carried aloft by invisible winged cherubs. As Finney tells it, his life story is a great American fable in which he, in keeping with Big Fish's enormous generosity of spirit, helps a series of misfits, kooks, and freaks, including a ringmaster (Danny DeVito) with a dark secret, a laconic poet (Steve Buscemi), and a misunderstood giant. Whenever Big Fish leaves the gorgeously wrought mythological past, with its echoes of vintage Disney and the best work of Burton and Steven Spielberg, and returns to the inevitably cold and dreary present, the shock is as bracing as waking up from a glorious dream. But when Crudup's present and Finney's past finally merge, the result is as powerful and heartbreaking as anything in Burton's career. Like Pee-wee's Big Adventure, Big Fish largely takes place in a kaleidoscopic, fully formed, utterly benevolent universe that seems to have originated in its protagonist's vivid imagination—which in this case isn't that far from the truth. With such a world-class fantasist in the director's chair, the question of which side of the fantasy/fact divide Big Fish will fall on is never in doubt. But Burton and company make an unbeatable case for the life-affirming power of make-believe.

Slant Magazine Ed Gonzalez

Critics have already been comparing Tim Burton's new film Big Fish to Forrest Gump, which is somewhat of a mis-association. American history happens to a passive Tom Hanks in Robert Zemeckis's endearing but naïve Oscar-winner. In Big Fish, Edward Bloom (Ewan McGregor) happens to the American pastoral. In many ways, comparisons to Denys Arcand's heinous The Barbarian Invasions are more appropriate. Both films center around a father-son disconnect, but only one truly attempts to understand the rocky relationship between parents and children. More positively, the film also plays out as a magical realist companion to Emir Kusturica's towering parable Underground, which similarly challenged the way we watch movies.

McGregor's sociable Edward Bloom is a big fish in a small town, a Johnny Appleseed who refuses to settle for a life less ordinary. Over the course of the film, an older and ailing Edward (an incredible Albert Finney) spins tall tales for anyone who will listen: how he caught the biggest catfish in the world but how he had to let it go at the risk of losing his wedding ring; how he saved a small town from a hungry giant (Matthew McGrory) and stumbled upon a heaven-ly village after choosing the road less taken (Robert Frost would be proud); how he worked as an indentured servant for a lycanthropic circus master (Danny DeVito) for no pay (only the satisfaction of discovering new tidbits of information about his future wife); and so on.

These stories fail to compel Edward's son, William (Billy Crudup), and it's this lack of faith that Burton targets to illuminate our country's notions of patriotism, pop culture, and spirituality. Though Daniel Wallace's novel of "mythic proportions" is as American as apple pie (not unlike, say, Pee Wee's Big Adventure), Burton and screenwriter John August (Go and McG's two Charlie's Angels films) ensure the story's universal appeal. "It's rude to talk about religion," says Edward at one point, cheekily pointing to the non-secular nature of the stories he uses to engage the world around him. There's no mention of God in the film, but there is a god very much alive in Burton's fantastical set pieces.

Big Fish is a cosmic gallery of Gothic inventions and magical wish fulfillments. Edward may as well be an apostle sitting on top of a mountain, compulsively relating stories about the founding of a man and, much larger, the founding of a nation. What with its many intertwining subplots, his life is a collection of Bible stories that engage our spiritual curiosity, asking us to entertain and cultivate myth over reason. When the young Edward finally wins the young Sandy (Alison Lohman), they stand in a field of yellow daffodils and the war zone where Edward defeated a familiar competitor resembles a crop circle in the shape of a sperm cell. These are the evocative images that perpetuate Edward's personal and Burton's aesthetic myth-making.

An older Sandy (Jessica Lange) gets into a bathtub fully clothed with her dying husband. "I don't think I'll ever dry out," she whispers. It's the most beautiful piece of dialogue you'll hear in any film this year, because it not only speaks to the power of their love but is indicative of just how saturated Burton's images are with that love. There's a suspicion that Edward Bloom may or may not have lived the fabulist life he compulsively speaks of. Whether or not he is telling the truth is beside the film's "surprise" ending. Big Fish is sentimental but never manipulative, a non-secular tall tale that speaks to our universal desire to live life not necessarily to its fullest, but with wonderment of our very existence. It's a simple but profound truth. Big Fish is love and death, Burton style.

Combustible Celluloid [Jeffrey M. Anderson]

With Big Fish, the former boy genius director Tim Burton works from two new angles. He embraces the art of storytelling for the first time and gives us his first glimpse of "realism." It may make Burton sound like a no-talent hack for never trying these basic things before. Very simply, Burton has up to now only been interested in characters and places. He has conjured up bizarre, damaged heroes and villains, placed them within the context of some lopsided world, and set them loose.

Within that format, he has been almost entirely successful, from his feature debut at age 26, the cult classic Pee-wee's Big Adventure, to his blockbuster Batman films and his masterworks Edward Scissorhands and Ed Wood. Only 2001's Planet of the Apes was a complete failure, and so it's difficult to ascertain whether Big Fish is a response to that fiasco, or if it's simply life's next step for the now-45 year-old filmmaker.

Nevertheless, Big Fish moves with great beauty and almost relies on some unknown magical force to hold its fragile foundations together. Albert Finney stars in the present-day, "realistic" scenes as an aging, dying Edward Bloom. Though he and his son William (Billy Crudup) have barely spoken for years, the son joins the father for his final days.

The no-nonsense journalist William can't connect with his father, who has spent his life telling tall tales of his youthful exploits. William wants to know who his father really is, the truth behind the whoppers. Ewan McGregor plays the young Bloom in the film's fanciful flashbacks, full of the usual Burton color and fantasy. Here Bloom meets a giant named Karl (Matthew McGrory), finds an enchanted town, joins the circus (run by Danny DeVito), falls in love with his future wife (Alison Lohman as a youth and Jessica Lange as an adult), meets a set of singing Korean Siamese twins, sells mechanical hands and robs a bank (with "Mr. Pink" himself, Steve Buscemi).

But above all, he catches a big fish -- which serves as more than one metaphor -- on the day his son is born. Part of Bloom's fearlessness comes from a particular story from his childhood. Meeting a witch (Burton's current love Helena Bonham-Carter), he sees the moment of his own death, and thus knows when he's going to die. Some viewers will no doubt compare Big Fish to the reprehensible Forrest Gump (for my money the worst film ever made) but the two films could not differ more. For one thing, Big Fish celebrates thinking and intelligence -- rather than unquestioning idiocy and coincidence -- and it adores its women characters. Burton gets two of his trademark ethereal blondes in the film (Lohman and Lange) as well as Bonham-Carter occupying two pivotal roles.

Burton uses Finney's throaty voice to full storytelling potential, and the casting director should get a special award for realizing that Lohman looks just like a young Lange. Not to mention that the usually passive Crudup has finally found his perfect role; he's the seeker of truth, the observer who never participates. Taken from a script by John August and based on a novel by Daniel Wallace, Big Fish speaks directly from Burton's sensibility -- it may be the most personal film he's yet made. The argument between father and son -- fact vs. fiction, objective vs. subjective, is a war that Burton no doubt wages in his own mind. Should he move on to "realistic" stories, or stay in his fantasy world? Which is more "real" or "truthful"?

Moreover, the realistic scenes have a kind of bittersweet tone to them, as if Burton were testing the water for the first time and realizing that he may belong there. They ring with the eternal sadness of someone leaving childish things behind. It's in these sequences that Burton allows his characters to tell one or two stories verbally without visual aids or flashbacks, and they're the saddest tales of all.

DVD Times Mark Boydell

Big Fish Kevin O’Reilly from DVD Times

Images Movie Journal Gary Johnson

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CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY A- 93

USA Great Britain Australia (115 mi) 2005

Initially, the look of the film, adapted from Roald Dahl’s book, is something right out of LEMONY SNICKET, with its dark lines and almost Albrecht-like ugliness, not just revealing the filth of poverty, something out of Dickens, but here the dank is glossed over, making it shine as if it’s brand spanking new. From out of this dark comes the visit to the chocolate factory, which resembles one’s first look at Emerald City or Disneyland, so artificially colorized that the awesome craziness of it all is actually inspiring. Add to this the glorious musical numbers of the oompa-loompa’s, which are hilarious and so energized and magically enhanced by such inventive set design, with obvious references to Busby Berkeley and great musicals from the past, they turn out to be the best part of the entire film. Another plus is the terrific realization of the great glass elevator, which soars through the air and seems to be everywhere at once. While the oompa-loompa’s themselves, each looking exactly alike, a carbon copy digitally enhanced clone of one dwarfish-looking munchkin (the actor Deep Roy), showed little emotion, the underplayed glee, masked in the darkness of Johnny Depp’s Willy Wonka character, was hilarious, as he found the kids too crude and disgustingly self-centered to ever appreciate his magical uniqueness, finding their “parents,” a word he can’t even say, repulsive as well, yet he was having one whale of a time showing off the goodies of his inner self indulgence, revealed through some wonderfully expressive creative magnificence. The weakness of the film is probably the hideousness of the children’s characters themselves, each more grotesque than the other, and their vapid parents who haven’t a clue what to do. Next to them, Charlie, Freddie Highmore, and his getting-ever-younger grandfather, David Kelly, are perhaps too sentimentally sweet. Only Charlie and his grandfather, of course, appreciate Willy Wonka for who he is, inspired, obviously a creative genius, but still just a person who would die of loneliness alone, who needs to be loved and appreciated like anybody else.

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Anthony Lane from the New Yorker

In Tim Burton's adaptation of the book by Roald Dahl, Johnny Depp plays Willy Wonka and Freddie Highmore plays Charlie, who, having found one of five golden tickets hidden in a chocolate bar, wins a tour of Wonka's chocolate factory. Depp, as Wonka, dresses like Oscar Wilde, smiles like Michael Jackson, enunciates like Tootsie, and wears rubbery purple gloves to keep away the germs—and is far more of a child than the actual children around him. The movie is surprisingly unwild, though often astounding—Burton summons succulent and strange details such as a thunderous, cocoa-hued waterfall and bulging pink sheep that are sheared for their fleeces of cotton candy—but the eye, no less than the palate, is at first dizzied, then acclimatized, then jaded, and, finally, semi-sickened. To chide a movie that oozes so many gags may sound churlish, but you can't help feeling that a fantasist as accomplished as Burton can manage this kind of project with his eyes shut.

Time Out London

Another proper Charlie of a movie from Tim Burton to follow the lamentable, wet ‘Big Fish’? Thankfully, no. Burton is on much safer ground here with a charming children’s film that embraces imaginative production design and a wonderful creepy performance from Johnny Depp as the reclusive confectioner, Willy Wonka. It’s fitting that Burton, who rejects CGI in favour of real sets, should be at the helm of a story that was conceived by Roald Dahl in 1964 partly to lament the onset of modernity. The film’s opening sequence, which depicts hundreds of industrious Oompa Loompas (all played by a 4' 4" Deep Roy) appears at first to be a rhythmic, colourful celebration of mass production, but we soon learn that Mr Bucket (Noah Taylor), the father of our young hero, Charlie (Freddie Highmore) is lingering in unemployment, having been replaced by a machine at the local toothpaste factory. We discover too that Grandpa Joe (David Kelly) was earlier the victim of a mass lay-off, this time at Wonka’s fabulous chocolate plant itself, which looms over the Bucket’s ramshackle house like a dark Gothic castle. Tradition is the order of the day. Like Dahl’s book, the film stresses the importance of family over personal ambition, love over selfish desire. The plot, too, remains largely as Dahl left it: five golden tickets hidden in chocolate bars allow four brats and a saintly Charlie to visit Wonka’s secret factory, but all the kids bar Charlie are soon ejected in tragi-comic fashion. Burton’s one major concession to the twenty-first century is an unnecessary sub-plot that explores Wonka’s estrangement from his father, the dentist Dr Wonka (Christopher Lee). And Charlie – surprise, surprise – provides the bridge to reconciliation. It’s soppy stuff, and recalls the grating father-son element of ‘Big Fish’.The kaleidoscopic sets apart, Depp is the film’s pièce de resistance. He carves a character defined by angular physical presence and alien diction. His Wonka is a strange hybrid: the costume of Michael Jackson; the lingo of Austin Powers; the hairstyle of Olivier’s Richard III; the top hat of a undertaker… It’s a sweet cocktail. 

Jigsaw Lounge [Neil Young]

This wildly enjoyable Roald Dahl adaptation may well be Burton's best yet - in a perhaps unexpected but nevertheless very welcome return to form, it's several cuts above his recent so-so features like Big Fish, Sleepy Hollow and Planet of the Apes.
He finds Dahl's material an ideal outlet for his fanciful brand of sinister camp, marshalling eye-popping contributions from cinematographer Philippe Rousselot, production designer Alex McDowell and set decorator Peter Young, to name just three of the most obvious behind-the-scenes recognition-worthy personnel.

Though hardly an actor's showcase, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory features what's also arguably a career-best effort is Johnny Depp: putting his (inexplicably Oscar-nominated) turn in Finding Neverland firmly in the shade, he's a wonderfully sly delight here as the dandyish, psychologically-scarred, child-hating confectioner-genius Willy Wonka, who emerges from years as a recluse to invite five "lucky" children to tour his vast, weird chocolate factory. Among these is dirt-poor Charlie Bucket (Depp's precocious Neverland co-star Freddie Highmore) - accompanied his Grandpa Joe, a former Wonka employee played by Fawlty Towers survivor David Kelly.

The wizened, 75-year-old Dubliner Kelly brings some welcome flavours of Samuel Beckett to his early appearances sharing a bed with Charlie's three other grandparents - and he understandably makes the most of his late-in-the-day big Hollywood break. But he, Depp and Burton are repeatedly and emphatically upstaged by another British-based veteran, the 4ft4in Deep Roy who, thanks to the wonders of modern technology, plays every one of Wonka's 30-inch-tall 'Oompa Loompas.' He gets to strut his stuff in no less than four show-stoppingly dazzling musical production-numbers - including one spectacularly OTT eighties-disco affair that seems to hommage Daft Punk's choreographed-robots routine in the Around the World video.

Until now almost entirely confined to sinister, often unrecognisably grotesque cameo appearances in horror, sci-fi and comedy pictures (including Burton's Apes and Fish) Roy has landed the job of a lifetime here - or rather 165 of them. As Burton puts it, "he worked his arse off" (not "ass", mind you) and was rewarded with a reported $1m fee. Not bad - according to his own memoirs, Sean Astin received a measly $250,000 for the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy - until you work out that Roy's pay-packet works out at just over $6,000 per Oompa-Loompa.

Wonka's workforce have always been one of the story's trickiest aspects - whether in book form or on the big screen. In 1971, Mel Stuart's Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory was a major box-office bellyflop but has gradually become something of a perennial favourite - but even Willy Wonka's ardent fans can't stand the picture's Oompa Loompas: Danny Peary called them "dreadful concoctions", and their rendition of songs by Anthony Newley and Leslie Bricusse does tend to stop the picture dead in its tracks.

Despite incorporating some subtle nods here and there to Stuart's version (which, though officially credited as having been written by Dahl, appalled the Welsh-born author) Burton and scripwriter John August adhere much more closely to the book's text - with results that should pull off the exceedingly rare feat of delighting children and adults in pretty much equal measure. That said, older viewers may find occasionally find themselves distracted by the Tooth-style Americanisms ("candy", "vacation", "store", "bandaid", "dollars") spoken by ostensibly English characters in what's otherwise a decidedly English-flavoured script.

But this minor issue is easily outweighed by the surfeit of flair, imagination and intelligence shown by Burton and August throughout the picture's breezy two hours. If nothing else, they deserve a Wonka bar each for - in their spoof recreation of a scene from 2001 : A Space Odyssey, with the black Monolith replaced by a slab of chocolate - treating the now wildly over-revered Stanley Kubrick with what feels unmistakeably, and refreshingly, like a blast of iconoclastic contempt.

BFI | Sight & Sound | Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005) Ryan Gilbey from Sight and Sound, September 2005

England, an alternative version of the present. Charlie Bucket lives with his poverty-stricken family in their cottage. At the top of the street looms the confectionery factory owned by the eccentric recluse Willy Wonka. Unseen since his recipes were plagiarised 15 years previously, Wonka has secreted golden tickets in five chocolate bars; those children who find them will enjoy a tour of the factory, with the grand winner receiving a prize beyond imagination. Charlie finds a ticket; the others go to the obese Augustus Gloop, the spoilt Veruca Salt, the gum-chewing Violet Beauregarde and the television-obsessed Mike Teavee.

During the tour, a terrible fate befalls each child except Charlie: Augustus falls into the factory's chocolate river and is sucked into the fudge room; Violet swells up after sampling untested chewing gum; Veruca is dragged down the rubbish chute by Wonka's nut-cracking squirrels after she tries to steal one of them; Mike is shrunk in a teleportation device. Charlie is awarded the grand prize - the factory - but rejects it when he discovers taking it would entail having to leave his family. With Charlie, Wonka visits his own estranged father, realises the importance of family and modifies his offer: Charlie can remain with his family in their cottage, now rebuilt inside the factory.

Review

When Willy Wonka encourages the children who have won a tour of his fabled sweet factory to "try some of my grass", it is hard not to fear the worst. But there is a less druggy bent to this adaptation of Roald Dahl's novel than might have been expected from Tim Burton. The director plays it straighter than the 1971 film version, which resembled a bad trip. He chooses not to linger on some of the weirder details: his camera glosses over a burns ward for singed puppets and a ceremony in which the Oompa Loompas worship a giant cocoa bean, making these spectacles all the more intriguing.

But, disappointingly, the factory scenes are dulled by the familiarity of Alex McDowell's production design. The lack of surprises may partly be the fault of Burton, whose style - a hyper-glossy pop-art effect with gothic and surrealistic undertones - has been so pervasive. It was certainly discernible in the 2003 movie The Cat in the Hat, which repackaged the candy-coated suburban tableaux of early Burton for a pre-school audience. (Also designed by McDowell, that film was directed by Burton's erstwhile production designer, Bo Welch.) Consequently, even the youngest viewers will come to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory with their eyes primed. Perhaps Burton and McDowell should have worked harder to distinguish their film's most important sets from something that might crop up routinely on a cartoon series like Kim Possible or Dexter's Laboratory.

The movie is generally on firmer ground outside the factory gates, though even here there is confusion. We appear to be in a Gilliamesque retro-futuristic England where Americanisation has reached the currency (dollars) and language ('trousers' are 'pants'). But the non-factory sets do allow the film to take flight. With its parallelogram windows and fun-house floors, the lopsided cottage that is home to Charlie might have been recently vacated by Dr Caligari. And the image of Charlie in bed, staring at the night sky through a jagged hole in the roof, is so seductive that even practical afterthoughts (what happens when it rains?) cannot deflate its whimsicality. The flashbacks to Wonka's own childhood impressively evoke quiet misery - an important ingredient that tempers the shrillness in the rest of the picture. The tall, pinched town house where the factory owner spent his youth has a visual equivalent in the young Wonka: his face is winched into a permanent smile by an elaborate brace constructed by his dentist father.

It is in the flashbacks that Burton forcefully imposes his personality, not only because these scenes didn't originate with Dahl, but also because they revisit the parental tensions present in Batman (1989), Edward Scissorhands (1990) and Big Fish (2003). The flashbacks produce the richest moments in the film, underpinning Johnny Depp's interpretation of the adult Wonka as a child every bit as damaged as the wee terrors who have won a day in his company. His portrayal helps dispel one of the lingering discrepancies of Dahl's book and the earlier film version. It always seemed unfair that Wonka should be scornful of the greediness of children when he encourages this trait by staging a cynical marketing campaign to bombard them with his fattening products. But as Depp plays him, he doesn't look like he could tell up from down, let alone recognise contradictions in his own behaviour.

Depp's Wonka is both flamboyant and reserved, with eerily translucent skin and a shiny bob. He doesn't go daringly against the grain of the movie, as he did in Pirates of the Caribbean (2003). But then he doesn't need to: he's not competing for our attention, as no one else here has anything substantial to play. Depp understands that the rigor mortis grin that is a hangover from Wonka's childhood means that his choicest acting must be restricted to his eyes. Accordingly, he can be plaintive simply by dropping his gaze to the floor, or hilarious by registering silent panic as he is offered a bowl of crushed caterpillars.

If anything cramps Depp, and the film's sense of fun, it is the weight that is placed on reconciliation between Wonka and his father. Studio executives are notorious for prizing the kind of all-purpose embrace that heralds closure at the end of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. But a director responsible, in Edward Scissorhands, for the complex image of a man unable to hold those he loves without scarring them should have known that the problems of his dysfunctional hero could not be solved in a single hug.

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CORPSE BRIDE

USA (76 mi) 2005 co-director: Mike Johnson

The Onion A.V. Club [Tasha Robinson]

It's been more than a decade since The Nightmare Before Christmas hit screens, but the merchandise continues to sell, and new Nightmare tchotchkes still come out every year. It's tempting to pin that longevity entirely on the film's amazing design, which remains the most enduring and revolutionary thing about what was otherwise generally just another narratively lumpy family musical, in spite of the morbid Tim Burton twist. The details of the story blur a bit over time, but the details of the characters—every loving little groove and line and stitch that went into making them real—still linger.

An identical fanatic attention to detail went into Corpse Bride, another short, giddily eerie feature made via the same stop-motion method. Taking over for Nightmare director Henry Selick, Burton and co-director Mike Johnson hold to the same breathtaking visual standard, producing a film so smoothly animated and packed with tiny, cunning visual touches that it resembles Pixar's CGI work on films like Toy Story and The Incredibles. The story is simple enough to describe in a sentence: Shy, bungling Victor Van Dort (voiced by Johnny Depp) is heading for an arranged marriage to sweet Victoria Everglot (Emily Watson), but while rehearsing his vows, he accidentally puts her wedding ring on the hand of a well-meaning but marriage-fixated corpse (Helena Bonham Carter) who claims him as her husband and drags him off to the land of the dead. Much of the rest of the film involves peripheral characters glowering, gallivanting, or just goofing around, and busy, talky Danny Elfman songs that are mostly just for show.

But it's a hell of a show. Like Nightmare, Corpse Bride is full of extreme caricatures seemingly inspired by old Rankin/Bass stop-motion specials (The Year Without A Santa Claus, et. al.). Like all Burton's best work, it takes place in a distorted, vividly colored, meticulously crafted world where whimsy and gleeful ghoulishness mix freely. From the finely textured hair and marvelously expressive faces of the silicon puppets to the little visual gags peppered throughout, every frame of Corpse Bride is an eye-popping wonderland. And it helps that Burton generally keeps the fairy-tale tone low-key and gentle. Bride lacks Nightmare's intensity, but also its manic highs and disappointing lows. Its characters, concept, and execution are all gently charming, and even its brief flirtation with a plot involving villainy and murder just seems like a grace note in a pleasantly plaintive elegy. All too often, Tim Burton's movies feel like they're covered in flop sweat, as if he's trying too hard and worrying too much. By contrast, Corpse Bride is a cool breeze across the brow.

Too hot for the White Plains Times! Bryant Frazer from Deep Focus (excerpt)

The best of the bunch may be Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride, a whimsical, playfully grisly stop-motion-animated feature set in a 19th-century European village where nervous young groom-to-be Victor (voiced by Johnny Depp) is transported away from his arranged marriage to Victoria (Emily Watson) to a fantastic underworld where the spirits of the dead frolic and Victor gets mixed up with, essentially, a lovesick zombie (Helena Bonham Carter). The subject, of course, is love, with our hero slowly realizing how much he cares for his land-of-the-living betrothed — but finding himself unwilling to just abandon the decaying, bereft Corpse Bride who seems to need him so badly.

Like Pixar’s brilliant computer animations, Corpse Bride is a beautiful example of how movies can be child-appropriate without hewing to the juiced-up, nausea-inducing clichés of much of what passes for kid-friendly pop culture. At the same time, there’s a lot here that’s meant to be appreciated by viewers with a little bit more life under their belts, like the sly references to classic horror movies (think James Whale meets Mario Bava) and the digs at marriages lived without passion. (When Victoria wonders aloud whether she and Victor will “like each other,” her mother’s response is derisive laughter: “Do you suppose your father and I like each other?”) If your tastes skew to the goth, or just the cheerfully morbid, you’ll find lots to like here.

But unlike the Pixar movies, this is clearly the work of traditionalists. In Hollywood, a land where time is money, it’s considered downright perverse to opt for the painstaking process of stop-motion animation, in which dozens of tiny figurines must be individually and physically tended on a miniature set, their every move accurately plotted and executed from frame to frame to frame. But the physicality of each scene is key to Corpse Bride’s sublime beauty — the character design, for instance, is genuinely beguiling. Victor’s impossibly slim frame is topped by a nearly heart-shaped head that tapers sharply to a pointy chin, accenting the sense of guilelessness, worry and wonder that accompany his trip to the land of the dead. And the Corpse Bride herself, all big eyes and Jolie lips (and tastefully revealing bridal gown) is, honestly, a bit of a fox. They’re matched by lovely performances that underscore the fact that we’re living in a golden age of Hollywood voice acting. (Before Pirates of the Caribbean came out, who knew Depp had the temperament for cartoons?) And there’s a host of spiders, skeletons and maggots who are animated at the same level of care and imagination.

The sets have been so lovingly conceived that almost every shot demands that you drink it in quickly, eyes darting across the backgrounds to catch this or that bit of whimsical decoration. It’s the ideal DVD movie because you can stop the image wherever you like, and every still frame feels like a small miracle.

OK, it’s not perfect. While Danny Elfman’s skills as a composer of film music have clearly been on the increase over the years, I still think both he and Burton overrate his talent as a songwriter, and the handful of songs he contributes here — including one that bears the weight of explaining the Corpse Bride’s backstory — feel more like they’re marking time than providing the intended musical lift. And, with his film’s running time coming in at just 77 minutes, you can imagine Burton was looking for some filler.

But, happily, this is one of those movies that gets better as it goes along, thick with story and laden with character. Just when it seems there’s no way to resolve the conflicts — not just among the characters, but in the sympathies of viewers, who have by now come to care as much about the Corpse Bride herself as about Victor and Victoria’s earthbound marriage — comes the climactic sequence, set inside a church where a wedding is about to take place. It’s poignant, exciting, clever, a little scary, and, finally, fantastically and unexpectedly moving. And it’s a demonstration of formidable sentimentality that Burton chooses an image of spectacular rebirth to close a film that mucks about so gleefully with representations of death.

Salon.com [Stephanie Zacharek]

In Michael Almereyda's funny, ardent and moving vampire picture, "Nadja," the title character, a downtown-Manhattan descendant of Count Dracula's, sums up the exquisite suffering of her lot: "Life is full of pain. But the pain I feel is the pain of fleeting joy."

The visual and narrative beauty of "Tim Burton's Corpse Bride" captures the essence of that line -- it hurts a little to watch the movie, not just because it's so deeply touching but because the medium itself is calling out to us from a lost world. Stop-motion animation of the sort Burton uses here -- and that he and director Henry Selick also used in the glorious 1993 "The Nightmare Before Christmas" -- has been virtually wiped off the filmmaking landscape in favor of CGI. So while the story that's told in "Corpse Bride" -- a Victorian Gothic romance adapted from a Russian folktale -- is affecting in itself, the vitality and beauty of the textures and movement on-screen have a special poignancy. "Corpse Bride" isn't the sort of thing you see every day. It's in touch with the real world, yet out of step with it. This is filmmaking straight from the land of the undead.

"Corpse Bride," which Burton co-directed with Mike Johnson, begins with a wedding gone wrong. Canned-fish magnates Nell and William Van Dort (their voices belong to Tracey Ullman and Paul Whitehouse) have money but no class; and Maudeline and Finis Everglot (Joanna Lumley and Albert Finney) have aristocratic roots but no dough. The families decide to merge by arranging a marriage between their respective children, Victor (Johnny Depp) and Victoria (Emily Watson), who, as of the night before the wedding, have never even met. They fall in love, of course, at first sight. But by a curious turn of events, Victor accidentally stumbles into the world of Emily, the Corpse Bride (Helena Bonham Carter), who was killed by her intended on her wedding day. Her heart, she notes, is capable of being broken even though it has stopped beating. And she desperately wants Victor to be her husband, even though he's betrothed to someone else.

So Emily conveys Victor to the Land of the Dead, an underground world rendered in vivid jellybean colors, a far cry from the muted gray Victorian reality Victor knows. But that world is home to Victor, and he aches to get back to it. "Corpse Bride" was written by John August, Caroline Thompson and Pamela Pettler, and as a piece of storytelling, it holds up admirably against any live-action script. The story is beautifully worked out, and it gets most of its momentum from the feelings of the characters. There's Victor, charming but hapless at first, whose strengths are ultimately magnified by his compassion for a person in pain; the steady and true Victoria, left to believe that Victor has willingly abandoned her for someone else; and, most affecting of all, the fragile but vital Emily, who sees Victor as her last chance at happiness -- the only other option for her is to face the rest of eternity alone.

The world of "Corpse Bride" is so vivid that it's hard to believe these are puppets we're talking about. Victor, with his saucer eyes and brilliantined forelock, looks more like the human Johnny Depp than Depp himself did in "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory." And Emily, perched on matchstick ballerina legs (on one of them, her flesh has rotted away and you can see an exposed flash of bone, a disconcertingly erotic visual), is a specter of tragic love wrapped in tattered wedding clothes. Her nose is a pert inverted "V"; her lips have a sensual pout that suggests not even death can fully destroy the human sex drive.

Emily's world is populated by singing, dancing skeletons (they perform several songs composed by longtime Burton collaborator Danny Elfman, including a rousing Gilbert and Sullivan-style ensemble number); by beings who used to be soldiers or waiters or bakers in life and just can't break the habit even now that they're dead (some of these skills come in handy when it's time to make the couple's wedding cake, a towering creation festooned with fondant skulls and femurs); and by tiny, mischievous skeleton kiddies (they tiptoe through the movie, giggling, in their little Victorian frocks and sailor outfits). There's an ick-green talking maggot who takes after Peter Lorre (his voice actually belongs to Enn Reitel) and a dog named Scraps, Victor's beloved, deceased childhood pet -- Emily presents him to Victor as a wedding present. He's now a butt-wriggling assemblage of bones, but his essential spirit of doggyness is undiminished.

It's a tossup as to what's more appealing, the rainbow-hued Land of the Dead, beneath the Earth's surface, or the grayish Land of the Living up above. There's definitely more fun going on down below, with lots of live dead entertainment and an eternally open bar. (As a wise old dead elder, voiced by Michael Gough, observes, "Why go up there when people are dying to get down here?")

But the colors in the Land of the Living are more subtly beautiful: There are endless variations of grays, and Burton (along with his clearly hardworking technical team) uses the whole palette, tinting this allegedly boring color with pinks and blues and violets. The delicacy of these creamy tones suits the passionate but tender nature of the story, and their earthbound beauty fits the movie's realistically romantic theme: Love isn't ownership, and it's no good unless it's freely given. "Tim Burton's Corpse Bride" is a lush, modern valentine to old-fashioned sentiment, and to old-fashioned moviemaking, too. When Victor sits down at a grand piano, we see that it features a brass plate inscribed with "Harryhausen" in majestic letters, a tribute to special-effects genius Ray Harryhausen, whose work is so lovingly referenced here. Harryhausen is now 85, and although today's kids may not know who he is, many of yesterday's kids do, from Saturday-afternoon movie staples like "Jason and the Argonauts" and "The Golden Voyage of Sinbad." With "Corpse Bride," Burton and Johnson pay tribute to the people, and the techniques, that have inspired them. Their movie is a living love letter, not a memento mori.

DVD Times Bex

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SWEENEY TODD: THE DEMON BARBER OF FLEET STREET B+ 92

USA Great Britain (117 mi) 2007

Imagine a film as dark and bleak as any Béla Tarr film, then imagine it as a musical? Another Burton film shot in such utter darkness, lurking in the shadows of Dickens’s 19^th century lower class London to such an extent that the experience can be a bit overwhelming, not just accentuating the underlying filth and corruption of the privileged ruling class, but also the utter loss of innocence and hope of the lower class whose dreams are routinely snatched away. The opening song “No Place Like London” captures the gaze of a wide-eyed young sailor (Jamie Campbell Bower) who can’t wait to experience the world against the more worldly dreary doom of Johnny Depp, a man who knows all too well what happens when one foolishly overlooks the surrounding web of darkness. As their ship pulls into port, their destinies, though interlinked, couldn’t be on more opposite tracts. The Stephen Sondheim feel is immediate, as the directness of the lyrics spouting such disturbing subject matter and the clever way voices are mixed together are simply outstanding, while there is a surprising tenderness throughout most of the film underlying the larger sense of gloom.

From the opening credit sequence, the direction is simply superb, as it feels perfectly timed with the music, a blend of sadness with sensuality, luring us into their world through the lyrics and a sympathetic use of Sweeney Todd’s back story where a corrupt judge (Alan Rickman) literally sends him off to prison for fifteen years, stealing his beautiful young wife and daughter in the process. Todd has returned to the scene of the crime vowing revenge, finding his way to the world’s filthiest pie shop, run by proprietress Helena Bonham Carter as Mrs. Lovett, where the sharpness of the percussive musical rhythms are used to humorous effect, where the connection between the two is immediately evident, from the display of Mrs. Lovett’s ample cleavage to the use of close ups, where the two are brilliantly framed within the shots. There’s a wonderful moment when Todd is reunited with his barber razors which Mrs. Lovett has kept concealed under the floorboards all these years for safe keeping, singing what amounts to a love anthem “My Friends, At Last My Arm Is Complete.” It is impossible not to think of the innocence of Johnny Depp’s Edward in Burton’s EDWARD SCISSORSHANDS (1990), where the razors finally give Depp a renewed purpose in life, a chance to grow up and fight back against all the ills of society that have done him such wrong. This connection is downright eerie, adding an extra dimension, as Burton is using Sondheim to reconnect with his own earlier vision, which he can revisit again and add a darker, more psychotic palette.

At least initially, the bitterness in Sweeney Todd is understandable, as he’s clearly a sympathetic character who’s forced to conceal his earlier identity of Benjamin Barker, developing a new persona, one that is filled with inner rage. Mrs. Lovett tames his initial outbursts and calms him down, urging him to go slowly, but after awhile, he heeds no one’s advice but his own and is clearly a deranged madman. Led to believe his wife poisoned herself, there’s an inner story surrounding his beautiful daughter Johanna (Jayne Wisener), held captive in her room like a bird in a cage by the lascivious Judge Turpin (Alan Rickman) and his evil rat-like henchman Beadle Bamford (Timothy Spall). The young sailor can’t take his eyes off her once he spots her in the window and he hopes to run away with her. But his plans are dashed by the Judge who wished to marry her for himself and severely punishes her for disobeying him by sending her away where she’ll never be found again, like Brunnhilde set atop a rock encircled by fire, banished from Valhalla for defying her raging father Wotan in Wagner’s Siegfried. Just like that, Todd’s dreams to get revenge are extinguished as well. So he only becomes a more resolute killer, devising a barber chair where he can slash the throats of his customers, then dispose of them through a trap door leading to the pie shop below bolstering Mrs. Lovett’s fledgling meat pie business. When the two of them stare out the shop’s window and visually pick out different people on the street they would love to eat, initially choosing “A Little Priest,” this is as unlike any musical number anyone’s ever seen. In perhaps the best sequence in the film, Mrs. Lovett’s love for Todd is shown through brilliantly colorful “By the Sea” dream sequences, where her character is smiling brightly through every moment while poor Todd remains beset under a cloud of gloom. Despite a few CGI glitches where red spots appear mysteriously on the screen, up until the final reel, this was a surprisingly inventive film, a well paced, character driven emotional dynamo, where Todd’s excesses are gloriously exaggerated with a kind of delicious relish, balanced by the melodic sweetness of Mrs. Lovett singing “Not While I’m Around.” But by the end, however, there’s little inventiveness left, just bloodletting, so the film does a retreat into the unseemly world of Hansel and Gretel, where Todd’s mask of respectability unravels to glorious organ music that reverberates to the echoes of what feels like THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA, cast in a bleak subterranean nightmare of rat-filled sewers, soot, hopelessness, and death. The emptiness of the end sucks any life left out of the picture, leaving the audience aghast at the tragedy of being finally left alone where “There’s a hole in the world like a great black pit and it's filled with people who are filled with shit! And the vermin of the world inhabit it!”

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson)

I'm not sure Tim Burton's Sweeney Todd works very well as a musical, but it's one hell of a movie. Johnny Depp stars as the title character, a falsely arrested exile who returns via ship to London to find his long lost wife and child. Upon learning of his wife's death, he sets up a barbershop to take his revenge on those who caused his suffering, namely Judge Turpin (Alan Rickman). Todd's chair is rigged so that he can slice his customer's neck, then plunge the body into the basement below, where the remains will be ground up and used for meat pies. Looking her goth best, Helena Bonham Carter plays the pie-baker Mrs. Lovett, who falls in love with Todd and goes along with his gruesome plan. At the same time, Todd's younger shipmate (Jamie Campbell Bower) falls in love with a young woman (Jayne Wisener), who is actually Todd's daughter. In-between characters sing; Depp and Carter are passable amateurs, while the younger actors seem to have more stage training. None of the songs stuck with me, I have to admit. But the film's astonishingly dark, beautiful design evokes Batman (1989) and all its well-earned comparisons to Metropolis and Blade Runner. It's nice to see all the usual Burton touches, from Depp's extreme makeup to the goth girls to the pretty young blondes. This is definitely a return to form for him.

New York Magazine (David Edelstein)

Once you get past the absence of the immortal “The Ballad of Sweeney Todd” (hard) and the fact that the leads, Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter, have little in the way of pipes (harder), Tim Burton’s film of Stephen Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd is spellbinding. Most directors open up Broadway musicals—adding meaningless busyness—to make them more “cinematic,” and they end up diluting them. Burton, bless him, constricts the space and concentrates the melodrama; he finds the perfect balance between the funereal and the ferocious. Above all, he treasures these ghouls: He digs both their bloodlust and their melancholy. You can imagine the moment he decided to make the movie: “Edward Scissorhands is out for revenge, with no time for topiary! He cuts hair and throats!”

When I say Depp has no pipes, I don’t mean his singing is terrible. He hits the notes. And the demon barber of Fleet Street doesn’t need a gorgeous voice—Michael Cerveris, as grand a Sweeney as ever swung a razor, sometimes bellowed. What the role does need is power. When Depp sings, “I will have vengeance,” there’s no air behind the words, and the few times he lets loose he replicates that awful quavery head-voice of Anthony Newley. But Burton has scaled Sweeney Todd to his favorite leading man. He shoots the actor in tender close-up, and Sweeney sings to himself, not the audience. Depp has the right morbidity, the right commitment (insofar as he seems, as an actor, both principled and certifiable). His eyes are dark hollows and his hair is swept back with a white stripe, like the bride of Frankenstein’s and Humphrey Bogart’s vampire’s in The Return of Dr. X—the stinker Bogie fans try to forget but Burton and Depp, I’m sure, remember with glee.

Burton took some heat over the casting of Bonham Carter, his girlfriend and the mother of his children, as Mrs. Lovett, the baker of the “worst pies in London” who has the bright, frugal idea of substituting Sweeney’s victims for the dead cats she normally uses. But Burton would have been insane to put someone with a big voice or theater chops (Meryl Streep, say) opposite Depp. Bonham Carter and Depp both have strangled little voices; they’re a match. And if Burton loves Johnny, he fetishizes Helena. Black-haired, white-skinned Vampira corpse brides with Day of the Dead eyes: If there were a Playghoul magazine, Burton would shoot the centerfolds. I thought it was a bad idea to make Mrs. Lovett—usually a crone—a plausible romantic partner for Sweeney, but Bonham Carter’s sarcophageal eroticism (that cleavage!) adds another layer. Mrs. Lovett is a sociopath but not delusional. The throwaway number “By the Sea,” in which Lovett fantasizes about her bucolic future with Sweeney, is now a hilarious highlight. Even in her pipe dreams, Sweeney stares out of dead eyes, dreaming of throats to be cut.

It should be said that Burton’s approach doesn’t just suit his stars; it suits the material. I hated Harold Prince’s original production. Sondheim is on the record as loathing Brecht, but Prince went for a Berliner Ensemble effect—too wide and unfocused a canvas. I didn’t fully appreciate Sweeney Todd until I saw the Circle in the Square revival with Bob Gunton—a penny dreadful with a score that exploded out of its Grand Guignol frame. John Doyle’s revelatory production with Cerveris and Patti LuPone proved that Sweeney Todd had enough blood in its veins to transcend even a chill, Marat/Sade-like stylization. Burton finds a middle ground between Doyle and the Grand Guignol. And oh, the blood. It geysers out, bright red, against the sooty, monochromatic sets. It’s South Park arterial spray—Burton’s way of cackling, “You’re a long way from the Met, folks!”

Alan Rickman as the foul voluptuary judge and Timothy Spall as an especially repulsive Beadle Bamford have no better voices than Depp or Bonham Carter, but it’s always nice to see them, and as the young lovers, Jamie Campbell Bower and Jayne Wisener take up the vocal slack. The kid, Ed Sanders, splits the difference between Oliver Twist and the Artful Dodger and has a sweet voice—maybe too sweet, since he blows Bonham Carter away in their duet. It’s a good thing Signor Adolfo Pirelli is a small part or the peerless Sacha Baron Cohen would have ruined the film: His flamboyance makes his co-stars look anemic. As for the loss of the ballad: The music is there (under the credits), but Burton deemed the number too self-consciously theatrical an opening. He might have been right, but he should have found a way to end with it, if only for the orchestral flourish that caps Sweeney Todd with a ghoulish exclamation point.

Village Voice (J. Hoberman)

Several seasons into the post-2001 millennium, it's apparent that the long-moribund Hollywood musical returns to life each December in the form of a single prospective Oscar nominee. Still, as effectively overwrought and generally excellent as it is, Tim Burton's R-rated Sweeney Todd seems unlikely to be this year's Chicago or Dreamgirls.

For one thing, this particular walking corpse is actually a movie about a walking corpse. For another, there's that most un-Yuletide serial-killer premise of Stephen Sondheim's great 1979 show, a miasmic tale of Victorian London in which a vengeful barber carves up his customers who, butchered and baked into pies by his adoring landlady, are eagerly devoured by a foul lot of greedy customers.

Burton has taken Sondheim's quasi-operatic, mock-penny-dreadful exercise in Dickensian-Brechtian Grand Guignol as the pretext for something highly personal and typically obsessive. From its magnificently gory credits to its climactic bloodbath pietà, the director makes it clear that this is his meat. As much as he's a filmmaker, Burton is also a graphic artist in the tradition of Charles Addams and Edward Gorey—and here he's successfully incorporated Sweeney Todd into his own distinctively dank and spidery gothic world.

Sweeney Todd is a movie of bombastic, impossible camera moves and rhapsodic yuckiness. Burton can't resist filling the screen with scuttling vermin or surges of splatterific violence. Sweeney Todd has been made with actors—Burton axioms Johnny Depp as the demon barber, and Helena Bonham Carter playing his accomplice Mrs. Lovett—but, as hyper-designed as the production is, it's only a few stop-motion stutter-steps away from the puppet animation of The Nightmare Before Christmas or Corpse Bride.

Depp's Sweeney is an icon, a fiery-eyed, razor-brandishing cadaver with a mad Pagliacci glare. Bonham Carter is comparably corpse-like—a matched composition in bird-nest hairdo, death-pallor complexion, and heavily shadowed eyes. This ghoulishly attractive couple is supported by a suitable gang of gargoyles, including Alan Rickman as Sweeney's doppelgänger—the malignant magistrate responsible for wrecking his life—and, as the judge's henchman, Timothy Spall, who even sings. A foppish Sacha Baron Cohen bursts on-screen as Sweeney's rival Pirelli—reveling in the opportunity for gross ethnic impersonation as he maximizes every celluloid second.

Sondheim evidently approved the casting, although the singing is barely more than adequate. Depp has a pleasing, if untrained, tenor but Bonham Carter's sweetly tentative voice has none of the coarse vitality that the original Mrs. Lovett, Angela Lansbury, brought to the role. Still, the numbers are so inventively staged that two of Bonham Carter's key songs—the cannibal waltz "A Little Priest" and the grotesquely wistful "By the Sea"—brought down the house at the preview I attended. Burton manages to open up the play even as he stylizes it, choreographing scenes in bedlam and the sewers, as well as the vacation resort of Mrs. Lovett's febrile imagination. Possibly not since Vincente Minnelli has anyone directed a musical with such absolute mise-en-scéne.

As great as Sondheim's score for Sweeney Todd was, so was his ambition. The show's major dramatic, if not musical, precursor is Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht's Threepenny Opera. Indeed, Sweeney Todd might have lifted its omophagic thesis from the opera's second-act finale, "What Keeps Mankind Alive?" It's striking that Burton has dropped "The Ballad of Sweeney Todd," the most Threepenny-esque of Sondheim's numbers, from the movie. Did he assume that such overt theatricality wouldn't work on-screen? Staged as though to encompass the entire Industrial Revolution, Sondheim's discordant and lyrical Sweeney Todd was a metaphor in search of its meaning—was it a work of social protest or a revenge tragedy? A study of abnormal pathology or a joke played upon the audience?

Burton's expertly trimmed adaptation tilts decisively toward the last possibility. He solves the problem, in part, by ignoring the play's various subtexts. The original ending is softened, albeit without diluting Sondheim's dark humor. No Greek tragedy, this Hollywood Sweeney is a fun creepy-crawly. If nothing else, Burton has learned that the successfully gruesome is its own reward.

Fangoria Alan Jones

Grand Guignol met Broadway in lyricist/composer Stephen Sondheim’s landmark 1979 horror musical SWEENEY TODD: THE DEMON BARBER OF FLEET STREET. Dredging the far reaches of black comedy to stage a grisly parable of the corrupt Victorian class system, the play presented a “hero” who was a serial killer, and almost everyone wound up cruelly slaughtered by the final curtain.

For serious fans of musical theater, SWEENEY TODD is Sondheim’s masterpiece, a tunefully operatic chiller daring to take the song-and-dance format somewhere colder, darker and bleaker. Audiences for the original Uris Theater (now the Gershwin) production, starring Len Cariou and Angela Lansbury in Tony Award-winning performances, have never forgotten the fright of the shrill factory whistle piercing the action or Sweeney’s razor realistically slitting throats.

Director Tim Burton was one of those attendees, and it would be hard to imagine any filmmaking stylist better suited to reconceiving Sondheim’s classic Music Hall melodrama for the big screen. Or anyone other than megastar Johnny Depp instinctively capturing the heartbreaking insanity of wronged Benjamin Barker, determined to avenge the shady officials who ruined his life and took away his wife and daughter. Make no mistake: The fifth Burton/Depp team-up is their crowning achievement, their most fully realized artistic collaboration since ED WOOD.

Sweeney Todd had been terrifying British audiences since 1847, when George Dibdin Pitt’s A STRING OF PEARLS played the London stage. Since then, numerous versions of the tale have surfaced, in “penny dreadful” novels, creaky films with hammy Tod Slaughter and a 1959 ballet. It was Christopher Bond’s 1970 treatment that caught Sondheim’s adaptive eye: The dulled elements in existence for over a century had been distilled into first-rate melodrama with Brechtian, Jacobean and Dickensian overtones. They finally provided the psychology and motivation for prison escapee Barker to adopt the Sweeney name and move into his old premises above Mrs. Nellie Lovett’s (Helena Bonham Carter in the new film) meat-pie shop. There he waits for nemesis Judge Turpin (Alan Rickman) to sit in the trapdoor-fitted shaving chair that transports other customers who fall prey to his impatient razor toward Mrs. Lovett’s pastry cases. Her fantasy of a respectable married life with the man of her dreams turns into a nightmare when Sweeney’s overwhelming thirst for vengeance grows increasingly psychotic.

Any fan expecting a simple screen translation of the much-revived slasher show is in for an initial shock. Before long, though, purist trepidation transforms as dramatically as the fabulous opening-credit rain does into splashes of blood. It soon becomes apparent that Burton’s SWEENEY TODD is a spine-tingling, bloodcurdling and utterly thrilling descent into singleminded madness, a uniquely moving tragedy in its own sensational right.

Although some of the best songs have been dropped, and the remaining tunes lyrically changed or abridged to a few scant choruses (the inescapable result of the vast differences between stage and movie time), Burton and GLADIATOR scripter John Logan repurpose Sondheim’s black Victorian fairy tale into a magnificent murder obsession. Yet even this necessary shaping to the Hammer horror aesthetic of Burton’s vision still allows the harsh emotional resonance to shine through intact with Sondheim’s penetrating power. Stripped of its Greek chorus (a much-missed casualty being the evocative “The Ballad of Sweeney Todd,” now heard only in instrumental form) and Industrial Revolution subtext (a metaphor of the stage show was the incursions of machinery on the spirit), the now narrower focus is on Sweeney’s complete journey into mania born of painful memory and injustice. Appropriately, Burton goes straight for the jugular of Sondheim’s gripping tale, creating melancholic perfection.

The director’s behind-the-camera team excels in capturing the surreal macabre atmosphere that drives the frightening drama. Dariusz (DARK CITY) Wolski’s black-and-white-in-color photography lovingly conjures up the golden age of Universal horror, and Dante (INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE) Ferretti’s production design brilliantly evokes an “East Side Story”/Jack the Ripper backdrop. Placed against it, the actors, with heavy makeup accentuating their dark eyes, almost resemble CORPSE BRIDE figurines!

Everyone acquits themselves well in the singing department. Sondheim thankfully had casting approval over the leads, and although Depp occasionally lapses into Captain Jack Sparrow Cockney, he admirably vocalizes Sweeney’s raging impotence and fatalism. He gives a particularly majestic performance with “My Friends,” the creepily haunting love ballad he sings to his cutthroat razors, as he screams out the violent tenderness of the lyrical content. “At last my arm is complete” finishes the song, a line that can’t fail to connect this role with his other signature Burton turn in EDWARD SCISSORHANDS.

Bonham Carter’s Mrs. Lovett pales in comparison, although her “By the Sea” daydream is suitably jaunty and wistful. But giving the role to an actress who can sort-of sing rather than a singer who can vaguely act pays dividends in the key moments between Mrs. Lovett, the deranged Sweeney and their traumatized assistant Toby (Edward Sanders) that make SWEENEY TODD’s finale so powerfully stunning. Toby has the movie’s second great song, “Not While I’m Around,” and Sweeney’s sole friend Anthony (Jamie Campbell Bower) the third, the beautiful lament “Johanna.” The only true singer in the film is Laura Michelle Kelly, the original West End Mary Poppins. She’s the Beggar Woman, a crucial role that doesn’t carry the same impact on film because you clearly tell what other part she plays. That moving realization, and Toby’s hair turning pure white, are the theatrical frissons missed most.

The gore is extreme even by usual horror standards—Sweeney’s vicious slashing and vindictive stabbing, bodies smashing to the cellar floor, heads splitting open, the climactic burning. It will be as fascinating to see how the HAIRSPRAY contingent will react to the visceral violence as it will be to witness the Burton brigade’s responses to the continuously sung opera. Every horror movie uses mood music to heighten suspense; the only difference here, in essence, is the addition of amazingly rich lyrics to a Bernard Herrmann soundtrack, Hitchcock’s favored composer being Sondheim’s inspiration for his distinguished score. Miss SWEENEY TODD because of any highbrow misconceptions, and you’ll miss the most vividly imaginative, entrancing screen venture of the year.

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Sondheim Dismembers ‘Sweeney’ Jesse Green from The New York Times

ALICE IN WONDERLAND 3D C+ 77

USA (108 mi) 2010

There is a place. Like no place on Earth. A land full of wonder, mystery, and danger! Some say to survive it: You need to be as mad as a hatter.

—The Mad Hatter (Johnny Depp)

This review is based on an XD 3D screening.

Anyone who has made BEETLE JUICE (1988) and EDWARD SCISSORHANDS (1990) will always have my undivided attention, and one would think ALICE IN WONDERLAND in 3D would present itself as fertile territory for the imagination, but this is a surprisingly conventional adaptation, where one sees evidence of 3D, but it never once advances the story with an astounding visual concept or introduces new territory in the field of 3D. Instead it operates fully within the existing mode of operations which Hollywood is all hysterical about, because the ticket price for IMAX or 3D is two or three times that of a regular movie, suggesting this is a record breaking film, but it’s not. It’s simply one of the earlier headline 3D movies to follow AVATAR (2009), a movie that was supposed to change the way we look at movies. Following that train of thought, 3D movie theaters can’t be built fast enough and even television is marketing 3D programming. But I’d say they don’t have the kinks worked out yet, as the look of the film doesn’t look that much different than what we’ve seen in the pre-AVATAR era, and for that matter, AVATAR was over-hyped when it came to its conceptual design. Ridley Scott made much faster advances with films like ALIEN (1979) and BLADE RUNNER (1982), films that put science fiction on the map for potential theater-goers. Thirty years later, those films have stood their ground for artistic achievements, something I doubt either AVATAR or ALICE IN WONDERLAND in 3D will do, as both will likely fade quickly from view as the 3D field rapidly develops and overtakes their cinematic mysteries. Speaking personally, I continue to assert that the best 3D movie I’ve seen is CORALINE (2009), as the parallel universe did indeed rise to what the imagination called for, and the use of 3D only enhanced what we saw, as it was entirely within the context of the story. Unfortunately, ALICE IN WONDERLAND pales in comparison to THE WIZARD OF OZ (1939), where the abrupt change from black and white to color is simply overwhelming. When Alice falls down the rabbit hole, one held out hopes that something similar would occur, but unfortunately it doesn’t, and while the look is certainly acceptable, it simply isn’t as amazing as one might expect, especially from a film that emphasizes the effects of hallucinogenics. I’ve come to discover afterwards that the movie was filmed in 2D and converted in postproduction to 3D, almost as an afterthought in order to meet the competition and jack up the prices. In the end, I saw no compelling reason to see this film in 3D.

The film opens in rather repressive or revolting surroundings, as young Alice (Mia Wasikowska) is about to be proposed to by a young nerdy looking count while it appears the whole world is watching for her answer. Everything has been decided for her ahead of time, and she’s simply expected to fall in line with her family’s wishes. But that doesn’t sound much like Alice, does it? So she makes a run for it and accidentally falls down the rabbit hole without ever hearing the infamous line “I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date.” From sheer mental programming from childhood, I suppose, we hear it anyway. From the length of the fall, probably about 30 seconds, it seems impossible that anyone could possibly survive, but Alice remains unscathed, only she’s too large to fit through the tiny hole. This begins her experimentation with changing sizes, something that occurs so often in this film that she almost always appears out of proportion, usually much too small, as if she’s entered a miniature world, except it’s filled with rabbits and cats which should be average size, but they’re all miniaturized throughout much of the film, which only makes one all the more aware that we’re witnessing the work of computer graphics, which should blend in unrecognizably, but instead their deficiencies protrude into the imaginary world and actually negate the look, something one would think unfathomable when making this film. That it’s so standardly accepted throughout is the real mindblower of this movie. In our childhood concept of Alice in Wonderland, the characters she meets are daringly different, which surprise us by the sheer inventiveness of how they suddenly appear to Alice, like the White Rabbit or the Caterpillar or the Cheshire Cat, all of whom figure prominently in the story by building suspense. But here they’ve been reduced to secondary characters whose presence generates barely an ounce of interest to the audience, but who simply advance the story we’re already familiar with.

What’s unique in this version is the heightened screen time for the Mad Hatter (Johnny Depp), who actually gets top billing in the movie. This is a real alteration of priorities, as over time, the Hatter undergoes more personality transformations, all due to the changing voice inflections of the actor, that we really never know what to expect. He’s astonishingly good just reading the Jabberwocky poem, better than I’ve ever heard it, but by the end, he’s even lost his madness, becoming the sanest one on the screen. Whose idea was that? But in this version, he becomes Alice’s most endearing friend who not only guides her through the maze that is Wonderland, but continues to rescue her on several occasions. Helena Bonham Carter excels at screaming out orders as the Red Queen, with lipstick in the shape of a heart on her lips, and has a kingdom that literally fears her every command, not to mention a Prince Charming, as if intruding from another Disney movie, while Anne Hathaway’s White Queen could possibly be more bland and uninteresting. When they finally get there, supposedly a victory of sorts, it feels like a huge letdown, as all the air is taken out of the picture. At least there’s plenty of mad, crazy energy associated with the Red Queen. While this version of Alice does veer into the super hero category, probably similar to young boys fantasizing about pirates, but I’d guess that few little girls fantasize about slaying dragons in their youth, not that it couldn’t happen, but it seems surprising, and this particular set piece doesn’t at all fit into the concept of Wonderland, but feels as if it’s in a different movie altogether. A word should be said for the insipid music that has a nauseating repetitive presence throughout. By the end of the film, I got the impression Alice had suddenly morphed into Keira Knightley’s character of Elizabeth Swann from the Pirates of the Caribbean sagas. That’s hardly a ringing endorsement.

Time Out London (Dave Calhoun) review [3/5]

Tim Burton’s part-live action, part-animated, all-3D version of ‘Alice in Wonderland’ is a collage of characters and episodes from Lewis Carroll’s two nineteenth-century books about a girl who falls into the rabbit hole of her own imagination. But purists beware: Burton and his writer, Disney regular Linda Woolverton (‘The Lion King’), invent a quest narrative – Alice must slay the Jabberwocky! – that climaxes in a pedestrian battle for which Alice puts aside dresses and channels Joan of Arc. Moreover, our heroine’s loopy headtrip begins with her fleeing a very public marriage proposal with the twenty-first-century excuse, ‘I need a moment…’

This is a loose, enjoyable and safe spin on the books, with familiar characters doing familiar things within the altered – and digitised – framework of an older Alice (Mia Wasikowska) returning underground to find the Red Queen (a fun Helena Bonham Carter, actually playing a conflation of the Red Queen and the Queen of Hearts) ruling a depressed land.

The problem with this downtrodden version of Wonderland is that it doesn’t always sit well with the mania of Carroll’s creations, and when we see a brighter flashback of the Red Queen painting roses, we wish we were in that world. Imagine the Cheshire Cat (voiced by Stephen Fry), the wise Caterpillar (voiced by Alan Rickman) and the Mad Hatter (an underwhelming, repetitive Johnny Depp) all doing their thing in the forests of ‘Avatar’s’ Pandora after a long bout of acid rain and you begin to get the picture. Much of the colour has been sucked out and replaced with dark skies and long faces.

Yet much of Carroll’s magical nonsense remains, even if Burton’s film wobbles at the gates of anarchy and ends up being a more average affair than many might expect. It’s also one in which the inventive costumes and individual flights of animated fancy end up being more memorable than the thin characters and half-hearted  3D rendering. As it’s Burton at the helm, you could call it gothic. The less generous might just call it gloomy.

Time Out New York (Keith Uhlich) review [2/5]

Apologies to all of you who’ve been looking forward to Lewis Carroll getting the Tim Burton treatment. For this loose amalga-daptation of both Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass, Burton is in dispassionate, for-hire mode, which means he’s more concerned with computer-generated eyesores than with the character, Alice Kingsley (Wasikowska), whose subconscious they’re meant to represent.

Alice is no longer a girl, but a woman in her late teens facing an arranged marriage to a snooty stick-in-the-mud. While mulling her situation, our heroine is drawn back to Wonderland by the White Rabbit. It’s there that a prophecy is unveiled (damn prophecies!) saying Alice will slay the monstrous Jabberwock, who’s been terrorizing the land at the behest of the literally big-headed Red Queen (Carter).

Save the terrific Sweeney Todd, Burton hasn’t convincingly visualized a dreamworld since his mid-’90s heyday. The grounding psychology of his fantastical characters—like his two Eds, Wood and Scissorhands—has eluded him since he’s gone green screen. It’s especially damaging in this case, since the Alice novels are all about a girl’s inner life made animate.

Wasikowska certainly looks the part, but we never get the sense that this place—or “playth,” as Johnny Depp’s lisping, unmemorable Mad Hatter might say—and its populace spring from her psyche. She’s basically lost on a Burton’s Greatest Hits ride at Disney World, where even an ostensibly inventive character like the film’s toothy, dematerializing Cheshire Cat feels like a weightless derivative of the director’s more tangible past creations. And unlike Carroll’s perversely idealized protagonist, Burton’s Alice is just another anachronistic feminist tearing down Victorian patriarchal norms. Even her—[shudder]—Avril Lavigne–blared theme song is a skin-deep grrrl-power accessory.

The Independent (Anthony Quinn) review [2/5]

This much-hyped new Alice in Wonderland is animated by two troublesome conflicts, one in the mind of its heroine, the other in the collective decision-making of its creators. The question which haunts Alice, as she takes her tumble down the hole into one of the most famous dream-sequences in literature, is "Am I mad?" The question that inevitably concerns the studio in charge of the film, Disney, is "Will it sell?", and it's that cautious pragmatism that seems to have put a halter on Tim Burton's runaway spirit of invention. The director keeps on threatening to break the shackles of his paymasters and deliver something wild, freewheeling, elusive – a film that grasps the topsy-turvy of Lewis Carroll's original story and graces it with his distinctive visual bravura. But the reality falls short: there just isn't enough wonder in this Alice.

It is not a calamity. The screenwriter, Linda Woolverton, has made a bold decision in advancing Alice's age by a few years. A prologue explains how the pubescent Alice was troubled by the recurring dream of being lost in a mysterious land, an hallucinatory place so vivid that she asks her father, bluntly, "Am I bonkers?" He takes an indulgent view of the possibility: "All the best people are." Cut to some years later, and Alice (Mia Wasikowska) is a 19-year-old girl on the cusp of womanhood and, ominously, wedlock. Following the Victorian habit for matchmaking, a manipulative aunt intends to marry her off to her son, a carrot-topped twit with a title. "Do you know what I fear?" says the aunt. "The decline of the aristocracy?" comes Alice's pert reply. At a garden party full of toffs in cream linen, Alice is put on the spot by the twit and answers his proposal as any sensible girl should: she runs a mile.

And then she falls down a hole. This is where Woolverton's screenplay becomes potentially interesting. There have been plenty of theories as to what Alice's experience in "Underland" might mean – her girlish ear first mistook it for "Wonderland", it seems – but it's surely plausible that it represents a virginal 19-year-old's terror of matrimony. Allow for dream's illogic to infect her thinking, and that twit's orange hair, bow lips and high forehead are grotesquely replicated in the bulbous-bonced person of The Red Queen (Helena Bonham Carter), a monster of petulant tyranny almost certainly descended from Miranda Richardson's "Queenie" in Blackadder. Alice refuses to be cowed by the Queen, indicating a psychological resistance to the will of her "elders and betters". Then again, perhaps she's just a bit scared of red hair.

The thread of meaning is soon lost inside the labyrinth of nonsense that Alice roams: this is really Alice in Wanderland, ticking off encounters with Carroll's celebrated figments as though it were a historical pageant. You can play spot-the-voice on the March Hare (Paul Whitehouse), Tweedledee and Tweedledum (Matt Lucas), the Cheshire Cat (Stephen Fry), Absolem the Caterpillar (Alan Rickman), the White Rabbit (Michael Sheen), the Dormouse (Barbara Windsor), a full menu of old-fashioned British whimsy served up in the very modern settings of 3D and digimated imagery. It is this technological arsenal that puts the spanner in the narrative works. Our post-Avatar cinema is now under pressure to deliver bigger and better thrills, but I do wonder if audiences would actually prefer a movie that values story above spectacle. Burton, once a master of CGI, has gradually become its servant, or at least has allowed the studio to. The madcap ringmaster of Gothic phantasmagoria (Batman, Beetlejuice, Edward Scissorhands) does not exert his individual stamp on a book one might have thought he was born to film. This production feels much more in hock to Disney than it does to Lewis Carroll.

Still, there are fine touches. The collapses of perspective are elegantly handled, and the dreamlike switches of the story are a gift to film editing. (How Carroll would have enjoyed this particular art). As Alice, Mia Wasikowska has an engagingly direct stare and a willowy grace of movement. She is pleasing without being ingratiating. Johnny Depp doesn't overdo it as the Mad Hatter, though he suggests that enough mercury has seeped from that hatband into his head: perhaps that is what makes his eyes greener and his hair redder, too. I'm not sure what wavelength Depp is on here – the sudden plunges into a Scots accent are inexplicable – but he has a couple of moments in repose when the Hatter's expression turns so wistful it should break your heart.

The film's last third, which concerns the slaying of the Jabberwocky, disappoints on two levels: first, it fails to generate any narrative excitement, and second, it seems to be copying from other family blockbusters of recent vintage, eg The Lord of the Rings and Chronicles of Narnia, with their climactic battles between good and evil. Even the revisionist screenplay, with its gesture towards womanly independence, feels a bit smug by the end. It is one thing for Alice to tick off her maiden aunt Imogen (Frances de la Tour, as a sort of Victorian Miss Jones) for believing that "a prince" might come to rescue her; it is another thing to say, "You need to talk to someone about these delusions." From someone who's spent the last few hours in the company of Mad Hatters, Red Queens and Cheshire Cats, that's a bit rich! It's as though the film itself forgets its championing of the imagination and decides to dole out some pious Hollywood therapy-speak. You have to wonder.

Movie Shark Deblore [debbie lynn elias]

The Village Voice [J. Hoberman]

Slant Magazine [Ed Gonzalez]

Burton’s ‘Alice’ Succeeds More than It Stumbles Bill Gibron from Pop Matters, March 6, 2010

Alice in Wonderland: The Triumph of Reason Chris Barsanti from Pop Matters, March 5, 2010

Pajiba (Dustin Rowles) review

The Wall Street Journal (Joe Morgenstern) review

Slate (Dana Stevens) review

Digital Spy [Stella Papamichael]

ReelViews (James Berardinelli) review [3/4]

Sight and Sound review Lisa Mullen, May 2010

Film Freak Central review Walter Chaw

A Nutshell Review [Stefan S]

eFilmCritic.com (Mel Valentin) review [2/5]

Q Network Film Desk (James Kendrick) review [3/4]

DVD Town (Tim David Raynor) dvd review [Theatrical Version]

DVD Talk (Jamie S. Rich) review [2/5] [3-D Version] Theatrical

DVD Talk (Tyler Foster) review [1/5] [IMAX 3-D Version] Theatrical

SF, Horror and Fantasy Film Review review [2/5] Richard Scheib

PopMatters (Todd R. Ramlow) review March 5, 2010

Go Ask ‘Alice’: The Meaning of $116 Million Bill Gibron from Pop Matters, March 9, 2010

Is It Time for Tim Burton to Find His ‘Schindler’s List’? Bill Gibron from Pop Matters, March 4, 2010

‘Alice’ in Blunderland? Bill Gibron from Pop Matters, July 23, 2009

Tim Burton Exhibit at MoMA: Publicity Ploy or Actual Art? Aaron Sagers from Pop Matters, December 3, 2009

The Onion A.V. Club review [C+] Keith Phipps

theartsdesk.com [Sheila Johnston]

Beyond Hollywood review Todd

Sci-Fi Movie Page (James O'Ehley) review also including more: Alice in Wonderland (trailers, photo gallery, etc.)

Monsters and Critics [Anne Brodie]

eFilmCritic.com (Peter Sobczynski) review [1/5]

CompuServe (Harvey S. Karten) review

Ain't It Cool Movie Reviews (Harry Knowles) review

Mark Reviews Movies (Mark Dujsik) review [2/4]

Queersighted.com [Alonso Duralde]

Cinema Autopsy (Thomas Caldwell) review [3/5]

Twitch [Mike Sizemore]

One Guy's Opinion (Frank Swietek) review [C-]

The Land of Eric (Eric D. Snider) review [C]

Total Sci-Fi [Matt McAllister]

Urban Cinefile (Australia) - [Louise Keller + Andrew L. Urban]

Screenjabber.com [Anne Wollenberg] also Neil Davey and Justin Bateman

About.com Hollywood Movies (Rebecca Murray) review [B+]

Eclipse Magazine (Sheldon A. Wiebe) review

Bina007 Movies [Caterina Benincasa]

Sound On Sight Emmet Duff

FilmJerk.com (Brian Orndorf) review [D+] also seen here: Briandom [Brian Orndorf] and here: DVD Talk

The Flick Filosopher (MaryAnn Johanson) review

Screen International (Brent Simon) review

Combustible Celluloid (Jeffrey M. Anderson) review [3/4]

Eye for Film (Amber Wilkinson) review [2.5/5]

filmcritic.com (Christopher Null) review [2/5]

The NYC Movie Guru [Avi Offer]

CineSnob.net (Kiko Martinez) review [C]

Movie Cynics [The Vocabulariast]

tskirvin@killfile.org (Tim Skirvin) review

Disney upsets theater owners with plans for early release of ‘Alice in Wonderland’ DVDs Claudia Eller, Dawn C. Chmielewski and Richard Verrier from Pop Matters, February 12, 2010

Chasing box-office history, ‘Alice’ may have the last grin Ben Fritz from Pop Matters, March 5, 2010

‘Alice’ takes in $210.3 million worldwide, tops ‘Avatar’ premiere Ben Fritz from Pop Matters, March 8, 2010

Tim Burton: Boyhood traumas of a director Gil Pringle interview from The Independent, February 26, 2010

The Hollywood Reporter review Michael Rechtshaffen

Entertainment Weekly review [C] Owen Gleiberman

Variety (Todd McCarthy) review

The Guardian (Xan Brooks) review [4/5]

The Guardian (Peter Bradshaw) review [2/5]

The Independent (Geoffrey Macnab) review [4/5] also seen here: First Night: Alice in Wonderland, Odeon Leicester Square, London

The Globe and Mail (Rick Groen) review [3/4]

Alice in Wonderland: ever curiouser Mark Salisbury from The Daily Telegraph, February 15, 2010

The Daily Telegraph review [3/5] David Gritten

Washington Post (Ann Hornaday) review

St. Paul Pioneer Press (Chris Hewitt &lt;br&gt;) review [2.5/4]

The Dallas Morning News (Chris Vognar) review [4/5]

Austin Chronicle review [2/5] Kimberley Jones

San Francisco Chronicle [Amy Biancolli]

Los Angeles Times (Kenneth Turan) review

Chicago Tribune (Michael Phillips) review

Chicago Sun-Times (Roger Ebert) review [3/4]

The New York Times review Manohla Dargis

Alice in Wonderland restoration First ever screen version from the National Film Archive, from BFI, also here: available to view here

Buscemi, Steve – indie actor

BFI | Sight & Sound | Mr Pink, Mr Indie, Mr Shhh Philip Kemp from Sight and Sound, August 2001

So many US indie movies of reputation are haunted by the nervy presence of Steve Buscemi it's hard to imagine a successful one without him

Butler, John

THE BACHELOR WEEKEND C 71

(aka: The Stag)

Ireland (94 mi) 2013

This little single-celled organism is getting married to my sister. —The Machine (Peter McDonald)

Ireland doesn’t produce a lot of movies for export, which is surprising in a nation that reveres writers, often elevating them to the status of rock stars, yet still, despite the presence of the Irish Film Board, which provides funds for the development and production of Irish films, very few ever see the light of day internationally. Perhaps best known are the works of John Michael McDonagh, writer and director of The Guard (2011), and his brother Martin, an Irish playwright who wrote and directed In Bruges (2008) and Seven Psychopaths (2012), each featuring Brendan Gleeson and/or Colin Farrell. John Butler is an aspiring Irish writer, having moved to Los Angeles in 2006 and written a novel, The Tenderloin, also co-writing a currently running Irish television comedy show, Your Bad Self (2010 – present) before writing and directing this film, which will likely win him few accolades. At times dreadful, at other times ridiculously absurd, this film is built around a wedding about to happen between Fionnan (Hugh O’Connor) and Ruth (Amy Huberman), where the groom, a theater set designer, is getting too involved in the tiny details of planning the wedding, even designing a small-scale model of what he has in mind, which causes the wedding planner some grief, as it’s hard to match or reproduce right down to the last detail. Ruth finds his obsessive need for managing the minutia counterproductive and enlists his best man, Davin (Andrew Scott), to arrange a stag party where they can hike the great outdoors of the Irish countryside, turning into a camping trip over a weekend just to get him out of the house. While it’s clear none of his friends are really the outdoors type, as they’re more of a highbrow group that feels perfectly comfortable dwelling on the details of middle class materialism, they nonetheless convince Fionnan to let himself go out on one final fling with the boys before losing his bachelorhood status. While the title of the film upon release was THE STAG, once the movie arrived in America it was quickly changed to a more generic title, typical of Ellis Island immigration practices where foreign sounding names were Americanized. Who knows what was so confusing about the original title?

Opening with two friends, Fionnan and Davin, playing a cozy little game of backgammon, Davin goes through a litany of excuses for why he can’t commit to various girlfriends, using every known physical flaw as an excuse for why this would never work out, never realizing the degree of pretentious arrogance on display for even considering such a process of elimination. Little did we know human shortsightedness would become an overall theme for the film, as a tightly knit group of friends, all with the same general styles and tastes, where casting routine judgmental opinions about others is standard and comes effortlessly, so it shouldn’t come as any big surprise that the joke is eventually on them. It doesn’t bode well for the future of the marriage when Ruth insists that the group allow her brother to tag along, a loud and unlikable jackass known only as The Machine (Peter McDonald), someone that drives Fionnan up the wall. Despite their best efforts to ditch him, Ruth gives him directions to where they’re meeting, so when he shows up and joins the ranks with the hearty expression, “Konnichiwa, fucksticks!” they all tremble at the thought of spending the weekend with the likes of him. Nonetheless, using a broad range of crudeness and lewd jokes, with plenty of rude profanity, The Machine gets in the face of each and every one of them, creating a series of confrontations and awkward moments in the great outdoors. When it turns out the guy is a psychopath with little concern for the regard for others, all they do is cower in response, becoming an outdoor trek with a bully and five “Hobbits,” as he likes to call them, anything to undermine their smug air of moral superiority. The problem is how easily they can all be stereotyped, the groom, the best man, gay couple, the guy that hates U2 (considered the epitome of being anti-Irish), and the psychopath, where over the course of the next day or two, they all grate on each other’s nerves, rubbed raw by the constant irritating presence of The Machine (no explanation for how he picked up that name).

Shot in Dublin, Wicklow, and Galway, the film has a chatty and combative back to nature theme with a couple of blundering fools creeping through the back country, where they’re constantly sniveling and whining about one thing or another, where the feeling is the tide has turned against them, led by the reckless acts of The Machine who undermines their every step with his own callous macho braggadocio, with none of them standing up to him, so it all grows tiresome after awhile, yet we’re stuck with them and their juvenile nonsense through the duration of the movie. It’s a bit of an uncomfortable mess, but someone had the foresight to bring along some naturally grown ecstasy, taken one evening around the campfire, when the lads eventually break out into song. It’s all pleasant enough mainstream entertainment until Davin blurts out the startling revelation that he’s always been in love with the girl his best friend is marrying, brilliantly expressed in his achingly heartfelt rendition of “On Raglan Road,” Luke Kelly Raglan Road - YouTube (4:17), a song also poignantly featured in Martin McDonagh’s In Bruges. Out of endless mediocrity comes a moment of true inspiration, as it’s the first (and only) moment in the entire film that might actually fall into the realm of “human,” drawing the audience into his dilemma, where there is finally someone to care about. The moment vanishes in an instant, however, as the boys tear off all their clothes and run blissfully naked through the woods searching for some lost lake that they can never find, instead getting lost and freezing their tails off under a bundle of leaves without so much as a hint of where they are. By the time The Machine leads them all safely back home, like a Shakespearean Midsummer Night’s Dream spell, they’ve suddenly been recalibrated into new men, where all the petty grievances have been set aside, all the resentments gone, and they’ve somehow been wielded into responsible adults, where The Machine is no longer a blithering idiot spouting endless insults and profanity, but the glue that holds them all together, actually adding a touch of sweetness, taking a formulaic and well-worn buddy theme, throwing all manner of humiliation and contentious discord at them, finally bringing the curtain down with a rousing and unifying rendition of U2’s “One” U2 - One - YouTube (5:21) at the wedding ceremony.

TimeOut London  Kathryn Bromwich

Theatre set designer Fionnan (Hugh O’Conor) is engaged to Ruth (Amy Huberman), but being a progressive Irish guy in touch with his feminine side (he’s enthusiastic about flowers) he doesn’t want a stag do. After some wheedling from his best man Davin (Andrew Scott), he’s persuaded to embark on a walking weekend in the Irish countryside. At which point the future bride-to-be’s brother, The Machine (Peter McDonald), gatecrashes the party. Tall, rugged and a bit unhinged, The Machine strides into their lives like a Viking Jason Statham: while the rest of the group marches along talking about Vespas, HBO and risotto, he operates on a level of perpetual hyper-virility. Is there a chance everyone will learn from each other? ‘The Stag’ is formulaic and schmaltzy, and its endless ‘gay’ jokes jar with its warm-hearted message – but it coasts along on an undeniable likeability.

BACHELOR WEEKEND Facets Multi Media

Irish novelist John Butler makes his feature-film directing debut with this hilarious and heartwarming comedy, in which a bachelor party weekend in the great outdoors takes some unexpected detours.

No one makes a less likely candidate for a wild stag party than Fionnan (Hugh O'Conor), a set designer so comfortable in his masculinity that he feels no shame in micromanaging the decor for his forthcoming wedding. But his adoring fiancée, Ruth (Amy Huberman), feels that Fionnan really needs to cut loose in one last bachelor's celebration with his mates. She recruits Davin (Andrew Scott), Fionnan's best friend—and her ex—to make the arrangements. They decide to go on a camping trip, but what promises to be a leisurely weekend of fresh air and some hiking is about to get a major dose of testosterone, when The Machine (Peter McDonald), Ruth's notoriously obnoxious brother, decides to tag along.

At once ribald and heartwarming, this thoughtful comedy asks whether the film's titular ritual still has any meaning in an age of sensitive men who talk about feelings and wear penguin-print sweaters. Finely textured performances and the beauty of the Irish countryside combine with Butler's assured direction, culminating in a fun, hilarious and ultimately very moving experience.

The Bachelor Weekend / The Dissolve Vadim Rizov

A group of men, one pre-wedding weekend, and the Irish countryside: What could go wrong? The Bachelor Weekend plays as expected: Characters must start close, bond during their trip, have their friendship momentarily threatened, then cathartically make up right on schedule.

Top billing wrongly goes to Andrew Scott as finicky anti-romantic Davin, whose longest relationship lasted six months; he regards purple gums or constant humming as a sufficient pretext to sever all contact with a partner. Hugh O’Conor is groom Fionnan, who harangues Davin for his lack of tolerance, warning him he’ll end up alone and miserable. These recurring lectures on the importance of coupledom are as severe as any rom-com that implicitly chastises women who don’t want to give up their jobs and settle down immediately; it’s a dubious form of gender parity. Despite their differences, the two are plausible best friends; their friendship is never really in jeopardy, outside of about five minutes in the second act. 

To get Fionnan to stop fussing over the wedding arrangements, bride-to-be Ruth (Amy Huberman) convinces Davin to organize a weekend of hiking and manly camaraderie. But Ruth also insists her brother be invited. Enter co-writer Peter McDonald as The Machine, whose nickname says it all. Entering with a hearty “Konnichiwa, fucksticks!,” The Machine is unbearably hyper-masculine, out for a rowdy good time and ready to pummel others into submission. Mild chaos ensues.

As initially presented, The Machine’s character is a minor stroke of reversal-of-expectations genius. Pulling random “funny” accents and voices, ceaselessly calling Davin et al. “hobbits” (because tramping through the countryside is an automatic excuse for repeated unimaginative references), the shouty Machine should theoretically be hilarious, especially when set in relief against quieter, naturalistic performances: This is the kind of belligerent screamer Will Ferrell plays in his sleep. But, as if standing in for weary audience members fed up with Brat Pack yelling, everyone’s appalled and decidedly unamused by The Machine’s tired schtick. Inevitably and unfortunately, he’s revealed to be a nice fellow possessing hidden depths, a characterization that simply demands that McDonald knock off the reflexive gay slurs, accents, and general obnoxiousness. The implausible gear-shift is indicative of a greater softening necessary to get from naked men running through the woods to a final wedding sequence of reconciliation and good vibes.

The Machine is the show, though the narrative periphery has some shoehorned-in tangents: Fionnan must stand up against his out-of-date homophobic dad and insist that his gay brother’s partner be allowed to attend the wedding, while pal Simon (Brian Gleeson, a dead ringer for dad Brendan) has an extensively leveraged business, with 250,000 Euros in debt and no rescue strategy. This last dilemma ties in to The Machine’s unexpected closing speech, a last-minute grab for greater resonance: After noting the Irish recession and difficulties with the church, he concludes, “We’re Ireland, and that, my friends, is deadly.” The national self-image pep talk, followed immediately by an impassioned rendition of U2’s “With Or Without You,” comes out of nowhere, a final attempt to get this innocuous time-killer to a more urgent register.

Cinematic Concerns [Sebastian Ng]

TIFF 2013 Review: THE STAG Works Its Comedy ... - Twitch Todd Brown

Blu-ray.com [Brian Orndorf]

Little White Lies [Chris Blohm]

Filmaluation [Hemanth Kissoon]

Screenjabber.com [Stuart O'Connor]

The Stag: Toronto Review - The Hollywood Reporter John DeFore

The Stag | Variety Jay Weissberg

Irish Times Donald Clarke

The Tenderloin, By John Butler - The Independent Mark Turner book review from The Independent, June 21, 2011

Review: Fiction: The Tenderloin by John Butler - Irish ... Edel Coffey book review from The Independent, November 30, 2012

BEGINNER'S PLUCK: John Butler | Irish Examiner

The Bachelor Weekend Movie Review (2014) | Roger Ebert Brian Tallerico

Butler, Martin and Bentley Dean

TANNA C 76

Australia Vanuatu (100 mi) 2015

Rather elementary ethnographical filmmaking, where good intentions unfortunately do not produce great art. What might have made a terrific documentary is instead converted into a fictional film by a couple of documentary filmmakers with rather pedestrian results. While the film takes place in the South Pacific nation of Vanuatu, a volcanic archipelago of islands located about a thousand miles northeast of Australia, the cast is comprised entirely from indigenous members of the local Yakel tribe, where the story is told in mythical status, though it’s based on actual events. The film perpetuates the same Western stereotypes since the era of King Kong (1933) by treating indigenous nations like some exotic allure, where there’s little attempt to go into complex detail, or provide anything resembling a character study, instead the film provides a threadbare sketch of indigenous life on the island, where we observe fairly predictable social customs in an otherworldly locale. Unlike Warwick Thornton’s 2010 Top Ten Films of the Year: #8 Samson and Delilah, which actually gets under the skin of indigenous people, this is all surface textures, where it’s clear the filmmakers don’t have the requisite skills to make a more challenging film. While the filmmakers apparently spent seven months with the Yakel tribe, there’s little recognition for their rhythm of life or observing their customary rituals, for instance learning how they hunt and produce food, build their homes, heal their sick, pray to spiritual deities, designing something other than a mythological fable might have felt more authentic and sincere, as living in the tropical forests and the element of survival would become paramount, where the audience could develop an invested interest. Here there’s a huge gulf between the audience and the subject matter, with little bridging the gap.

The dark-skinned villagers from the island of Tanna live without electricity, wearing grass skirts, collecting water from nearby streams, finding food and making their homes from whatever they find in the forest, where they practice ancient customs known as Kastom. Their hierarchy includes an elderly chief and a medicine man, with men doing the hunting and women doing the washing and making what little clothes they use, where they practice arranged marriages with outside tribes in order to avoid tribal wars. Right away we sense some friction, as there is an existing romance secretly happening within the same tribe between Wawa (Marie Wawa) and Dain (Mungau Dain), the grandson of the tribe’s chief. Apparently one of them left the village for awhile, and what was once childhood friendship blossomed into something more, where most of this is seen through the eyes of a rebellious young child, Selin (Marceline Rofit), Wawa’s younger sister who has a habit of listening to no one and simply doing as she pleases. When it’s discovered that she routinely travels into the territory of a neighboring tribe known as the Imedin, she is chastised and warned of dire consequences, as she could be killed. Undaunted by the warnings, she continues to go where she pleases, so her grandfather (Albi Nangia), an elder shaman, decides a spiritual lesson is in order, walking the child to the rim of an active island volcano, known as Yahul, the spirit mother of their tribe, where it is revealed to be a wrathful and protective force, seen gurgling in red-hot embers, continually blowing off steam. Selim feels the power of Yahul for the first time as they sit on the rim edge, but they are interrupted by members of the Imedin tribe who horrifically beat her grandfather, believing he has used his powers as a medicine man to hex their land, where Selim escapes and runs all the way back home crying for help. This incident causes villagers to panic, claiming they are losing their people, as apparently Dain lost his mother and father to the Imedin.

This ruckus creates a ceremonial meeting between tribal chiefs (playing themselves), Yakel Chief Charlie Kahla and Imedin Chief Mikum Tainakou, in an attempt to lower the levels of hostility, “to bury the club,” where it is decreed that violence will subsist when an Imedin warrior is allowed to marry Wawa. She fears a fate with another tribe and is instead in love with Dain, but their romance is forbidden, so they run away into the heart of the forest and try to survive on their own, but they are continually viewed as trespassers on someone else’s land. Nonetheless, they lead an idyllic existence on the ocean shores, taking shelter in the tropical cover, where they manage to survive on their own in the lush foliage and hidden streams, choosing not to join the wayward Christian settlement that welcomes them with open arms, as both find them too peculiar, preferring to live on their own. But the Imedin are incensed that Wawa has refused, sending out a team of warriors to find her and bring her back, plotting to kill Dain on sight. The Yakel send out their own warriors in hopes of finding them first, while Selin, the little rabble rouser, runs off to help as well. This choreography of mixed messages and confusion only serves to prolong the inevitable, as the island is too small to avoid detection. It all comes to a head on the rim of the volcano, with spewing lava and gaseous fumes as a backdrop, as the young couple are found dead in each other’s arms, having eaten poisonous mushrooms. An African folk tale merging into the forbidden lovers Romeo and Juliet, it’s left for Chief Charlie to meditate on the outcome, producing a song of sorrow that he sings to his tribe announcing no more arranged marriages, that women are now free to pick who they choose in marriage. Supposedly based on an actual event, there is no mention of why a policy of arranged marriage existed in the first place, which guaranteed marrying outside one’s tribe, as that likely prevented incest from occurring throughout the generations. In small tribes, more likely than not, nearly everyone is related, where marrying within the tribe could have severe medical consequences. The film omits this likelihood in its zealous urge to portray a mythical romance where love is stronger than tradition, but tradition is what allowed them to survive as a tribe all these years. That notwithstanding, the film is Australia’s nomination for Best Foreign Film and has made the next-to-last cut into the final nine films, eventually whittled down to only five.

Tanna - Film Society of Lincoln Center

Tanna is set in the South Pacific where Wawa, a young girl from one of the last traditional tribes, falls in love with her chief’s grandson, Dain. When an intertribal war escalates, Wawa is unknowingly betrothed as part of a peace deal. Soon after, the young lovers run away, but are pursued by enemy warriors intent on killing them. Dain and Wawa must choose between their hearts and the future of their people, while the villagers wrestle with preserving their culture and adapting to the increasing outside demands for individual freedom. Bentley Dean and Martin Butler’s feature debut is based on a true story and its cast features members of the Yakel tribe in Vanuatu.

Gorgeous Island-Life Drama 'Tanna' Offers a Potent ... - Village Voice Nick Schager

The sight of kids joyously playing with a “penis sheath” is enough to make Tanna recommendable, but fortunately, there’s also far more to Bentley Dean and Martin Butler’s ethnographic drama, which was filmed on – and stars natives of – the South Pacific island that gives the film its title. Awash in natural light that gently cascades over the area’s dense foliage, as well as in portentous darkness illuminated by a volcano’s sparkling bursts of lava, Tanna charts the fallout from the romance that blossoms between young Wawa (Marie Wawa) and Dain (Mungau Dain).

Their desire to be together is thwarted by their elders’ plan to achieve peace with murderous enemies by arranging a marriage between Wawa and this adversarial clan. It’s a set-up almost as old as time itself, and yet Dean and Butler breathe new life into their premise – based on real-life circumstances that plagued Tanna’s tribes in the ‘80s – through loving attentiveness to their setting’s verdant colors and bustling sounds. Subtly visualizing the connection shared between the land and its people (and their interior conditions), Tanna proves rich in both sociological detail and roiling emotions. Its gorgeous close-ups of its non-professional actors’ faces capture an immediate, poignant sense of true love’s inextinguishable, transformative power, even when pitted against cultural customs poised to suppress it.

Spectrum Culture [Mike McClelland]

As well acted and beautifully filmed as Tanna is, there is nonetheless something strange and voyeuristic about watching it. Though the film is based on a true story from the actual island of Tanna (an island of the Oceanian nation of Vanuatu) and filmed with an all-local cast, it is written and directed by two white men and presented by the nation of Australia as their foreign-language entry to the 2017 Academy Awards. That, combined with awkwardly translated subtitles, keeps Tanna at a severe distance from the audience, making it a beautiful facsimile of the organic, indigenous experience that it is doubtlessly trying to be.

Still, despite the constant presence of the white lens through which the audience is experiencing Tanna, its qualities are so strong that they cannot be ignored. First amongst these is co-director Bentley Dean’s astounding cinematography. There are shots in Tanna the likes of which have never been on screen before, including a romantic moment in front of a bursting, live volcano that will leave viewers absolutely breathless. Similarly, the score by Antony Partos (Animal Kingdom, 99 Homes) is alternately natural and epic and always sensational. Despite these achievements, the most notable element of Tanna may be the performances of its two leads, Marie Wawa and Mungau Dain (whose characters are called Wawa and Dain), neither of whom have previous acting experience. Both add believability and sensitivity to the film’s central love story. Their faces command the screen, and it’s almost impossible to believe that their only training was watching a copy of Rolf de Heer and Peter Djigirr’s 2006 film Ten Canoes.

Butler and Dean are both documentarians, and their chops in the discipline are abundantly clear in Tanna, which looks and moves like a real-life view into the island of Tanna’s Yakel tribe. This makes sense, as all of the actors in the film are Yakel. However, Butler and Dean’s keen eyes are also Tanna’s biggest flaw, because their decision to keep the characters and their story entirely natural keeps Tanna at an arm’s length. Though the dialogue is in the Yakel’s native dialects, the translation feels off and will make viewers feel like outsiders. And though the story is progressive in the sense that it keeps Wawa and her female relatives at its center, it is simplistic in that it refuses to get inside her mind, instead content to follow along documentary-style and let the poorly translated dialogue carry the weight of storytelling.

Though there may be no other way that Tanna’s story could have been told on such a scale, it still comes across as exploitative for two white, male directors to profit from telling the story of a black, native woman’s epic romantic journey, particularly when that story is then chosen by Australia as their entry for Best Foreign Language Film for 2017’s Academy Awards. This doesn’t mean that white directors can’t tell black stories, or vice versa, but in Tanna’s case the separation is felt in the white, Western presentation of the film’s Romeo & Juliet-style story, along with the aforementioned odd translation.

It’s hard to forget Tanna’s flaws while watching it, but even though they remain present throughout, these issues are outweighed by the utter spectacle of what Tanna does achieve. Tanna’s cinematography, music and performances would be still be exceptional in a big-budgeted Hollywood movie. For these elements to be so good in a small Australian-produced film with all amateur actors is a sign that Hollywood needs to try harder.

Film-Forward.com [Phil Guie]

Set in a world full of lush forestry and other scenic wonders, the film revolves around an indigenous tribe, the Yakel, on the titular South Pacific island, who have eschewed money for commerce and instead rely on farming and hunting. Here, the traditional ways of their culture, Kastom, are all-important. As such, when a teenager decides to marry for love instead of going through the long-held custom of arranged matrimony, it’s a radical idea—and one with wide-ranging repercussions that threaten the whole community.

The film opens with a young village beauty, Wawa (Marie Wawa), who is on the verge of adulthood, which, as the other women discuss it, seems to carry the unspoken expectation of marriage. Wawa does have someone near and dear to her heart: Dain (Mungau Dain), a hunter, musician, and son of the village chief. On the morning he returns after a long absence, she sneaks out of her family’s house to meet with him in the brush. Selin (Marceline Rofit), Wawa’s younger sister, follows them and sees them standing on opposite sides of a tree, staring at the ground but saying nothing. Due to her age, Selin’s understanding of the situation may be imperfect, but we viewers can immediately comprehend the situation.

While the relationship is blossoming, the village shaman, who is also Wawa and Selin’s grandfather, is attacked by members of an enemy tribe, the Imedin. The two communities have been locked in bloodshed for so long that it is no longer known how the conflict began. After finding the revered man dying, the men of the protagonists’ village want revenge, but they are persuaded against it by the chief, who sees an endless cycle of violence ahead unless there is peace. Thus, the two sides gather and broker a truce in which brides will be exchanged. Since Wawa has just come of age, it is agreed by the men that she will be sent away to wed one of the Imedin.

Wawa does not wish to go through with the arranged marriage, and it is here that the hierarchies of the village, so patiently established during the introductory scenes, come into play. Early on, the women were depicted as having formed their own community within the larger order, performing a ritual involving face-painting to celebrate Wawa’s passage into womanhood, sans the menfolk. But after she balks at the marital arrangement, those same peers try to coerce her into changing her mind. First they warn her that if she refuses, the Imedin will kill more of them. When that doesn’t move her, one elderly matron, who first seems sympathetic to her plight, hints that if Wawa remains in the village, the other women will make her life miserable.

The village chief, meanwhile, reminds Dain that he is in line to rule one day, and so he must learn to sacrifice for the good of all. Despite all the voices influencing them, at a certain point, Dain and Wawa make an impertinent and rash decision, and one from which the rest of the film logically spins out.

Based on a 1987 incident, the film is directed by Martin Butler and Bentley Dean, whose work has a detached quality. Frequently, the camera becomes a passive observer, even at moments when characters are performing quite remarkable feats, such as scaling a tall tree or climbing up to a cavern wall. Meanwhile, the entire cast consists of real villagers speaking in their native languages, and their naturalism contributes to the almost documentary-like feel. The characters all wear minimal clothing, and there is not much self-consciousness in their performances.

Though the film has a timeless story, there is, however, some attempt to ground the proceedings in recent history. At one point, an elder shows Wawa a magazine with photographs of Prince Philip and Queen Elizabeth II as an example of how an arranged marriage can, in fact, result in something long-lasting.

Much of the score relies on ambient noises from the forest, although there are flourishes of synth and opera that underscore moments of dramatic tension. Finally, while Dain and Wawa earn much sympathy as the rebellious couple, the filmmakers repeatedly switch to Selin’s point of view, a choice that ultimately elevates Tanna beyond romance. The audience sees the youngest protagonist come of age before their eyes, and although that journey is not without its disturbing incidents, the ending feels well-earned as a result.

Australia’s entry for the Best Foreign Language Film Academy Award, Tanna combines visual beauty, sympathetic characters, and an underlying message concerning cultural survival into a rich viewing experience.

Slant Magazine [Chuck Bowen]

Cinemablographer [Pat Mullen]

Independent Ethos [Hans Morgenstern]

Avi Offer [The NYC Movie Guru]

Facets : Cinematheque Schedule: Tanna

Tanna • New Zealand International Film Festival

'Tanna': Venice Review | Hollywood Reporter David Rooney

Variety [Richard Kuipers]

The Guardian [Luke Buckmaster]

'Tanna': A real-life 'Romeo and Juliet,' set amid warring tribes - The ... Stephanie Merry from The Washington Post

The exotic 'Tanna' tells a tale of forbidden love ... - Los Angeles Times Kenneth Turan

Review: In 'Tanna,' Lovers Are Torn Apart to Keep Tribal Peace - The ... Glenn Kenny from The New York Times

Tanna (film) - Wikipedia

Tanna: the ancient Vanuatu tribe who had never watched a film now ... Garry Maddox from The Sydney Morning Herald, November 4, 2015

The making of Tanna - The story behind the film that stole our hearts ... Patricia Gil Garcia from Island Life magazine, March 4, 2016

Buzzell, Edward

AT THE CIRCUS

USA (87 mi) 1939

Time Out review

Definitely sub-standard Marxism as the brothers set about saving a circus from bankruptcy. Nice moments (much ado with badges, Groucho singing 'Lydia the Tattooed Lady', and the endless insulting repartee with Dumont), but the whole thing is rather tired and over-familiar.

Brilliant Observations on 1173 Films [Clayton Trapp]

In which Harpo plays tic-tac-toe on a giraffe and rides an ostrich. Even if the Marx brothers weren't so outrageously funny these films would be well worth seeing just to witness Harpo pulling together such eclectic musical selections and playing them on modified bugles with air horns and such. There's such a sense of possibility, and they're no slouches at grand finales.

User comments from imdb Author: theowinthrop from United States

The decline of the Marx Brothers does not begin with ROOM SERVICE, which is hysterical at it's conclusion, but with AT THE CIRCUS. Groucho always insisted that had Irving Thalberg lived his care would have made the other films in the contract after A DAY AT THE RACES as good as that and A NIGHT AT THE OPERA. This meant that the film had to be taken on the road as a Vaudeville show, and the material tested carefully. But Thalberg was dead, and Louis B. Mayer was quite unsympathetic to these three clowns who were...well clowns, and who had gotten too good a sweetheart contract from Thalburg in terms of profits. Mayer thought of comedians as interchangeable, and could not care about allowing talented ones to test their material - you hand them a script and that was that: they are paid to make it funny. If they don't you fire them.

So it is traditional to blame AT THE CIRCUS, GO WEST, and THE BIG STORE on Mayer's hostility. That hostility played a major role (there is just no denying it), but in the case of AT THE CIRCUS there is another point that is frequently overlooked. In movies by comedians, it was rare for a circus comedy to be really funny. W.C.Fields, YOU CAN'T CHEAT AN HONEST MAN was an exception - a truly funny circus comedy, but it's strength was the film record of Field's radio feud with ventriloquist dummy Charlie McCarthy. Had it been set in a movie studio or a bank or a foreign country it would have been just as successful. But other comedians were not as lucky. Charlie Chaplin worked two years on THE CIRCUS, and while a good film it was not the great film he hoped to make. The atmosphere of a circus should have been inviting to comics - after all, here clowns were really clowns. But for some reason the special needs of movie funny-men were hard to translate into the atmosphere of the big top. Possibly the best use of the big top as a comic background was in Laurel & Hardy's short film THE CHIMP. The first quarter of the film shows how they wreck the circus (which was on it's last legs anyway). But the remaining three quarters of the film deal with the boys problems with a rooming house owned by a jealous Billy Gilbert, and the title "chimp" they hope to sell to a zoo.

With the Marxes the circus just does not absorb them too much. Groucho is there, hired as a lawyer to assist Kenny Baker and his pal Chico. Harpo, as Chico's brother, is a circus roustabout. But there is little example of their involvement in the circus life of the troop or of the animals (Harpo should have been involved with circus horses, anyway). Bits of the film are actually quite good - like Chico and Harpo trying to find papers in Nat Pendleton's (the circus strongman's) room. They manage to turn it into a Christmas nightmare for poor Pendleton. And Groucho certainly has two great moments: the business of trying to get on the circus train without knowing the password (even one of the animals knows the password), and his singing "Lydia The Tattooed Lady".

There were some cuts, apparently. Groucho had a sequence where his trial skills were shown in a court presided over by Edgar Kennedy. One wishes they had kept that in the film. The poor portions, mostly tied to the sickeningly sweet and naive Kenny Baker (fighting the crooked James Burke) are overwhelming. At least Groucho was able to have another session with Margaret Dumont as Mrs. Dukesberry (Baker's aunt), and poor Margaret gets shot out of a cannon in the end. But the drab spots outnumber the good ones. Not too bad, but still just mediocre as a result.

Turner Classic Movies review Lang Thompson

THE MARX BROTHERS COLLECTION - DVD Walter Chaw, also reviewing ROOM SERVICE

eFilmCritic.com (Charles Tatum) review [3/5]

Cinepassion.org Fernando F. Croce

Turner Classic Movies dvd review The Marx Brothers Collection

Channel 4 Film capsule review

DVD Verdict Neil Dorsett, also reviewing ROOM SERVICE

Austin Chronicle [Jay Hardwig]

The New York Times (Frank S. Nugent) review

DVDBeaver.com [Henrik Sylow]

GO WEST

USA (80 mi) 1940

Chicago Reader (Dave Kehr) capsule review

Not much can be salvaged from this late Marx Brothers effort (1940): the comic invention doesn't rise far beyond cloddish slapstick and the film's one anthology piece--a wild ride on a runaway train--loses a lot to the obvious fakery of the rear-projection work. With John Carroll and Diana Lewis; Edward Buzzell (Song of the Thin Man) directed.

Time Out review Geoff Andrew

Relatively late, and therefore far from great, Marxian mania, in which Groucho, Chico and Harpo find themselves victims both to a West they can barely hoodwink or subvert, and to a script which is only spasmodically funny. That said, it starts well enough, with Harpo and Chico gleefully outwitting Groucho's attempts to fleece them of ten dollars; and the final, frantic train chase climax - while falling dismally short of Keaton's The General - has its (admittedly slapsticky) moments.

User comments (Page 2) Author: theowinthrop from United States

After the success of A DAY AT THE RACES the Marx Brothers had a serious problem. The man who brought them back into the movie game has been Irving Thalberg, who took them seriously as comic artists, let them rehearse and hone their material on stage, and gave them a percentage of the gross sales, had died in 1937. Thalberg's rival, Louis B. Mayer grabbed control of Thalberg's production unit. Mayer (whose negative effects on careers from John Gilbert to Judy Garland are becoming more known as time passes) hated comedians, and he disliked people who got contracts that took profits away from his company. He was, in fact, a selfish individual who got his just deserts in the 1950s when he was thrown out of his job by his shareholders, and found nobody in Hollywood wanted anything to do with him.

Mayer had no great love for the Marxes, and allowed RKO a loan out of them for ROOM SERVICE. I feel that film has a lot still going for it, but many people don't like it as too confining for the antics of the Marxes. Then in 1939 MGM put them into AT THE CIRCUS, even bringing back Margaret Dumont. But the results are generally mediocre (although Groucho has one of his best songs, "Lydia the Tattooed Lady"). It was symptomatic of Mayer's lack of interest in their film work - they were not sent out to test their material.

Then in 1940 came GO WEST.

The Marx Brothers had not been the first comedians that Mayer disliked. He had a negative view of silent film genius Buster Keaton. Keaton's masterpieces of the silent films had been successful for the most part, but he had been produced by Joseph Schenck, his brother-in-law, and a rival of Mayer. Joe Schenck died in the early 1930s. At that time Keaton's films were not doing as well as in his heyday, mostly due to contracts with MGM that took away his independence in production matters. Also his wife, Nathalie Talmadge, was finding her movie stardom ending, and their marriage was collapsing. Keaton took to heavy drinking, which hurt his performances in the sound films he made. Jimmy Durante was co-starred in several films with Keaton, like THE PASSIONATE PLUMBER and WHAT, NO BEER! but though the men became friends their styles of humor did not mesh. By 1935 Keaton was a has-been in Hollywood, and by the end of the decade was only appearing in minor films as comedy relief, or used as a gag writer.

Possibly Mayer decided (for some twisted reason) to put Keaton on the writing staff for GO WEST. It certainly was not with any belief in the "Great Stone Face" as a gag man or a comedian. But it is also more than likely that he put him into it to damage the Marxes still more, and to humiliate Keaton. Knowing Mayer I would not put it past him.

Groucho Marx lived to become a national icon due to his movie, radio, and television career. In his later years (before senility began to affect him) he was invited on all the talk shows, and would discuss his brothers and their films, and comedy in general. He would also drop off his acid comments which made the audiences laugh (it helped Groucho that he lived long enough to find less censorship of his lines than he faced in the 1930s and 1940s). But he was a disagreeable man in private life, being thoroughly honest on one hand, but thoroughly nasty on the other. With Keaton, given his recovering alcoholic state in 1940, you had to be respectful and kindly.

Keaton had a dream that never reached the screen. In 1933 he had seen GRAND HOTEL, and liked the concept of interlocking stories involving sets of big name stars. He wanted to do a comic version called GRAND MILLS HOTEL, with himself, Laurel and Hardy, Marie Dressler, and other comedians (Edward Everett Horton was another) intermingling in a third rate hotel. The idea never came to fruition. No doubt, in thinking of it, Keaton might have considered having the Marxes in the film too. He was a genuine appreciator of comic genius.

But here it was 1940, and Keaton was working on a film with the Marxes. Keaton went to a script meeting, and outlined an idea for a scene. Groucho listened. His expression was bland. When it was finished, apparently with a sneer, Groucho said: "You really think that was funny?" Keaton, somewhat crestfallen, replied: "I just thought it might work...you fellows are pretty funny by yourselves."

There are Keatonian touches in the movie: Harpo's showdown with the saloon keeper town boss, where he pulls out a shaving brush that fires a shot into the floor. Also the wrecking of the train at the conclusion, which reminds one of Keaton's love of trains (OUR HOSPITALITY, THE GENERAL). Possibly he had a hand in the great opening of the film, where Groucho is the city slicker fleeced by Chico and Harpo when he tries to fleece them. It did not help GO WEST that only three years before Laurel and Hardy made one of their two best features, WAY OUT WEST, nor that W.C.Fields and Mae West did MY LITTLE CHICKADIE in 1939. Both of those films are way better than the slow going GO WEST.

One wishes that Groucho had been more charitable to Keaton, because the latter did finally find a comedian who listened and worked with him. That was Red Skelton, who would work on several films with Keaton in the late 1940s and early 1950s, one of which, A SOUTHERN YANKEE, is very funny indeed. But Keaton allowed Groucho precedence of being a successful comic in GO WEST, with mediocre results. Perhaps Groucho deserved the failure that resulted. Hubris is it's own reward.

Turner Classic Movies review Eleanor Quin

THE MARX BROTHERS COLLECTION - DVD Walter Chaw, also reviewing THE BIG STORE

DVD Verdict (Bill Treadway) dvd review also reviewing THE BIG STORE

Turner Classic Movies dvd review The Marx Brothers Collection

Channel 4 Film capsule review

Movie Review - Go West - At the Capitol - NYTimes.com T.M.P. from The New York Times

DVDBeaver.com [Henrik Sylow]

Chico Marx - Go West (2:10)

"Marx Brothers Go West" - Indian scene (9:56)

Bykov, Yuri

THE MAJOR (Mayor) A- 93

Russia (99 mi) 2013 Website Trailer

Yuri Bykov in his second feature has designs on becoming the Russian John Carpenter, as he writes, directs, edits, acts, and composes an extraordinary musical score that elevates this police thriller into unanticipated heights, while the other major contributer is cinematographer Kiri Klepalov, especially his snowy landscapes. Set in the dead of winter, the Deputy Police Commander, Major Sobolev (Denis Shvedov), wakes to a phone call that his wife is about to give birth to his firstborn, so he hops in his car and starts driving like a bat out of Hell, where the streets look like pock marks of frozen snow and ice, but he drives around cars, drives furiously into the other lane of oncoming traffic, and just about gets half a dozen people killed before he finally does hit a 7-year old kid trying to cross the highway to get to the bus stop, his mother (Irina Nizina) watching in horror. When he calls to ask for help, he requests a special 2-man team, Detective Kroshunov (the director Bykov) and uniformed officer Merkulov (Ilya Isaev), who are basically the clean-up crew, the guys that clean up other people’s messes and make sure the police aren’t held liable. While posing as sympathetic officers, they give the hysterical mother some brandy to calm her down, then make sure she’s given a blood test to provide evidence of her own culpability, while also falsifying the accident report to make it seem Sobolev was traveling half as fast as he was, all protecting their own asses. Due to the severity of the incident, Sobolev and Kroshunov are ordered to the home of the Police Chief, Pankratov (Boris Nevzorov), who is indistinguishable from a mob boss, ordering them to have her sign a statement by any means necessary agreeing to Sobolev’s version so they don’t have internal affairs sniffing down their noses.

This is an adrenaline-laced film that continues at a furious pace, building suspense throughout, where one of the strengths is the ensemble cast, as everyone feels naturalistic, especially the distraught mother Irina, who’s immediately onto the police, bringing her husband (Dmitry Kulichkov) with her to the station, but he gets brutally pummeled by Kroshunov until she signs, barely able to walk out in one piece. A short time later, however, the husband returns to the station with a shotgun, taking two officers as hostages, asking for the guy that killed his son, where this immediately recalls Carpenter’s ASSAULT ON PRECINT 13 (1976), especially the director’s ability to keep the suspense level at such a high intensity throughout, where Sobolev’s guilty conscious starts to dominate his thoughts, but the others refuse to let him take the blame, as that would implicate the entire command. Instead, the film paints a grim reality of contemporary Russia, where the remnants of Stalinest brutality are everywhere to be seen, especially the way the film keeps escalating into more and more senseless violence, as any witness can be eliminated while the police turn their eyes. In this way, ordinary citizens are made to take the blame for police crimes, considered disposable, and as they’re not on the force, in their eyes, murder and lies are condoned, so long as it protects the good standing of the police. This kind of dismal world view continues, where Sobolev wrestles with the idea of having a change of heart, while his police brethren are forced to keep him on a short leash.

Bykov makes excellent use of Russian exterior shots, including the drab concrete high rises and the factory smoke stacks releasing billowing smoke, but most especially the emptiness of the snowy landscapes, where only electric power grids fill the void. Because of the close camaraderie of the police, the way they continually have each other’s backs, like brothers, one actually begins to sympathize with Sobolev and Kroshunov, whose powerfully complex characters shed light upon their own devastating humanity even as they are screwing up and ruining other people’s lives. Astounding as it seems, you have to admire their commitment and adherence to a bold ideal, even if it’s criminally motivated, because this so accurately represents the power vacuum left in Russia today, where thugs and gangsters fill the leadership positions where party leaders once ruled. The Communist moral principles have been replaced by practical criminal necessities, doing what needs to get done so no one exposes your embezzlement and extortion power schemes. What’s perhaps most fascinating is Sobolev’s vascillation with his guilty conscience, blaming himself for all that’s gone wrong, an old school idea out of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment that no longer has a place in this Russian new order that shows no remorse whatsoever. In this murky Macbethian fatalism that fouls the air, any noble idea about clearing the air and setting things straight can only be met with a bullet to the head. Seeing how this murderous corruption ring operates at such close range, Irina utters to her continuing amazement, “What kind of men are you guys?” Before the day is through, however, she is under no illusions.

Movie Mezzanine [Tom Clift]

Driving too fast down icy roads on his way to the maternity ward where his wife is giving birth, Major Sergey Sobolev runs over and kills a seven year old boy right in front of the child’s mother. Being, as he is, a high ranking member of the Russian police force, Sobolev’s first instincts are to cover the crime up, a task for which he enlists two comrades, then his superiors, and eventually his entire crooked precinct in order to do so. But with the mother crying foul, the father swearing vengeance and the Major’s own guilty conscience catching up with him, the lie soon starts spinning out of control.

A competitor at Cannes and a big winner in Shanghai, Yuri Bykov’s sophomore feature is as bleak as the desolate Russian landscape. Jittery handheld camera work provides the film with both immediacy and grit, as we witness, with a mixture of horror and disbelief, just how endemic the police corruption is.

The film’s biggest problem – aside from the overblown, overloud electric guitar score – is that even after his change of heart, Sobolev is too far gone to sympathise with. If the film can be said to deal in shades of morality at all, those shades are very, very dark grey.

The performances are strong, particularly from Denis Shvedov in the lead, and Irina Nizina as the increasingly distraught mother.  The fascinating dynamic between their two characters is the pictures strongest element, and really comes to the forefront in the second half, when the Major, attempting to atone, must protect her from officers who want to keep her from talking, permanently. The film actually works better as thriller than a drama, where it tends to be a little on the heavy handed side.

The Major: Cannes Review - The Hollywood Reporter Jordan Mintzer

Like an episode of The Shield transplanted to the snow-swept Russian countryside, writer-director Yuri Bykov’s The Major is a tense, handheld police thriller filled with scores of dirty cops, scenes of abrupt violence and a relentless, overriding sense of nastiness. It’s also rather heavy-handed in certain parts, and not necessarily original in the story department, but its rapid pacing and potent performances should make it a viable pickup for distributors specializing in exotic genre fare.

Premiering in competition in the Critics’ Week sidebar, Bykov’s second feature, following 2010’s Live!, is also a one-man-band affair, with the filmmaker credited as writer, editor and composer, as well as playing a character who gets a major ass-whipping from various members of the local police force. So while there’s no doubt that the 32-year-old Bykov is entirely committed to his art, he also overreaches in places -- especially with the film’s excessive score -- but otherwise shows a knack for building intense set-pieces, including a nail-biting precinct shootout that makes strong use of off-screen space and vivid sound design (courtesy of Alexander Noskov).

Set within a single 24-hour period, the action kicks off quickly enough with commander Sergey Sobolev (Denis Shvedov) racing his SUV across icy country roads to join his wife, who’s giving birth at a clinic in nearby Ryazan, a small city southeast of Moscow. Along the way, his car skids into a 7-year-old boy, killing him instantly. But rather than calling an ambulance or doing anything remotely reasonable, Sobolev takes the kid’s wailing mother, Irina (Irina Nizina), hostage and phones a fellow officer, Pasha (Ilya Isaev), to come in and clean up the mess.

What follows is one very long day of unethical policing, as Sobolev and Pasha try to cover up the accident in order to save the “integrity” (quotes intended) of their department. They dupe Irina into drinking, taking a blood sample so they can blame the death on her. When she refuses to sign the statement, Pasha beats the bejesus out of her scrubby husband (Bykov), who comes back to the station wielding a shotgun and holding two officers prisoner.

The bloody chain of events spirals further and further out of control, until Sobolev winds up taking stock of his actions, leading to a denouement that will ultimately pit him against the corrupt unit he was so desperately trying to protect.

Filmed in real locations with lots of gritty, over-the-shoulder camerawork by Kirill Klepalov, The Major is mostly a well-paced and directed affair, even if Bykov misses some plot points (whatever happened to the wife?) and resorts to dramatic overkill in order to prove his point—basically that Russian law enforcement is one big drunken mother lode of corruption.

Alongside the solid, if rugged, tech credits, the performances are keyed up all the way through, with Nizina particularly explosive as the tormented mom and Isaev — who looks like a Slavic Matthias Schoenaerts — slick and scary as the ruthless, ball-busting Pasha.

Klymkiw Film Corner [Greg Klymkiw]

Did you know corruption runs rampant in Russia? Gotta tell ya', it sure came as a surprise to me. I always assumed a country run by a Totalitarian ex-KGB agent like, say, Vladimir Putin, would be clean - fresh as a handi-napped baby's anus. Alas, the truth of the matter has left me crestfallen - especially with the newly-gleaned tidbit that Russia's corruption extends even to the police force. Corruption in the police force? Yes, even in Mother Russia. Thanks, of course, to the art of cinema, we all get to learn something new everyday and what I really learned from the new movie The Major is the extent to which Russian cops will go to protect each other. Policemen protecting each other? In Russia? Sure. Let's take police major Sergey Sobolev (Denis Shvedov). Learning his wife's in labour, he hightails it to the hospital, blasting down an icy highway like it's his personal Indy 500. If truth be told, his aggressive behind-the-wheel shenanigans are typical of Russian drivers, but because he's a cop, he's not blind drunk like the civilians most certainly are.

As (bad) luck would have it, he sees a kid crossing the road. Instead of slowing down, he honks his horn, pedal to the metal. The child stops in his tracks - confused, disoriented and scared. In a matter of seconds, Sergey ploughs into the kid and turns the burgeoning proletarian into a huge wad of hamburger meat in front of his babe-o-licious Mom (Irina Nizin). Sergey does what any good police officer in Russia would do - he locks the sobbing, screaming mother into his car (keeping her from being with the child during his last burbles of life), then calls his loyal partner Kroshunov (writer-director Bykov) and waits for the true magic of Mother Russia to work its miracles.

And what magnificent Russkie magic Kroshunov orchestrates! Mom is plied with booze before a blood test is taken, the length of the skid marks are falsified, Mom's threatened with being a negligent parent (she was "drunk" after all) and then she watches her husband beaten to a pulp and facing arrest for assaulting a police officer. With her child's shredded slab o' pulp in the morgue, the distraught Mom signs a statement relieving Sergey of all responsibility and agrees her child moronically darted out in front of the vehicle.

Just when things look bright, Sergey shocks strings of undigested cabbage out of his colleagues butt holes when he announces he wants to face the music. Redemption is the salvation he now seeks. If his overwhelming guilt is allowed to be indulged, a lot of cops, including his superiors, are going down. As if this wasn't enough, the dead kid's Dad storms the police station bearing arms and proceeds to take hostages.

The real shit storm is only just beginning.

Director Bykov has pulled out all the stops and The Major is a tautly directed cop thriller that generates anxiety and cuticle-gnawing suspense. Even when Bykov's screenplay injects a potentially unearned redemption and slightly hard-to-swallow change of heart in Sergey's character, the action is as sharp as a Cossack's sabre and things clip along with such grim force that you almost don't notice a few of the gaping holes in the story's logic. Shvedov's intense performance is the one thing that makes the speed at which his character arrives to his unpopular decision a bit less bitter a pill to swallow. In fact, the overall mise en scène powerfully captures the genuine underbelly and reality of today's Russia - drab, lifeless backdrops with alternating harsh and murky lighting.

This is one grim thriller. Though the script falters a touch, the direction and performances always deliver a nasty, break-neck ride with plenty of 70s-style American genre tropes applied to the jaw-droppingly horrendous reality of contemporary Russia - a country run by gangsters with badges - the descendants of both Czarist extremes and Stalinist brutality. The players might change, but the song always remains the same.

'The Major' Review: Yuri Bykov's Electric Crime Drama | Variety Leslie Felperin

THE FOOL (Durak) A- 94

Russia (116 mi) 2014

The views that brought Chernyshevsky (Chernyshevsky and the Crystal Palace, Rational egoism: the theory that man will always act according to his best interests) to this vision were close to utilitarianism, meaning that actions should be judged in terms of their expediency. Naturally, utilitarians assumed that we can know the standard against which expediency can be measured: usually it was economic well-being. In Chernyshevsky’s rational egotism, utlitarianism as a method coincided with socialism as a goal: in essence, it is in everyones individual self-interest that the whole of society flourish. —Notes from Underground, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, 1864, page X introduction by Robert Bird

My film represents most of Russian life. Not the past, but the models of human relations that have existed for hundreds of years in Russia.

—Yuri Bykov

The director reiterates similar themes that he began in The Major (Mayor) (2013), a film that premiered at Critics Week in the Cannes Festival of 2012, exposing the rampant corruption that plagues Russian society, where remnants of the Stalinist bureaucracy are now seen at every level of government. This is a searing exposé of Russia as a model of inefficiency that matches much of the indignant anger expressed in Dostoyevsky’s Notes from Underground, an ornery, bitter, and rambling piece of wicked satire that excoriates the prevailing philosophical wisdom of the era. Bykov’s works come across as revolutionary acts, where one is surprised that under Putin he’s not locked up in the Siberian gulags, as after all Putin arrests female rock stars, Pussy Riot: A Punk Prayer (Pokazatelnyy protsess: Istoriya Pussy Riot) (2013) with the same relish as oil oligarchs, Vlast (Power) (2010), as Bykov is a lone voice of unfiltered realism set against a backdrop of an ancient tribal system that historically relies upon bribes and favors for services, the mathematical equivalent of no bribes, no services, where you have to pay to play, leaving the poor out of the picture where they are left to fend for themselves. In this film it pits one honest man against an entire system of on-the-take bureaucrats, where everyone in a position of importance gets a piece of the action, feeling very much like a HIGH NOON (1952) western format, where a lone cowboy, usually with a wife or child to protect, has to take on a gang of outlaws that have been stealing the town blind. Against all odds, these often feel like suicide missions. Yet the world needs honest men. In fact, they depend on them. While voicing his feverish anxiety from a position he calls “a mousehole,” Dostoyevsky in his introduction explains that both the character and his “notes” are fictional, but that he represents a certain Russian type the public needs to know about. For all practical purposes, Bykov is that public voice today. In a devastatingly bleak opening that offers a doomed comment on the plight of the working poor, the film begins with a long choreographed take of an abusive alcoholic’s rage against his wife and daughter that escalates into physical violence, both brutally battered when he realizes they’ve run out of money. By the time the police arrive, she decides not to press charges because if her husband misses work the next day he won’t receive a monthly bonus.

While this problem is escalating, other residents in this dilapidated tenement building, a relic of public housing from an earlier era that’s been standing for nearly 40 years, as old as the town itself, complain of bursting water pipes, a commonplace occurrence that happens so frequently that repair units offer only minor fixes that might last a day or two before they’re back on the job again in a neverending cycle of futility. On this occasion, the municipal repair chief for the neighborhood is unavailable, gone on a three-day drinking binge, so his alternate is called, another plumber, Dima Nikitin (Artyom Bystrov), who is studying to pass an exam that would help put him in a position to replace his boss, Federotov (Boris Nevzorov), the chief housing inspector. But before he receives the call, a portrait of his family paints another harsh reality, where Dima and his father (Alexander Korshunov) are treated to a blistering tirade from his domineering mother, (Olga Samoshina), calling her husband a fool for not taking what’s offered to him, like everybody else on the take, instead pretending to be all high and mighty while shunned by the rest of the workers, forced to exist on next to nothing, where he continually makes repairs around the building out of his own pocket rather than bilking the city coffers, which seems like the sensible thing to do. But the coffers have run dry with rumors flying that greedy city officials pocket more than their own personal share, with nothing trickling down to the actual residents in need of repairs. While the lacerating speech is aimed at the father, it’s the son who emerges as the fool, an honest, would-be working-class hero, a man who dares to try to fight against an entrenched bureaucracy of insatiable self-interests and the hapless communal indifference of the town’s residents. Not only is that a daunting task, but he actually cares what happens to people in these dilapidated housing projects that others would describe as lost causes, as they don’t give a damn about their own lives. By the time he has a look at the building, however, a minor repair escalates to a problem of disastrous proportions, as behind the water leaks, the exterior wall of the building has cracked from the foundation all the way up to the 9th floor roof, where he suspects the building may split in half. Realizing the enormity of the potential problem, he turns off the water in the building and vows to speak to city officials the next day.

Though the building is not part of his official jurisdiction, Dima’s nagging suspicions get the better of him during the night, calculating that the building has already started to shift and may fall within 24-hours. With over 800 residents in the building, this is a public disaster he knows he needs to try to prevent. Bypassing the layers of bureaucracy that contributed to the many years of neglect, he calls the Mayor, Nina Galaganova (Nataliya Surkova), but she’s at a restaurant with all the other city officials celebrating her 50th birthday party. This sets up the ultimate confrontation of an ordinary average Joe interrupting a drunken extravaganza of a party all honoring “Mama,” including speeches commemorating her bravery in standing up to incompetent officials, building a healthy environment for economic growth, and completely turning the city around during her administration. In this atmosphere of drunken euphoria, Dima announces the Mayor must act immediately to stave off a human catastrophe. Like a general ordering her troops into battle formation, all the heads of state gather in an adjoining conference room, hauling in some from their drunken stupors, including an angry Federotov who wants this young plumber’s head for bypassing his authority. Ordering an immediate inspection to reject or confirm his allegations, Federotov and young Dima head off to the site in question. What immediately strikes the viewer is the visual disparity between the poor unemployed dregs of society in the tenement building whose drunken belligerence is symptomatic of their fatalistic apathy, along with young kids in the hallway getting high on drugs in plain view of their parents and the city officials, showing absolute disdain for any authority, and the well-dressed officials at the party stumbling on the dance floor, many passed out on the tables, the rank and file bureaucrats drinking the finest liquor and French wine, with Nina wearing a fiery red dress with gaudy jewelry that is meant to impress, a woman who has accumulated riches at the expense of the lower class that she ironically rose out of that she now totally disdains. What’s perhaps not surprising is the link between this decadent display of wealth and affluence and the Communist-era of doing business, a system entirely based upon monetary favors. When Federotov returns confirming the kid’s suspicions, all out war develops in the verbal sparring back and forth at the table, each one accusing the other of pocketing money for personal gain, where it’s like sharks in the water during a feeding frenzy, all taking place while the party is in full swing, with the nonstop thumping of the bass heard from the adjacent room serving as a constant reminder of an endless carousal of drunken revelry. It’s a surreal moment on a devastating magnitude confirming one’s worst suspicions, becoming a refresher course on how to shake down an entire population through unprecedented shortsightedness and greed, where one hears the phrase: “A fish rots from the head down.” The resolution is a remarkable piece of political theater, where the Stalinist policies of the past have never really gone away, but are resurrected for moments such as these where people are viewed as replaceable parts in a bigger picture that exists only for a significant few.

Can Dostoevsky Still Kick You in the Gut? - The New Yorker David Denby, June 11, 2012 (excerpt)

What the two fictions share is a solitary, restless, irritable hero and a feeling for the feverish, crowded streets and dives of St. Petersburg—an atmosphere of careless improvidence, neglect, self-neglect, cruelty, even sordidness. It is the modern city in extremis. Dostoevsky himself had recently returned from exile, and his St. Petersburg life in this period was furtive and desperate.

The text itself purports to be the writings of a retired mid-level government bureaucrat. A family bequest has allowed him to quit his job, which he hated, and he is now forty, living with a servant whom he despises in what he calls “a mousehole.” In an introductory note, Dostoevsky explains that both the character and his “notes” are fictional, but that he represents a certain Russian type the public needs to know about.

Festival del film Locarno - Summer academy durak Mallory Andrews

“My film represents most of Russian life. Not the past, but the models of human relations that have existed for hundreds of years in Russia,” explained director Yuri Bykov at the press conference for Durak (The Fool), screening at the Festival in competition as part of the Concorso internazionale. Taking place over a single night, Durak tells the story of Dima Niktin (Artyom Bystrov), a plumber who finds himself at the mercy of small-town government bureaucracy when he discovers that the tenement building he is servicing is in immediate danger of collapse. The setting of the film was very loosely based on the director’s own memories of growing up in a similar environment.

Also present was lead actor Bystrov, who was praised for his quietly intense performance as the plumber Niktin. As an actor himself, Bykov believes in allowing actors a great deal of freedom when making character choices (“If he is well motivated, he can give it his all”)

Despite the dark subject matter, it was not Bykov’s intention to make a pessimistic film. “The character wins when he does everything he can possibly do to succeed. What’s important is to try and win.” For Bykov, the film’s ultimate message is one of optimism and hope. “The result is not important. The attempt to reach success is important, regardless of whether success comes or not.”

Comparisons have been made to Dostoyevsky’s The Fool, but Bykov is quick to disregard this connection. “Dostoyevsky’s character is a pathological liar. My film’s character is pragmatic, but he has a moral code. Russian politics is based on lies, and the character is not affected by this social disease. Thank God these people exist to give us this high example of truth. We need such people.”

Filmuforia [Michael Pattison]

As recently suggested by Andrei Zvyagintsev’s barnstormingly brilliant LEVIATHAN, contemporary artistic renditions of Russia and its current socio-political landscape are perhaps all the better for being so ludicrously overblown. Yury Bykov’s DURAK (THE FOOL) is another hysterical snapshot of a decrepit state, as allegorised by a nine-story apartment block that’s on the verge of wholesale collapse due to four decades of administrative neglect. Dedicated to Alexei Balabanov, who died during last year’s Cannes Film Festival (where Bykov’s second feature THE MAJOR was competing in Critic’s Week), DURAK received much applause from a capacity audience this week at Locarno Film Festival, where it received its international premiere.

Humble plumber Dima Nikitin (Artem Bystrov) lives with his parents, wife and son in a cramped apartment. When he is called one evening to another block of flats in a district across town, his otherwise routine inspection of a burst pipe reveals an ominously sized crack in an interior bearing wall. Rushing to check the exterior, he notices two fissures going up the side of the dilapidated dwelling, and, after some quick bedtime arithmetic, reckons that due to its height and the degree to which it is tilting, the building is likely to fall down at any moment. Though the night’s late for ordinary folk, it’s very young for the town’s top brass, who are midway through celebrating the housing chief’s 50th birthday when Dima shows up to warn them of the impending disaster.

Bykov’s fanciful tale, of a lowly repairman taking on the local authorities on behalf of a community of disenfranchised drunks and their long-suffering wives, begins in a grippingly hyperreal fashion, making no qualms about the devastated and devastating domestic plight of the disparate working community at its centre. The long, choreographed take with which the film begins—in which an alcoholic’s daily rant to his wife and daughter escalates into horrible violence—lends a believable brutality that’s only magnified by the defeat with which the wife, tending to her bruised and swollen mouth, decides not to file charges on account that her husband needs to attend work the next day in order to secure a monthly bonus.

On the bottom rungs, volatility is never too far away. Even Dima’s situ is far from harmonious, as evinced by an amusingly claustrophobic dinner scene that boils over when his worrisome mother picks one trivial quibble with her husband too many. Though she’s quick to call Dima’s dad a fool, it’s her son who emerges as the film’s eponymous would-be hero, an honest working man who dares to address the insurmountable undertaking of saving and bettering the lives of those belonging to his own hapless class—a mission undone by communal indifference as well as in-fighting at the top.

In Russia, perhaps, absurdity is the only truth. Though on a storytelling level very little of this remains plausible, Dima’s Sisyphean task is cued by a smaller, perhaps forced metaphor early on, in which he and his dad repeatedly mend a broken bench outside their building. DURAK’s hyperrealism proves unsustainable, bleeding in the course of its proceedings into a routine symbolism. In some ways, things unfold like a more cynical update of HIGH NOON (1951)—in which Gary Cooper tried in vain to rally a town together against oncoming villains. Elsewhere, the gangsterism eventually displayed by the politicians is anticipated when Dima, perhaps channelling Robert De Niro in THE GODFATHER PART II (1974), assures two fellow plumbers that he’ll talk with the bigwigs tomorrow…

Though Dima is far from a card-carrying communist, we’re clearly meant to interpret the class consciousness he shows vague signs of as a doomed affair: if he’s not shot by the local government, he might just be beaten to death by those he’s trying to save. Such portrayals are not unproblematic, of course, but neither are they wholly inaccurate: organising any oppressed group of people in a struggle against their own circumstances is often a complicated matter. Still, Bykov’s depiction of a stunted, squalor-ridden community too frequently lacks compassion: indeed, like its self-preserving politicians, the film itself shuns these people to the margins for large amounts of its time—and having them all take a frantic, crazy-sounding Dima on his word might be one narrative convenience too far

The Fool Mark Lipovetsky from KinoKultura

Durak , uncompromising portrait of a modern day hero ... Muriel del Don from Cineuropa

Yury Bykov, The Fool | Features | Screen Wendy Mitchell interview from Screendaily, August 10, 2014

'The Fool' ('Durak'): Locarno Review - The Hollywood Reporter Boyd van Hoeij

Film Review: 'The Fool' - Variety Peter Debruge

Byler, Eric

TRE D 56

USA (87 mi) 2006

Ouch! – amateurishly written by the director and his leading lady, this felt like a school film, as there were troublesome signs throughout, not the least of which were utterly unlikable characters caught up in a soap operish melodrama of their own making where changing bed partners leads to (gasp!) trouble, none of which ever gets very interesting. Set in an idyllic wooded home in Calabasas just outside Los Angeles near the hills of Topanga Canyon, this is a game of musical chairs where a happy couple about to be married share their enormous home with troubled friends, which leads to inevitable results, yet the surprising immaturity level of the thirtyish characters lead them to act dazed and dumfounded. Gabe and Kakela (Erik McDowell and Kimberly-Rose Wolter) have wealth, a beautiful home, and feel comfortable sharing their home with friends. Nina (Alix Koromzay) has already inhabited the sole guest room, while Tre (Daniel Cariaga) stumbles in drunk one night expecting his regular spot in the guest room and is instead introduced to the living room couch. Despite loathing one another, Tre and Nina find sex alleviates the boredom in their lives. Kakela is startled at her friend’s casual, laissez-faire attitude, as Nina has recently split from her husband, while happy-go-lucky Gabe takes it all in stride. Nina claims her marriage was lost after an inexplicable ten second kiss her husband had with another woman, which explains the film poster hype: “It took ten seconds to change their lives.”

Tre turns out to be a big, burly man-child, a kid in a man’s body who plays mind games with people just to irritate them, which is his way of getting attention. Again, this is another rich kid who turns idleness into an art form, as he sits around drinking, smoking pot, and watching TV, a guy who clearly never decided what he wanted to be when he grew up, who refuses to be saddled with responsibility, so he remains in a perpetual state of snarky outsiderism whose personal specialty appears to be passing judgment on others. Tre’s vulgar, persistantly annoying nature recalls Thomas J. Ryan in HENRY FOOL (1997), without any of his clever wit or humor, so instead he’s simply an obnoxious force of nature that is willing to fuck whatever he sees. Hanging out in his friend Gabe’s house seems to give him ample opportunities. When Kakela finds her underwear hidden in the glove compartment of his car, she wants him out of the house, but Gabe relents, allowing consequences to ensue, where the poster hype, like the bite of an infected alien creature, is allowed to slowly rot whatever hopes are left in this quickly deteriorating picture.

Despite the low key nature of the people involved and their relatively relaxed situations of living with no boundaries, the dialogue always feels forced and the actions contrived, so when supposed dramatic build up occurs over manipulated conflicts, no one cares. Much of this takes place at night using natural lighting, such as dim lamps, candles or a flashlight, all of which is underlit, leaving a colorless, washed out look to the film, which matches a kind of insipid emotional emptiness that follows these characters everywhere. There is one possible moment of interest in the film, where after some heavy pot smoking, Gabe is fast asleep nestled beside Tre’s chest. For the viewer, this is the only moment in the film that matters, as it appears Tre may be having an affair with Gabe, which explains his habit of mooching off his buddy’s kindness, fucking his friends, derailing their lives, always leaving him with the prize in the end – Gabe. In a pot haze, we believe Kakela’s troubled curiosity about Tre’s motives may be leading down that path, where she could be on the outs with all the other broken hearts. Tre simply had that look of triumph on his face, like now he had it all. He was right where he wanted to be. But that’s not the way the story went. Instead it took a more implausable course of insufferable moral superiority with one soul scornfully taunting another, which carried no weight whatsoever and even garnered a few unsolicited giggles, as there was no one anywhere in the film with any degree of moral compass. The film over-reaches in building an existential island of lost souls, a wasteland of moral ambiguity. Why in the end should non-existent morality suddenly be a determining factor? Woe is me.

Time Out Chicago (Hank Sartin)

An unofficial sequel to Byler’s Charlotte Sometimes, Tre similarly involves four people in a romantic roundelay, this time set among the children of California privilege. Twentysomething Tre (Cariaga) is either roguishly provocative or a dick, depending on whom you ask. With no job and no ambitions (his mother is a power player in Hollywood), he’s free to disrupt the relationship of his best friend, Gabe (McDowell), and Gabe’s fiancée, Kakela (Wolter). Is he driven by attraction to Kakela, or jealousy of Gabe, or something more complex? The emotions remain at a low simmer until they boil over a bit too fast in the final reel, but if you dig muted unhappiness, Byler’s your guy.

Tre Andrea Gronvall from the Reader

Four libidinous singles test each other's fidelity in this moody 2006 drama by Eric Byler (Charlotte Sometimes). A noirish opening sequence sets the tone: the title character (Daniel Cariaga), an aimless rich kid, drives drunkenly up a mountain road overlooking the San Fernando Valley and arrives at the tony house he once shared with his best friend (Erik McDowell) and the friend's wealthy fiancee (Kimberly-Rose Wolter). Sparks fly between Tre and the troubled young houseguest who's supplanted him (Alix Koromzay), and their affair disrupts the domestic tranquillity. By the third act a story about tangled passions has turned into a meditation on misogyny and class prejudice, but the social criticism is blunted by soppy dialogue. 86 min.

FilmStew.com [Richard Horgan]

It’s an old adage that tends to get lost in this new celebrity obsessed age, but if you’re looking for fresh, compelling proof that the best training for young actors aspiring to authentic film performances is still the theater, look no further than the new independent drama Tre.

The third in a series of what Chinese-American co-writer and director Eric Byler labels his trio of “anti-romantic” features (the other two are the Spirit Award nominated 2002 film Charlotte Sometimes and the forthcoming Americanese), Tre offers up four co-leads with loads of stage experience. And it shows.

Co-writer and co-star Kimberly-Rose Wolter, picking up the train of her character in Charlotte Sometimes, is the co-artistic director of L.A.’s VS. Theater Company, with her latest stage role being that of Sheila in a production of the John Patrick Shanley play Beggars in the House of Plenty. Her stage roots go all the way back to her university days in Hawaii where, as a member of another theater company – La Halau Kanakeaka – she was part of the first Hawaiian language theater performance seen on the islands since 1893.

The actor she shares the bulk of her screen time with, Daniel Cariaga, is a relative newcomer to film, but his theater chops carry him way past the point of a typical rookie performance. He’s been at it as a stage actor and playwright for ten years now, garnering a PEN USA West nomination in 2001 for his work Sleepwalk. The two other main performers in Tre have similar board lineage – Alix Koromzay started winning theater awards at age 16 while Erik McDowell began his career on New York City stages.

Saying too much about the storyline of Tre would ruin the fun. Suffice to say that per the title of my review, the film takes a close-up look at the complicated nature of adult romantic relationships via the interactions of four main characters – Gabe and Kakela, a lovey dovey couple living up in the hills of Calabasas (Walter, McDowell), her friend Nina (Koromzay) and his friend Tre (Cariaga), who both at one point find the need to crash at the pair’s spacious hillside pad.

It’s impossible not to think of writer-director Lisa Cholodenko’s 2002 film Laurel Canyon when watching Tre, but that’s in no way a bad thing. Like its canyon predecessor and in fact Cholodenko’s other feature, High Art, Byler’s film has not one false note in it. It positively drips with sexual tension and best of all, none of the leads look anything like a lot of the typical young actors you see in a DV low-budget L.A. relationship drama. Ergo, there are no pretty blondes, no gym-frequenting brutes and – best of all – no agents, managers, casting directors, waitresses or waiters.

 Does it help our actors that Byler’s film, with an emphasis on intimate bedroom, living room and garden scenes, could very easily have been put across on a stage rather than on film? Absolutely. As such, Tre plays to Wolter, Cariaga, Koromzay and McDowell’s strengths. They feast again and again on the close-up interplay of authentic dialogue and duplicitous emotions.

It’s an auspicious debut for Raising Cain Productions, a company started in 2004 by Ricardo and Kimberly De Barros. This is their first feature, with, possibly to follow, the rock’n roll love story Raising Kane.

The majority of the kudos, as they should, will go to writer-director Byler. Opening today in Los Angeles and Friday, February 8th in Honolulu and Chicago, Tre arrives in theaters ahead of the aforementioned second Byler effort Americanese, an adaptation of Shawn Wong’s novel American Knees, with a release date yet to be announced by distributor IFC First Take.

And let’s not forget Cariaga, the least familiar of the Tre onscreen bunch. Looking sort of like a cross between Billy Zane and Michael Chiklis, the part-Filipino actor nails the role of the loveable, chain smoking oaf whose combination of straight talk and crudeness intrigues the ladies, in spite of themselves.

Perhaps the best compliment I can pay Tre is that it weaves together measured pacing and halting dialogue as capably as its HBO counterpart Tell Me You Love Me (which has been renewed for a second season). Only in this case, the therapist is never seen and is counseling only one half of one couple, resulting in a far more minimal impact on the adult fun and games.

eFilmCritic.com (Peter Sobczynski)

If I were forced to deliver a one-line summation of the new indie drama “Tre,” it would probably read something along the lines of “A twentysomething woman’s life is thrown into turmoil when her fiance’s lifelong best pal arrives on the scene.” And yet, while I could easily do that, I wouldn’t want to for a couple of reasons. For one, such a description makes it sound like the kind of film that you have seen a dozen times before–it could be one of those mumblecore things that the kids are talking about in which inarticulate actors recite pseudo-profound dialogue before a camera struggling to stay in focus or maybe a late-night Skinemax special in which the deepest things on display are the cleavage and the breathing. For another, that one sentence barely begins to suggest the depths of the film and the riches contained therein–far from being just another potboiler, it is a smart and incisive look at contemporary relationships that avoids all the cliches that one might expect to find while telling a story that is as emotionally gripping as any thriller.

The film begins on an ominous note with shots of a man driving drunkenly though the winding hills of Santa Monica in the wee hours of the morning before pulling into the driveway of a home. The driver is Tre (Daniel Cariaga), the home belongs to his lifelong pal Gabe (Erik McDowell) and Gabe’s girlfriend Kakela (Kimberly-Rose Wolter) and Tre has arrived to crash in the guest cottage in back after the end of yet another failed relationship. From the easy familiarity that greets his arrival, we instantly realize that Tre dropping anchor at the house is nothing new but he soon learns that things are different this time around. For one, the cottage is already being occupied by Nina (Alix Koromzay), a friend of Kakela’s who is staying there after having just separated from her husband after he confessed to kissing a co-worker for ten seconds. (When someone comments that it doesn’t sound like that big of a deal, she responds “Imagine kissing someone you aren’t supposed to be kissing for ten seconds” and then slowly counts to ten to emphasize just how long ten seconds can really be.) This is not welcome news to Tre, who is one of those people who always feels the need to push peoples buttons regarding subjects that are probably best left unspoken, and Nina isn’t particularly enthused by Tre’s presence either. That said, this mutual dislike doesn’t prevent the two of them from beginning an affair that is so obviously half-hearted and doomed from the start that you wonder why they are even bothering to go through the motions in the first place.

The second complication arises when Gabe proposes to Kakela and she accepts. At first she is happy enough but when she stumbles upon Tre and Nina in the middle of a tryst, her barely contained anger at Nina’s apparent unwillingness to give her marriage a fighting chance causes her to begin to have doubts about her own relationship with Gabe. These doubts are further underscored when Tre begins putting the low-key moves on her as well While she cannot stand his crude bluntness (such as when he needles her literary ambitions by reminding her that until she actually sells something, she is only an “aspiring” writer) and cannot understand Gabe’s devotion to him, she nevertheless realizes that she and Tre have more in common than she would care to admit–both have stunted relationships with their parents (hers are dead and he is estranged from his mother), both have enough money to ensure that they don’t need to work as Gabe and Nina do to pay the bills and both have a certain core darkness of the soul that she tries to deny and he wholeheartedly embraces. What eventually happens between Tre and Kakela is perhaps inevitable under the circumstances–what happens between them, Gabe and Nina as a result of what happens between them, on the other hand, is not so inevitable.

“Tre” is the new film from Eric Byler, whose first effort, 2003's “Charlotte Sometimes,” remains one of the most fascinating debut films to emerge this decade. Because “Tre,” like that earlier film, deals with questions of friendship, fidelity and betrayal among a quartet of people, one might be tempted to think that Byler has simply decided to tell the same story again in lieu of offering up anything new. While the films do share a few common themes and even a couple of actors, “Tre,” which he co-wrote with Wolter, is a different experience, though one that is just as rewarding as “Charlotte Sometimes.” This is a darker and richer work in which the emotional stakes are raised in subtle but perceptible ways, mostly because we can never be sure from scene to scene of Tre’s motivations for doing what he does with Kakela–is he merely trying to short-circuit a relationship that he can sense is doomed in order to save his friend from heartbreak that he can see coming a mile away or does he recognize Kakela as the kind of kindred spirit who is worth tearing down the walls that he has so assiduously built around his heart in all of his other relationships? In many ways, the characters are playing a high-stakes game of emotional poker–never letting on what they are holding–and when all the cards are finally revealed, the results are devastating for all involved and since we have become so engrossed in their stories, we feel the impact almost as strongly as they do.

As regular readers may have heard me mention before, two of my all-time favorite directors are the late Robert Altman and his one-time protégée Alan Rudolph and while Byler is by no means offering carbon copies of their work, he shares many of their strengths as a filmmaker. Like Altman, Byler is able to create a distinct world and a gallery of fully fleshed-out individuals without resorting to laborious expository dialogue explaining the characters and their backgrounds, motivations and relationships to each other–he manages to convey all of that with only a few well-chosen and well-worded lines that sound like the things that people who already know each other might actually to one another. Like Rudolph, he has a gift for taking a story premise that might seem aching familiar on the surface and approaches it in such a disarmingly off-kilter manner that it feels as if we are looking at it for the first time–as a result, the film generates a tension that a story of this type might not ordinarily posses simply because we have no idea where the story is going or how the characters will react. And like both Altman and Rudolph, Byler is great at working with actors–while the central cast may be largely unknown to the majority of moviegoers, the impressions that they create are so indelible that you will come away from the film with their collective presence etched in your mind in a way that you probably wouldn’t have gotten with more familiar faces in the roles.

“Tre” is currently opening slowly in a number of big cities throughout the country (it is currently playing in Los Angeles and Chicago and opens next week in San Francisco) and the sad truth is that, barring a miracle, it probably won’t play in many places outside of the major urban areas. That is a shame because there is this is a film that I can easily see striking a chord with audiences looking for a film that doesn’t insult their intelligence while providing more intrigue, sexual tension and dark humor than most current releases. All I can say is that if you don’t live in one of the cities in which it is playing, then jot down the title and either wait for it to play near you or tack it onto your Netflix list. If it is playing near you, however, I would highly recommend that you make a concerted effort to seek it out instead of wasting your time on the current multiplex fodder like the abysmal “Fool’s Gold.” Trust me, you’ll be glad that you did.

Variety Dennis Harvey